The souls who surround me

I spent the end of last week at a Girls' Camp for the young women from Church. Along with the camp directors, I helped plan and put together a special faith-promoting activity for the last night. To our surprise, when we arrived at the camp, the couples who are the year-round care-takers had set up a smaller version of the same type of obstacle course we had plans to carry out. They were generous enough to take as many of the leaders through as possible, allowing us to experience the course for ourselves, to put ourselves in the shoes of the girls. It was an incredibly enlightening experience.

We started off being instructed about what we were about to experience - we would be blindfolded, we needed to be quiet while blindfolded, there would be uneven ground, we'd have a rope that would get us from the beginning to the end, there'd be some challenges along the way, but as long as we held onto the rope, we'd make it safely to the end. Once there, we'd need to stay blindfolded and quiet until told otherwise.

They had us put on the blindfolds and almost immediately I felt a hand gently take mine and guided me to the starting point. As we walked there, the woman's soft whisper offered some final reminders and words of encouragement and then she placed my hand on a rope. It was dark and disorienting to be without my eyesight. Relying solely on sound and touch proved to be much more confusing and frustrating than I expected. I came to a couple of dead ends, but really had no idea that's what they were and wasn't sure initially how to respond. Do I turn back and retrace my steps and how far back do I have to go? Is there another rope connecting that I just haven't found? I knew better than to let go of the rope, so I did go back and both times immediately found other connecting routes that finally led me to the end. There, after fumbling around, wondering if I'd reached another dead end, I felt a hand along with a voice that whispered, "Welcome home!"

I was guided to a bench, where I sat waiting for the others in my little group to come through. At one point, the woman who was our guide came back and asked for my blindfold for another person that had come to do the course. Without my blindfold, I couldn't help but look back on the course I'd just struggled through. It was so short and looked so simple and straightforward. There was nothing truly complicated about it. And, I found myself questioning - Why was that so hard? Why was I so worried and confused? Why did I not enjoy the process with a little more trust? I should have enjoyed it more!

And, then as I was reflecting on my response to the experience, I started watching the final person struggling to find the right path, making many of the same mistakes I had made. And that's when I saw something I hadn't had the perspective to see for myself while blindfolded and in the thick of it. That struggling girl was surrounded by helpers. Our guides were at the dead ends, they were standing next to the cliff drop-offs, they were watching our every step, ready to intervene and redirect if we were in danger or distress.

And, that was when I wished I could get the tiniest glimpse of who those unseen souls (or angels) are that surround me through this real-life experience I'm in right now. How have I been protected from danger without even knowing it? Who has quietly assured me through my doubts? When have I received heavenly encouragement that I wasn't even aware of? As I pondered all of this, I felt sure that at least at times, if not continuously, there are two souls who will one day call me mother who are much closer to me now than I can fully comprehend. I've always felt that to some degree, but watching this simulation of life play out before my eyes, it just felt so true and so right.

Last night, as the first wave of grief hit me and I couldn't help but relive the events from seven years ago, I recounted some of this Girls Camp experience to Marc as we waited for sleep to come. I told him that I didn't like feeling sad for my loss because I know it's all okay, but at the same time if Elliana and Emmaline are surrounding me today - on their birthday - then I'd want them to see my tears and to know how much I love and miss them. But, I also want them to know that I'm okay, that I have the firmest hope of one day having the blessing of being their mother through the eternities.

I feel comforted knowing that they are in a safe place.  Just as we surrounded each other to get through this day, I hope that they had their own fellow angels to surround them today, too. Surely their Papa Carson and all sets of their great-grandparents, and their Uncle Robbie, just to name a few. But, surely, for them it isn't as hard or sad, since they have a much clearer perspective of this course of life we're in right now.

If I can only remember what I felt as I looked back on the simulation - recognizing how short the experience really was and wishing I had just enjoyed it more. So, that's exactly what I'm going to try to do today. And for the rest of the todays I have left until I see my girls again and then we can look back together on this life and they can recount for me all the moments they were with me through it all.

As for today, I just feel so grateful to have so much to live for and so much to hope for, being surrounded on both sides with the most precious of souls.

I Care.

Along with everyone else out there, I was shocked and saddened by the news of Robin Williams' death. It seemed so impossible that someone so apparently full of life and humor and kindness and love could be feeling so dark and lonely and without hope. I thought of the quote attributed to Ian MacLaren:

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

If I could go back to yesterday and if I were personal friends with Robin Williams and if I'd been aware of whatever he was struggling with, there are two things I would have wanted to share with him.

1. This talk by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland: Like a Broken Vessel. In particular, this powerful quote:  

Whatever your struggle, my brothers and sisters—mental or emotional or physical or otherwise—do not vote against the preciousness of life by ending it! Trust in God. Hold on in His love. Know that one day the dawn will break brightly and all shadows of mortality will flee. Though we may feel we are “like a broken vessel,” as the Psalmist says, we must remember, that vessel is in the hands of the divine potter. Broken minds can be healed just the way broken bones and broken hearts are healed. While God is at work making those repairs, the rest of us can help by being merciful, nonjudgmental, and kind. 

2. And, this video of one man's journey that had an abrupt turning point that saved his life:

The biggest reminder from this tragic news is that there are those around me who are silently suffering, with depression or addiction (or even both). And, I have to stop and ask myself if I'm doing anything to help lift their burdens, if I'm being sensitive to their struggles, if there is anything more I can do to help them know they're not alone. It's heartbreaking to think of anyone feeling so alone and so without hope.

It's too late to share this with Robin Williams, but maybe it isn't too late to share it with someone else out there who might need to hear it.

To all my friends out there who might be among those who are silently suffering, there is hope and love and light that are bigger and brighter than whatever we might feel in our darkest moments. And, there are people out here who care.

I care.

Some Random Thoughts

My super talented husband has been working on a new blog design whenever he has a free minute outside of his very busy work schedule. And, now we have it mostly done and ready to be revealed. I'm so grateful for his help and for the fresh new feel! I feel a renewed excitement to spend a little more time writing again. Now, it's just a matter of making the time to do it. I'm hoping this will help me get back into writing - it is one of my favorite outlets when life gets to be too much. And, speaking of... I seem to be there right now...

