Lynnette Cook

Before I begin my story, I want to say a few things. I will share with you some of the experiences I had that I feel like most describe how I became who I am today. I have not regrets about anything in my life and I don't have any hard feelings towards, nor judgment of, those who have played a part in my life. These experiences were not difficult for me to write because I no longer hurt over any of them. The hardest section for me to write was SECOND FAMILY because I know that I have children who are still hurting due to my flaws and weaknesses. Please know that I am not suffering over any of this anymore and I can give credit to the Real Truths that I have learned for taking any pain I had away.

Rather than dividing my life up into chronological order, I'd rather divide it up into subjects because it seems easier for me to explain myself that way—think FOLDERS. ;-)


My family tree goes back to the earliest days of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints with pioneers crossing the plains, mostly immigrating from other countries, on both my mother's and father's side, all the way back.

Eery living relative I knew of was very strong and staunch in the church and they all lived long lives—my great grandpa died one month before he turned either 102 or 104, I can't remember for sure—which he did in his sleep, without suffering any ailments other than failing eyes and hearing.

I'm related to the current prophet, first counselor, and several general authorities. I don't know any of them personally, but was reminded of this strong heritage often, especially from my dad's side of the family when we would see them.

My family all LOVED the church and my parents and grandparents lived it with exactness. I never saw any hypocrisy in my family when it came to church. They behaved the same way all the time and were always striving to live every commandment. Nobody swore, everyone did their home/visiting teaching 100%, we attended every single activity, fireside, service project, everything. We got all the church magazines and read them all. We knew all the Primary songs and many church hymns.

We had family night every single Monday of my entire life, without fail,, even on vacation, and we always had the proper format: Opening song (Primary or Hymn), opening prayer, business, lesson (always taught by Dad, usually the Hight Priest lesson they had had in Sunday the week, always boring and including lots of scripture references), game, closing song, closing prayer, dessert. When they consolidated the church schedule, we started having family night on Sunday nights as well. Now we included writing in a family journal and more scripture study.

We began fasting one meal on Fast Sundays at age eight and 24 hours by age twelve and we paid tithing and attended tithing settlement our entire lives, paying only pennies as children but keeping meticulous track and making sure to pay a full 10%.

I don't remember EVER being forced, bribed, or coerced in any way to go to church, nor do I remember any of my siblings being pressured in any way. We were taught that it was a joy and a privilege and that we were very blessed to have such a heritage and gift in our lives and I couldn't wait until I was old enough to go to the temple, wear garments, be married, and have at least a dozen kids.

I loved Primary and Young Women's (although I often wished I were a boy—but that's another story). When I was a senior in high school, I got mono for eight weeks and was basically not allowed out of the house and every Sunday I cried and begged to go to church and just sit in the back away from everyone because I didn't want to miss church. I was devastated that my parents never allowed that.

Anyway, I think you get the picture ...

When I was very young, (baby until maybe seven years old?), my grandpa was called top e the branch president of a tiny branch in Newark, New Jersey. He called my dad to be his first counselor. This was outside of our ward boundaries but that is where our whole family attended. I remember very little about my childhood, really, but there were a few things about this experience that have really stood out in my mind my whole life.

The branch met in an old rented building (my mom, who is not too fussy about cleanliness) told us that she didn't want to put her children down on the floors to crawl around because they were so dirty. We sat in metal chairs and I remember sitting behind a man who had a plumber's crack showing a lot and there was a man who always gave us candy.

The branch was in a very poor area that was a melting pot for many immigrants. There were all different colors and nationalities and different languages but the primary languages were English and Spanish. Each talk and prayer was spoken in one language with a translator beside the speaker translating it to the other language. The hymns were sung in both languages at the same time and I think they might have rotated the sacrament prayers between the two languages, if my memory is serving me correctly.

I did not understand the Spanish language but I loved the sounds of it, the rhythm and cadence. It always sounded beautiful to me and still does. I wish that I had learned it.

The people were very, very poor but so humble, grateful, and appreciative. I have only happy memories from that time of my life.

I think when I was about seven years old, my dad got released and we began attending the ward that we lived in. It was a very wealthy ward. In fact, I've heard it was the wealthiest ward in the world., although I don't know if that's true. It was filled with rich executives that worked in New York City. They were educated and successful. It was a great contrast between the branch we had lived in up to that point in our lives. We lived at the poorer end of the ward, but outside of the boundaries of the little branch we used to attend. At one point, that branch fell apart and we did lots of driving around and picking people p from hat area and driving them to our ward because they didn't have cars. I remember often sitting on the floor of our VW bus so that we could fit as many people in as possible.

I was always very shy and quiet so I mostly didn't have any friends at school when I was young. My friends were at church, mostly the boys in my class. None of them went to my school so I only go to see them on Wednesdays after school for Primary and Sundays for church and if there was a ward activity.

We always went very early to church and sat on the first or second row and everyone stayed at least an hour after church and any church activity so they could visit because it was the only time we got to see each other. That's when the kids would play and so, because that was the only place I had friends, that was another very positive church experience for me.

My whole growing up I wanted to serve a mission but ended up getting married before I was old enough. I regretted that sometimes after the fact.

I cannot remember ever questioning anything about the truthfulness of hate church. I was surrounded by people of different faiths and my church seemed to make so much more sense to me than any of theirs so I was convince that mine was true and that also made me not afraid to look at any other religion.

I did learn to love people of every faith and never dated a Mormon until the end of my senior year and then only one until I went to BYU because there were none in my school. I dated a lot but really only for fun because I knew that I could never get really serious with anyone who wasn't a member of my church.

I loved the rules and structure. It felt safe to me. I always was very obedient and wanted to make people happy so it was easy when I knew what the rules were. It was very natural for me to be comfortable in this environment.

In summary, the church was THE most important thing in my life for as long as I can remember.


This probably seems a silly folder to open but it feels appropriate to me.

Anyone who has had any personal experience with me knows that I love hugs. I have had to be corrected in my behavior on more than one occasion because I have sometimes been too aggressive with my hugging. For any I have offended, I’m truly sorry. Perhaps sharing this part about me will help you to understand me better, although I will still be do my very best to be respectful of your feelings and not intrusive in my behavior and I don’t expect you to change towards me because of what I write.

