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.

Hope for the Future

My brother and his family were in town last week and we had so much fun going on lots of little adventures with them. About a week before they arrived my brother sent me an email with a short list of some of the activities they wanted to do while in town. One of those was visiting the grave site of our twin daughters.

I'm always touched by the extra thought that others give to those sweet girls of mine. I was happy to share that experience with them, but there was part of me that wasn't sure how it was going to go with their kids. I mean, going to a cemetery isn't exactly the most comfortable, happy place for most people, right? I didn't want them to feel uncomfortable or sad, so I kept things pretty light-hearted and made a couple of awkward jokes here and there to keep the mood from getting too somber.

But, now that a couple of days have passed and now that I'm facing the five year mark tomorrow, I wish I could go back to last Thursday, surrounded by my family, my parents, my brother and his crew. There are a few things I'd want them to know.

First of all, I'd tell them how I love visiting the cemetery. I love the quiet, peaceful place that it is. I love the deer who have made the place their home, who fearlessly wander through the grass with their baby fawns. I love remembering the dedicatory prayer that Marc offered on the day our girls were buried - specifically the promise that it would be a place of peace and perspective. Over the years, it most definitely has. Whenever life gets too stressful, too heavy, too scary, it is my quick escape, my go-to place to re-focus and remember what really matters in life.

Two years ago, as the third anniversary was approaching I decided I needed a new way to approach July 16th. It just came so natural to watch the calendar and the clock and relive every moment of sorrow, every feeling of shock and disbelief, every pain and heartache, that led up to the twins' early arrival. I was still healing and I knew that was okay, but I felt ready to move my thoughts from the pain of the past to the hope of the future.

Even though there will always be sadness associated with losing them, I also feel an unquenchable hope and reassurance that I'll see them again. I know they're safe and in a happy place. I know they haven't been taken from me and that one day I'll get to be their mother (and hopefully be much better at it than I am right now).

So, two years ago, with those desires to shift my focus to the hope of the future, I felt inspired to paint the picture I had of them in my mind - the carefree spirits of my two girls, happy in heaven, waiting with the same joyful anticipation to our eventual reunion. That's my painting, displayed on the left.

I want to be clear that the pain of loss is real and every year when the anniversary comes around, I feel it all over again and it hurts. Lumps form in my throat for days, until finally the tears just flow effortlessly. But, I also have to admit just as readily that healing is just as real. With every passing year, I feel it more and more. There is a phrase in a song by Mindy Gledhill that says "time is set to heal all wounds." It's true. And, I give all credit to a loving Savior who willingly suffered the pains of life and overcame the sting of death, whose sacrifice makes my hope a reality. He is the reason for my hope and my healing.

As hard as it was to lose my girls, I wouldn't have it any other way. The things I learned from walking through my own valley of sorrow, the undeniable feeling I had that I wasn't walking alone, the closeness I felt to God in the darkest period of my life... I treasure it all so much. I feel an overwhelming gratitude for the miracles that I've witnessed in my own life, evidence (if ever I needed it) that God lives and loves me.

Hope for a Better World

Back when I was 16 or so, I remember sitting in a lesson at church that brought me to tears. I don't remember the topic of the lesson, but I remember feeling overwhelmed with how bad the world was at the time (around 1994-ish) and how much worse it was bound to become by the time I was a mother. And, I decided right then and there that it just wouldn't be worth it to bring kids into such a terrible place. (Yeah, I admit I might have been a bit on the emotional/dramatic side as a teenager. I was only slightly offended when an adult leader once told me I needed to lighten up. Actually, now that I think of it, I heard that more than once.)

It was while Marc and I were cleaning up from our lunch together on Monday afternoon that Marc saw the news about the explosions in Boston. As we saw and heard more details coming in, we immediately understood the gravity of the situation and I felt my heart sink and my head spin. Sadness and confusion. Ben was at preschool and Hugh was hanging out with my parents, so I had a quiet house. I sat and rocked my baby Lucy. I held her close and then laid her gently down for her afternoon nap. She was still sleeping when I had to pick Ben up from school, so I had some more quiet time in the car. (Luckily, Marc was able to work close by to be near her when she awoke.)

It was in the car that the tears came flowing. The sadness and confusion had built up and I needed some release. I consider myself a runner. I've run two marathons, I'm signed up to run a half marathon coming up soon, and I felt like this tragedy had affected and hurt my family. Not just my running family, but people that are part of this great big human family.

