The Real Lesson Behind the Women’s March

As a family we’ve been reading the Chronicles of Narnia. This week we came across a theme we’ve come across before. It's a message with a lesson we could all use. At different points in different books of the series, we find Aslan (the Great Lion, who represents Christ) in a conversation with one of the children in the story. In each of these particular conversations, a certain child will ask Aslan something about one of the other children in the story. Every time that happens, Aslan’s response is the same:

"Child, I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”

Now that we’ve come across this theme for the third or fourth time, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what it means for me. In my pondering, I’ve been reminded of the story of Mary and Martha in the New Testament. Jesus has come to their village and entered into Martha’s home, where she is busy (likely preparing a meal), while her sister, Mary, is sitting at his feet, hearing His word.

But Martha was cumbered about much serving, and came to him, and said, Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone? bid her therefore that she help me.
 
And Jesus answered and said unto her, Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things:
 
But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her. (Luke 10:40-42)

I’ll admit that I’ve always wondered if I’d be Martha in this story, striking a guilty chord in my heart. But, there’s a new meaning to this exchange that jumped out. I’ve always assumed that Jesus was scolding Martha for her busy-ness. But, it seems to me now that perhaps he was correcting her for worrying herself with what Mary was choosing to do. He doesn’t seem bothered by Martha’s choice to be busy serving, until she became judgmental toward Mary and Mary’s choice to sit and listen.

In other words, Martha was asking him about Mary’s story and his response was, in effect, “don’t worry about Mary. Worry about Martha.” Or in Aslan’s words: “I tell no one any story but her own.”

This past weekend was the Women’s March, followed by a whole range of various opinions and conversations surrounding it. From those who marched, I heard descriptions like “empowering” and “life-changing.” From those who didn’t march, I heard expressions of embarrassment, confusion, and shaming toward those who marched.

And, in the middle of the debate, we risk missing an important lesson from the Women’s March (and any other topic that has the power to be divisive and contentious), which is this:

We all have different stories and if we spent more time focusing on understanding and writing our own stories, surely we’d have more respect and kindness toward others and their stories. Make no mistake, where we stand and the choices we make do matter. But, I’m convinced that what will matter even more is how we treat those people who have different stories from our own.

Let Martha worry about Martha, and Mary worry about Mary. And, maybe in the end Martha and Mary will actually value and appreciate how their stories and lives are diverse and complementary. The whole story depends on each individual story being told, which depends on each of us to courageously own our own story, and let others own theirs.

Mary and Martha need each other and we need both. And, in the end, Aslan will turn out to be right about where to direct our focus.

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.

Carpe Diem!

This morning when my Dad and I arrived at our favorite fishing hole, the parking area was blocked with a sign that read, "closed for the season." We had no idea the season was over. We sat there stunned for a good 5 minutes at least, not sure what to do. Do you stay and fish anyway? Do we go back home and be content with the months of fishing trips we've already had? It felt totally anticlimactic - this feeling that I wish I'd known that our last fishing day was actually our last. So that I could have enjoyed it ever more. Is that even possible? I felt deflated and sad that it was over when I was expecting two more months of fishing with my dad.

We decided to drive to this little corner store in the nearest little town and ask about other spots that are open or what the specific regulations are. Luckily they had a book of regulations, so we looked up the fishing spots in our county and found that we technically still have one more week, so we made our way back to that fishing spot and had another enjoyable day fishing together. We came home with four fish, and smiling ear to ear for another memory added to our already rich supply.

But, it made me think about my every day life and what would happen if all of a sudden I came across a sign that said, "This season closed" or worse yet, "Game Over" or "The End."

I really try to enjoy every moment of motherhood. Like, the other day when one of my boys decided that while we were away from home it'd be a good idea to hide in the car long enough to get out a good bowel movement and then come out and tell me he had poopies. In his underwear. As I'm changing him in the middle of a parking lot, I'm trying to get it seared into his head that pooping in underwear is never a good idea. That next time it'd be a much better idea to come tell me he really needs to go potty and then I can take him to a toilet.

Luckily I was prepared with a change of clothes and I had a plastic bag to throw everything nasty away, underwear included. But, believe it or not, right in the middle of that little not-so-fun scenario I was totally thinking, "I can't believe this is actually my life! This is hilarious!" It was like something out of a comedy that you'd think would never happen in real life. And, yet it does... stuff like this is constantly happening to me.

Then there was today when I got to scrub out skid marks in a couple of dozen pairs of underwear, which happens, oh, at least once a week. I know that does not sound fun and I guess it probably really isn't. But, again, it's so far from what I ever would have imagined myself doing that I can't help but laugh my way through it. I made the comment to Marc today, "Remind me that I won't be doing this forever." And, his response: "Yeah, totally. By the time they're six they'll be able to scrub out their own underwear." I totally love my life! I seriously do!

I know tomorrow isn't promised to anyone and I know at any given moment, the end of something really great can come before I'm ready for it to end. That is such an awful feeling - to come to the end and wish you could go back and enjoy the ride just a little bit more. I don't want to feel that, especially when it comes to these early years of raising my kids. I know I'm in a very special place with them right now that some day I'll really miss. I'm not sure I'll miss cleaning up poopy underwear, but I'll miss the innocence of the moment and the kisses that always follow and the feeling that I'm able to do something for them that they can't do for themselves. It's an honor to feel so needed and heroic by my little super heroes.

Maybe it's time to paint a large sign to hang in my kitchen that says, "Carpe Diem". That would be fun. I could teach my kids a random phrase in French, while teaching them a good motto for life at the same time. It could hang next to the other sign I want to make that says, "Mangia, mangia"... another random phrase (this time in Italian), but an equally good motto for life! Don't you think?!

Trying to figure it all out

For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to be a mother. As a young child I was admittedly much more interested in sports and things I could do with my brothers, but still I had dolls that I adored. The main two I had were Sugar and Suzie. Aren't those the greatest names? I also had one that my mom brought back from a trip to Germany that had eyes that opened and closed and made this crying noise when you picked her up. It kind of freaked me out a little, which might be why I never gave her a name.

I made beds for them and pretended to feed them and take care of them. As I got older, I did a lot of babysitting and tried to get a glimpse into the future of what it would like when it'd be me as the Mom, in my own home, making dinner for my own kids. It think I assumed it would be as easy and fun and carefree as babysitting. I had no idea how much more would be involved that would detract and distract from the easy and fun side of motherhood.

It's really an incredible juggling act that requires so much more talent and poise than I ever could have imagined. There's the feeding, the clothing, the housework, the bills, the laundry, the grocery shopping, the meltdowns, the naps, the sleep deprivation, the worries about finances or sibling rivalries or how you're going to get it all done and keep everyone alive at the same time.