Lately I've been so overwhelmed by sad things happening, mostly in other peoples' lives. Death, divorce, abuse, depression, cancer, unemployment... to name a few. I hear about it all, I feel the heavy weight of sorrow. I want so much to do whatever I can to ease burdens and make things better. I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to say it, but I'm so grateful for the sorrow I've experienced in my own life. My heart has no trouble feeling that sorrow again and I hope that somehow in feeling it along with someone else, that it eases the weight of their sorrow even just a little.

As hard as life's trials are, I find it so amazing how much God can do when we're pushed to our limits. He always seems to find a way to make so much good come out of the worst of situations. There's a talk by Elder Holland, Lessons from Liberty Jail, where he shares the idea that "man's extremity is God's opportunity." Here's just one tiny snippet of an entire gold-mine of a talk:

"You can have sacred, revelatory, profoundly instructive experience with the Lord in the most miserable experiences of your life—in the worst settings, while enduring the most painful injustices, when facing the most insurmountable odds and opposition you have ever faced."

Isn't that such an amazing gift?! I have to say that the year after we lost our twins was both the hardest time of my life and also the most sacred. I actually think back to that period with such tender fondness because I felt such a clear closeness to my Father in Heaven. It was such a dark time, so lonely and so confusing... and feeling the contrast of that with the relief and comfort that would come... it was just undeniable that I was not walking that path alone. My prayers were earnest and urgent. And the answers that came were powerful and overwhelming.

And, so now when I hear about others going through hard things, I wish there was some way to prepare them for the spiritual outpourings that are about to come flooding into their lives. I'm afraid it would come across as overly celebratory for trials that are not to be celebrated. But, the rescue, the miracles, the healing that will come... I'm not sure there's something better to celebrate than that!

I used to be really bothered by the thought that I'd sometimes hear expressed at church that "Jesus is my friend." It felt too familiar, too presumptuous, almost sacrilegious or inappropriate. But, after losing the twins and feeling so alone, I found the Savior to be my one constant. He was there on dark nights when I couldn't stop crying. He was there when Marc and I were grieving so differently that we didn't know how to comfort each other. He was there when I'd close up retreat to some private place to be alone. He was always there. It was so comforting to know He'd been there once in His suffering 2000 years ago and that He'd be there again to walk with me through it. That is the best kind of friend there is. So, yes, He is my friend. I love Him.

I hope that all those who are struggling or suffering through hard times will feel the same love, relief, and comfort that I've felt through life's toughest moments. I find so much comfort in the ways the Lord has always led groups of His people through years in the wilderness, until finally arriving at their own promised lands. I feel confident He can do the same for each of us in our own individual wildernesses.

The calm before the storm?

In July 2009 when we marked the first year of losing the twins, I was a complete wreck. I was sad and scared and still so heartbroken and lost. We went camping. I needed some distraction. I needed alone time with Marc without the normal day to day distractions. It was nice and beautiful and relaxing and peaceful... until we returned home to find that the burden of grief was as heavy as ever hovering over our existence, waiting for our return.

Then, last July I had two cute boys that I thought would keep the sadness away. So, I just avoided thinking about anything related to the twins. Just for the record, avoidance didn't work. In some ways I think the sadness and grief came with even greater force when they did come.

So, this year I've been waiting and welcoming. And, I've been a little surprised to find that in some ways I feel like Grief has become my friend. I'm not afraid anymore - I've already overcome and survived the very worst it can do. And, I don't feel the need to avoid any of the related feelings - those feelings of sadness and loss actually make me feel even more alive. You can't have a heart that feels pain so intensely that it physically hurts and not be aware of how real that vital organ is.

Plus, now I'm much more aware of healthy outlets that work for me and bring me peace amid the storms. My morning running schedule has been a huge source of therapy. The cheapest therapy I've ever had. I signed myself up for a 10K on Saturday morning - six point two miles I'll run in memory of my girls. I'm looking forward to doing this with them in mind.

Another healthy outlet - a little creative therapy. I've been working on a painting. It's a painting I've wanted to do and have had the idea of it floating around in my head for some time. Monday night I finally threw all of my excuses out the window - no time, no space, not enough artistic talent, etc... - and set up my easel and canvas and just started painting. I've spent roughly three hours working on it and I think I'm actually done with it. And, I really love it. There is something about it that has really brought its own measure of healing to my heart and a new connection to the twins.

And, rather than avoiding the anniversary and the memories associated with it, we're planning out meaningful activities, with the emphasis being on spending time together as a family. And, the feelings of sadness feel much more manageable this time around. I know that could swiftly change, as the ugly side of Grief can be so merciless, but I hope being aware of that possibility will help me get through whatever is yet to come.

But, so far, I feel an incredible feeling of calm. And, even if it is just the calm before the storm, I'm still grateful for these moments of peace and the powerful reminder that comes with that peace of the reality of the eternal nature of the soul, and in my case the eternal nature of two souls that really matter to me.

Waves of Grief

Last night as I laid in bed, I leaned into Marc telling him how no matter how hard I tried all day to not think about it, I couldn't avoid the memories from three years ago.

July tenth was the day I went in for the laser surgery with Dr. Lee as the head surgeon. I was nervous going in. I was awake for the entire procedure. There was a sheet blocking my view of what was happening, but there was a nurse (or maybe it was a doctor?) standing above my head, reassuring me through it all. I just remember watching my blood pressure numbers changing every minute or so on the monitor next to me.

The surgery didn't last very long and right away the surgeons were optimistic. So were we. There was no room in my mind for the possibility of anything bad happening. It's strange to think back to the celebratory ice cream we ate in my hospital room after surgery. We were happy. We were hopeful. We were sure the worst was behind us.

I know it's normal to relive these memories and I'd choose to relive them rather than ignore them. But, even though it's a choice I choose, it doesn't get any easier.