I think there are four major things that have influenced me in this way:

1. I have always had a great and overwhelming love for people. It’s part of the reason that my shyness as a child was so disturbing to me. I have always wanted to get to know people and spend time with people. Most of the time, at the end of the day, rather than relax and watch TV or read a book or something like that, my choice would be to reach out to someone and see how they’re doing, whether it’s someone I don’t know very well, or someone I haven’t spoken to in a while, or just someone I’ve been thinking about. I think one of my favorite things to do has always been to meet new people and learn more about them. I have also never felt put out about someone dropping by to see me or giving me a call, text, or message. Even if I’m very busy and don’t have time to visit at the moment, to me it has always been a great compliment and brings me tremendous joy to think that someone is thinking of me and would like to reach out to me.

2. The home I grew up in was not an affectionate home, not verbally or physically. I don’t remember my parents ever being affectionate with each other in any way. The closest I can remember is my mom driving my dad to the train station and there being a quick kiss on the cheek, sometimes. I think my mom was affectionate with us as very little children, but she had so many of us and was sick most of my growing up, so I don’t remember it. We must have customarily given my parents hugs before going to bed because I have a memory from when I was very young of one night saying that I was too big for a hug. In my mind, in my memory, that was the end of my goodnight hugs. Although I don’t remember receiving any anyway, I remember distinctly that I was the one who said I was too big for them and I remember regretting that almost immediately and feeling sad that I had ever said that. And I wondered why my parents didn’t just hug me anyway. This memory may or may not be accurate but it has affected me to this day. It is part of the reason that when I sense a slight hesitation, or someone says something to the effect of not being a hugger, I have, in the past, often been persistent, unless I’ve felt a strong resistance. I think it reminds me of the little child in me wanting to be loved enough that someone would hug me anyway, despite my push back about it.

3. When I was a senior in high school, I dated a boy from El Salvador. He lived in the slums of Newark, NJ. He and his brother and sister lived with his single mom in a tiny apartment and he had to work to take care of his family. I used to ride the bus to see him (that’s how he came to see me as well as neither one of us had a car). I loved his family. I loved to visit him. I remember that every time that he left his home he told his family that he loved them and gave them a hug and kiss on the cheek and they all did the same. I thought this was so unusual and I asked him once about it. His response was that if something ever happened to one of them, they would want the last thing that they had heard from their family to be the words, “I love you.” This affected me greatly. They were always very affectionate with each other and generous with hugs and kisses on the cheeks. I loved it. I decided then that that was what I wanted my family to be like.

4. My first baby died. (I’ll write more about that in another post.) One way that that event influenced me was that I realized for the first time in my life that we really could lose anyone at any time. This has been reinforced in many ways and at many times in my adult life. This has always brought me back to my experience with my boyfriend in high school. I became determined to cherish every moment that I have with someone, never knowing if it was the last. Sharing my love and affection with hugs and words of love and appreciation became an essential to me.

Since finding the work, I have learned to be more respectful of other peoples’ experiences and wants and desires and have come to realize that I need to be more sensitive about who I hug and when and how often but I felt like this was enough of an essential part of me that I wanted to share my feelings and experience about it.


I guess when I think of family, I think of two. First was my family I grew up with. That would be my mom, dad, and siblings. Except for my early life, until I was maybe seven years old, I didn’t live near ANY extended family.

My dad was born and raised in New Jersey. He was a middle child with two older sisters and two younger ones. They ALL graduated from BYU and his sisters all married men from the west and ended up in Utah, California, and Washington state. My dad came back home to New Jersey.

My mom was born and raised in Sacramento, California. Her dad got transferred to New Jersey for two years and that is when she met my dad. She was the oldest child and so all of the family moved back to California but she married my dad and moved to New Jersey.

My dad’s parents moved to Utah when they retired, which was sometime before I turned eight. I have very little memory of them living near us (almost none).

I was the oldest of seven children. The first four were very close in age but then my mom developed ulcerative colitis and was not supposed to have any more kids so the next three were spread three or four years apart, each.

I was extremely shy and always VERY obedient. I don’t believe I was a favorite to anyone in my family, but I was a favorite to most adults outside of it. My teachers loved me, both at school and at church, and other adults did as well. This led to a lot of jealousy and resentment from my two younger sisters and also my peers. I was often called “goody two shoes,” “little miss perfect,” “teacher’s pet,” and other various names and this was a great challenge to me. I did not like being favored in any way. I didn’t like the attention. I didn’t like the unfairness. I didn’t like the teasing I got from other children and from my sisters. And I didn’t like my sisters always jealous, hurt, and upset with me. BUT I didn’t have any idea of what to do about it. I remember asking myself, what do I do? Do I have to be a bad person to be liked by my peers? It was a dilemma for my whole growing up. I struggled with my conscience and my desire to be obedient and my desire to be equal and accepted.

Try as hard as I might, I cannot remember a time when I felt really close to anyone in my family. I loved them because that’s what you do. I felt close to the unit as a whole because they were my family, but I cannot remember feeling particularly close to any of them, which makes me a little sad to think about.

I would describe my dad as somewhat of a savant. He was brilliant in school. He skipped two grades in grammar school and graduated top of the class at BYU six months before he was old enough to go on a mission. He also was a tremendous musician with perfect pitch who could play the piano well enough to have been a concert pianist if he’d actually enjoyed it and had that desire.

The degree of brilliance he has in these areas is the same amount of lack he has in other areas. He has no handyman skills and can’t fix anything. And he has no social skills at all. I don’t remember him ever have any real friends, more just people who tolerated him. My mom can hardly stand to be around him and constantly surrounds herself with others or finds excuses to get away from him or is rolling her eyes and making faces behind his back.

My mom, on the other hand, is of average intelligence and is extremely sociable and funny. She has LOTS of friends and can always make people feel comfortable and keep them laughing.

I remember adoring her and wanting to be just like her but I was more like my dad. I was shy and awkward, very serious, and not funny at all. When I was a teenager, I had a period of time where I felt like I hated my dad. It’s the only memory I have of ever feeling like I hated anyone, no matter how mean or cruel they might have been to me. I could not understand those feelings and prayed hard every prayer, begging God to please help me to love my dad. It was a terrible experience for me. I only think just now that I might understand it a little. I think it was partly because I’m actually so much more like him and I hated it. I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t like that part of me and I think being anywhere near him was a reminder of that to me.

Interestingly enough, I now am glad that I have inherited many of my dad’s characteristics, rather than my mom’s. He is honest and real and very sincere. He has a very kind heart, no matter how difficult it is for him to express it. He is one of the most forgiving people I have ever known, extending the hand of mercy over and over again to people who have hurt him and he’s the only person I’ve ever known who could be interrupted during dinner with a lengthy phone call from a solicitor and patiently listen to the whole thing, turn them down politely and then say, with all sincerity, “Thank you ever so much for calling.”