I normally don't get too overwhelmed by it all, as long as I focus on just one thing at a time. But, every once in a while I just start to feel like I have NO IDEA what I'm doing. I'm trying to juggle all of these things when I really just want to sit on the floor and play pat-a-cake or have dance parties and eat cake for breakfast. So often I feel the need to be responsible and keep things under control. No need to create more chaos where chaos already thrives. But, actually, if I'm in on the chaos, it actually feels less chaotic. Is that because I feel like I'm in control of the chaos I'm creating? Probably. I also had this realization that just because those aren't things I can do 24/7 doesn't mean I can't do them 1/7. Who says that I can't feed my kids cake for breakfast every once in a while? And, why not have a daily dance party?

Earlier this week I found an old CD of music from the Nutcracker, so I popped it in and turned up the volume. The Russian Dance is our favorite. We ran around the room, giggling and bumping into each other until we all fell down in the most exhausted happiness. It was so much fun! And, the best part - there was no fighting over toys or tantrums over not having something go a certain way. It was awesome. Just pure fun.

I came across this video earlier today that I had seen going around facebook for the last couple of weeks but hadn't taken the time to watch it. Well, I watched it this morning and man, oh, man, it had me in tears. I mean like multiple tears falling down at the same time. I'm totally the mom who feels like I'm not as patient as I should be, that I expect way more from my kids than what is realistic, and worry that because I have no idea what I'm doing that I'm probably doing more harm than good.

I opened up about this with a friend the other day and her response was exactly what I needed to hear. She said, "You know, sometimes you just have to look at all the things you're really good at and focus on those. And, then slowly work on adding something else to improve on. We all have things we're good at and we all have things that come harder, so just make sure you recognize all the good you're doing."

And, you know what? Right away I was able to think of things that I'm really good at and it made the mountain of things I'm not good at not seem so daunting. It's a mountain to be conquered and I've always loved a good challenge. I am trying to be present and involved with my kids. I'm trying to create a home that's safe and forgiving. And, even though most of the time I have no idea what I'm doing, I'm so grateful for those tiny whisperings within that gently lead me and guide me and help me find the way. I just hope that someday when I look back on this time I'll have far more memories of dancing around the house than running around trying to juggle too many tasks that aren't nearly as important as the little ones at my feet. God knows how I love them!

Bed transition - Success

So, after the ups and downs of our Saturday night attempts to get Ben settled for the night he ended up sleeping through the night and woke up at 7:05am.

We decided we'd try to remain as consistent as possible with our routine on Sunday night and wait on trying anything new at this point. After gently explaining to Ben that it was time to sleep and he needed to stay in his bed, as I got up to leave his room he literally ran after me and slipped his little fingers around the door to keep me from closing it. It is SO hard to be firm in moments like this, but we've learned from experiences with Ben that consistency and keeping with a schedule really works for him.

I carefully moved his fingers from the door and reminded him again that it was time to sleep. I closed the door and stayed there for less than a minute to keep him from coming all the way out, but as soon as I heard him leave the door, I went and paced the living room sure that he'd be out any minute.

Then, Ben started crying and then Hugh started crying, which on the first night we learned that when Hugh started crying (twice) it was because Ben had climbed into the crib with Hugh. But last night we thought Hugh was just upset because Ben was upset and we were sure Ben was going to attempt to come out any minute, so we just waited for a little while (maybe 15 minutes).

At that point it sounded like Ben was saying "down", so Marc went in to check on him. He had climbed into the crib and was crying from there, all while Hugh had laid himself down on the far end and was already fast asleep, even amidst Ben's crying. Marc got him out and laid him down on his bed and told him it was time to sleep and then came back out. Again, we fully expected Ben to come out, but after a minute of protesting it got quiet and we didn't hear a peep from him for the rest of the night. That was 7:45pm and he ended up sleeping until 7:15am this morning. I went in to check on him a little later and he was snuggled up on his bed with his blanket and his two favorite stuffed animals.

We were able to understand better after last night that Ben climbing into the crib with Hugh must have been Ben's way of telling us of some fears and insecurities he was feeling with this transition. I felt some terrible mother guilt once I saw the whole situation from his perspective. I really felt like crying and was determined that we'd approach this whole bed transition more gradually and give him time to feel secure with the change.

Well, if we thought last night went smoothly, tonight was a piece of cake. We did all the normal stuff - scriptures, prayer, storybooks, songs, cuddling - and just when I was about to get up and leave, Ben patted his pillow and begged me to stay, so I sat down next to him and ran my fingers through his hair and sang him two more verses of his favorite lullaby, telling him over and over how much I loved him. He calmed right down and after making sure he had Elmo and his sock monkey in each arm, asking if he was going to go night-night with Elmo and his sock monkey, he even giggled a little. I wasn't sure if it was enough, but I left him at that point and was totally shocked that he didn't follow me to the door, he didn't cry and we didn't hear anything from him at all. That hasn't ever happened - even when he was in his crib.

I don't know if the coming nights will go quite as smoothly, but I've decided it doesn't matter. I think my mind made a way bigger deal out of this whole transition than it needed to. I'll blame it on pregnancy and my fear of never sleeping again once July comes, which I see now is just silly and ridiculous. I clearly value my sleep - and I value my kids' need for sleep and my role in helping them get the sleep they need to be happy - as well as the sleep I need to be happy. BUT, even more than that I've come to realize through this whole situation that I value providing a feeling of safety, of security, of love. And, coming to that realization (even if a little delayed) is the greater sign of success here.

A Bit of Heaven

Ever since my friend, Annie, moved over a month ago, we've been talking about making plans to meet up - somewhere, somehow. So, our plans finally materialized today after a spur of the moment conversation on the phone yesterday. We picked a halfway point, making it about a 90-minute drive for both of us. I was super excited... except for the bad dream that was trying to haunt me enough to keep me home, safe and sound.

You see, yesterday afternoon as I laid down for a little nap I was so exhausted that all I could think of was how I was going to make the drive home after our play date, right in the middle of my normal nap time. (And, by the way, I feel no shame in admitting I have a normal nap time!) Somehow that thought then translated into me having a dream about making that 90-minute drive back home and getting in a car accident.

So, last night before bed I told Marc about the dream, asking him to help me distinguish between what might be thoughts to heed and thoughts that were being fed by some overactive OCD scenarios. I felt reassured when he responded that he was sure everything was going to go just fine and I didn't need to worry about getting in an accident.

Sure enough, we made it to our meeting point just before 10am without any problems. The boys did great in the car and were great little travelers, even sleeping for the last 30 minutes of the drive.

We let our four boys play at this great little playground for a good 90 minutes or so before we relocated to perhaps the happiest place on earth for four hungry little boys. You would have called it the happiest place on earth too if you could have witnessed what Annie and I witnessed as we all ate lunch together! I should have gotten my camera out to have some proof. It was so much fun. I don't know when I laughed as hard as I did today. Our boys play pretty good together and I was so happy to have some girl time with Annie.