It's like standing at the ocean's edge, looking off into the distance and seeing a very large wave forming. It's approaching with such great force that I can't help but to stand in awe and watch every movement as it grows in size and power. It's coming and I can see it coming and I actually want it to come. I'm bracing for the impact. It could easily sweep me away just as similar waves have done in the past, but it might not. Some waves look much worse from the distance, but lose some of their force before reaching shore.

I'm not really sure what to expect from this week, but I find myself wanting to experience it all in the most authentic and honest way possible. I've never been one to seek to over-dramatize my life, but I'm also not going to minimize the feelings that are connected to my sweet babies.

So, I'll be keeping my eye on that wave, while also taking in all the emotions and experiences that come lapping at my feet. I'll pause to snuggle and chase the two miracles that now fill my arms, embracing them a little bit tighter than usual. The waves will come and I'll let them wash over me, and then they'll go again.

And, I'll soak up the love and the joy that I feel knowing I have two little girls, perhaps a bit nearer to me this week, reliving it all again, too.

Two Years

Today we marked the second anniversary of losing our twin daughters.

Today was a lot harder than I thought it was going to be.

But it wasn't hard for the reasons I would have expected.

It was hard because I was trying to convince myself it shouldn't be hard.

It turns out that sadness ends up being greater when you try to convince yourself not to be sad.

Had I allowed myself today to feel whatever I needed to feel without guilt or shame or insecurity, I think the overall feeling today would have been one of marginal sadness and overwhelming peace.

Silly me... I worked so hard all day to keep my emotions bottled up that once dusk fell, so did the tears.

Now, I'm just plain exhausted. And reminded of the fact that grief is hard, hard work. (And, so is taking care of two babies, especially one who is going to be awake shortly for his next feeding....)

Before I turn out the light for the night, a heartfelt thank you for the prayers and thoughts for us and our girls on this their birthday.

How I love them.

Seasons of Life

 May 2009, Muir Woods (in a much different season of life)

A little over a year ago I was sitting in a church meeting listening to a very optimistic woman (whom I admire) talk about how no matter what we're going through in life we need to be cheerful. I remember I was sitting alone and felt even more alone as I tried to make sense of the words coming out of her mouth. At that point I was still struggling to carry my burden of grief and loss. There wasn't any part of me that felt cheerful about what I was going through.

I knew there was some truth to what she was saying, and that part of me felt guilty, to the core. Tears filled my eyes and I found myself staring into an opened book in my lap, hoping no one would notice my sadness, especially during a lesson on being cheerful. 

But, there was this other part of me that felt like there was something missing from her well-intended encouragement. I knew the message this woman was trying to convey was only meant to be uplifting, but it just felt like there needed to be some distinctions made between different kinds of trials and different responses to those trials. 

Aren't there differences in weight and scope of trials? Aren't some trials harder and more painful than others? I mean, as frustrating as it is to lose your car keys, it's quite a different burden than losing a child, isn't it? And, in those heavier trials, isn't there a purpose to letting ourselves feel the pain and the grief? How can we properly be comforted if we don't properly mourn? Is being cheerful always the answer?

As I sat through the rest of that meeting, I turned my thoughts to the scriptures and was reminded of the Savior's response upon hearing of the death of his friend Lazarus. He wept. I'm sure he wept, in large part, because of the deep compassion he felt for those who were devastated by his death. They were mourning and his response was to mourn with them. There was no mention in that situation about their need to be cheerful. He mourned with them and then he reassured them of His own power over death and brought Lazarus back to life. It could have been so easy for the Savior to skip the whole mourning part and just display his power to heal. If the Savior felt the need to weep, even when he knew in a matter of minutes he would reverse the effects of death, then there must be some lesson there for us.

A couple of days later I found myself thinking about the famous verses found in Ecclesiastes, made more famous by this song.

1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: 
2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; 
3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; 
5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; 
7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; 
8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

Now, as I sit in this particular season, which is drastically different from the season I was in a year ago, I recognize even more the wisdom in allowing myself the time and the space to fully and purposely embrace the different seasons of life. I'm glad that a year ago I gave myself permission to break down, to weep, to mourn. I'm glad that I went through the stages of grief, even though at times I felt guilty and awful for some of the ugly feelings that would surface. 

There is something about experiencing the hard and the painful in their fullness that have now made the joy and the gladness that much more beautiful.

And, even though my season of mourning has gratefully been replaced with a season of joy, my heart is painfully aware of dear, close friends who are currently in a season of pain and mourning. I wish I had all the answers for why certain things happen, but this I do know... there is a time to every purpose under heaven. 

So, my dear friends, I hope whatever season you find yourself in, you'll give yourself permission to feel whatever you need to feel, without feeling guilty for whatever those feelings are. It's okay to feel sad, it's okay to cry, it's okay to mourn lost dreams, it's okay if you don't feel cheerful about the painful trials you're required to go through. And, please know that you are not alone in your mourning. Remember it is a season. It has its own purpose. It will have an end. There will be another season around the corner. A season when it'll be okay to laugh, to dance, to heal.

That joyful season will come to those who are still painfully awaiting its arrival. I had a hard time believing it myself when I was stuck in my grief, but my season of joy has come just like I was promised it would. And, I hope that my friends who currently find themselves in one of life's darker and harder seasons, that they'll hang onto hope for the season of joy that will come. Because it will come. I know it will.

Mixture of Tears

The other day I went searching for a song for a friend and came across this one by Josh Groban. It's one that I listened to over and over after losing the twins. As I listened to it again, after almost two years and finding myself in such a different place now than I would have ever imagined, I just sobbed.  

There were tears of love for my girls, and hope for the days we'll have together someday. There were tears of fears for all that could possibly go wrong with welcoming little boy #2. There is something about experiencing the fragility of mortality that makes you realize it really could happen to you... and just because it has happened already to you doesn't mean it couldn't happen again.

