To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified. —Isaiah 61:3
Is it possible for one verse of scripture to perfectly describe the trajectory of a life?
In the first grade, my teacher asked me, “Why do you wear the same dress every day?” I was uncomfortable with the question. I hadn’t realized that anyone noticed, and I wasn’t sure how to answer her. I looked down at my faded yellow plaid dress and realized for the first time that something was wrong. That realization marked the beginning of my awareness that I wasn’t being cared for in the way other children were. While I continued to wear the dress, now it was accompanied by a large dose of shame.
As a US Army brat, I grew up with parents who were usually lost in their own world of alcohol and codependency. They neglected us1 while they shared endless conversations and unlimited alcoholic beverages at the kitchen table night after night—weekends and holidays included. I vividly picture them in my mind: sitting at that Formica table, knocking off “old soldiers” (their name for bottles of alcohol). We were never invited into their tight circle of two.
We dressed ourselves, made our own meals, and even tucked ourselves into bed—if you could call it that. There were no bedtime rituals. No brushing of teeth or bathing or lullabies or prayers or “tucking” in. If we were quiet, we could stay up as late as we wanted, which we did. Sleep deprivation was a constant in my life, and I still suffer from a sleep disorder that I attribute to my childhood.
After retirement from the Army, Dad became a college professor. He was up and out the door on weekday mornings. His weekends were spent in bed until late morning. On the other hand, Mom always struggled with mornings; she was rarely awake to see us off to school. We dressed and groomed ourselves. It was a rare occasion to be given breakfast or provided with lunch. By the time dinner arrived, around eight or nine o’clock at night, I would be ravenous.
While the physical neglect was clear—lackluster energy, dirty clothes, grungy hair, the same dress every day—the emotional toll was less visible but no less brutal. Every day of third grade began in distress. I remember being deeply humiliated as my classmates and I would line up at the door, waiting to present our nails for inspection. The teacher would go down the line, awarding a star for each child with clean nails. I always placed myself at the back of the line so I could frantically scrape the dirt from underneath my nails before it was my turn. But no matter how hard I tried, the grime was never fully gone.
I wanted to blend in and avoid the notice of others, even to disappear. But that desire came at a cost. It meant that I never learned to ask for help in a direct way, never learned to trust that others would care for me.
We did not hug, kiss, or say, “I love you” in our household. I was starved for affection. The one time I remember my mom telling me she loved me (at ten years old or so), she was drunk. Her words wafted in on her breath, heavy with alcohol. I recoiled and didn’t believe a word of it. I do now, but not then.2
In another memory when I was eight years old, my older sister and I received corsages for some occasion. I don’t remember the event, but I do remember how I took mine off and tore it to pieces as we walked along the Bolivian street. I threw it on the ground in an act of anger that I couldn’t even explain. Later, in tears, I blamed my sister, telling my parents that Betsy had torn it up. She, being way more credible, told them the truth, and I was punished—grounded in my room. I didn’t know why I did the things I did.
I needed help without knowing how to ask for it in healthy ways. Instead, I lied—often. I told stories, exaggerated my experiences, and created tales of daring adventures, of places I had been and people I had met. I never took responsibility for my actions; I was too afraid to tell the truth if I was confronted. What would they think of me? It didn’t matter whether the attention I received from family was positive or negative— I just wanted to be noticed, to exist in someone’s awareness, to be seen. But each time I lied, I also felt a wave of shame wash over me. It was a vicious cycle. The lies became a source of self-loathing.
By the time I was twelve, I was clinically depressed. The seeds of that depression were planted long before I had a name for it—before I could understand the heavy weight that pressed down on my chest and filled my thoughts. I was deeply unhappy, and I couldn’t quite figure out why. I was convinced that if anyone truly saw me—the real me—they would hate me. I was certain that I was unlovable, unworthy of affection or connection.
I didn’t just suffer from unreliable meals; there was also a deep sense of insecurity that followed me from day to day. I never knew what might happen next, and the unpredictability left me unsettled.
My childhood lacked the kind of supervision and structure that most kids take for granted. One day, when I was eight years old, a friend and I decided to take a walk (in Bolivia). We wandered farther and farther from home, spellbound as we counted the dead dogs floating in the river to the left of us (there were many). Before we realized it, we had traveled a long way from home. When we stopped to look around, we noticed a black van nearby, creeping closer to us as we walked. In a panic, we took off running, terrified that we were being followed. I didn’t tell my parents. That was one of the unspoken rules: If something dangerous happened, you kept it to yourself. You didn’t make waves; you didn’t ask for help.