After nearly three hours together, we all got safely buckled into our cars and drove in opposite directions, heading back to our homes. Annie and I promised we'd call each other as soon as we were safely home. I quickly called Marc to let him know I was leaving, giving him a rough idea of when he could expect me home. That was 12:37pm.

The next time I tried to call him was 1:01pm. That was when our really fun day had suddenly made a wrong, very unexpected turn. I thought the stroller in our trunk was the cause for me struggling up some of the steeper hills on the drive. But on one particularly steep incline I learned there was something much more serious going on. I gassed it and the engine was revving, but I watched helplessly as the speedometer gradually decreased more and more until I realized I was starting to drift backwards, back down the hill I was trying to climb.

This is a two-lane, curvy highway through rather hilly terrain. My misfortune occurred in a rather fortunate area - a rare spot where there were passing lanes in both directions and a barely wide enough shoulder for me to slowly back my car into a safer position, making it so cars could pass by me without us being as much of a danger to us or to anyone else.

So, once I was backed onto the shoulder, I tried to call Marc only to realize I was in an unfortunate area where there was no cell phone service. I thought 9-1-1 was supposed to work even in those areas, so I tried that. Guess what? It doesn't work. I looked around me - in the middle of nowhere, miles from getting help, no houses in sight. Oh, and at that moment panic set in. I felt so helpless and scared. Tears filled my eyes immediately and effortlessly, and just as I was about to completely loss my cool, I knew the first and the best thing for me to do was to pray.

I considered praying that my car would just suddenly work again or that I'd somehow get cell service miraculously. And, even though I knew neither of those were beyond God's power to make happen, instead I found myself pleading for two things - "Please, God, keep my boys and me safe. And, please send someone who can help us out of this situation." That was about when I looked in the back seat - Hugh exhausted and sound-asleep and Ben looking back at me with tired, but hopeful eyes. There was something in his eyes that communicated calm and hope to my heart... even if it was just my own survival mode kicking in, realizing this was not a time for me to crumble, this was a time for me to find whatever courage it would take to get the help we needed.

I got out of the car, locked the doors, and somewhat timidly waved down the very next car that came speeding by. They passed me right by and I was so close to falling apart again. My hopeless gaze followed them as they passed and that was when I saw that maybe their reflexes had just been a little slow. Maybe they felt some empathy for such a desperate-looking pregnant lady. They slowed down and then backed down the hill a little, while I ran up to meet them.

My biggest fear about waving someone down was not knowing who would stop and if they'd turn out to be someone I'd want to have stop. Hence, the timid wave. But, in this situation I really didn't have any other choice. You can imagine my relief when right away I felt reassured that this middle-aged couple was the answer to my simple, yet urgent prayer. They didn't have cell service either, but wrote down my cell phone number and my husband's, promising they'd call him as soon as they had service again.

So, with that, I climbed back into the safety of my car where Hugh was still sleeping and Ben was my sweet source of calm. He should have been asleep like Hugh, but there was something about having him awake with me that made the whole situation easier. I had to find things to distract him, to keep him happy... and in the process I was distracted and kept happy, too.

About 20 minutes later my helpful couple came back from the direction they'd left in, just to let me know that they'd found a Call Box a few miles up the road and that CHP would be on their way to help me out. They said the dispatcher would call Marc, but that they'd also call Marc as soon as they had coverage.

About 20 minutes later a CHP officer arrived. It's now about 2pm. After talking for a few minutes outside our cars, he offered to push my car up the steep hill with his car, putting us in a much safer place where there was a turnoff - a Vista Point.

The officer wrote down Marc's cell number and said he'd call dispatch to confirm he'd been reached and was on his way, before leaving. He went back to his car and I got back into mine. Both boys were wide awake now and I was distracting them with apples and water. After about ten minutes the officer came back to let me know that Marc was on his way, but that he had decided to stay with me until help arrived. I can't tell you how comforting it was to not be left alone there in the middle of nowhere, still more than an hour from home and still with no available communication with anyone. Even when his shift change was about to happen, he called for another CHP officer to come take his place, as my sort of personal guardian.

At this point it was 3pm and the boys were just starting to get a little restless, so I got them out of their carseats and let them play in the driver's seat and roam freely from the front seat to the back. They clearly thought this was such a great game, completely protected from the stress and worry of the situation.

Another hour passed before Marc and my Dad showed up, the most welcomed sight ever! I heaved a huge sigh of relief. The CHP officer stayed around long enough to make sure Triple A was on its way to help us get towed, and then we thanked him profusely before he left, no doubt ready to serve the public in any way possible. Such kind and thoughtful CHP officers helping us today, more heaven-sent help for sure.

After getting everything out of our car and into my Dad's, the tow truck arrived and we finally made it back home at 6:30pm (over four hours later than originally anticipated), just in time to eat some dinner and get the boys in the bath and settled for bed.

It ended up being a much longer and more exhausting day than I expected, but it was so much fun to see Annie and her boys! And, as much as I could have done without the car problems and the extra drama that followed, I'm sitting here feeling such an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for the simple (yet profound) reminders that God does answer prayers and is aware of the details in my life. I know He was watching over us today. I know He kept us safe and I know He sent us people that would help us get home. It's good to be reminded every once in a while that even when we are among millions of others in the world seeking help and guidance, we are not forgotten or overlooked by a loving Father who loves us all individually and perfectly, and responds in simple (yet miraculous) ways.

Some might argue that the way things came together for us today was simply luck, but I know better. Luck doesn't happen the way things happened today. Today I experienced a bit of heaven as I witnessed very specific answers to some very specific pleas come help me in an urgent time of need. There is no other explanation.

(And, Annie, if you're reading this, even at the end of the day I have no regrets about meeting up with you today... if I could do it all over, I'd still have made the trip to see you. Let's get a date set for next month!)

Getting comfortable with failure

Phew, it's been a busy week! The weather this week was a beautiful prelude for spring's approaching arrival, though it still feels a bit out of place since we haven't seemed to have had a normal winter yet. Still, I sure love these days with temps in the 70s, the feel of wearing my flip flops again, and going outside with a short-sleeved shirt. With weather like that we've been spending more time soaking up that organic vitamin D.

We spent a few mornings out in the backyard, the boys playing in their sand and water table (minus the water for now) while I dug my hands into the dirt to pull up some weeds, listening to the soundtrack of my happy, giggling boys in the background. I was so pleasantly surprised to discover how much better Ben and Hugh play together outside than they do inside. It was peaceful and warm and I got my hands dirty. I really, really love getting my hands in dirt. There must be someone else out there who completely gets what I mean by that without any further explanation. Yes?