As I cried those tears of love and of fear, I couldn't help but also shed the sweetest tears of gratitude for the little boy that now fills my arms and my heart. Ben was sitting on my lap, giggly and cooing all through my little breakdown, and I swear that my heart has never felt love and gratitude to that degree. Ever. No matter what lies ahead, we have him. There is no way to express how much joy he has brought us. He is a gift that we cherish every moment of every day.

* His sweater was hand-knitted by a sweet Australian woman that my parents met on their mission. As you can imagine, he got all kinds of compliments today at church.

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.

On a random, normal day

Today started off just like any other day this week. I woke before the sun, laced up my Asics and logged in a good six miles. I think we're well on our way to being ready for the 13.1 we'll be doing on Halloween morning. It has been good to be back in training mode - the best motivation I know of to staying focused and committed. I slacked a little on my stretching when I got home because I was immediately distracted with fixing my bike's flat front tire. I was feeling all handy and skilled starting my day with such productive-like activities. 

Then, at some point mid-morning, a wave of sadness washed over me. I recognized it and felt it, but suppressed it because I had an important meeting that I needed to be focused for. I didn't really have time to melt and then pull myself back together in time. It probably would have been better to have had a good release beforehand, since I was basically only in the meeting physically. I hope it wasn't totally obvious to the others there.

It wasn't until mid-afternoon, while making myself half of a PB&J that I couldn't even subconsciously hold it in any longer. I took a bite of my sandwich, hoping it would curb the emotion. Maybe it made it worse - I wasn't expecting such heavy sobs, reminiscent of this time last year. 

I tried to keep Marc from knowing I was crying. We had both already had a long day, filled with a few tense moments about really important (and yet at the same time unimportant) topics. But, after a few minutes I found myself walking upstairs, totally unable to resist the urge to be curled up in his lap, having him gently stroke my back until the wave passed.

Through this entire experience, he has never made me feel like a burden, like I need to save my breakdowns for outside of what most people would call normal work hours. Plus, his comfort almost always includes some much-needed humor relief. Today it was telling me that my breath smelled "really good." I guess he was in the mood for a Peanut Butter and Boysenberry Jam sandwich, too... which was actually a relief since crying breath isn't necessarily the best.

The night was brought to a close with therapy of sorts, some creative-ness that brought some healing. As I reflected on the day, I tried to figure out if there was something about today's date that triggered such intense sadness. It wasn't the 16th. It wasn't an anniversary of any kind. There was nothing about today that usually accompanies this kind of heavy grief.

And, I finally determined that today, on August 27, 2009, a random normal day, I just really missed my girls, Elliana and Emmaline. 

"Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems empty."

- Alphonse de Lamartine

In Good Hands

It's been a long, long year. I'm pretty sure the longest of my life. We've gone to some dark, scary places that have caused my heart to {almost} faint with fear and where the burden of pain has pushed me to the very edge of despair. For the most part I haven't taken anyone to those dark places of grief. It feels uncomfortable to expose people to it. I'm mostly afraid that rather than holding my hand down that path they might try to convince me not ever to go back there. But, they don't understand that going there isn't a choice for me.

Working on healing my broken heart has reminded me of Dante's Inferno - the deeper you go down the rings of hell, the more awful and scary it gets. I haven't enjoyed going to those heavy places. I dread it, in fact. I put it off, I avoid it. But, I went there this week. I had to. And, maybe for the first time I wanted to. As hard as it is to go deep into the painful crevasses of my heart and relive the births and deaths of our daughters, I want to be flooded also with the reminders of the sacred, the beautiful, the perfect moments we had with them. To remember one part is to remember it all. For now, at least. Maybe that will change with time.

For the last three days my heart has felt heavy, I would almost dare say more broken than it did this time last year. I wasn't expecting that. I thought I had been feeling stronger, I thought the healing I'd found felt more permanent. Revisiting my heart, going a little deeper than normal, I see the wounds are healing... and while that is something to rejoice in, it's clear that the gaping holes remain. Evidence of my two little girls. Their absence is felt. Daily. The burden of losing them is ours to carry. Daily.

{I wonder sometimes if the empty holes are only magnified by our childless state. I wonder if it would be different if we had other kids to focus on. Maybe or maybe not? Not that it really matters anyway.}

People of all different levels of expertise have offered to fix me; in most cases that has just meant a shortcut of some sort through grief. I'm sincerely touched to know there are people who love me enough to want to take away my sorrow. Feeling such love, even from some who don't even know me, has strengthened my assurance of one very important fact - if some imperfect human being feels that desire so strongly, then how much greater that feeling must be for one who is perfect.

There is a certain Head Physician I've come to know a little bit better in recent months. Not only does He accept all patients with all different maladies, He knows each one perfectly. He knows me perfectly and He loves me perfectly. I sense that of everyone who is pained at my pain, it is He who feels it most. I feel confident in His hands, knowing that He is the only one who can truly heal me and fix the hurt I feel. I trust He knows how {and when} to best fix me. I've learned that He is always available... for me. Even in those dark, scary places I've had to go through, I've found Him there. I've recognized that He has gone much deeper than I have or ever will, He has carried a burden much heavier than my little bundle of pain, He knows the loneliness of the path much more poignantly than I can ever imagine.

Because of all of that, even on my smaller scale, He knows how much I need Him in those scary, lonely moments. And, even though I sometimes question if I'll ever find Him there again, I have learned of His consistency. He always is. For me. It's as if I'm the only one He's there for, and yet I know there are throngs of others seeking the same healing from His hands. Still, I feel His concern and awareness of me on such an intimate level.

I've wondered lately how it would be possible to know Him, to really know Him, if I didn't have to pass through any heartache. It's that precise heartache that makes Him available on a more personal level, and more importantly makes me aware of my need to make myself available to Him. How can I be disappointed by my broken heart and shattered dreams, when the result is the chance to walk with Him? I don't want to miss that opportunity, even if it means I have to meet Him along the painful path that leads to true healing. 

I have my heart bundled and bandaged, handing it over and trusting in the care of an omniscent God who loves me as His daughter. If His love is anything like the love I have for my girls {which I'm convinced it is and then some}, then I have nothing to worry about. I'm in good hands.

