The Mourning Booth

This video just rang so true to me as I watched it, that I had to share it. Before going through my own mourning, I'm pretty sure I didn't truly understand how to mourn with those who mourn. I'm still learning. But, watching this just made me that much more grateful for the people in my life who haven't given up on me, who haven't gotten impatient with my grieving, who have stayed by my side even if they haven't known what to say. They have been there in every way, mourning with me and offering healing comfort simply by their presence through this dark, dark valley. I don't know how I would have survived the worst parts of the valley without their love and support. If you don't know how to mourn with someone, err on the side of being like the waitress. Seriously, my heart filled with warmth just watching that part. It is a holy response. Healing can come in miraculous ways just by being present in someone's life.

This is my Father's World

* from our most recent trip to the Redwoods, June 8th.

My heart has felt burdened lately. I'm sure mostly because of the memories that are haunting me from a year ago, but it doesn't help that there are other things weighing on me. I wonder if my heart will ever know life without this feeling of grief following me everywhere. Does it ever really go away?

It followed me to church yesterday. I had already had an emotional morning. One of those where I had to keep re-applying my make-up because I couldn't keep the tears from coming. I hate it when that happens. I had to resort to the embarrassing task of firmly scolding myself in the mirror, "stop it! no more crying!" (And, it's even more embarrassing that that actually worked.)

When I arrived at church, I found my pew on the far right-hand side where I get my best view of Marc, as he sits up on the stand. (I love watching him when I get bored of the speakers... and always wonder what the whispers are that go on between him and our bishop. I'm sure it's much less interesting than it appears.)

I sat and closed my eyes as the organist played her prelude music. She is very talented and plays so beautifully. There is one hymn she always plays that I'm not familiar with, but there is something about it that carries extra comfort to my heart. Yesterday that was my gift. As I sat there with my heavy heart, the music wrapped its comfort around me. I thanked her later for playing that particular hymn in her prelude, but I wonder if she realizes it was at the top of my list of my "I thank thees" last night as I knelt in prayer before bed. 

In our brief exchange, she told me the name of the hymn. As she quoted me the words of the first verse, tears filled her eyes and I could see that the song meant something more to her, too. So, yesterday I spent some time searching for the hymn online and found six verses of beautiful words, which brought me to tears as I read them. I was surprised to also find a video of an organist playing it in the Conference Center. I'm still very partial to the way My Organist plays it, but the hymn is so beautiful I have to share.

This is my Father's World

This is my Father’s world, and to my listening ears
All nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.
This is my Father’s world: I rest me in the thought
Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
His hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world: He shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.

This is my Father’s world. O let me ne’er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world: the battle is not done:
Jesus Who died shall be satisfied,
And earth and Heav’n be one.

This is my Father’s world, dreaming, I see His face.
I open my eyes, and in glad surprise cry, “The Lord is in this place.”
This is my Father’s world, from the shining courts above,
The Beloved One, His Only Son,
Came—a pledge of deathless love.

This is my Father’s world, should my heart be ever sad?
The lord is King—let the heavens ring. God reigns—let the earth be glad.
This is my Father’s world. Now closer to Heaven bound,
For dear to God is the earth Christ trod.
No place but is holy ground.

This is my Father’s world. I walk a desert lone.
In a bush ablaze to my wondering gaze God makes His glory known.
This is my Father’s world, a wanderer I may roam
Whate’er my lot, it matters not,
My heart is still at home.

Words: Malt­bie D. Bab­cock, 1901, alt. While a pas­tor in Lock­port, New York, Bab­cock liked to hike in an ar­ea called “the es­carp­ment,” an an­cient up­thrust ledge near Lock­port. It has a mar­vel­ous view of farms, or­chards, and Lake On­tar­io, about 15 miles dis­tant. It is said those walks in the woods in­spired these lyr­ics. The ti­tle re­calls an ex­press­ion Bab­cock used when start­ing a walk: “I’m go­ing out to see my Fa­ther’s world.”

*hymn verses and text came from this site.

Being Still

There are many highs and lows that we've experienced over the last couple of months... the waves of grief have been at times overwhelmingly painful and stormy, with thrashings and torment at its worst. There are also waves of grief that come more quietly and calmly, like gradual swells of sorrow that seem to flood every corner of the heart. Though they are clearly different in their intensity, I consider both these kinds of moments "high tide."

As time has gone on and we've progressed down this pathway, we have experienced more and more moments of "low tide," where the sorrow is not as paralyzing, and dare I say, even at times unnoticeable. These are moments when peace and calm fill every corner of my heart, moments when sorrow is even temporarily forgotten.

It has been in those moments of stillness, when my heart is completely calm, that I feel a stronger closeness to heaven, and thus to my little girls. While our very brief moments with them were filled with a sense of peace and calm, even wonder and awe, they aren't what I would call a celebration. For that reason, the sting of separation leaves a hollowness that is often difficult to fill. 

I've found, though, that the task of filling that hollowness is not a job too difficult for the Comforter. With that said, I've learned that it is up to me to open my heart up and receive that comfort. There are certainly moments of grief that are necessary, that are important to feel and experience. But, the faster those high tide moments pass, and the faster I can return to my peaceful low tide moments... the stronger the connection I feel to my girls. 