And, since I'm the mother of two young boys I was super excited to find a worm in my digging. (Otherwise I would have been semi-grossed out.) I called for Ben and Hugh to come look. You should have seen the ways their eyes lit up and their hands trembled to get their turn to touch the slimy, wiggly little guy. Ben had his sand pail with him, so I put some dirt in his bucket and then put the worm in there for him. The expression on his face made it clear that he thought that was just about the coolest thing ever. (And, doesn't that follow that I would then be considered the coolest mom ever?! haha!)

And, just when I was starting to think things couldn't be going any better I found a caterpillar. And then two more after that. I grabbed an old 10# wheat can that I had just emptied out the week before and thought I'd better hang on to it for something exactly like this. I had the boys help me put in a good layer of soil at the bottom, then we put in some leaves and welcomed our three caterpillars into their new home. They seemed pretty excited about what we were doing, even though I'm pretty sure they weren't thinking quite as far ahead as I was.

I was having visions of watching these three caterpillars go through their process to becoming something miraculous and beautiful and teaching my very young toddlers all about it along the way. I'd finally redeem myself from all those years of struggling through every science class I ever took. I'd make it fun and exciting and learn new things myself.

So, while the boys were down for naps I transferred the caterpillars to a glass fish bowl, all set up properly (according to my search results on Google). I almost took pictures to show off the start of Science Project #1, with plans to document the entire process with photos. Imagine my visions of beautiful pupas, watching the butterflies emerge in all their glory, setting them free with the boys by my side. Our first science experiment together!

With all of these grand visions dancing through my head, you can only imagine my great disappointment when the next day I checked on our little caterpillars only to find that all three had died. So much for redemption. At least the boys are still too young to know what a terrible failure I am at anything remotely related to science. Maybe I still have some time!

But, you know, there was something about this experience that made me start to feel more comfortable with failure. Although, not just failure ('cause I'm already a pro at that), but more specifically feeling comfortable with my boys seeing me fail. It's part of life and I know it'll be healthy for them to see me in situations of falling short. My hope is that I'm also able to show them how to get back up and try again, how to greet failure without losing the excitement of attempting new things and still hungry to learn.

As a bit of a side note, you know what's funny? For Valentine's Day I made homemade fortune cookies, complete with fortunes I found with Google's help. And, one of them actually goes perfectly with this little story:

"Success is going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm."

Today I slowed down

But, as I sit here reflecting on the day's highlights, I'm realizing it still wasn't enough.

The day started overcast and very dreary, as it has been for the last week. Time spent outside in this past week has been nearly non-existent, which for two active toddlers is its own form of torture, which also translates into its own form of torture for Mom. Am I right?

Fortune was on my side this afternoon, though, when the clouds cleared and sunlight streamed through our windows, begging us to come out and play. And, that we did as soon as the boys were up from their naps.

As I was getting the boys strapped into the stroller, I noticed a tiny, red ladybug on the siding of our house. I think it was the boys' first time with a ladybug, so I carefully picked her up and let her crawl on my hand, letting the boys watch its delicate movements. Then as I reached toward Ben, he willingly held out his pointed finger to get to know the little ladybug himself. He was so careful and gentle, allowing the ladybug to explore both sides of his hand. Hugh was a little more hesitant, but still curious enough to hold out his hand and have a turn.

Before taking off to the playground, I carefully placed the ladybug on a little flower plant by our front gate and felt so grateful for such a small moment of discovery and wonder that I was able to have with my two boys. So, see, there's my proof I did slow down today.

It was after spending a good glorious hour at the park, sliding down slides and swinging on swings and climbing up slides, that we came home and I went into serious dinner-prep mode. I was so singly focused on that one task that the earnest pleadings from Ben to understand his needs and fulfill his wants went grossly unheard.

I paused a couple of times to peer down at him, hoping it would all of a sudden became very clear what it was that he wanted, but I know I gave up much too easily and was much too hurried in my own task to understand what he was trying to communicate. I offered all of what I thought were the obvious options - crackers, water, Fireman Sam, cottage cheese - but each offer was met with a sharp shake of the head and a clear "eh", which in Ben language means a very emphatic "no!"

I'm mostly ashamed to admit that at one point I briefly lost my patience and responded with "I don't know what you want" in an exasperated tone of voice that even at his young age he felt hurt by and tears immediately welled up in his eyes.

That was enough to snap me out of my robot-like, dinner-prep mode. I knelt down in front of my sweet and sensitive little boy and took his face in my hands and told him I was sorry. I still didn't know what it was that he wanted, but I knew a little lollipop we got from Aunt Caryn would heal his wounds. And, it pretty much did.

A little bit later I was at the kitchen sink, washing my hands and Ben came up to me, with his lollipop stick cleaned off in record time, softly patted my little baby bump with both hands and looked up at me with his big blue eyes and said, "Mama." Right away I asked if he wanted some water and when he smiles and does his sweet little giggle that means "yes!" So, I got him a cup of water and almost didn't pause long enough to recognize the beauty of that little moment. Six months ago I would have begged for him to even say "mama", let alone have him approach me and call me by name with "Mama".

Today was a good reminder for this Mama that many of life's most precious moments are so small and so simple that if I don't slow down to recognize and capture them, they'll pass me by without any idea of what I'm missing out on.

Quality vs. Quantity

I remember back in high school having a conversation with a girl who was much more extroverted and outgoing than me. She would float around different groups, friendly spreading her social butterfly wings with an enviable ease. That felt much too daring for my comfort zone, which consisted of sitting quietly in my tight-knit little circle of friends. But, I was shocked one day to hear her express sadness at feeling like she didn't have any friends. From my perspective she had dozens (if not hundreds) more friends than me and I didn't understand how she could feel that way. That is, until I realized the difference between quantity and quality.

The conversation stuck with me as a constant reminder that the quality of my relationships was much more important than the number. And, really, I've been so blessed with some of the most priceless friendships a girl could ever hope for.

As I look back on my life, it's so easy to identify friendships that came naturally and easy, and amazing to recognize the tiny details that allowed our lives to connect. I've been seriously blessed with the companionship of some of the most amazing friends, and often during periods when I needed them the most. And, equally amazing is the connection that remains even with great distance and length of time that might separate us.

One of those friends happens to have her birthday today. You should check out her blog and let yourself laugh and be inspired. She is amazing! Happy Birthday, Jess!

As I get older, though, I've realized that those easy, natural friendships don't come along very often. You know the kind... where right off the bat conversations flow, the comfort level makes you feel like you can open up the most vulnerable part of your heart without any hesitation and without any fear of judgment. I should add here that having been blessed with sisters who have filled that role is a blessing I sincerely try not to take for granted. There is nothing better than having sisters who are also my best friends.

And, so when I have that, I find it even more incredible when my life is still blessed with others that bring with them such sweet friendship that makes my life feel richer than what I could ever merit. Just a few short months ago I met a young mother of two adorable boys, her youngest the same age as Benjamin, and right away I felt drawn to her. I could tell by my initial interactions with her that she and I would probably get along really well. Little did I know how much we'd have in common and how those commonalities would quickly forge one of those rare friendships that come easy and naturally.