I cannot remember my dad ever spanking me or even yelling at me. I can only remember the long, long lectures with him expressing his love and disappointment over my bad choices.

While I can admire and appreciate my dad from afar, I have never been able to establish a close relationship with him because he is so difficult to communicate with.

My mom, on the other hand is more superficial and very, very passive aggressive. I cannot understand or appreciate either of those two aspects of her personality. Although I appreciate the sacrifices she made for me and I’m glad that I must have gotten a very small part of her social skills, I am glad that I turned out more like my dad, overall.

My parents were married eleven months before having me, then eleven months later had the next and eleven months after that the next. My brother was born a year and eleven months after that. My mom was pregnant with her third child at her six-week checkup from her second and I had two little sisters before I was two years old. I guess that I had to grow up really quick.

I remember my first paid babysitting job, which happened years after I began babysitting my siblings, I was nine-years-old and babysat five kids. I was an excellent babysitter and I loved it. I played with the kids and cleaned the house before ever taking a minute to watch tv or relax before the parents came home. I was in high demand with people booking me up for many weekends ahead of time to make sure they could get me. I think I babysat most every weekend until I turned sixteen and could date. That was the end of my babysitting.

My whole family loves children and wanted big families. I felt the same. It was one thing I think we all had in common.

Past that, I felt different and somewhat detached from my family.


I have struggled with this section. Honestly, it is difficult for me to remember “being a child.”

Although I can remember things from my childhood, I cannot remember feeling like a child. I suppose being a big sister before I was one and having other children follow so quickly behind me, as well as my mom becoming very sick by the time I was four, I always felt a lot of responsibility placed on my shoulders. Add to that the expectations I felt for being a “chosen” daughter of God who was blessed enough to have been born in a righteous family in a country of freedom and prosperity and living in a community where most people had never heard of Mormons that I continually felt the duty of being responsible and setting a good example.

I don’t remember being unhappy about this. It just was. It was just my life.

I’m not sure I ever really learned to play. I suppose I did as a child, but I cannot remember that. I do remember my dad telling me about how quickly I learned to appease my sisters. If I wanted a toy they were playing with, I would first interest them in something else so that I could have my turn to play with the toy without hurting anyone’s feelings.

My love of other people and my desire to please them made me very happy to have rules and guidelines to follow. These made me feel safe. I never felt a desire to rebel. I always appreciated knowing the boundaries that I could stay within to keep people happy. It was my greatest desire to see other people happy. It was a constant hurt to me that my younger sisters seemed mostly not to be. As I got older and began to have friends, I wanted to be with them more than my family. It was there that I could make people happy.

I enjoyed school for the same reason. It was not a lot about the learning experience. When I was very young, in grammar school, it was about pleasing my teachers because I didn’t know how to please my peers. I was very shy and awkward and insecure. I had not been successful in my family pleasing my sisters and didn’t trust my ability to do so anywhere else. I mostly just wanted to disappear and spent all my time doing my very best to follow rules. I learned to pay very close attention to instructions so I could follow them meticulously. This impressed my teachers and other adults but, as I mentioned in my last post, created resentment from some of my peers, enhancing my insecurities.

Perhaps all of this increased my desire to grow up. Grown-ups felt safer to me. I just wanted to be one of them so I would be accepted and loved for who I was.

I didn’t want to go to junior high. I would not admit that I was fearful but insisted that I just didn’t want to go. Of course, I had no choice. Our junior high school divide the children into what they called “sections.” This section had all of the same classes together so that, although we went from room to room for different classes, we remained with the same group of kids. In eighth grade we still had a section where we stayed with the same kids most of the day, but we began to have some classes that were different than the others. By ninth grade, we had many more of our own classes. This was how our school prepared us for high school.

It was in my section, section 7-G, that my eyes were opened to the cruelty of group hate, which consisted of groups of people ganging up on individuals. Seventh and eighth grade were horrific for me in many ways. The same group of children all day, gave lots of time for teasing and tormenting those who were different. I was one of them.

People were picked on for the clothes they wore, the way they looked, their religion, their nationality, whatever there was that made them different from everyone else. I was quiet and shy but I could not tolerate seeing other people hurt. When someone was picked on, I would quietly go try to make them feel better. Before long, I was a friend to all the “losers.” I was the only consistent friend to them all, as they had issues among each other, and it didn’t take long for the leaders of the mean ones to determine that I was the leader of the losers. Now the animosity was concentrated more on me.

I never wanted to hurt anyone so I never stood up to anyone. I just tried to quietly nurture those who were hurting. I experienced many forms of abuse. I was slammed into lockers, kicked, spit on, and threatened to be beat up (luckily that never happened). I always just wanted to be a good person, a nice person. I learned that the best way to survive the abuse of my tormentors was to just play along with them. For example, when they would make fun of my clothes by sarcastically saying, “Lynnette, I LOVE your dress!” (amidst the class snickering), I would respond with, “Thank you! I love it too!” with a big smile on my face. I knew they were mocking me but I knew that if I pretended like I didn’t know, they would have no power over me and what more could they say. It upset those who didn’t like me but dumbfounded them and I suppose, in a way, I became a bit of a hero to those who also suffered from their cruelty. I had found a way to stay nice but diminish the severity of the abuse. It was in junior high that I began to have friends at school and my friendships at church diminished because my church friends were busy making their own friends at their schools (which wasn’t mine).

I somehow survived seventh grade and was now put into eighth grade. My new section didn’t include any of my seventh-grade friends but did include the scariest and meanest of my tormenters. I was left alone to deal with them. About half-way through the school year I was called to the principal’s office, after I had seen several other of the meanest classmates being called in one by one. I had never had this experience and was very afraid. When I got there, I was told of a girl in my class (one who had been one of the most popular and meanest) who had gotten in a fight with some of the other popular girls in my school and now wouldn’t return to school. I asked why they wanted to talk to me, as I had no part in this. The principal told me that they believed I was the only one in the class who wasn’t a part of it and he wanted to know my perspective.

I shared my honest perspective of the animosity and feelings of hurt that happened in the classroom but didn’t share anyone’s names or details and I expressed sympathy for the poor girl who was now feeling the wrath of others. This event changed my whole experience at school. I don’t think I ever told anyone about what happened that day in the principal’s office but somehow the word got out and there was a newfound respect for me. I don’t remember ever getting harassed again.

The rest of my years in school were special to me because of the friends I made. I did well in school because I guess I inherited a small portion of my dad’s brains, but I didn’t care much about my grades. I cared about the people I got to know and the experiences I began to have making friends, getting to know people, and feeling a love I never felt at home.