I was actually a little surprised myself by how easy the tears came and I paused long enough to consider myself a little crazy for being so emotional about it all. I didn't know anyone that was there (except that later on, I realized that I did - my friend Amy). But, this is exactly the kind of stuff that my teenage fears warned me of.

Stuff like this just feels extra painful when you consider that there are those among us who have their hearts and minds in such a skewed place to think it okay to inflict such awful pain and terror on their own family, albeit "just" human family.

For completely unrelated reasons, not too long ago I found myself drawn to looking more closely at moments in the scriptures when the Lord weeps. There were three that affected me in powerful ways for different reasons. There's the story of Lazarus, which is where we find the oft-quoted shortest verse in scripture: Jesus wept. There's the story of the Resurrected Christ blessing the children among the Nephites and weeping because His joy was full. And, then the story of the Lord showing Enoch in vision the world we live in today. That's the story that has been on my mind this week.

In all of my sadness and confusion, trying to make sense of the senseless, there is one truth that keeps resonating through my veins. God has wept at the hatred and the evil among His own children and surely He is weeping still. And, if He is weeping (which I believe He is), then that means He still cares, He is still aware, and He still has ultimate power to heal and to make things right again. And, as long as there is a God in heaven like that, then there is reason for me to have hope in a better world, even if that is a world to come.

Here I am, nearly 20 years later, raising three children in this much scarier world. I'm conquering my own fears. I'm doing everything I can to keep my kids safe and teach them to be kind. And, teaching them the Source of my hope, because maybe there will come a day when they are sitting in a church class a few years down the road and will be overcome with how scary the world is they live in... and maybe, just maybe, they won't be afraid.

Hope

Last Sunday I was sitting in a church meeting where the topic of "hope" was being discussed. Immediately I was taken back to October 2008. The very same teacher was teaching a similar lesson on the same topic, though from different lesson material. In fact, I just looked back in my archives and found that I shared some of my favorite parts of the particular talk that was used in that lesson. If you're interested, you can read it here.

I remember I was sitting on the front row that Sunday, all alone. It had been just a few months since we'd lost the twins and I was still really struggling. I remember feeling a little frustrated by the intangible, elusiveness of hope... wanting so much to understand what it meant to have hope and how to capture its light in a way to have my burden eased a bit.

It felt frustrating to hear examples of when hope for something consisted more of concentrated hard work than anything else. What about those more faith-trying examples when no amount of hard work will make your dreams come true? How do you have hope when the one thing you want more than anything, and you're willing to do anything to make it come true, still evades you?

Well, as you can probably imagine, sitting through the lesson on hope this last Sunday wasn't nearly as painful, but I could still remember the feelings from three years ago so poignantly. I was mostly amazed at how differently things have turned out than I ever would have imagined. Back then I was too afraid to hope for what I have now.

Instead I tried to focus my hope in having more trust in God, in his purposes for my life, and in the time and way those purposes would  come about. But, more than that I just couldn't do. It was far too painful to hope for a family of my own, and somehow I think God understood and still blessed me with more than I was able to hope for.

There is still a lot about hope that I don't fully grasp. And yet, I cannot deny that I have experienced the feeling of hope, been blessed by the benefits of hope, and the healing that comes from hope. And, I just find myself hoping that those out there who are struggling with hope's elusiveness will somehow find the strength to continue to hang on until their hope sees them through to a brighter chapter of life.

Happy Easter!

My good friend, Jelaire, wrote the music and lyrics to this song. It is too beautiful not to share, especially on a day like today.

"He's not waiting for us to be perfect. Perfect people don't need a Savior. He came to save us in our imperfections. He is the Lord of the living, and the living make mistakes. He's not embarrassed by us, angry at us, or shocked. He wants us in our brokenness, in our unhappiness, in our guilt and our grief." - Chieko Okazaki

For the rest of this quote and more background on the song and how it came about, go here. It's definitely worth your time.

Happy Easter!

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.

Planting Bulbs for Springtime

A few weeks ago my Mom asked me to plant some daffodil bulbs in their front yard, so that when they get home from their mission in a few months that they'll be able to enjoy some yellow beautifulness. So, I picked up some bulbs, which have been sitting in a bag waiting for me to find my gardening gloves and my handy little kneeling pad. Last night I was looking over the instructions, hoping that I haven't missed the prime planting time yet. I was happy to find that for where we live the ideal planting time is October to December, with the specific instructions:

Plant in the fall, before the first frost hardens the soil.