On the first play date we had with our boys, Annie and I got to talking and before I knew it, she was opening up to me about her recent loss - a baby girl - that left her with wounds that were still raw and painful. It was the last thing I was expecting to hear from such a happy, seemingly carefree person. But, immediately I was taken back to my own reactions to our loss and the efforts I made to appear normal. And, remembering the physical ache that lingers in the heart in the months that follow and the tears that seemed to not ever dry up, I just wanted to wrap her up and take all of that away. And, right away I felt this huge relief with the realization that there would be feelings we'd share that wouldn't ever have to be expressed.

From that day (in October, I think) followed lots of days just like it where we'd meet up, let our boys play (and sometimes borderline fight... two-year olds!), and continue to build our friendship. Earlier this month I was super sad to find out that their brief stay here would be even more brief than originally planned. They moved this morning back to where they came from, which fortunately isn't too far away but still far enough away to create some distance and great difficulty in continuing our weekly play dates and late night talk-fests.

But, rather than feeling sad, I feel so incredibly blessed to have another friend who will no doubt be a friend for life, one of the best in quality.

A Memory and a Reminder

My sister, Mandi, has been in town for nearly two weeks... and she still has one week left to spend with us. It has been awesome. We've been running together in the mornings, taking our kids to the park almost every afternoon (only staying home on the few days of rainy weather), preparing meals together, working together on a giving my parents' kitchen a little bit of a face lift, we've talked and laughed and talked some more. And, our four kids have had playmates, which has been so fun to observe. I just wish we didn't live so far apart from each other and we could have more of these moments more often.

But, earlier today I realized that I should just be grateful to have any of these moments at all, even if they don't happen nearly as often as I would like. Mandi reminded me that it was fifteen years ago today that she was in her car accident that could have easily ended her life.

It was 1996. I was nearing the final weeks of my senior year of high school and she had just turned sixteen. I had made plans that Friday night to go see a movie with some friends - Twister, I think it was - and had assumed the car would be free for me to take. Then, just before I was about to leave, I watched Mandi bounce her way down the driveway with the car keys in hand, clearly with plans of her own to take the car for the night.

I remember feeling so frustrated and angry that she was taking off with the car, leaving me (the older sibling) with the only option of riding my bike to join my group of friends for our movie night. I yelled some not-so-nice words at her from our front porch, which didn't stall her one bit, which made me feel even more upset.

And, even though I was still fuming while watching her drive away, there was this slight feeling of regret for the feelings I felt and the things I said. The regret ate away at me all night.

It wasn't until much later that night, nearing midnight, when I returned home to an empty house, that I immediately knew something was wrong. Soon after stepping through the front door, my parents called from the hospital. Mandi had been in a serious car accident. The car was totaled, and Mandi's life was spared by fractions of an inch (literally). She lost control of the car on a dark, winding gravel road. The car flew off the road down a sixty foot cliff, landing on its nose into a river bed - with a tree going through the front windshield.

Somehow Mandi and her guy friend (literally) walked away from the accident back to his house (a half mile away or so), where his mother (a nurse by profession) quickly bandaged up their bleeding wounds and rushed them to the hospital.

I arrived at the hospital just in time for the doctor to stitch up some of Mandi's deep cuts on her left hand. I sat next to her bedside, letting her squeeze my hand with her right hand. That wasn't so bad. But, watching the bloody throbbing open hole in her neck made me turn all shades of blue and nearly passed out myself. Doctors and policemen were all stunned by the relatively minor injuries that were so close to being deadly, which would have matched the looks of the car.

Growing up, Mandi and I had our fair share of squabbles like the one we'd had the night of her accident, but all of a sudden the fragility of life made me realize it just wasn't worth it. Seeing her all bloody and cut up on that hospital bed, I was just so relieved to still have my sister. I wished so much I could have taken back the hurtful words I had left between us before she left that night. In the days that followed, I felt like the accident was my fault; fate's way of teaching me a lesson I would be sure to never forget. Well, it worked.

And, now that it's been fifteen years and our relationship has grown stronger than I ever could have imagined, I'm so grateful we've had these years to share together and for the memories we've made together. And, now to be providing chances for our children to make their own memories together makes my heart happy. I just can't imagine what the last fifteen years would have been like without her... it makes me sad to even think about.

Reflecting today on the fortunate events, and even miracles, that saved my sister's life so many years ago, has reminded me to be more grateful for each moment of this fragile life. As much as I don't like that phrase "you just never know...", it's actually true. You just never know. The gift of today is all we can count on for sure. And, I'm just grateful for the reminder to make the most of it.

Looking forward

This week, with all of its extreme ups and downs, I'm actually really glad tomorrow is Monday.

But, first off, I have good news - Hugh's bruises from his accident last Sunday are completely gone. Although he does have some new ones, but luckily not any nearly as frightful. He hasn't slowed down a bit this week and I'm so relieved.

I was a little surprised, though, by how much Hugh's little collision with our end table on Mother's Day seemed to cause bruises on my heart. I couldn't look at him without feeling like I was looking at the poorest reflection of myself. And, while Hugh's bruises healed with amazing speed, I kept poking at mine. After an exhausting Tuesday, I came across this quote on my niece's blog:

"Occasionally discouragement may darken our pathway; frustration may be a constant companion. In our ears there may sound the sophistry of Satan as he whispers, "You cannot save the world; your small efforts are meaningless. You haven't time to be concerned for others.' Trusting in the Lord, let us turn our heads from such falsehoods and make certain our feet are firmly planted in the path of service and our hearts and souls dedicated to follow the example of the Lord. In moments when the light of resolution dims and when the heart grows faint, we can take comfort from His promise: 'Be not weary in well-doing . . . Out of small things proceedeth that which is great. Behold, the Lord requireth the heart and a willing mind."

- Thomas S. Monson

As I read it, the burdens I'd been carrying suddenly felt noticeably less heavy. And, I was reminded that these days, even with the bumps along the way, are the most sacred days of my life. And, even when I get overwhelmed by discouragement or inadequacy, I know I can ultimately decide how much I allow those feeling to linger. Plus, I'm guessing that life with boys is going to be full of accidents and stunts that won't end well. While I will do my best to protect and keep them safe, maybe what's even more important is how I respond when they fall.

***

The week got progressively better and since Thursday we've been eating this:

Marc requested yellow cake with chocolate frosting for his birthday cake. I had been eying my choice - Banana Split ice cream cake - for at least six months (during the period I was going dairy-free and craving ice cream like a true addict with insane withdrawals).

We ended the week with a visit from my dear friend Sarah and her son Noah, and the return of my parents (from their month-long hiatus) just in time for my Dad's birthday today, which also brought my sister and her two little ones, too. With visitors like that, only good things to come this week.