After months of trying to get pregnant, including a few false alarms and a cyst on my ovary that gave me symptoms of pregnancy (all so, so disappointing and discouraging), I FINALLY was pregnant!

What followed were nine months of horrible sickness. There was not a minute of the entire nine months that I didn’t feel extremely carsick and I was the skinniest I’d been for as long as I could remember. I lost everything I tried to eat out both ends. I had nightmares about food. I was miserably sick but so, so happy! I could not wait to welcome this child into the world and begin my family.

We named her Bless, much to the chagrin of many around us, but it was the name we felt most suited her. She was a beautiful baby (what mother doesn’t think that?) but she was also unusual in a few ways. First of all, when she was born, she scored a 10 on the APGAR chart. Doctors and nurses came in to see this “10” baby, as that is so rare. She was the epitome of health.

She also used to hum. I have never heard a newborn hum before like she did but she would hum and hum, from hours after her birth.

She was very content and almost never cried. And she would go long times (for a baby) between feedings. She was even mostly sleeping through the night before she was seven weeks old.

I had never been so happy! I was so in love with this sweet little girl! Her daddy loved her too.

She was born December 1, 1986. It was a very busy time. That’s how the holiday season is. Family visiting, Christmas parties, all kinds of stuff and I would let everyone who wanted to, hold her. I didn’t want to be selfish. And since she hardly ever cried, sometimes I wouldn’t get her back for quite a long time. I missed her but I thought of the others and wanted them to have the opportunity to hold her as well.

We moved on January 1st and that kept me busy as well. We moved to a new ward. They were remodeling our church building so our ward met with another ward at the same time. So there were six members of the bishopric up front and the same in RS, etc. It was confusing. I didn’t know who was in our ward and who wasn’t. By the end of the month, this would complicate my life a lot.

I took to motherhood so naturally. I wasn’t a nervous mother at all. I was completely comfortable and confident. I felt like I’d been prepared for it my whole life. So, it was very, very strange to me when I started having dreams that I would wake up and find her dead. I had a recurring nightmare about it … not every night, but once in a while.

The first time, I was terrified. Why would I ever even THINK of something like that? I had never known anyone who had lost a baby, not even if the baby was sick, and in my dream, she just died in her sleep with no warning at all. Of course, when I awoke, she was just fine.

Then, a bit later, I had the dream again … and then another night, again … and again …

I couldn’t understand it.

I didn’t worry about it. I figured I must be a nervous mother after all, even though I never felt that way during my waking moments.

One night, Bless was particularly fussy. I fed and burped her and rocked her and was not able to console her. My husband wanted sex. He didn’t want to wait for me to calm her down. He became angry and insistent. He yelled at me, “Put her to bed. She’ll be there in the morning.” I was distraught. My poor baby was helpless and crying and that was so unusual for her. But my husband was angry and I became afraid. So that night, Bless cried herself to sleep while I had a dreadful sexual experience that I wanted no part of at the time.

The next morning, my husband got up for work, walked into the other room, and started screaming. I ran in to find my dear, sweet Bless dead.

It was just like my dreams … exactly.

I was hysterical. He was hysterical. I felt, though, that somehow my dreams had prepared me for that time. As upset as I was, I felt that it must be God’s will, which explained the dreams.

I remember calling 911 and saying, “I think my baby’s dead.” Even as I said those words, I wondered at them. I KNEW my baby was dead. She was heavy and kind of stiff and cold. She had a mottled, discolored face. She hadn’t just barely died. She had died hours earlier.

We could hear the sirens before hanging up the phone. I raced to get dressed and put on my husband’s pants by mistake. The EMT came and told us that it looked like SIDS. I had never heard of that and had no idea what it was. They said it was Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Basically, a healthy baby dies and nobody knows why. They couldn’t be sure, of course, until the autopsy, but they explained numerous signs that they look for to be sure the baby didn’t suffocate or something like that and she didn’t have any of the warning signs they had been trained to find.

By now my milk had come in and my breasts were swollen and leaking, I couldn’t stop crying, and it was compounded by what I had been through the night before but I clung to my husband to try to cope and he wanted to have sex. How could I have sex when my baby just died? Yet, I needed him and I needed him to be okay. I knew he was hurting too. Perhaps this would help him. Perhaps this would bring us closer together. Also, I didn’t believe in denying my husband sex ever. I believed it was my responsibility and that it was how we could be close, unlike my parents, who I never wanted to be like. So, that’s what we did.

My life completely changed with this one experience. I was no longer the same person. My husband was no longer the same person. I was married to a stranger in many ways and he wanted out. He wanted to run away from any and every relationship. He never wanted to be close to another person, in case that person was to die. He wanted a divorce.

My reaction was the opposite. I wanted to hold everyone who was dear to me close. I wanted to cherish every moment with everyone I loved.

I begged and pleaded with him to stay with me. I promised to do anything to keep him here. I could not imagine losing him too.

He stayed but my marriage was never the same. He didn’t want to ever hold or be close to any of the other children. He completely detached from me and the family and was resentful and angry more than not. I essentially became a single mother for the rest of the children. While he kept his distance, I cherished each child that joined our family and nurtured and adored them. I tried to take care of him as well, in every way I knew how, but I was never enough – never pretty enough or skinny enough, never smart enough or good enough. He was angry with me far more than he was ever happy with me.

The day that I lost Bless, I lost a part of myself.

The effects of this experience were far-reaching. I had been a mother and now I was not. I didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere. My friends with children would talk about their children, how they were growing and what they were doing. I had changed through all this to the level that I didn’t fit in with my childless friends either. I didn't even know if Bless would know who I was when I saw her again because I felt like I had neglected her by my busyness before she died. Did she even know who her mother was?

I didn’t know who I was anymore. I clung to the belief I had that if I lived worthily I would be able to raise Bless in the millennium and I couldn’t wait for that day. I became all the more faithful and diligent in living my religion.

I had worked before Bless was born but had quit to be home with her. Now, I was pressured by my husband to go back to work because he wanted the play money. I couldn’t get my old job back because they had filled the position but got another one doing data entry but it gave me too much time to think so I ended up quitting and doing daycare at home.

I got pregnant shortly after all of this and my due date was December 1st, Bless’ birthday. I was pregnant for about three months before losing that baby to miscarriage. I was beyond devastated this time. I questioned for the first time in my life, not the church, but God Himself. How could a loving God take away my second child as well? No matter what anyone said to console me, I felt unloved and unworthy. I think at this point I began to believe that I was a bad person and deserved everything I got that was bad. I learned to patiently endure and try ever harder to be faithful and diligent in the church, in hopes that someday I would be forgiven and accepted and loved by God.

