Mairi Aslin

March 27, 2024: “Dear God, I think I have 
found my favorite way to talk to you, and I 
hope you don’t mind.”

On the Sundays that I actually make it to church, I write to
God. God and I have talked about a lot of things over the
past couple years of sacrament meetings. I’ve thanked God on
the Sundays that I’m feeling good about life, I’ve yelled at Him
through the pen on the ones when life is hard yet again, I’ve
begged Him for peace and freedom from the pain when I just
can’t do it anymore. This way feels easier than kneeling down
to pray. It’s like texting—easier to say things you wouldn’t nor-
mally say when there is a minute to think. When I began writ-
ing nearly five years ago, it was more formal: “Dear Heavenly
Father.” It was, “thank you for . . .” and, “please help me with . .
.” and so on. The more we talk, the less formal it becomes—the
deeper the thoughts and pleas. Today it was just “Hey, God.”
Today was the first time in a while. Yet, I still felt like I could
say, “Hey, God.” Funny how that works. Funny how that shows
how far I’ve come. It’s like I can see my footprints across each
journal entry, walking along the winding path of life. Like I can
see God’s footprints too. Someone who doesn’t know me might
be inclined to assume that because I talk to God, I must be an
extremely faithful, never-wavering disciple. If only.

January 20, 2025: “Hey, God. Today I feel . . .
good. Kinda crazy, I know. Isn’t optimism such
a fascinating idea?”

      More than anything else, I’ve done my best to hide from
God—for years. Maybe He’s truly been walking beside me all
my life, but most of the time I wouldn’t have known it. Not
when today was just one of the countless times when I’ve pre-
tended to be fast asleep at the chirp of my husband’s alarm
telling us we are late to our 8:30 a.m. church session . . . and
then blamed it on the late Saturday night and the fact that I
“forgot” to set my own alarm . . . and then acted as if it wasn’t
my own guilt keeping my eyes squeezed against the light of the
morning that woke me up about a half hour ago. I try my best
to make it seem like an accident, but I bet there is Someone
up there Who knows better. Sometimes I can ignore the guilt
and fall back asleep. Other times, like today, the guilt eats at
me in the silence of my bedroom. I have to hold my breath as I
sneak out, praying that my husband doesn’t wake up and insist
we go. Pitiful. Pathetic. That’s what the voice in my head calls
me on those days. Days like today. Before I ever started talking
to God the way I do, before I began noticing Him walking be-
side me, I started talking to the voice.

February 25, 2024: “Dear God, I am so im-
perfect. Every day is a battle . . . I never learn
and every time I try, I fail.”

      There is a name for the voice, a clinical name: Anxiety. It
took me the majority of my life to recognize the little voice in
my head for what it was and multiple years after that to accept
that I indeed walk hand in hand with it—a voice so real and
heavy that the invisible weight can make its own prints in the
path of my life. When I was younger, it was quieter, but as I
grew, the voice grew with me. Anxiety is good at making me
feel a lot of things: afraid, lonely, confused. Mainly it impacts
my relationship with God. The cruel thing about Anxiety is
that its voice is eerily similar to mine. The same pitch, the same
inflection. Its accent is a little Midwest, a little Utah, a little
Chicago when it’s mad—just like mine. As if it too has moved
around throughout childhood and can’t quite decide on a home.
How could I have known that the voice wasn’t my own? How
could I have ever guessed that the endless stream of what ifs and
imagined catastrophes weren’t just me faltering in every possible
way? No, of course there is something wrong with me. Of
course, I am the problem, the broken part in a working ma-
chine. How could it be otherwise, when all I hear in testimony
meetings is “I know”? They “know” what and how, how could
they “know” it? What do I “know”? Nothing. What used to
seem clear blurs in my eyes and in my mind. It must be me.

February 25, 2024: “Confusion resides, rent-
free in my heart and mind. If there is such a
thing as the devil, he courts me. And I let him.”

      I haven’t always ignored God so fervently. I grew up in the
Church. I had what I thought was a pretty good testimony be-
fore I was in Young Women. I even got up and bore it in front of
the whole congregation every month, thinking I was so wise. It
used to be so easy back then to believe. To just hear the words
my parents said about God and accept them. I remember think-
ing there was no way my testimony would ever go away. It’s hard
to say exactly when that changed, when Anxiety tugged my
hand from God’s and started to guide me the other way. It
wasn’t like lightning—as if one moment I had faith and the next
I was lost. It was more like a drought—despite starting with an
endless supply of thirst-quenching water along with the knowl-
edge of how to acquire more, Anxiety excelled at turning hope-
fulness into hopelessness. Day after day of crippling insecurities
coupled with the ever-present struggles of a modern world works
wonders on bright-eyed believers. Eventually, I think I was so
disoriented from dehydration that I forgot how to get more
water. Sometimes there are days like today, which begin in that
place of exhaustion with a desire to just give up and, despite my
best efforts of resistance, end in the back of the chapel at 2:00
p.m. to ensure we partake of the sacrament. Even in the midst of
a drought surrounded by strangers, just sitting in the pews and
hearing the songs . . . it’s enough, for a time. The smallest drop of
water can be so refreshing. The notes fill my soul, and shivers—
not of cold but of peace—run up and down my spine.