It made me think of something I read recently (I don't remember where, though)... something about planting a tiny seed of hope in our hearts, even if it's hidden under the many wintry layers of grief and sorrow. When I read it, I imagined my heart covered in winter snow and there underneath it all - a seed, waiting for the winter to pass and the sun's warmth so that it can blossom. It makes my heart warm to think of something with beautiful potential lying dormant under the winter soil, sure to bring joy and beauty after a cold and dreary winter.

In the past (and very recent past, I might add) I've had a really hard time with the principle of hope. It feels so risky to put my emotions and expectations on the line {again}, not having a perfect knowledge of whether or not what I hope for will actually come true. If I give myself permission to hope for something I desire with all my heart, then I worry that I'm setting myself up for further failure, greater disappointment and another hard fall. It can be so scary to hope.

But, then I'm reminded of this quote attributed to Theodore Roosevelt: Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the grey twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.

I find it rather interesting, though, that putting my hope in the potential of these daffodil bulbs to grow doesn't trigger any risky feelings at all. If I didn't know better, I might be very skeptical about how these bulbs could survive the frozen winter ground and still emerge in the spring as beautiful flowers. I might think it's a waste of money, time, and energy, and not even bother planting them.

But, I've planted enough bulbs and seen enough bulbs blossom that I know that good things come from the time I spend planting these bulbs. And, besides, even if there are some that don't bloom, there are enough bulbs being planted that it won't make a difference. The key is that in order to enjoy the flowers, the bulbs have to be planted. I know it's obvious... but, they will not grow if they have not been planted.

So, while I am digging and placing these daffodil bulbs, I find myself wandering through the garden of my heart. Gratefully the soil is still good, and if I use my agency to choose to plant good things there, then good things will surely come. Otherwise, I can decide it's too scary and risky to plant seeds of hope, allowing my heart to be over-run with despair and discouragement. It's really my choice what gets planted.

Rather than let despair and fear keep me from planting bulbs of hope in my heart, I'm just going to plant enough that beauty is sure to abound. Having the courage and faith to dare to hope, puts me in a position to allow God to continue to fill my life with His blessings. I've dared to hope for the impossible before and was blessed in greater abundance than what I had hoped for. Who am I to place limits on God and His power to bless my life, even with miracles if necessary?

So, I'll do the planting now, brace myself for whatever winter brings, and patiently wait for my Springtime. I don't know when it will come, how much longer the wait will be, but it will come. I do know that. And, plus, if we're commanded to have hope, then I know God will prepare the way before me, and have mercy on me because I'm choosing to hope {still}... not only for the blessings that await in the next life, but for blessings He has in store for me now. 

I know there is so much still to hope for. 

The Infinite Power of Hope

“ ‘Hope is like the sun, which, as we journey towards it, casts the shadow of our burden behind us.’ … Hope sweetens the memory of experiences well loved. It tempers our troubles to our growth and our strength. It befriends us in dark hours, excites us in bright ones. It lends promise to the future and purpose to the past. It turns discouragement to determination.”

- Samuel Smiles

(image courtesy of flickr)

This week I've been studying and thinking a lot about Elder Uchtdorf's talk from Conference - The Infinite Power of Hope. If I had to choose a favorite, this might just be the one. It is awesome and I strongly recommend a good read through of it. And, if I had to choose some favorite parts from this talk, these would be included: 

"[H]ope is both a principle of promise as well as a commandment, and, as with all commandments, we have the responsibility to make it an active part of our lives and overcome the temptation to lose hope. Hope in our Heavenly Father’s merciful plan of happiness leads to peace, mercy, rejoicing, and gladness. The hope of salvation is like a protective helmet; it is the foundation of our faith and an anchor to our souls.

...

"Surrounded by those we love, we will know the meaning of ultimate joy as we progress in knowledge and in happiness. No matter how bleak the chapter of our lives may look today, because of the life and sacrifice of Jesus Christ, we may hope and be assured that the ending of the book of our lives will exceed our grandest expectations. “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.”

...

"There may be times when we must make a courageous decision to hope even when everything around us contradicts this hope. Like Father Abraham, we will “against hope [believe] in hope.” Or, as one writer expressed, “in the depth of winter, [we find] within [us] an invincible summer.”

...

"And to all who suffer—to all who feel discouraged, worried, or lonely—I say with love and deep concern for you, never give in.

Never surrender.

Never allow despair to overcome your spirit.

Embrace and rely upon the Hope of Israel, for the love of the Son of God pierces all darkness, softens all sorrow, and gladdens every heart."