I began to believe that I would NEVER have children. Boy, was I wrong with that!

This was the hardest thing I had ever gone through up to this point in my life. But it prepared me in a way that I will always be grateful for. The thing that I learned from this experience was this:

I can do hard things.

And THAT has helped me for the remainder of my life to make difficult choices and survive through other very hard things that followed. It became a mantra to me … a lifeline, so to speak.


All of my life, all I ever wanted to be was a wife and a stay-at-home mother. I cannot remember wanting any other thing. And I was well prepared for it, well for the mothering part anyway, or so I thought.

I loved children and had been babysitting since the age of nine. I was extremely comfortable with children and could manage several at the same time with ease. I was patient and attentive. I thought this was something that I could excel at.

Was I ever wrong!

I feel like I had two stages of mothering. The first one was when I was married to my kids’ dad. I was extremely attentive and loving. I was a mother who cherished her time with her children, each and every one. Other than putting them to bed early so I got a little bit of down time each day, I was not a mom who needed breaks. My children almost never had babysitters, other than older siblings, and much of the time spent away from them was spent with their dad in an effort to distract him and protect them and in hopes that I could somehow repair my failing marriage.

I homeschooled all of them and to bring in the extra money that their father demanded, I did foster care so I could spend the most quality time with them and would never have to leave them to go to work outside the home.

I taught them everything I knew about “the gospel” and lived every commandment with the exactness that I had been taught and had practiced my whole life.

Because of the difficulties I had in my marriage, I became even more staunch and strict, involved and protective of my children in many ways. I was very diligent in reading the scriptures with them every single day and especially concerned about teaching them modesty, virtue, and integrity. I think I was trying to overcompensate in an attempt to make up for the “bad example” that their father was setting for them.

Their father didn’t want most of the children and wasn’t involved in their lives for reasons I’ll explain in another post and was very vocal about it. My children all knew they were not wanted or desired in any way by their dad and that “it was all [my] fault that we had so many kids.”

In my twentieth year of marriage, after birthing seven children, adopting two, and having cared for over 30 foster children throughout the years, I finally got the courage and what I felt was permission from God to leave the miserable situation I was in and that I had brought my children into and I packed them all up in our 15-passenger van and moved two states away.

At the time I left, I didn’t know what I would do but I was willing to live in a one-bedroom apartment and work at Walmart as a greeter if that’s what I had to do. I found temporary refuge at a cousin’s house and then my parents purchased a house in the area and I moved in with them.

That’s when I fell apart.

That’s when I was finally able to look at the bigger picture, not just be in the “survival” mode, just trying to get through the next moment and then the next and then the next.

That’s also when I lost my authority as a parent, where my rules disappeared and I acquiesced to whatever my parent’s rules were at their house. I knew the burden they had taken on themselves, taking in myself and all of my children and I was not going to do anything to make it more difficult for them. Their house, their rules, that’s just how it was. They didn’t have to enforce that, I gave them that of my own free will because it was only right and fair.

I enrolled my children in school for the first time. My oldest was sixteen, my youngest was five. They had lost their dad, their home, their friends, and everything that was familiar to them all in one fell swoop, and now they would lose their mom.

It took nearly three years of hell to disentangle myself from the mess I had created. When I finally started being able to pick up the pieces, I had lost the respect of my older children, and the confidence of all of them.

I felt like I had destroyed their lives and had no idea of how to mend it so in order to assuage my guilt and escape from the mess I had created in my home, I buried myself in a failing business I had created and tried to find some semblance of worth and value in other ways than in the one that had always been the most important to me.

I learned that I was not a good mother. I learned to never judge another one. I learned from my experiences that I had no right to look at another family with an ounce of judgment in my eyes because I had become the mother that I promised I would never, ever become – the broken, scared, needy mess that would do anything to try to escape the place I used to call my home.

Through it all, my testimony of the church continued to be strengthened. I believed with all of my heart that every struggle I had was a result of my sins. I believed that I had brought all of this hurt to my family and myself because I was a bad person. At times, I felt like it was impossible to ever fix my situation and I slacked up in some of the things that had been so important to me, like keeping the Sabbath Day holy – not in any huge way, but maybe taking my kids on a hike or bike ride after church. But as my life got worse, not better, I knew it was because of my inattentiveness to the details in the church and I would buckle down and repent and do better. I don’t know if a day went by where I didn’t bear my testimony to my children and try to find ways to relate blessings to obedience. The one thing that held our family together … the one and only thing, was the church and the concept of eternal families.

When I found the Work, that one thing was destroyed and with that, my family fell apart. There are people who judge my children for leaving me, but I understand them. Their mother had left them long ago.

No matter what I did to try to mend things, the healing was never complete.

I had a taste of what I felt heaven was with my children before the divorce. Now I know that we are on our own paths. My children would rather have no parent than to have me.

But the Real Truth has softened the blow. It has given me a perspective I would never have gotten in any other way. I now recognize that we are all our own gods having our own experiences and the best thing I can do for my children right now is to let them go so that they can find their way themselves. There is nothing I can do for them that would better prepare them to accept the Work, if they ever do, except to allow them to make their own choices and perhaps get to a place in their own lives where they have the desire with their own free will and choice to find solutions to this world’s problems.

Until that day, I take solace in knowing that I raised some very strong, independent children who are making their way in this world by making their own choices. IF they ever find the work, they will find it on their own.

I will always, always love them more than they will ever know or understand. But my heart extends to all children and adults in this world and I’m very happy to know and understand at least in part, with my limited understanding, the Real Truth so that I can have a better perspective of the big picture and trust that this is all exactly as it is supposed to be.


I don’t know how old I was, but I know I was very young when I asked my mom where babies came from. It’s the only sex talk I remember ever having with ANYONE growing up. I don’t remember a lot about it but I remember that she told me that I had a tiny hole in my bottom and that would get bigger when I did. This is where the baby would come out. I went somewhere by myself and tried to find that hole. I also remember thinking the sexual process was weird and I couldn’t imagine my parents doing that.

I cannot remember a time when I was not fascinated with the opposite sex. I don’t know if that had to do with everyone’s reaction when my brother was FINALLY born (after three girls) or the Priesthood authority that I was continually aware of, even very young, or the way boys and girls were treated differently at home and at church, or my great desire for my whole life to be a mother, or what, but I always loved boys.