Life changes and eating an elephant

We spent all day Friday moving into our new home. Fortunately we had lots of strong and able men with big trucks who helped make it just a two-trip move, which was completed within three hours. We had a small group of women who helped me make everything sparkle at the old place, making it look pretty darn fantastic. We also had two doting grandparents who were happy to entertain the boys at their place for the day, so as to shield them a bit from as much of the chaos and confusion that can come with a big change like this.

By the end of our very long Friday and coming home to boxes stacked so high that it felt like we could have opened it up to the public as a cardboard maze and charged a small fee for entrance, I had come to the end of my frazzled rope and declared with more gusto than I knew was in me - "I hate our new place."

I didn't, really.

I was just exhausted. I was telling Marc later that I had never felt more tired than I did by the end of that day... except for maybe the day I labored to bring Hugh into the world. And, I felt even more exhausted just thinking about the task of unpacking everything, while still taking care of my little family. But, I think I was mostly overwhelmed with fears of how I would help my little boys adjust to their new environment when I felt so sapped of all energy and optimism myself.

I had to remind myself of the answer to that silly riddle - How do you eat an elephant?

I'm guessing you probably know the answer.

So, that was exactly what I did. I focused first on the most important priority - getting my boys settled safely and peacefully in their new (shared) bedroom for the night. Then, I tackled the boxes. One at a time. I couldn't look at the entire house filled with boxes. It just made me want to cry, if I did. I had to force myself to focus on the one box in front of me. One at a time.

And, before the end of the night on Friday our cardboard maze was completely unrecognizable and I was slowly seeing our home becoming more recognizable.

We went to bed much too late, which turned out to be a bad idea since Hugh ended up having a really rough night. He was up three times and ended up asleep on my chest twice when I got the feeling his lack of sleep had more to do with not feeling well than anything else. My intuition turned out to be correct when all day Saturday he was fighting a fever.

But, last night went so smoothly. Both boys went down for bed so easily - in bed by 6:30pm - AND they both slept through the night, though 5:30am will probably always feel just a bit too early for me.

Today I found myself thinking of all the things I like about our new home - the sound of the morning doves and other birds singing throughout the day, the park across the street where kids today were out playing baseball with their dads, the random cat wandering the very quiet neighborhood, the secluded feeling of living on the outskirts of town, the view from our kitchen of the hills. I really liked our other place and had felt quite sad about leaving it, until I realized what we were getting in its place.

(Our other place was smack-dab-in-the-middle of downtown, with the near-constant sound of traffic, sirens, airplanes, with the "drug-dealing" park down the street and the random transient wandering our neighborhood. Not to mention our neighbor's raging outdoor parties during the summer that commonly started at midnight and ended about four hours later. Definitely won't miss those.)

We're not completely settled in yet, but we're getting there. And, after a weekend of General Conference, I'm feeling encouraged and renewed. I'm anxious to go back and, in my studies, gather my own list of little personal prophetic epistles, as referred to by Elder Holland. Lots of gems that I want to hang on to and live by. Sometimes it can feel overwhelming to work on areas of weakness and inabilities, but I suppose personal improvements, just like settling from our move, require the same answer to that silly elephant riddle.

Taking just one day at a time. And, that's exactly what I'll do.

What I've learned from the flu

I used to think that the very worst part of sick kids was the idea of cleaning up all the messes - vomit, diarrhea, and whatever other nasty bodily fluids you can imagine. Now that we've faced the last five days of exactly that, I've learned there is something far worse than the messes.

For us, it all started Monday night. I went into the birthday boy's room to check on him, after he'd been asleep for a couple of hours and before heading to bed myself, like I always do. I was shocked to find my sleeping baby with his head right next to a pile of vomit. Ben hadn't even cried and we hadn't heard a thing. I gently lifted him out of his crib and carried him to the bathroom so that I could assess the situation. He was surprisingly mostly clean, with just a bit of vomit - in his hair and on his pjs. As I was starting to undress him to get him in the bathtub, Ben threw up again - into the bathroom sink. He had the most confused, helpless, sad look on his face. My heart broke.

While Marc bathed him, I cleaned up the mess in the crib and changed the bedding. We comforted him and soon he was settled and asleep again. Luckily that was his only episode with throwing up, but the diarrhea has been a bit worse. Overall, though, at this point Ben has mostly recovered from this little bout with the flu.

Hugh is a different story. The night after Ben had thrown up, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning to Hugh and what sounded like dry heaves. As soon as I pulled him out of his crib, he immediately cuddled against my shoulder, which is totally uncharacteristic of him. (Usually he's trying to squirm his way to the nearest source of food.) He ended up throwing up twice before the sun came up on Wednesday morning. It was pretty bad the first couple of days - vomiting, diarrhea, slight fever. I was doing laundry, it seemed, every couple of hours.

Then, just when Hugh was starting to seem like he was on the mend, things got worse. Today was day four, and by far the worst. He was hardly able to keep anything down all day. And, while I know he must be feeling completely miserable, he has still managed to have his super duper cute moments of cooing and crawling and smiling with his nose all scrunched up. He is such a trooper, that little guy. He's sleeping peacefully at the moment, but I'm prepared for a long night and an unpredictable day tomorrow.

Over the last few days, after watching both my babies suffering through their first case of the flu, my heart has hurt and I'm pretty sure my forehead has some new permanent worry lines. Today was especially hard. Four days (and counting) is much too long for a baby to be sick like this, and much too long for my heart to handle. I hate seeing him so uncomfortable and at moments feeling like life has been sucked right out of him. I'm glad, at least, that those lifeless moments have been brief and fleeting.

That's been the biggest surprise with dealing with the flu - handling the emotional stress of watching my babies suffer. The messes have been a cinch to clean up. I haven't even gagged once, to my surprise. But, my heart, oh my heart, has just about broken at least two dozen times this week. I've been unable to lay Hugh down the last two nights without crying. I just want him to be better.

And, in the back of my mind, through all of this, I find myself amazed at what moments like these teach me about the same heartbroken feelings that are experienced by a perfect Father in heaven as He watches us hurting and in pain. If my feelings are this intense and at times nearly unbearable, His feelings of love and concern for us must be at least a million times greater.

I'm comforted with the knowledge that He is watching over me in my moments of greatest need, even this moment right now as I go to watch over my littlest one for the night.

Seasons and Jumping back in

image courtesy of wikimedia.org

The last two days we've woken (or is it awaken? awoken can't be right. awakened?) to overcast skies. It has been feeling more like autumn lately, but especially today. The air smells like rain. I am really loving this change in weather and enjoying the transition from one season to another. It feels like it's been a while since I've really noticed a change in season quite like this.