Elder Scott told me...

Last night, after Marc returned home from the Priesthood session of General Conference, we were relaxing on the couch. As he put his arm around me, he said, "Meg, I love you." He said it so sweetly, and I replied, "Aw, I love you, too." Then, he said, "Elder Scott told me to tell you that."

I giggled. "Really?" I asked.

Marc: "Yeah, he said I should take every chance to wrap my arms around my wife and tell her I love her."

Me: "Oh, that's sweet."

Then, a little later, I was up in the kitchen doing the dishes, when I hear him call out, "Whatcha doing, babe?"

Me: "I'm just doing the dishes before we go to bed."

Marc: "Do you want some help?"

Me: "Oh, that's sweet... but, no, I'm okay. It should just take me a minute."

Marc: "Elder Scott told me to ask you that."

I giggled again.

Then, later, as we were climbing into bed, I said, "we need to read the scriptures." And, he said, "I'm going to get better at taking the lead of our scripture study... Elder Scott said I should."

It was so cute how he was already trying to put into practice the messages he heard from Elder Scott's talk.

These past two days have been so amazing! I'm so grateful for the sweet comfort and encouraging messages of hope and faith that we've received from our living prophets this weekend. I came hungering and wanting... and I have been filled to overflowing. There is so much to digest, so much to take in and put into practice. We will work for the next six months to make our lives reflect the beautiful messages we've received, and continue to find even more healing and strength in the coming months.

For anyone that is interested, please go here to listen to messages of hope, of courage in the face of trial, of practical advice in how to face the challenges of the world we live in. For me personally, I found so many talks directly point to tools that will help me along my journey of grief... my heart has found so much healing this weekend.

You will not be disappointed. I promise.

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)

At the flip of a coin

I made a quick trip to the grocery store for three items: cereal, juice, and mascarpone (to make tiramisu - the mormon version, of course). The man checking me out... err, I mean, checking my grocery items out, asked me how I was doing. To be completely honest that's a much harder question than it appears to be... because most of the time there's more to the answer than one word, but I know that's all most people want to hear. But, today my answer came really easily - "Not too bad." After it came out, I thought to myself, "yeah, that's a pretty accurate answer of how I feel right now."

As I got back in the car to drive the whole three minutes back home, a song came on... and BAM! The tears were flowing.

Just like that. One moment, doing fine. The next moment, just a sobbing mess. As strange as it is to live with a heart that feels so fragile right now, I'm grateful to feel emotions that run so deep. There is something about feeling this incredibly extreme range of emotions that makes me feel complete, even while feeling an aching emptiness at the same time. 

As I was bringing the grocery bags up to the house, I was grateful for the "Families are Forever" rock that sits outside the front door. It's one of those things that I rarely notice since it's always just sitting there, and when I do notice it I usually think, "yeah, that's nice."

But, in the last few weeks, knowing my family is forever is more than just "nice." It is the reason I'm able to live. It's the reason I'm able to get out of bed in the morning. It's the reason I'm able to go to the grocery store and tell some random guy that I'm "not too bad." It's the reason my heart feels peace through all of this. I've gained a whole new appreciation for gospel principles that used to be nice words on paper that made me feel good. Now, they are my life. I literally feel able to keep on breathing because I know one day I'll be able to hold my girls in my arms again and I won't have to say good-bye. That means more to me than words can express.

In case you were wondering the song that opened the flood gates today was this song. Yeah, I know, I'm a total sap to cry at a Phil Collins song. But, how could I not with words like these: 

I will protect you
from all around you
I will be here
Don't you cry 

For one so small,
you seem so strong
My arms will hold you,
keep you safe and warm
This bond between us
Can't be broken
I will be here
Don't you cry 

'Cause you'll be in my heart
Yes, you'll be in my heart
From this day on
Now and forever more

Last night was...

LONG...

and

AWFUL.

Why? I don't know... just because. I'm learning things like this happen with the grieving process.  There are peaks and valleys... we just hope for a trend that is continuously upward. Hopefully we've just crossed the deepest valley we'll have to wade through.

The GOOD news: the Sun won. 

Morning came. The darkness was gone. The long night was over.

I have never felt more grateful for that one constant truth I can always depend on - the dark night is always followed by a beautiful dawn, speaking in literal and spiritual terms. I find great comfort in that as I try to make sense of the chaos in my heart.

Psalms 30:5 - weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

*Image credit: Pip Wilson