I had crushes in kindergarten and Primary and all through my growing up. I thought all the time about finding true love, my husband and partner and having lots and lots of babies and living “happily ever after.” It was what I wanted most in my life.

I began developing earlier than many of my peers. I loved my new body and was proud of my breasts. I loved growing up and becoming a woman.

When I was ten or eleven, we had a Primary lesson on chastity. We were taught about modesty and not petting (what was that?). We were told about not putting our “foot in the door” and being dirty if we lost our chastity and things like this. The lesson was confusing to me. At the end of the lesson, I remember so distinctly that my teacher said something like this:

“Don’t be too chaste though because I had some friends who married and freaked out on their wedding nights.”

I did NOT want to “freak out” on my wedding night!

Now that my hormones were kicking in, I faced a new dilemma. How can I remain chaste, but not TOO chaste?

Although I was shy, when I finally warmed up to people, I made friends and most of them were boys. I was nice to everyone – truly everyone – so I had many opportunities to find “boyfriends.”

Although I didn’t go to dances until I was fourteen and didn’t date until I was sixteen, I found ways to spend time with boys in group settings and would find private moments with them in those group settings. For example, I might go to their house and then we’d go to their room. Or we’d maybe go to a park and take a little walk away from the group. I didn’t feel like I was breaking any rules. This wasn’t sneaky. It was just natural and I had never had any specific guidelines otherwise.

I learned about “bases.” First base was kissing. Second and third base consisted of touching in various places and fourth base, or home, was sex. I KNEW that fourth base was off limits. That was very clear to me. But where was the “not TOO chaste” place? Which bases were allowed?

In New Jersey, all of my friends were not in the church. They didn’t have the same standards and guidelines. I was alone in this. AND sex was NOT talked about. I remember being embarrassed if my bra strap showed by my shirt shifting a little. I could not even SAY the words like bra, tampon, sex, breasts, etc. because they were so embarrassing and uncomfortable for me.

I got myself in many situations with boys where we would go to various “bases” and I never knew how to feel about it. Over time, I was consumed with guilt and fear that I had done something wrong or gone too far. I felt dirty and would resolve not to do that again but didn’t want to hurt feelings so when a boy would persist again, I would succumb.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t do this with every boy I was with. I had many, many boy friends – much more than boyfriends. And I only got myself into this predicament when I was in a “committed” boyfriend/girlfriend relationship and we had been in this relationship for a lengthy period of time (usually months).

When I went to BYU, I was, for the first time in my life, surrounded by Mormons. Although my family had always been very strict and staunch and letter-of-the-law followers, sex was not discussed. At BYU, there were much more specific guidelines. They were still never clear like the church makes them today, but it was discussed in vague ways like “petting,” frequently, and I became more and more afraid and guilt-driven. I went to my Bishop and confessed. He told me to read the book, The Miracle of Forgiveness.

I resolved that I would NEVER sin again.

UNTIL … I went home for Christmas break and got with my boyfriend again. He didn’t understand my new conviction and I didn’t want conflict, plus habits and comfortableness …

Back to BYU and repenting again. I can’t remember if I went to the Bishop again or just resolved on my own to do better. I stayed away from boys at BYU because of my boyfriend at home so it was easy to be good there. But another summer and Christmas with my boyfriend back home and I was back to my “sinning” and horrible guilt. The second Christmas, we broke up because he had not yet gone on his mission, I wouldn’t marry him until he did, and I couldn’t deal with the guilt I was feeling.

After the breakup, I had a date every day at BYU, literally. But I didn’t get serious with anyone and didn’t have any more issues until visiting my grandparents in California and meeting my future husband.

We each confessed our sins to each other – his was pornography – and I thought we could be good but the first time he grabbed me when we were kissing and I stopped him, he complained that I had let everyone else touch me and he was the one who was going to marry me and made me feel so awful that I succumbed. That should have been my first red flag, but it wasn’t.

I married in the temple feeling unworthy. I couldn’t confess because it involved another person who didn’t want people to know. I just went, but I felt unworthy.

When I was going through the endowment, I many times had to sit on my hands so as not to raise them when they asked if we wanted to remove ourselves. When we got to the veil, I was picturing myself in heaven waiting to enter into the Celestial Kingdom. Just as I answered the last question and the officiator was to allow me in, there was a blackout. The whole room went dark and the big, heavy curtain that covered the ones we used to “converse with the Lord, through the veil” fell on my head. This affected me greatly. It was extremely symbolic. I KNEW I was unworthy and would not be able to go “home.”

My first marriage lasted nearly 20 years before I left him. (Finalizing all of the divorce stuff took another almost three years.) It was a difficult marriage. I already wrote about what happened when our first baby, Bless, died. What I didn’t mention was the sexual aspect of it.

We had sex at least two, if not three, times pretty much every single day (didn’t matter if I was on my period or had just had a baby or was sick or exhausted) and that was never enough for him. I never, not even once, denied him. I tried whatever different things he wanted to try. I did everything I knew to do to please him. I was never enough…ever…

He was addicted to pornography and this made sex much worse because his expectations got more and more, both of the sexual act and also of my appearance. He got angrier and meaner. He would do things that hurt me. I would be crying and he would not stop. Later he would pick fights with me and then ignore me and when he finally was nice to me, he would use that time to do the things in sex that were the worst for me so that I felt I HAD to submit just to make peace.

I would’ve anyway.

I don’t know if I even knew that I COULD say no.

Religion made things way worse. Pornography was a sin. This increased both of our negative feelings about it. Masturbation was a sin. Not only did he often do that but he wanted me to as well. Immodesty was a sin and that was a continual problem with his desires for me. He would take me to rivers where there were naked men floating down on innertubes or other floaties and he would make me take off my clothes and have sex with him in front of them. That HAD to the WORST kind of sin!

The more guilt I felt, the more “righteous” I tried to become in other areas, the more I tried to teach my children “correct principles,” the more I hated myself.

When I finally felt that God approved of my leaving, I packed up my eight children, ages 5-16, into our 15-passenger van and drove to Utah. (We had been living in California.)

I was single for about seven years and got involved with a neighbor/business partner that I fell in love with. Although we never had sex, I again, fell into the pattern of touching that I had had during my premarital days. Not often, only a handful of times during all those years but again, the guilt was tremendous and I finally confessed and was put on probation at church. I could no longer take the Sacrament, speak or pray in church and I could not attend the temple. I was devastated! Luckily, this didn’t last too long because I was very sincere in my repentance.

