What I Can't Say [Ellie]

Bryan wonders why I don’t blog more. He thinks if I enjoy writing (and I do) I should want to write all the time. Here’s my dilemma: so many things that I think about a lot I can’t write about. A big part of my church job, Relief Society President, is maintaining confidentiality. I can’t tell my husband, and I certainly can’t publish my observations in a forum where anybody could read them.

So Bryan’s challenge to me was to write about what that feels like. What it’s like to be full of things I can’t say.

It feels. . .heavy. Sometimes I come away from a conversation so filled with the burden of another person’s sadness that I can’t think of anything else. I go through the motions of my life—making dinner, caring for my children, chatting with friends, laying in bed at night—worrying over how to help that person or solve that problem. I become distracted and distant without meaning to. I wish I could conjure a quick fix, for both of us.

It feels. . .daunting. I list all the families I know with troubles in my prayers every night and I’m astonished by the sheer number of them. The idea that I have some stewardship over so many people’s well-being, and that they are not all being well, makes me feel overwhelmed and powerless. The idea that many more are suffering and we’re not helping them because we don’t know to help is painful. I look at my to-do list from my meetings and feel paralyzed by all the musts and ought-to’s I see there. I wish all problems could be solved by a casserole.

It feels. . .lonely. I’m learning so much about human nature—my own and others’—that I find fascinating. There’s so little of it I can share without revealing too much. I feel like I have to edit my words. Other times I feel things are expected of me that are beyond what I have to give. I know that I sometimes disappoint people who expect more of someone in my position. I wish I were more than just me.

It feels. . .frustrating. I think of the many different ways I have seen help offered and
refused. I think of people who choose to sink deeper into their own unhappiness, even when others around them are trying hard to pull them out of it. I think of service rendered, time and time again, with no visible effects. I wish I could say: Happiness is very simple. You just have to stop doing what you’re doing to make yourself unhappy and choose happiness instead!

But it also feels. . .encouraging. Seeing the women around me serving each other, usually without fanfare or recognition, helps me know that the burden isn’t mine alone. So many women are so generous with their time, their love, their resources. I’m amazed by women’s abilities to transcend life’s petty concerns and see into each other’s hearts.

And it is. . .fulfilling. I feel a sense of purpose in serving others. I feel myself having to grow to meet new challenges. I feel myself being drawn out of my own petty concerns and into a bigger, more meaningful life.

If I can’t say what exactly I’m doing, at least I can say that it’s worthwhile. And that’s not nothing.