Elder Maxwell said it best: "To go to the very edge is possible, of course, only when we believe in an omniscient and omnipotent God. When we understand that all things are present before His eyes and that He knows all things past, present, and future, then we can trust ourselves to Him as we clearly could not to a less than omniscient god who is off somewhere in the firmament doing further research."

A battle of emotions

Weeks and weeks have passed and there is so much that has gone undocumented in the last few months -

time spent with a friend since birth (the photo below is from our childhood),

our birthday weekend getaway,

our second pioneer trek,

and a family reunion.

Just to name a few. The problem is that I've felt too exhausted lately to even make any attempt to write much - not that writing itself is exhausting, but confronting complex emotion is. And, now that we've entered July, the dreaded month, I fear only to be even more overwhelmed by this battle of emotions.

And, a battle it is.

There are the painful feelings of dreams snatched away, the jealous feelings of watching the other women at church as they playfully tend their cooing babies (and then the incredible guilt that follows the jealousy), the fears that (for some reason unknown to me now) I may not have the blessing of motherhood in this life, and mostly the incredible aching to have my little girls here still. I wanted them so bad. I waited so long for them, I was so sure they would make it.

The battle then comes from remembering that they did make it. They made it here and then they made it quickly back Home. Their brief appearance is enough of a reassurance that they are ours and will be ours forever. While there is still a battle that rages in my heart, I'm learning to be at home with such contrasting feelings, recognizing that great sorrow is evidence of great love. We have been blessed with an ever-present feeling of love and comfort that has seemed to come straight from heaven. We find peace in the sacred experiences we've had that we couldn't have known through any other way.

It was a year ago this week that we first found out that our girls had Twin to Twin Transfusion Syndrome. I can still feel the panic in the days that followed their initial diagnosis. In the midst of that panic I received priesthood blessings full of promises, things that I didn't understand fully at the time, things that have since brought me great comfort.

It's that comfort that has helped us get from one July to the next. Our fourth of July last year was pretty dismal, making this year not quite as bad. As the sun set and the evening breeze floated down off the hills, Marc and I decided to hop on our bikes and ride to the cemetery. While we were there we quietly discussed some ideas we've had for how to appropriately remember Elliana and Emmaline on their birth day. We want to do what feels right for us, and that is hard to figure out when there are feelings that still feel so fragile and experiences that we hold so sacred. But, I think we made some headway while cruising the empty streets back home. 

It was when we were just a couple of blocks from home that we passed a beautiful, old church made of brick. As I was admiring its construction, I noticed their "Welcome" sign that changes weekly. This week it said, "Celebrate the gift of the Holy Ghost." While I don't frequent this particular church, I appreciated the reminder and recognized in my heart the reason to celebrate such a gift. It is this gift that has been our constant companion through the ups and downs of the last year.

As we face the battle of emotions that will no doubt continue to surface in the coming weeks, I know I can trust in our past experiences in facing hard hurdles that we won't be alone. We haven't ever been abandoned and I know we won't be now. Among the angels that will comfort us, we now have two with a vested interest in helping us get to the other side.

For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.

- Psalms 91:11

To Be Held

Last night I was at the grocery store picking up a few items. When I turned down the ice cream isle, I found I was sharing it with another woman, her elementary-aged daughter, and their stroller. I glanced quickly at the sleeping baby as I reached for the Double Strawberry ice cream, only to then realize that her stroller was a double, cradling a second sleeping baby behind the first. Twins. My heart skipped a beat as I envied her abundance and wondered if she knew how blessed she was. There was a physical ache that seemed to run from my heart to my arms as I looked at her beautiful babies. I wanted to tell her how beautiful they were, but the way my heart's rhythm had suddenly increased, I knew that forming the words would initiate a total meltdown there among the ice cream. It all happened so fast, I'm sure she wasn't even aware that I was there, let alone the angst that was oozing out of my heart wishing to have my twins here, whose story is so much different than hers. 

I had to be very careful how I worded that last sentence. Our stories are different, this is true. But, I almost wrote "whose stories ended much differently." But, the truth that keeps my heart pumping is that our twins' story has not ended. And, while I clearly feel pain and sadness at how different my story is from this other woman's, there is another side to the bitter pain and heartache that gives our story an enviable sweetness.

Having experienced new depths of disappointment and agony, and having made it through some very dark and lonely nights, I now know things I didn't know before; things I couldn't have known any other way. I have experienced heaven's comfort in such tangible ways that have been burned into the fibers of my soul. There is no doubt in my mind or in my heart that through this nightmare I have been held, I have been carried, I have been understood, I have been loved and cared for by the One person who can truthfully say, "I know, because I have walked the path you're walking now."

I still have moments when shock and panic hit me with such a force that it feels like it all happened yesterday. And, I find myself getting trapped in wondering why things had to take the course they took and how I'm expected to survive living to a ripe old age with this pain of loss plaguing my heart. In some ways time does bring healing, and I have to hope that that'll continue to ring true. But, I have to constantly remind myself that it's only in falling, in losing, in suffering that I can truly learn the lengths the Savior will go to pick me up and make me whole again. And, recognizing that His lows far exceed any lows I have or will ever experience has only deepened my awe and gratitude towards Him.

The last year of my life has made me rich in experience and understanding of His love and atonement on a very personal level. And, though I'm still tempted with thoughts that I was denied a miracle, I am reminded that God has kept His promises to me. He never promised me that I wouldn't fall, that I wouldn't hurt, that I'd be free from disappointment and pain... BUT, He did promise that He would carry my burden, that He would run to me in my hour of need, that He would not leave me comfortless, that He would heal my broken heart. Even in my lowest of moments, not even then have I felt abandoned by Him. And, I know one day I'll get a much clearer glimpse of how much I really have been carried through this period.

Not too long ago I came across a beautiful song that expresses so much of what I've felt lately. I'm grateful for my hardest trials that have taught me what it means to be loved, to be held. Without them, I wouldn't know with the surety I know of the reality of a loving God. If there ever was doubt, there is none now.