This pattern continued into my adolescence. I recall one summer in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, when my younger sister and I went swimming in the sea, completely alone. Our parents were back at the RV, drinking with strangers they’d met on the trip. We didn’t notice the strong undertow, and before we knew it, we had been swept out beyond a safe depth. My sister swam back to shore, but I was a poor swimmer. Exhausted, I was trapped in the waves, treading water, and screaming for help. I could hear my sister shouting from the shore, but it felt like no one would come. Eventually, some adults passing by noticed and rushed in to rescue me. As we sat on the beach afterwards, shaken, my sister and I made a pact not to mention it to my folks.
Even the simple act of going places with my parents was tense. One night, after a dinner out, my father mistook a neighbor’s driveway for our own and drove into their mailbox. One morning, I found him passed out in the front seat. I felt a consistent sense that anything could go wrong at any moment. By the time I was seventeen and had my driver’s license, I became the designated driver. They were completely fine with it. Problem solved.
As a teenager, I could go anywhere, any time, and stay out as late as I wished. My parents were never sober enough to be aware. This freedom left me vulnerable. I didn’t know how to set healthy boundaries or how to protect myself, emotionally or physically. I was left to make decisions in a vacuum, with no safety net to fall back on. This freedom had a price: I was isolated, unprepared, and vulnerable to making choices that would have lasting consequences.
There was one defining moment that shifted the trajectory of my life: the day the missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on our door when I was thirteen years old. Miraculously, my mother let them in, and this simple act opened a door to a life that I could never have imagined. My sister and I began attending lessons after dinner, where the missionaries taught us about the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Soon, the members of the little Dover Branch in New Jersey reached out to me, welcoming me into their homes, inviting me to Sunday services, dances, and social events. They didn’t just invite me to church—they invited me into their lives. They became my new family and community, filling my emotional void. For the first time, I experienced what it felt like to be truly embraced, loved, and cared for. For many years, they made sure I had rides to church and activities, which was especially important given the distance we traveled to get to Church meetings. They loved me, and their kindness began to heal some of the deep wounds I carried. Betsy didn’t see what I saw, but I was baptized on June 22, 1966.
Just in time, I learned there were other choices I could make, and a pathway of light began to open. For the first time, I had hope. The darkness of my past was still there, but the light of faith shone out in my wilderness. Baptism led to my graduation from BYU, a mission to Guatemala, marriage in the temple to a faithful, lovely man, and five fabulous children. God’s hand was visible in my life, but it wasn’t an instant transformation. It took decades to feel the love God has for me, to understand that his Atonement applies to me.
I struggled with feelings of worthlessness, depression, and anxiety for many years, even after my baptism. Therapy and medication began to help me manage my mental health, but the process of healing was long and difficult. I repented and stayed loyal to my faith, even when I didn’t feel God’s love. I always felt that one day, I would feel his love and know that he was with me.
That day came when I was sixty-three years old, almost fifty years to the day of my baptism. For the first time, I felt God’s love flood through me, an overwhelming sensation that filled me completely. I was born again—not in the dramatic sense, but in a quiet, profound moment of peace and clarity. The years of struggling, waiting, and working through my pain had finally brought me to a place of grace. He healed me.
Now, at seventy years old, I can say that I have been blessed beyond anything I could ever have imagined—from the simple acts of kindness I received from the Saints to the miracles of healing that came slowly over the years. I have conquered neglect, hunger, insecurity, depression, and anxiety—not through my own strength but through the grace of God. I feel his love often now, and I feel the Spirit guiding me daily.
The struggle was not in vain. Every trial, every moment of waiting, was part of God’s plan to bring me closer to him. And though the journey was difficult, I now see that each step was necessary for me to grow, to change, and to become the person I am today.
People often ask me if all the years of waiting, struggling, and enduring were worth it. My answer is simple, but it comes from the depth of my heart: Yes! It is worth every moment, every single second of my hard times, to have come, at last, to live in Christ. To those who may still be waiting—whether for healing, for peace, or for answers—my message is this: Trust God. Never quit believing that he loves you, especially when you can’t feel it. Never give up!
So, to answer my own question, is it possible for one verse of scripture to perfectly describe the trajectory of a life? The answer is an emphatic yes! All are appointed to mourn, whether in childhood or later, but God provides beauty, the oil of joy, and the garment of praise as a counter to our ashes, mourning, and the heaviness of life. We may feel like a withered weed planted in rocky soil, but God sees a tree of righteousness and glory.