I know I was around for the last few seasonal changes, but this seems to be the first where I really feel fully present. I don't know quite how to describe it, but there is some part of me that feels like I've been away or asleep or absent from life. I guess that's what happens when death pulls you to want to have one foot in that other (better) world. Overall, that pull has definitely been a huge blessing for my life. It really forces one, in a good way, to keep things in clearer perspective.

But, lately, I've been feeling the urge to jump back into this current existence with both feet again. I get the feeling that's what my girls want for their Mama. It's been a few months' process, kind of like slowly moving from the top step in the shallow end and gradually, very gradually, making my way back down to the deep end. 

I'm much more careful, more cautious, more deliberate in every movement I make. I've been much more earnest in seeking answers and guidance... admittedly probably too earnest, evidenced by the paralyzed fear that comes from my lack of confidence in making even the smallest of decisions. But, I'm re-learning the basics and making even small movement is progress. And, since I'm more attentive this time around, I'm hoping things will seep in a little deeper and have their lasting effect on my mind and on my heart.

As I've been envisioning myself getting back in the water, I'm reminded of a near-tragic experience I once had decades ago jumping off the side of a pool into the deep end, before knowing how to swim. I was jumping in and then quickly grabbing the side of the pool as soon as I reached the surface. Well, on one jump I jumped too far. I panicked when I realized I couldn't reach the side. I don't remember how much I struggled or even who helped me escape the struggle, but I do remember sitting wide-eyed and huddled and shivering (not from cold) in a towel far away from the pool, not wanting to jump back in after that. I was content to watch from a distance. I was scared good.

And, that is actually a pretty good way to describe how it's been after losing our twins. I've been good sitting on the sidelines. I've been okay not rushing back into the deep end. I've needed to catch my breath, and in the process learn a few things about dangers and being prepared for real-life (and death) emergencies. After a good soul-shaking, it's been healthy for me to take a break, find stability on my own two feet again. And, get some serious time in with a coach, fixing some of the major weak areas in my life's foundation.

Now that I've been coached by the best and been reassured again and again that I can trust in Him, I feel more prepared, comfortable even. I don't know what awaits at the deep end this time, but I've been filled with strength and courage that aren't my own. That is a gift. A gift that I'm treasuring with every passing moment, made even more beautiful with this fall season.

Change

Change is good. Depending on the degree and type, change can be really, really hard. But no matter the change, there always seems to be a wide range of conflicting emotions that come with change. The upside is the invitation for a new beginning. A chance to start anew. A new perspective. An opportunity to get up and try again.

We are in the middle of some changes. For right now life has been simplified down to milk, cereal and all the variety of things you can do with whole wheat bread and strawberry jam. Among all of the boxes of things to be unpacked, it also feels like we have new little packages of hope, begging to be opened.

Somewhere in the process of moving - getting rid of excess, unnecessary items and finding old treasures that I thought had been lost - I feel like it has been a good physical exercise in helping me to mentally and emotionally sort through all the thoughts and feelings I've been having lately. I've felt strengthened and inspired in knowing what things need to be thrown out and how to get rid of them in a healthy way. It is a blessing that amid all the junk there are sweet treasures that I have carefully wrapped up to keep in a corner of my heart forever.

I spent most of this morning observing how differently our cats are adjusting to our new environment. Einstein, our curious explorer, is wandering from room to room, making sure to inspect every square inch of our new surroundings. From all I can tell, he approves.

Watson, on the other hand, is our shy cuddler. He is currently huddled in the tightest ball he can get himself into, under the covers on our bed. When the internet guy came this morning, I went under-covers with Watson, to give him a little extra comfort. In a different, strange way, I totally understood his need to be there; his fears and insecurities. Funny how I probably needed that time hiding under the blankets even more. In fact, I wish I would have given myself permission to do that months ago. It ended up being a very revelatory moment for me. Understanding flowed, answers came, comfort filled my heart.

So, Mr. Change, though you make life uncomfortable and scary enough to want to hide under the covers, I appreciate this new beginning. New memories to be made, new hopes to realize, new dreams to fulfill.

Blessings

Given this season of thanksgiving, I've been thinking a lot about the blessings in my life. A few months ago I had a hard time recognizing anything that might be labeled a blessing. Grief has a way of clouding one's vision and obscuring the view of blessings in life still to be appreciated.

Gratefully, I've been having more moments of deep, heartfelt recognition of blessings. I've even been able to start counting blessings that have come as a direct result from the nightmare experiences we've been through this year; blessings that could only have been born out of adversity. Blessings that have come wrapped in the most painful and heart-breaking packages.

I've been reminded of some thoughts I wrote down last October. While the trials of this year are much different than last year, the lesson is still the same. Blessings sometimes come in the most oddly wrapped packages, and the goal is to always have the faith in God to receive His gifts and rejoice in the gifts that He gives, trusting that He knows what and when to give. Today, this Thanksgiving, I am grateful for all of God's blessings to me, maybe even especially the ones that have come wrapped in pain and sorrow.

*******

The Oddly Wrapped Gift - originally posted on October 18, 2007

"For what doth it profit a man if a gift is bestowed upon him, and he receive not the gift? Behold, he rejoices not in that which is given unto him, neither rejoices in him who is the giver of the gift."

The other day I decided to post about some of my more honest feelings about the difficulty of some of our trials. While it felt good to express that raw emotion, I want to be perfectly clear about a few things.

Yes, dealing with infertility has been painful.

Yes, the wait for adoption can be hard.

But, I would be completely ungrateful if I didn't admit that somehow in the midst of going through these trying times, we have found so much beauty. How is it possible that adversity can be a blessing?

I've started to recognize that the most wonderful of life's blessings have usually come to us in the most oddly wrapped packages. To look at something on the surface, it's easy to be deceived into thinking it represents something awful and unattractive.

Have you ever been to a white elephant party where the beautiful box wrapped in gold paper with the perfect red velvet bow on top is coveted by everyone? That is, until the person who finally ends up with it, and no doubt fought hard for it, finds that its contents are totally undesirable... you know, like an old fruit cake or a half burned candle or something.

While, on the other hand, there is a plainly wrapped gift that everyone does everything they can to get rid of it... only to discover at the end that it contained some very desirable gift... like, a large box of See's chocolate. {can you tell what I'm in the mood for right now?}

So, where was I? Oh yeah, packages. When we first found the "infertility package" on our doorstep, we were in denial. "No, no, it wasn't intended for us... we'll just ignore it there in the corner until it goes away." We didn't even want to go near it... it was not a gift... it was most definitely a curse.

Well after a couple of years, either out of desperation or curiosity, we decided to unwrap it. But, we did it very slowly. Just a little bit at a time. We went at our own pace. Even while in the middle of unwrapping it, we were trying desperately to understand how this could be a blessing. We were still deceived by how it came wrapped. We wanted the pretty, gold wrapped package with the big red bow.