I married the second time to a man who was the epitome of “Peter Priesthood” equal to my being “Molly Mormon” at that point. We were so, so, so careful to never do anything inappropriate during our dating and engagement. We never even French kissed. Our entire relationship was based on scripture reading, church, and seeking for truth. Our sex life was all about only for love and in an attempt to have children. It was not about lust. We spent a lot of time talking about and learning about what the church had to say about lust so as to avoid any and everything that would be considered lustful …

UNTIL we found The Sealed Portion. At that point, my husband didn’t want to be married anymore, wanted to have multiple sexual partners, didn’t believe in love and not only did he not tell me he loved me anymore, but he didn’t want me to say I loved him either. It was a terribly confusing time for me and ultimately, within a year of finding the Work, our marriage ended as well.

Now, was a time for me to experiment. I no longer believed logically, in my mind, that sex was a bad thing, but after all of my experiences and YEARS of feeling like my sexual experiences had been the cause of ALL the problems in my life, I wasn’t convinced of it completely. I had to know for myself. I was broken sexually. I had no confidence. I was afraid. I hated myself and hated my body. BUT I had to know if this principle that I was learning was true. Was it possible to have sex, outside of marriage, even outside of love, and NOT feel guilty?

I found someone I trusted in the work, and we began a sexual relationship. It was a wonderful experience for me because I experienced for myself that the things I had been learning were true. I no longer had to feel guilt. I grew to love myself and my body (not just from sex, but this helped). Ultimately, I fell in love with this man but the feelings were not returned. We continued in this relationship for quite some time and I learned that sex without love on both sides is not really for me. Although I didn’t feel guilty, I felt empty and unfulfilled. I was able to move on and still love and cherish the friendship that developed from that experience.

Then, I married Damon. I’ll use his name because he has given me permission to and also because his story is on here and if you read it, you will further understand my sexual experiences.

Although I love him with all of my heart, and we both tried in every way we could think of, we were not able to make our marriage work because of our sexual incompatibilities.

In my life, sex has really brought me much more misery than happiness. I say this not as a victim or to complain. I’m grateful for each and every experience I’ve had. I say this only because it has provided ME with empirical evidence that the things that I have learned through this Work, are true. Every bit of information I have gotten and understood, in the way I have understood it, has been proven to me, without a doubt, to be Real Truth.

I have never wanted more in my life to “become as a little child.”


I think it's really important to explain here that, although I have been through many difficult things in my life, as we all have, I had come to a place where I felt healed and at peace overall with my life experiences. I felt I had forgiven those who had hurt me and been able to move on. I DID still have questions though. These questions did not plague me, but they were tucked away in my mind and brought out to examine from time to time. I was convinced that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was THE true church. I didn't have any doubts about that at all.

I thought that I was happy in my life overall. I was finally married to someone who I felt I was more compatible with, who was kind and treated my kids well. I loved my callings and activity in church and my friends there. My relationships with my children and family were healing. I was satisfied in many ways.

My husband at the time had some serious questions about the church but he had not found anything powerful enough to take him away from it so he continued in full activity and just searched and searched for answers anywhere he could find them. I understood his concerns but was less concerned about finding answers to them immediately because I was convinced that someday I would have all the answers if only I studied the scriptures and was obedient enough. I knew that I was following every "commandment" with as much exactness as I knew how to do so I knew it was just a matter of time.

I was very familiar with the scriptures, as they had become a lifeline for me, and I had a great desire ALWAYS to know the things that Abraham knew and that Nephi saw and others. I had a great respect for my husband because I saw him obeying the teachings of the church as well. As he searched for answers, I would study with him, everything he found. I had no fears of reading anything because I was convinced I already had found the truth in the church and nothing that he brought to me to study made more sense than what I understood the truth in the church to be.

In time, he grew frustrated with me not seeing the wonderful discoveries he was finding as the same truth that he saw them to be. No matter how hard I tried to understand them the way that he did, they just didn't ring true to me. Even if parts of them sounded intriguing and a possibility, the whole package made less sense to me than the things that I had already accepted as truth. He began to criticize my efforts saying I wasn't trying hard enough or studying enough. He said that I must not be worthy to see things as he did.

I took these things hard because I KNEW that I was trying hard and studying hard and I could not understand how I was STILL not worthy when everything in my life was focused on being obedient in every way. One night, after a frustrating discussion with him about another new philosophy that he had found, I found myself kneeling beside my bed, sobbing, begging, pleading with my Heavenly Father to please, please, please just tell me the truth. In desperation, I offered to give up everything that meant anything to me in exchange for this information. I offered to lose my husband, my children, my family, my home, my possessions, my membership in the church, anything, anything, anything that was needed. I just needed to know the answers. I went to bed empty again.

Soon thereafter, I don’t know how long it was (days, I think), my husband came home from work and announced that he had found the Sealed Portion. I was STUNNED! I knew what that was. I had been waiting for as long as I could remember for that day. How could I have not heard about it? Where did it come from?

Although I was excited to know, I was also guarded and careful because the man who claimed to have translated it was not the prophet of the church, but someone I had never heard of. But I HAD to know.

Thus, began my journey to Real Truth. I have read every book, studied every post I’ve been able to get my hands on, listened to every broadcast that I could find, and put the things I’ve learned into practice in my life to the best of my ability. I have never found anything in my life that has made more sense and allowed me to take control of my life in a positive way than the truths I have found in this Work.

The peace that I have found since finding the Marvelous Work and a Wonder, The Humanity Party, and the Real Illuminati has been profound and affected every area of my life. Here are just some of the many benefits that I have realized:

1. I love myself. Because of my new understanding, I am more patient and accepting of my flaws and have come to appreciate who I am in this mortal experience. I used to be needy of love and attention. Now, I am grateful for it but not so needy. I don’t worry so much if people like me, although I still like for them to, but I like myself and because of that, I don’t need others to reassure me and help me feel okay about who I am.

2. I no longer worry. Not only do I realize the unproductiveness of it, but I don’t even have the tendency towards it. I have the ability to feel comfortable knowing that no matter what the outcome, I will be okay, not just in this lifetime but in the eternities. This extends not only to me, but to my children, my family, my friends, and all loved ones, as well as everyone on this planet. This is a tremendous relief because [anyone who knew me before this great change knew] that I was a big worrier, constantly worried about doing the right thing and pleasing God and others.

3. I feel no need to forgive anyone, ever, including myself. What is there to forgive? We are all doing the best that we can, given our circumstances and I understand so much better how unnecessary forgiveness is. I know that if I take offense, that’s my problem, not someone else’s.