January 21, 2024: “Dear God, I feel so close
to thee.”

      I give myself over to that feeling for a moment, let it soak
in. It’s easy to feel like it will last, or to hope it will. But like
water slipping through my fingers, it is gone too soon. I try to
hold onto it, but doubt creeps back in. The moment, while re-
freshing, sends me back into a game of whiplash that brings
headaches and mistrust of my own mind. I schedule appoint-
ments with a therapist who can maybe fix me so the whole
machine doesn’t break. I attend these appointments in hopes
of controlling and condemning the confusion. I ache to be
pulled out of the misty gray of indecision and laid gently in the
security of the black and white that I grew up in.

July 14, 2024: “Dear God, why? That’s the
question these days. Why am I here? I wish
that fear didn’t burrow in my heart and take
shelter.”

      Faith and fear: two ideas so similar that they are even inter-
changeable in instances throughout the scriptures. Being a dis-
ciple of Christ, I shall not fear. The scriptures have told me that
“God hath not given [me] the spirit of fear” (2 Tim. 1.7), and
“There is no fear in love” (1 John 4.18). Easy enough. I shall
not fear. Imagine my confusion knowing the scriptures also en-
courage me to “fear, and tremble before God” (Mosiah 15.26).
People have told me that there is a difference. However, some-
where along the way, the lines blurred between the two so much
that a limiting spirit of fear was planted in my soul, growing to
overpower and choke down something like faith. Fear that en-
courages one to follow turned into fear that encourages one to
hide. Am I not a sinner who struggles with her faith? Not al-
lowed. Clearly, the only solution is complete perfection—or
damnation. This concept has ruled my heart and mind for the
majority of my college years.
      Anxiety wears a crown signifying its complete triumph
over my God-given gift of agency and autonomy. Most of the
time, I don’t even notice because, to my knowledge, I am fol-
lowing God. In these times, Anxiety is my Savior. How many
times has Anxiety kept me on the covenant path, telling me
that one wrong move will result in eternal burning? How lucky
am I that I don’t have to think about making wrong choices in
life because at the thought of punishment my breaths shorten,
my palms dampen, and a tightness in my chest releases panic
into my veins? So lucky.

March 5, 2024: “Dear God, I just feel so hope-
less. Heart-broken. Alone. I don’t understand
why I have to feel this way.”

      I don’t know how many people live this way. That’s the
thing about Anxiety. It has chains that bar its captive from
reaching out in search of asylum, understanding, and connec-
tion. It forces a smile onto the face that tells maybe the same
lie everyone else is telling. Maybe they are just like me and
don’t even know that they are lying. I can’t judge when I my-
self choose to only bear my testimony if I am feeling confident
in my beliefs. I only even go to church on those same stan-
dards. Because, if fear controls me, then I have no choice but
to lie to everyone around me and hope that God believes it
too: “I haven’t fallen off the wagon. I’m just tired. I’m still per-
fect. I still believe. I’m not confused. I promise. Please don’t
hurt me.” Years pass in this same vein, years full of lies, pain,
and confusion.

April 21, 2024: “Oh God, why am I so weak?
Why is shame my companion and uncertainty
my guide? My mistakes haunt me and follow
me with stones that hit my back.”

      Truth hits like the full-body shock of ice-cold water. The
water is so cold it burns; blood vessels constrict against the bite,
trying to preserve the tightly held beliefs. The body wants to
escape, run back to where it previously found comfort. The
brain can’t understand right away—but that ice cold water is
healing. I don’t remember the day or why it came to me at that
moment. I only remember the thought and the way my breath
caught at the clarity: If I am only following a God because I fear
Him and what He will do to me, then I have no faith in Him at all.

January 21, 2024: “Dear God, I do want a
testimony, but first I need to overcome the
fear I have and grow it into faith.”