Natalie Grant - Held

Two months is too little.
They let him go.
They had no sudden healing.
To think that providence would
Take a child from his mother while she prays
Is appalling.

Who told us we'd be rescued?
What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?
We're asking why this happens
To us who have died to live?
It's unfair.

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.

This hand is bitterness.
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow.
The wise hands opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow.

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.

If hope is born of suffering.
If this is only the beginning.
Can we not wait for one hour watching for our Savior?

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know, that the promise was when everything fell, we'd be held
This is what it means to be held.

One simple truth

A few weeks ago, while driving in the car and having a serious conversation with Marc, I had a very strong impression come to me. I will share just part of that impression... it was that at some point (whether in this life or in the next) I would look back on this precise period and feel one of two things. Either regret that I let grief overcome me for longer than necessary (and turn me into a bitter, angry, prematurely-aged-old-woman) ... or relief that I was able to allow myself to grieve long enough and healthily enough to find true joy again.

I decided in that moment that I wanted to look back and know that I grieved deliberately and fully... knowing that going through the process of grief would actually make me free from my pain. While I've at times resisted the anguish and yearned for a pain-free life, I've trusted that somewhere along the way I would find a way to live again, a way to again find joy in beautiful things, and to still love being with those I love. It hasn't been easy to find the balance between healthy grieving and healthy enjoyment... but, little by little some is going and some is coming. 

And, little by little, true moments of joy are replacing the raw pain and heartache that have caused such a heavy burden. I may not ever fully understand the reasons for some of the events in my life, but in quiet moments I'm gaining understanding and seeing things from new perspectives that weren't available even a few months ago. I'm grateful for answers that have come in their own time, and for the loving hand of a Provident God.

The older I get and the more experiences I have, the more this one simple truth rings louder and truer:  

God is good.

Honesty is the Best Policy

After writing that last blog entry, I hesitated a lot before publishing it. Then, I almost took it all back once I did make it public. Thanks to those who responded, either publicly or privately, with such love and understanding... your words have helped more than you know. I feel a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and guilt for the feelings that I've felt, only some of which I've shared here. But, they are real and as much as I hate feeling these very ugly feelings, it has been a huge relief to admit to having them and start to be healed from them. I'm just sorry to give a glimpse for everyone to see such an ugly side of my heart. Even so, I feel like it was incredibly liberating.

Before I left to live in Italy for a year and a half, I went through two months of intense language training. The six years before that were spent learning Spanish, which was my declared focus of study at the time. I was so afraid of forgetting the Spanish I had worked so hard to learn, that every time I learned something new in Italian, I would automatically translate it back into Spanish, hoping that I could somehow hang onto my Spanish language skills and learn this new language at the same time.

Well, it was not easy. In fact, it was terribly difficult... and the more time passed the more overwhelming it became. But, I would not admit that to anyone. I was afraid that I would be looked down on, I was afraid that I would be a big disappointment to those I loved the most, I was afraid of admitting that I wasn't smart enough or strong enough. Everyone else seemed to be doing just fine... what was wrong with me?

Then, one night I found myself laying in my bottom bunkbed, sharing a room with three other girls, and very quietly having a little breakdown. I couldn't sleep. The stress of the situation had gotten to be too heavy. Three weeks of faking it to everyone, three weeks of pretending that I was understanding everything, three weeks of speaking "Span-talian"... saying things like "muy bene." I was making a total fool of myself, all because I was too proud to ask for help, too proud to even admit that I was struggling.

That dark night, with silent tears wetting my cheeks, I had reached my limit. Somehow I found the courage to entrust my fears and my failures with God. I admitted that I was struggling, I acknowledged the overwhelming situation I found myself in. I told Him I was having a hard time and I pleaded for His help. It was so hard to express those feelings... I didn't want to disappoint Him. That was my biggest fear. If I admitted it was hard, then maybe He would regret having confidence in me.

But, that lonely dark night ended up being a turning point. The hardest part - admitting it was hard - was out of the way. From that point on, the language seemed to come easier, partly because I was honest with myself and with others about a burden that had become too heavy. 

As simple as that experience was, it has helped me to remember the important lesson I learned - that being true to the feelings I feel and honest with where I need help, only puts me in a position to receive the help that I need. It is a huge relief to be reassured in those painfully honest moments that I am not a disappointment. And, if I'm not yet a disappointment to God, then maybe I'm still doing okay. 

He has not abandoned me, even in my most ugly and awfully embarrassing moments. I've made sure to let Him know how deeply sorry I am for the feelings I've been having, and I can feel Him helping me through them in a healthy way. I'm being honest with my feelings and in response, He is blessing me with healing. He truly "healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds." (Psalms 147:3)

So, maybe that phrase "honesty is the best policy" even - and, maybe especially - applies to our prayers.

Murky water

A few days ago Marc and I went on a little hike out at the Lake in our Small Town. It's interesting to keep track of the water levels, since it's usually a pretty good indicator of what our water conservation efforts will be in the coming months. With all the rain we've been getting this month, we were surprised to find the Lake still to be much lower than we've ever seen it.

The Lake - February 2009

It was interesting to come across a photo the other day of the Lake from a day-hike that Marc and I went on a year ago. The island in the upper left corner of the photo below, is the same "island" in the photo above, just from a different angle. As you can see, the water level is drastically lower, compared to its levels a year ago.

This is from February 2008. A year ago. But, somehow, looking at this photo feels like a lifetime ago. What happened to our life? Even though the situation we found ourselves in a year ago wasn't easy, in the least, I look back now in envy of how simple life seemed. Had I only known. Every time I look at this photo, now knowing what I know about what was around the corner, it seems to scream - Entering the Lone and Dreary World.

There are different aspects of this photo that seem to capture so much foreshadowing of things that would lie ahead of us, emotionally. The rocky path, the murky waters in the foreground and the beautiful horizon off in the distance. I had no idea back then, a year ago, the rocky path we were headed towards, the painful waters of grief we'd have to go through, the mountains yet to climb.

