Because: “God Told Me To Stop”

On March 13, 2015, in the early morning hours, I found myself in the emergency waiting room in Phoenix, Arizona. I had no recollection of how I got there. All I knew was that I was in severe pain. I walked up to the woman working the desk and stated I didn’t know why I was there, I didn’t have my phone or wallet and was in pain. Her response: “what do you expect me to do about that?”. I left her desk, defeated, and noticed a line of phones in the waiting room that anyone could use to call out. So, hunched over and taking short, quickened breaths from the pain radiating from my stomach, I dialed the number of my then boyfriend, we will call him Rich. Rich answered and I proceeded to tell him that I was at an ER and needed a ride home. I didn’t have phone or wallet and they didn’t want to see me. Could he please come get me and take me home. I just wanted to go home to bed. He then told me he was on his way to California but agreed to come pick me up and take me home.

As I waited for him to arrive, my thoughts drifted to earlier in the evening. I had gone out with friends to a bar and then back to their house for a couple hours before calling it a night. I hadn’t driven that night, and not wanting to stay the night at my friends, called Rich to pick me up and bring me home. We lived together at the time and he hadn’t gone out with us because he worked at a local club as security. When he came to my friend’s house, around 2 am or so, he asked me what was wrong as we navigated the streets to our apartment. I told him nothing was wrong, that I just wanted to go home. An argument ensued because he didn’t believe me and accused me of hiding something. He got mad and pulled the car over and told me to walk the rest of the way home. He told me as I got out that he was sick of the way I was acting. I knew the relationship was over. There was this same pattern occurring over and over for the last 6 months. I started walking in a less-than-safe part of town and after a few minutes, I called Rich again and told him that if he would just come pick me up, that I would go home, pack my stuff and we could call it quits. He agrees, picks me up and takes me home. I remembered, sitting on the bench at the ER that when we arrived back home after that fight, that I had been standing in the kitchen putting things in boxes and fighting with Rich. But what about? I don’t remember. Then, shocked, I remember him grabbing a knife and cutting his wrist in front of me. I remembered feeling so shocked, scared, and angry that I remember my only response was “Do it. See if I care!”. Then, nothing. Black. The next thing I knew, I was at an ER in excruciating pain in my abdomen.

When we got home from the hospital, Rich helped me up the stairs to our apartment, laid me down in bed, and before I lost consciousness to sleep, saw him punch a hole in the wall. The next morning, I couldn’t stand up straight, couldn’t breathe, and would fade in and out of consciousness. I told Rich I needed to go back to the hospital because something was seriously wrong. It was at another hospital, they rushed me back to receive an emergency CT scan where they discovered I had massive internal bleeding. My spleen had ruptured, and I was currently bleeding to death. They explained all this as they brought me back for emergency surgery. Sitting in ICU after the surgery, unable to move due to risk of blood clots, Rich came to see me. He had flowers. He set them down on the table and explained that he was sorry that he had to do that to me. What? What did he mean? What he meant was that during our argument in the kitchen the night before, he had hurt me. He had picked me up in the kitchen and dropped me on my head. He hit me or kicked me, still don’t know which, but somehow ruptured my spleen. He knew he had seriously injured me and as a result, he had decided the best thing to do was to place me in the trunk of his car, drive me to the desert, and bury me. He had participated in similar acts before. You see, Rich was an active member of a Chicago syndicate in the Italian Mafia. But he explained to me that the reason I am still here is because, in the process of “ridding me” that “God told me to stop, so I did, and dropped you off at the ER instead”.

So, the only reason I wasn’t a missing person, buried in some unknown location, is because God told him to stop. And he listened. God saved my life.

There is an ancient prophet in the Book of Mormon. He is known as Alma the Younger. Named after his father, Alma, who was the presiding leader of Christ’s church in the ancient Americas. Alma the Younger was not always a righteous man. In fact, before he became a great leader, he is described as a “very wicked and idolatrous man”. He and his friends, 4 sons of the king in the land, were enemies of the church and because “he was a man of many words, and did speak much flattery to the people”, he was able to convince many believers to fall away from the gospel. However, as Alma the Younger went about trying to destroy the church, his father and people of the church prayed to God that he may find his way back. And because of their relenting faith, God answered their prayers in the form of an angel that visits Alma and strikes him dumb. He is unable to move or speak for 2 days. Then, when he awakes, he is a new man, having seen the error of his ways and has repented.

“Nevertheless, after wading through much tribulation, repenting nigh unto death, the Lord in mercy hath seen fit to snatch me out of an everlasting burning, and I am born of God. My soul hath been redeemed from the gall of bitterness and bonds of iniquity. I was in the darkest abyss; but now I behold the marvelous light of God. My soul was racked with eternal torment; but I am snatched, and my soul is pained no more”

This is what God did for me. No, I am not some great prophet, nor do I consider myself one of God’s great leaders. I didn’t see an angel, but I was saved, by God Himself. Of that, I have no doubt. But why? Why me? I am still figuring that out almost 5 years later. The most I can do to repay that debt is to serve Him for the remainder of my life. Like Alma, who became a great missionary, spreading God’s goodness throughout the land, I can do likewise by using the most of the second chance I have been given. To try to be a better example. To serve others. To love people and show them that there is hope even for the worst of us. I was no saint and by all accounts of my life at that time, most would consider me “unsalvageable”.  Literally, no one is untouchable from Christ’s redeeming love. His sacrifice, asked for by the Father, is what redeems each of us. Each and every day. The least I can do is not take it for granted.

Thank you for stopping by. Know that you are loved.