There was a moment yesterday afternoon when I was watching a hummingbird from our kitchen window - I shifted a little to get a better glimpse, and with that slight movement the bird was gone. A few minutes later it came back, and as long as I was completely still, it lingered. They only come around when the environment is calm, when there is complete stillness.  

Being still, especially in my heart, provides beautiful and tender moments of calm and peace that envelope me with assurance that all is well, on both sides of the veil. I'm so grateful for the moments of calm that allow for such a strong feeling of closeness to heaven.

I've appreciated the way that C.S. Lewis described his feelings about this, shortly after the death of his wife: "After ten days of low-hung grey skies and motionless warm dampness, the sun was shining and there was a light breeze. And suddenly at the very moment when, so far, I mourned [Helen] least, I remembered her best. Indeed it was something (almost) better than memory; an instantaneous, unanswerable impression. To say it was like a meeting would be going too far. Yet there was that in it which tempts one to use those words. It was as if the lifting of the sorrow removed the barrier."

Sundays...

Sundays are hard. Feelings are extra tender, the hymns are extra powerful, the yearnings to find peace and comfort are stronger than ever. Today was definitely no exception. I woke up this morning, though, convinced that it was going to be a good Sunday, without my usual emotional breakdown.

The first meeting went okay... a few tears here and there, but I held myself together very well, I thought. The second hour I covered a Sunday School class for a teacher out of town. When I know I'll be in front of a group or a class, I always find a way to hold myself together... I guess in those moments I put up my thickest guard. So, that hour went even better. Phew! Two down, one to go.

Well, it was the third hour that ruined my plan.

Last Sunday they asked me to give the closing prayer for that third-hour meeting. I politely declined. I think it was the first time in my entire life I refused to pray. But, there is something about praying in public right now that is too sensitive, too tender... it makes me feel... too vulnerable. For right now, I feel a need to protect the privacy of my prayerful moments. 

Today, I was asked by a different person to offer the closing prayer. Again, I apologized and explained that I really wasn't able to right now. Something about refusing to give the prayer for the second time triggered the tears to start flowing. I quietly left the room, hoping to have a moment to just let it all out. I was glad to find the bathroom empty. I had a few moments of release in private.

While grieving, Marc and I have been advised to get rid of the word "should" from our vocabulary. That has been one of the greatest pieces of advice we have received. Wouldn't you know that the thoughts going through my mind while in the bathroom were "I should be able to give a simple prayer." "This shouldn't be so hard for me." It is now our new bad "sh" word. :)

As soon as I recognized that new bad word invading my thoughts, I knew it had to go. There are a lot of things that are harder to handle right now. I don't know why. They just are. And, I'm learning to just accept that for a while I won't be able to be and do the same things that I could before. I will again someday... I just need a little more time, I guess.

So, anyway, once I was recomposed, I went back into the classroom and finished singing the opening hymn with everyone, only then to discover what the lesson was for the day. It was a lesson that I thought had already been covered in my ward. I had a few friends in other places tell me about this particular lesson being taught in their wards the Sunday after our girls were born and died... I had found its timing to be so strangely fitting. And, since I didn't attend our ward that Sunday, I assumed it had also been taught here that Sunday in July. The lesson was "Words of Hope and Consolation at the Time of Death." Reading that lesson within days of experiencing the death of our girls, I found great comfort in the teachings and words of Joseph Smith.

Knowing I was already in a vulnerable situation, and after realizing this was our lesson today, my first reaction was to sneak out and find my way home early. I was already a mess... how could I stay composed through this lesson in front of everyone? Well, I stayed, but didn't stay composed. It was a lost cause... and maybe that was a good thing. Maybe I needed a reason to cry. Maybe I needed to give a glimpse of my heavy heart. Maybe I needed to openly mourn so that others could mourn with me. Maybe it was for them as much as it was for me. 

I read through this lesson eight weeks ago today. And, while it definitely triggers feelings of heartache of having to endure this awful separation... there is such powerful doctrine taught that soothes that pain. I felt that sweet comfort eight weeks ago... and I feel it again today. 

I felt badly for the teacher and others who apologized for the lesson today, thinking they should have just skipped over it. My reaction was exactly the opposite. I was grateful for the lesson. I was grateful that I hadn't missed it. I needed the reminder that our girls are ours forever. I needed an added witness from the Spirit that death has not won, that our girls continue to live, that they look forward to our reunion as much as we do. I needed to hear the comforting words that - 

The Lord takes many away, even in infancy, that they may escape the envy of man, and the sorrows and evils of this present world; they were too pure, too lovely, to live on earth; therefore, if rightly considered, instead of mourning we have reason to rejoice as they are delivered from evil, and we shall soon have them again.

So, I wasn't able to make it through my Sunday without my usual emotional breakdown, but at least I came home having received a much-needed spiritual uplift. Pure doctrine flowing deep into my heart, leaving me comforted and with hope. I'm grateful for these sacred experiences that reassure me that we will be with our girls again, that they share our same heartache of separation, that they look forward with the same anticipation and excitement of being together as a family, forever. Forever. That knowledge has become so urgently important. It is (literally and figuratively) a matter of life and death.

"You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you. It is easy to say you believe a rope to be strong and sound as long as you are merely using it to cord a box. But suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn't you then first discover how much you really trusted it?"

- C.S. Lewis (A Grief Observed)