The last few weeks have been really hard for me, which is the main reason for my absence around here. I can't really put my finger on the reason exactly, other than the fact that grieving is hard and it's exhausting and it never sleeps. It's confusing, it's consuming, and it's heavy. I've found myself smack-dab-in-the-middle of the grief, wanting to hurry and find my way out. It isn't fun. I don't enjoy it. But, sadly, there is no easy way out. No matter how I try to stall or bypass the grief, it will always be there until I've gone through every feeling, and processed every emotion.

And, let me tell you - there are some surprisingly complex and painful emotions to be felt. I didn't expect to feel some of the feelings I'm going through right now. I thought that I was somehow above, and stronger than, some of the more awful stages of grief. Like anger. But, the truth is that I am angry. There, I said it.

I'm angry about the very young girl down the street who has a healthy baby boy - a baby who is such a burden to her that she has left him to be raised by his grandmother. I'm not angry at her personally... just angry that she got a baby that she doesn't want.

I'm upset at that woman much further away, who got 8 healthy babies to add to her 6. Why couldn't my two come healthy and stay, like hers? Was that too much to ask?

I'm mad that we've been stripped of the innocent bliss and joy we felt early on. As newlyweds, we had so much we looked forward to. We had big plans and bright dreams... so many of which revolved around the little ones we hoped would call us "Mommy" and "Daddy." So many adventures that remain undiscovered still today. Our dreams were so innocent and we felt what-we-thought-was-joy, as we worked to make those innocent dreams come true. There are so many young couples who start out just like us, but who seem to have all their plans work out so smoothly and easily, even if not as perfectly as they had planned. Do they even realize how lucky they are? It's painful to think back to those early days... I really had no idea what was ahead.

It has been lonely to realize how few understand my broken heart... not just the brokenness from losing our twins, though that has broken the biggest part of my heart... but, the broken dreams that have plagued us for six years. I know it doesn't even compare to some out there, but for me this is hard.  

I hate this current stage of grief I'm in and I hope I can get through it quickly. But, through it I will have to go, carefully paying attention to and then purging every painful feeling I feel, hoping it will bring me closer to what I'm so desperately hoping is a beautiful horizon waiting on the other end of this experience.

As painful and as lonely as these murky waters are, I count my lucky stars to have Marc so faithfully holding my hand through this. I cherish him and the sacred relationship we share more than I can ever express.

The deep pain we've experienced together is only making room in our hearts to fully experience True Bliss and Real Joy, whether in this life or the next. I'm convinced that whatever "bliss" and "joy" we thought we felt as newlyweds, we'll find they were only imitations of what we will feel once we come out on the other side of these dark and cheerless waters of grief. 

Why I deserve chocolate at midnight

image credit: The Pioneer Woman

Marc is working late, finishing up a project. I'm staying up with him, to keep him company... at least for as long as my eye lids will permit. For now I'm happy to sit here with my laptop, being soothed by the calm drum of the rain on the skylight.

The sun was actually shining this morning when we woke up. I love being woken by warmth and light, and the birds singing. It makes it feel like this long winter is almost over. I know "winter" here is nothing compared to other places, but there is part of me that feels like it has been winter since July.

We met with our tax person today - Sandy. As far as taxes go, it wasn't anything to celebrate, that's for sure. But, crazy story... turns out Sandy has twin boys. It's unbelievable how often we run into people now with twins. As she was reviewing our P&L, she noticed our section for "funeral expenses." Before I knew it, I was telling her about our twins, and then she was sharing her story. Few words needed to be expressed... there was an unspoken understanding of pain and heartache, though her pain has matured by 15 years and our stories and outcomes were quite different.

At her recommendation, after leaving her office, I made my way down to the Social Security office. As I sat in the waiting room, I played through my mind how my conversation would go. I would just very casually explain that I needed to apply for a social security card for my daughter. Simple enough. I wouldn't need to go into any detail. I didn't want it to be hard. I didn't want to get emotional.

Then my number was called. I handed "Sheryl" the birth certificate and gave her my simple pre-rehearsed request. I wasn't prepared. I should have expected that there would be questions. People always ask questions. Questions that appear, on the surface, to be simple and uncomplicated.

"Oh, okay. So, is your baby at home?"

Oh crapiola. Hurry, think of an easy answer. But, make sure to keep your voice low so that the other 20 people sitting behind you, waiting their turn, won't be included in this very delicate and private conversation.

"Um, no. She didn't make it," desperately hoping that would be enough for her to catch my drift.

Totally confused look all over her face.

I don't even remember what I said at that point. I was sure that everyone in that room was straining to hear every last word that came out of my mouth, because I swear it got pin-droppingly silent. Whatever I said, I must have given her a satisfactory answer, because suddenly she was nodding her head apologetically.

It turned out that having a birth certificate wasn't enough. I needed a second proof of identification. How in the...?? It was at about this point that I wanted to walk myself speedily out the front door, wondering why I put myself through these awful situations. I did actually do just that, making sure not to make eye contact with any of the curious members of my personal audience. No curtsy today.

I left, though, only to return 23 minutes later with their requested second proof of identification. I was relieved that, by the time I returned, I had the place to myself. Just Sheryl and me. No waiting, no audience, and all the awkward questions were already out of the way. I brought whatever I could think of that would satisfy their requirement, to prove I had a daughter that lived for an hour. But, I can't ever just leave it at that - I had to at least mention Emmaline. As long as she knows about one, she has to know about the other. Of course, I've learned to keep it brief... people don't like hearing about them. It makes people very uncomfortable.

I was glad to leave, having everything over with. But, once in the car, I had my usual release that follows events like that. I hate that I can't wish the pain away, that I can't wish for a normal life again... because that would mean going back to life BT (before twins). And, as broken as I feel, I wouldn't want them to have been born into any other family. They are mine. I am theirs. Forever. (And, Marc is most definitely included in that, too... "we are theirs" just didn't sound right.)