4. I have no regrets about anything in my life – nothing. At times, I still feel a little badly about things I have done that have hurt others, especially my children, but I am able to shake that feeling knowing that I have always done the best that I have known how to do in the circumstances I’ve been in and with the knowledge I’ve had. I no longer feel the need for an atonement or anything to redeem me because of messing up my eternal salvation. I know differently now.

5. My judgments are gone. I never thought I was a judgmental person because I truly have always had a great love for people, no matter what their choices or behaviors. But I now realize that it is IMPOSSIBLE to believe in any religion or any right or wrong that applies to all people, and NOT judge people. How can you? If there is a right or wrong that is universal and all-encompassing for everyone, then that is the measuring stick. I now believe that each person has the right and ability to determine for themselves what is their right or wrong, including me, but I have no right or ability to determine it for anyone else, nor do they for I. What a freedom that is to not have to be concerned about what other people are doing and just worry about finding my own peace.

6. I have learned to know and understand myself much better. By listening to my own self, rather than others, I have been able to better gauge which things bring me peace and which things do not.

7. My love for all of humankind has grown exponentially. No matter how much I loved people before, I do even more now. How can I not when all judgment is gone, I don’t need to forgive or worry about anyone, and I love myself?

8. My life is one of peace – much more peace than I have ever experienced – and that peace is not conditioned upon what is happening in the world. This is HUGE, especially during this past year (2020) of total chaos. I have not been brought into the negative emotions that so often are felt with all of the troubles we are seeing in the world.

9. I have become empowered to take control of my own life. This includes accepting responsibility for my own choices and not blaming anyone else. It allows me to remove myself from situations that take away my peace and to change my life when I’m unhappy with any part of it, and that includes changing me. If I find something I don’t like about myself, I change it. Sometimes it takes a while, it’s a process, but it happens. Anyone who has known me over the last several years would be able to attest to the vast amount of changes I have made in my life.

10. I am a nicer person. I know it and if anyone who knew me before actually spent some time really getting to know me again, they would know it too.

The list could go on and on but I’ll let it rest here with this:

Everything that I’ve ever wanted to know about human reality and religion is explained through the Marvelous Work and a Wonder.

Every solution to humanity’s problems is presented through The Humanity Party.

The Real Illuminati has the Real Truth and has presented it to us through a True Messenger. Please, listen to them.


One of the most amazing and empowering things that I have learned on my journey of finding the real truth is my own accountability. For me, it goes hand in hand with every bit of empowerment that I have discovered.

As I look at my life, I see that I am NOT a victim, not in ANY way. I see how situations created problems, how my choices, created my problems as well as the effect that they had on others in my life, those who were a part of my experience.

Some might look at my home life growing up and see that I was a victim in some way. I do not see it as that way. I see the dynamics surrounding my upbringing. I had siblings who had to deal with favoritism. I had a mother who was very sick the majority of my growing up, I had a father who deals with his own struggles and deficiencies in learning some things that seem very basic and fundamental to the people in my life. I see parents who no longer loved each other but were bound together by the beliefs they had been taught all of their lives and had adopted as their own, believing they had no option but to stay together.

In my first marriage, I see a husband who was stuck with a wife he felt he could not leave, with so many children he did not want, in a religion (which his wife hung on to with every fiber of her being) that condemned the very thing he tried to do to relieve the pressures in his life. I see a hurt over losing someone so precious to him that he could not find a way to relieve, and perhaps regret over the things he said before she died.

I see the sufferings of my children, being born into a dysfunctional home of anger, hurt and fear, being inundated to the nth degree with religion at every turn, losing everything when they left the original situation, and then having a completely broken mother in a strange environment (strange to them, not a judgment on where we actually lived).

I see my fanaticism and how it alienated me from people, and the judgments I carried in my mind and heart as it was all I had ever known or been taught in this experience. I recognize my insecurities and how they have brought out in me a desire to be the best at things I have done, perfectionism, and how I have never succeeded at that, feeding my desire even more. I am aware of how difficult that has made me to be around. I see my own struggles as an imperfect human with imperfect genes that have created my own ineptitude at so many things in this life and the insecurities that I’ve developed that I have put out on others. I’ve become much more adept at recognizing unhealthy coping mechanisms that I have developed.

I see my pride and how it has played out in my behavior in SO many ways. I see how I have used it when I’m insecure to try to feel better and how I have used it when I’m feeling good about myself as well.

Along with seeing my great inadequacies, I see that I am just a flawed individual, no better or worse than any other of us in this flawed world, having an experience that I chose. I sometimes think in my mind, “Would I be mad at the blindfolded person in Blind Man’s Bluff ( for stepping on my toes or smacking me in the face?”

How could I be? They cannot see what they are doing. How can I be upset with anyone in this world, any human being at all?

I know we are all fundamentally good people. We are all handicapped severely. How can I judge? How can I condemn? Likewise, how can I wallow in pity? Or carry deep regrets?

This is what the Marvelous Work a Wonder has given me … the power to heal myself.

Additionally, I have seen the role that our world has played in each of our development and the additional burdens and stresses it has created. We live in a world that requires us to work and work hard to survive. There’s no let up. There’s no relief. Only a select few (myself included) have any help in this world – family that will take them in when they have no other choice, allowing the ability to leave a bad marriage, for example.

The stresses of this world create unkindness, frustration, anger, abuse, all manner of mistreatment and negative emotions.

I now know that there is a plan that would eliminate ALL of these problems. Think of the beautiful life we could live if we didn’t have to slave away every day, all day long, with huge responsibilities of others, just to survive (not enjoy – just survive). We could change this world virtually overnight.

I could sit around depressed knowing that we have a plan and most of the world is ignoring it. But I choose, instead, to embrace the things I have learned that help me in my daily experience to love myself and others and to patiently allow others to hopefully, in time, learn the importance of changing this world and to have the great desire to find out how.

In the meantime, I remember how blind I was and for how long. I think of what things I had to go through before I desperately begged and pleaded for answers and what a sacrifice I was willing to make to know the truth. Perhaps I am not so different from others. Perhaps that’s part of what this experience is all about. I don’t know, who am I to say? Who am I to judge? Who am I to condemn?

Everything that I have ever learned to help ME, I have learned through the Marvelous Work and a Wonder. Everything I have ever learned about helping this world, I have learned through The Humanity Party.

What perfect plans. What a great thing Real Truth is. How grateful I am for a True Messenger and to the Real Illuminati for healing me and offering to heal this world.

And all of it, every single bit of it, without exception is …


Now, HOW can you beat that?!!!

Thank you for reading my story. Feel free to reach out to me at any time.

Lynnette Cook 435-919-8240