When I first moved from home, I moved into a nice one-bedroom condo, free of charge because a good neighbor who was in the real estate business hadn’t yet sold it. The kitchen and living room were one room. The condo was on the second floor of the complex. It was August. As you walked in the front door your eyes fell upon the large living room window opposite the door that took up almost the entire wall. Just outside the window was a large maple tree whose branches and leaves entirely filled the window. The tree was in the sun that filtered into the room. It was healing. There were always birds and butterflies.

But the condo was prison. Truly. I’d left my home where I was with my large family. The dinner table was filled with noise and laughter and teasing. Evenings were spent helping with homework, jumping on the tramp, kids rolling and frolicking on the floor, and tucking my them into bed. My favorite, reading at bedtime. My oldest daughter played my grandmother’s piano that was in our family room. She is one of the few people I’ve ever known that chose to practice, so the house was always filled with music. In other words, there was always noise. I often mentally complained about the design of our home, because through the open vaulted ceiling the entire main living area of kitchen, living room, family room, and upstairs bedroom hallway were all connected. It was hardly every silence unless it was after 10:00 at night because noise from any open family area bounced off the ceiling to all other areas.

The condo was solitary confinement. In every sense of the word. After the noise of family life, the silence was unnerving, constricting, and painful. It wasn’t until years later I realized that much of what I was feeling was homesickness. I’d never had that before. I was deeply profoundly homesick for my wife and children.

I happened to also be out of work. I’d been laid off a few months earlier (divorce and being out of work being just two of several parts of the “perfect storm”). Daytime I was at the library where I could get an internet connection and look for work, and nights were in my prison. I had no TV, nothing but me and Silence to keep me company. And Silence was a cruel companion.

Actually, silence wasn’t my only companion. Tears were the other.

Sometimes a red-breasted robin came to visit. He would sit in that amazing tree in its cool shadows. I would sit on the couch facing the window, truly a “picture window,” and watch. He was oblivious to the prisoner on the other side.

I wish I could put words to what I felt during those months. Those who have lived it understand.

If you are in this position, there are a few things you gotta do. First, know that others have experienced this. You’re not alone. Next, and most important, find a foundation to carry on. That foundation should be Christ. Find Him in whatever way you can. I was lucky enough to have an sensitive brother-in-law who pulled me aside at a family gathering. He recommended that I read two things.

Larry first recommended a book called “He Did Deliver Me From Bondage.” By a remote chance (I don’t believe in accidents), my wife and I had gotten a copy of this book years earlier, recommended by some dear friends of ours. It was a 1996 version in a three-ring binder. I had read part of it long ago. I was surprised at the coincidence of his recommendation. I’d started but never finished it. And, by “chance,” I happened to have brought my copy with me to the condo, among the few things I did bring. (You can find a much newer version of this at Amazon.com.)

His other recommendation was “Continuous Atonement,” by Brad Wilcox (also on Amazon.com). I’d not heard of this one.

To say that my dear brother-in-law was inspired misses the mark. These two books set me on a path of healing. I devoured them both. As I read “He Did Deliver me,” it being a workbook, I filled out every question blank, ink spilling into the margins. I wrote deeply personal things that I never plan to have others see. Writing became healing for me. I also wrote in my journal. Pages upon pages, endless thoughts, pleading, and feelings, sharing my innermost struggles. They weren’t for anyone else to see.

If you’re still reading, I have recommendations:

• Get on your knees. Get on your knees. Get on your knees.
• Find some support. Give in. Give up. Realize you can’t do it yourself. Talk to your ecclesiastical leader (your bishop if you’re LDS).
• If you feel so impressed, read the two books that I read. (Don’t bury yourself in TV, the internet, or other mind-numbing things. In fact, I’d recommend no TV and no internet.)
• Don’t give in to bad choices. The hunger you feel for companionship of any kind, is strong. Don’t let it direct you down a dark path.
• Don’t expect relief overnight, nor in weeks or months. But healing will come.
• Let this experience make you a better person, not worse.

We can’t not water our lawn in June, July, and August, and water a lot in September and think it will be OK. Keep doing those things you know are good and right, even though it will be hard, awkward, or embarrassing. Don’t let this period be a desert in your life.

My dear brothers, Christ lives. He heals. Accept what He has done for you. Start the healing process.

Brother Carl