So, I came home, crashed on the couch. Exhausted. Then, with a break in the rain, I spent my afternoon in the garden - my favorite place to go lately. It is teaching me about grief, about healing. I'm glad it'll still be there tomorrow, waiting for our afternoon appointment. The garden and the grief.

For now, there is leftover chocolate sheet cake calling me. And double chocolate fudge brownie ice cream. The perfect midnight snack to close a day like today.

Higher Ground

I woke up this morning, with a vague recollection of part of my dream during the night. Marc and I were on vacation, staying on the seventh floor of a hotel that was literally right on the edge of a beautiful beach. We had just stepped onto the warm sand when we were alerted about the possible threat of a tsunami coming. My reaction was rather calm, even for watching myself in a dream.

(Dreams are strange, aren't they?)

Right away, I started repeating over and over, "we need to get to higher ground!" Well, we ended up deciding that our seventh-floor hotel room was the perfect place. Fortunately I'm a little smarter in real life. But, as I woke up this morning the thing that kept repeating through my mind was, "we need to get to higher ground."

This week I've found myself desperately needing some higher ground to get through some of these new stages of grief. I try not to focus too much on the pain and the grief, but honestly, the last six months of my life have been hard. For real hard. It has been hard to face the reality of our loss, and it has been hard to come to terms with what the rest of our life might hold, or not hold for that matter.

And, I find myself recognizing the wisdom in finding that "higher ground." I'm so glad I did on Wednesday.

It is comforting to know that I am known and understood and loved by God. When I feel burdened by the loneliness of my heartache, I find relief in those quiet moments when I feel the strong assurance that He knows. He understands. Even the feelings that I'm too embarrassed and sad to express to anyone else. He knows them all. And, still loves me, too.

This journey to higher ground is the pathway of discipleship to the Lord Jesus Christ. It is a journey that will ultimately lead us to exaltation with our families in the presence of the Father and the Son. Consequently, our journey to higher ground must include the house of the Lord. As we come unto Christ and journey to higher ground, we will desire to spend more time in His temples, because the temples represent higher ground, sacred ground.
- Joseph B. Wirthlin

(My time spent on that higher ground this week couldn't have come at a better time. We got a phone call today from the mortuary. The headstone we ordered right before Christmas is supposed to be set today... I don't know how I feel about that yet.)

"my soul did long to be there"

I've had some heavy feelings weighing on my heart lately. I've written at least a dozen blog posts that have all remained unpublished, and I'm left feeling rather frustrated in my inability to express what I've been feeling lately. I think it's the wide range of topics and situations that have been pressing on my mind.

But, today, I just miss my girls.

If they could have waited until their intended delivery date, they would be about two weeks old.

I hate marking time now by their passing. I wish every month I could just skip over the 16th day. The more I try to avoid thinking about it, the more it seems to wait for me to take note of it. And, I've found it frustrating that if I don't stop and acknowledge it, then I'm pained with the most awful, guilty feeling.

Today I came across a verse of scripture that immediately brought tears to my eyes and seemed to sum up at least a portion of my feelings perfectly.

Yea, methought I saw,... God sitting upon his throne, surrounded with numberless concourses of angels, in the attitude of singing and praising their God; yea, and my soul did long to be there. - Alma 36:22

There is something about reading about a vision of angels praising their God that makes me so desperately want to be there with them, and with Him. I know that's where my girls are, and I know that's what they're doing.

And, then I happened upon this quote by one of my heroes, Neal A. Maxwell:

Such longing for a heavenly home is real, especially in view of how this life is designed. After all, brothers and sisters, when we rejoice in beautiful scenery, great art, and great music, it is but the flexing of instincts acquired in another place and another time.

Life turns out, however, to be just what one would expect of a deliberately constructed proving and tutoring experience which features opportunities, choices, and deprivations. Furthermore, there is no way around—the only way to go is through!

And, so, tomorrow I will go through the day. I will give myself permission to feel whatever I need to feel. I will no doubt be reminded of the heartache that comes with many of the memories of July 16th... and longingly look forward to the day when that pain no longer stings my heart.

Upward trend

Since starting down this pathway of grief, we have often talked about the importance of being aware of the way the pathway trends. There are highs and lows, but as long as there is a sort of upward trend, that's what we try to focus on - that the highs get gradually higher and the lows get gradually less low.

Lately, the healing we've felt has been wonderful... the latest calm has lasted longer than the other periods of calm. It has been going so well that last night was the first night in two and a half months that I was able to sleep {mostly} through the night without the help of a sleep aid. I know that might not seem like a very big deal, but it was huge for me. 

I woke up this morning feeling like I had conquered something that seemed completely impossible a month ago. It was really strange for me in those early weeks to be wide awake at 2am, knowing that I should be completely exhausted, but not being able to sleep no matter what I tried to do, unless I took a sleeping pill. My thoughts never rested, my mind constantly replayed all the restless images. I was half expecting to have to get out of bed soon after laying down, convinced I would be defeated by my attempt to sleep without that little blue tylenol pm. But, miraculously, I woke up close to 6am... a little early for my taste, but much better than what I expected.

This was huge progress... which I really needed for a day like today.

In the mail this afternoon we received a large white envelope addressed to Elliana. It was her birth certificate. I knew it was coming, but still wasn't really prepared for how to receive it. As I looked over all the details, I found myself thinking of how we'll never need to use it to get her a passport or a driver's license or whatever else you need birth certificates for. But, really my tears were mostly tears of gratitude.

This official document doesn't make her any more real in my heart, but it is one more reminder that I am a mother. And, as if that isn't enough, I'm a mother to two super incredible angel girls. I'm even more grateful for our ever brief moments with them, they are memories that become more sweet with time. They are the moments that push me forward and upward, anticipating with great excitement the joyful reunion that awaits us. That joyful day is one day closer than it was yesterday, and for now, that is motivation enough to keep on this upward trend. 

"shall we not go on in so great a cause? Go forward and not backward. Courage, brethren; and on, on to the victory! Let your hearts rejoice, and be exceedingly glad."