      When I was nine years old and in fourth-grade, there was a
girl. She was skinny and athletic, a bit tall for our age, and had
the timid but hopeful smile of a girl who had just moved to
town and was trying to figure out how she was going to fit in. I
was a different sort of kid: short, kind of chubby, and filled to
the brim with the audacity to be arrogant while at the same
time having no friends. This meant any of the other kids in my
fourth grade were likely clearer choices for this girl to select
than me to begin the awkward and fragile process of young
friendship. However, in a highly confusing turn of events, the
sought-after new girl decided to take the plunge and, for un-
known reasons, chose me as a friend. At the risk of being
cliché, the rest is history: we were best friends. Anyone who
has been blessed with the gift of a best friend can relate to what
it feels like. It’s like bliss. It’s the complete confidence that, no
matter what, I have her and she has me. It’s the knowledge
that there is nothing that could be so bad because I will always,
always have someone to lean on, who knows me to my core
and has chosen to stay. I felt unstoppable. In fact, I liked my-
self. I began to walk with a surety that I hadn’t previously expe-
rienced and haven’t experienced since those times. Surely,
Anxiety existed then but I had no reason to listen to it when I
had a best friend to love me.
      In the end, there was no dramatic argument that turned us
against each other, no boy that came between us. We weren’t
given anything like that type of closure. Ultimately, it was a
critical move from Nebraska to Illinois when I was fourteen,
creating five hours of space between myself and the best friend
I loved. Even now, it seems like too small an amount to destroy
something so sacred. But the string connecting us grew more
taut by the day. By the end of high school we still loved each
other, but we just didn’t know how to talk anymore. It’s no sur-
prise that those lonely years were when the voice of Anxiety
started to grow louder and louder. Anxiety unpacked its bags in
the empty space in my heart where a best friend’s love used to
live.
      I have spent days surrounded by strangers and nights with
an empty hole in my heart wondering why so much about me
fell apart when I moved into that little town in Illinois. All I
have to show for it is a simple theory: unconditional love. This
is a phenomenon that I have only experienced in a relationship
as intimate as two best friends. The moments when this feeling
was the strongest for me were the times my best friend did some-
thing so incredibly stupid that the fault could realistically be no-
body’s but her own. It could have been the seventh time she had
made the exact same mistake. In my memory, it is different from
the sympathy given to friends or family, the pats on the back
coupled with hidden laughter behind it. Unconditional love
lacks judgment, lacks eye rolls and impatience. It is knowing
that the person next to you is half, if not more, of the reason
they are facing their problem. Then you choose to set that truth
aside for a moment while you wrap your arms around the human
experiencing hurt and pain in hopes that they don’t have to feel
it alone. As if it were yesterday, I can feel the warmth of those
arms around me when it was my heartache being eased.

January 14, 2024: “Dear God, be with me.”

      Like my best friend, I am imperfect. So many of my heart-
aches, I have brought upon myself. I am a liar and a sinner, and
I do it compulsively, daily. I think sin is behind me and the
same day I will sin again. It doesn’t make sense that He could
forgive such blatant disobedience—no, not a god. If there isn’t
fear of being struck down or faith that I will be lifted up then
nothing matters. It is easier to stay in bed on a Sunday morning
if I will never measure up anyway.
      And yet, I know what it’s like to have a best friend. I re-
member the surety with which I lived, knowing that someone
doesn’t leave me when I mess up. Maybe there is a reality where
God loves me like that. Maybe if I were drowning He wouldn’t
roll His eyes at me as He pulled me out—even knowing that I
was the one who neglected to learn how to swim, the one who
jumped into dangerous waters in the first place. Maybe when I
sin He doesn’t turn His nose up, but says with worry creasing
His brow, “I am so sorry you are feeling this pain.” Maybe when
I am crying over the same mistake, suffering from the conse-
quences of my own actions, He wishes He could take away my
hurt. Maybe I have a God who never wishes to say “I told you
so” and who loves me again and again even when I am not wor-
thy of love. After all, if it is something that I can do, surely so
can He. How could I fear a God like that?

April 21, 2024: “Dear God, you know, I am
not the same person that I was eight months
ago. I have changed in more ways than I can
count. Is this your doing, God? Have I changed
because of and through you?”

      If He is a God like that, then Anxiety, as far as I can tell,
will never love me unconditionally, and will never forgive my
mistakes. The love Anxiety has for me is lies and expectations,
half-truths and ridicule; love that is conditional upon impossi-
ble standards—no matter what I do, I will never be enough. In
fact, it looks the same as the love that I used to think that God
had for me: something to fear and hide from.
      So, here I have two figures existing in my mind's eye, and
they both speak. They both see the same person but have pro-
foundly different understandings of who I am and expectations
of who I should be. The bane of my existence until now has
been, and will likely continue to be, figuring out which voice
belongs to whom. Ever since I let go of fear, the black and
white of “I know” has been inaccessible—it would be a lie. All
I know is I want to have faith in the God that loves me uncon-
ditionally.

August 8, 2020: “Dear God, help me to reach
for you.”

     I’d like to picture a God who sits beside me with the for-
giveness and understanding of a best friend. I have no concrete
evidence, no experiences with an angel or a voice from the
heavens. All that I have is the feeling when I sit in the chapel
that I have come home. All I have is the memory of what it
felt like to be loved by a best friend and the hope that I will
feel that way again. All I have are a few years’ worth of journal
entries that subtly show how I have been trusting enough in
God all along that I can tell Him my worst fears and my great-
est joys. Such a tender, shaky hope rings through the sentences
of a woman asking for companionship. They show a relation-
ship that may have started in fear but has become a precarious
faith. I cannot claim something as terrifying as “I know”; I may
never be able to, not when it’s my life’s challenge to hear the
claims of Anxiety, lies or not. However, I think I’ll choose to
believe in a God who loves me like a best friend. And I think I
will try to trust that, if I fall, He will reach out to catch me.