After some time, we finally started to recognize little blessings of having received this "gift." We have found the gift of empathy. The gift of bearing each others' burdens. The gift of knowing that everyone has their quiet struggles. The gift of very faithful, supportive family and friends. The gift of knowing how to let each other mourn in the way that works for each of us. The gift of a strengthened marriage. The gift of patience. The gift of faith. The gift of learning what it means to pray intently. The gift of seeing past the awful wrapping of infertility, to find that we had been given a very wonderful gift. Adoption.

We're all given different "gifts"... they come in all different shapes, colors, and sizes, and most importantly they all represent different things for each of us. The key is to "receive the gift" and "rejoice in the giver of the gift" even if it appears at first to be something that we think we don't want.

Because, there is a loving Father in Heaven who knows how to bless us, and always blesses us with "good gifts."

I will not take these things for granted

* photo taken Autumn 2007

My sister made me a CD recently and included this song on it. Good song with an even better message.

I guess it's probably obvious that this year has majorly changed our life. It's different.

Little things have come to mean so much more to me than they did before we lost our twins.

This morning Marc was up early to get ready for one of the classes he teaches at the college. On most Monday mornings I'm usually still in bed by the time he leaves. Which was the case this morning, since I was up past midnight last night.

Sometimes he comes in to kiss me good-bye, but sometimes he sweetly leaves me undisturbed. (I don't know if he knows this, but I never mind being disturbed by his kisses.)

I heard him in the kitchen, getting his jacket on and zipping up his bag. I squinted over at the clock to see the time.

At first, I thought, I'll just wait 'til he leaves, and eventually I'll roll myself out of bed.

And just as that thought scrolled across my mind, I found myself jumping out of bed and hurrying to the kitchen in hopes of catching him before he got out the door.

He heard me and met me halfway on the top step that leads into the kitchen. I think I was still half-squinting because I only half-noticed what he was wearing. Even still, I noticed enough to know that I'm married to one incredibly handsome man. He pulled me into him and hugged me like he meant it, even with my morning breath and bed-head hair.

As we had our good-morning/good-bye kiss, my body tried to remember every detail of his embrace, and my heart was busy memorizing the way it beats just for Marc.

I guess that has been one of the results of experiencing our tragic loss. I know there is so much I've taken for granted in my life. And, I don't want to do it anymore.

The thought that bounced me from my bed in half-slumber to my feet in half-sprint was this:

What if this is my last chance to tell him I love him? What if something happens and he doesn't come home at approximately 11:10am like every other Monday morning? How hard would I kick myself for not getting out of bed early enough to tell him I love him?

Does that make me paranoid? I don't know. Maybe. But, I don't care. I'm grateful that our twins have taught me how fragile and precious life is. I'm grateful our recent experiences have made me want to embrace life like I mean it.

Because the honest truth is that I don't know when tragedy will strike. And in most cases I won't be given advanced notice.

Marc did come home at 11:06am this morning. I was watching from the kitchen window. He saw me from the front walkway and his smile made my heart skip a beat.

I will not take these things for granted.

Anymore.

"Rejoice with them that do rejoice"

Back in March when I found out I was so unexpectedly pregnant, it was incredibly hard to share the news. Having been down the painful path of infertility, I knew our news would be received with mixed emotions by some of our friends who have walked that painful pathway with us. I felt so blessed beyond measure, and even undeserving. There was a very real internal battle between feeling joy for our gift and sorrow for those who were still waiting. I wanted so badly to somehow pass out fertility passes to every infertile couple we know.

I found myself thinking of the scriptures that command us to "mourn with those that mourn" and "comfort those who stand in need of comfort." After sharing our news and getting some mixed responses, I wanted there to be a phrase that included something like "rejoice with those who are rejoicing." Since I was the one rejoicing, it seemed like the best idea around. C'mon, everyone, rejoice with me!

Don't you think it fits?

Well, apparently it really does fit. I came across this verse in Romans 12:15: Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.

Now, that our greatest grief has replaced our greatest joy, and we're back on the other side of feeling pain and uncertainty of infertility, I've struggled with these feelings. Why is it so much easier to mourn with those who are mourning? Why is it not just as easy to rejoice with those who are rejoicing?

I wish it wasn't so hard. I wish I didn't have worries about when and if it'll ever happen for us. I wish I understood why it has been so hard for us. I wish I didn't worry about heaven running out of children to send to our home.

It's a struggle, and I know it isn't something that will come quickly or easily. But, I know there are great things to be gained from making an honest effort to get my heart to that place of rejoicing, even if it's rejoicing over someone else receiving the one gift I would give anything for.

I'm a bit overwhelmed with challenges like this that take such serious self-mastery of pride, of jealousy, of entitlement, of bitterness, of frustration, of any other number of vices you can imagine. But, those are things I want and need to purge anyway. There's no doubt that this refiner's fire I've found myself in is my chance to do some serious purging.

This is my chance. My opportunity. And, possibly the greatest challenge of my entire life.

(With that said, don't be surprised if it takes me my entire life to get to that ideal point. And, if you're one that is rejoicing, please understand that I'm trying. I really, really am.)

Heart throbs

I had the hardest time choosing a major when I was in college. It actually got to the point that at the beginning of my Junior year I wasn't allowed to register for classes until I declared a major. After a very long process that consisted of all kinds of failed attempts to find my "passion," I finally settled for "eenie, meenie, minie, moe" and ended up with Spanish as my major. 

I had done well in Spanish in high school, and the language had come fairly easy for me, so I figured at least that I could get good grades with Spanish as my major. I progressed quickly through the classes, and soon found myself in classes with students who had been missionaries in Spanish-speaking countries. And, as I thought ahead to the mission that I would serve, I would dream of all the Spanish-speaking countries I could possibly go to.

As you know, my mission call was to Italy. It came as a HUGE surprise to me. I had never once considered Italy as a possibility. In fact, after I first read my mission call, my friends and family who were with me said that I seemed very dazed as I repeated over and over again "I'm going to Italy." 

When I arrived at the Missionary Training Center I was very excited to jump into the language, since I had heard Italian was very similar to Spanish. My foundation of language learning proved to be both a blessing and a curse. Since I didn't want to forget all the Spanish I had learned, whenever I would learn something new in Italian, I would automatically translate it in my mind in Spanish... it shouldn't have been a surprise when in conversations I would use phrases like, "muy bene." That mixing of the two languages was greatly discouraged.

It must have been pretty bad, because after about three weeks at the MTC one of my teachers finally pulled me aside and said, "You have to stop speaking Spanish." I guess she was afraid that no one would understand me when I got to Italy. Go figure.

That was a major turning point for me. It was the first time in those three weeks that I recognized that I was having a really hard time. I had been so focused on staying positive that I finally realized that I was afraid if I admitted I was having a hard time, I would somehow disappoint my family, and more importantly God. But, the truth was that not only was I struggling with the language, I was struggling with homesickness, and with finding my place in this new way of life.

I still remember the moment kneeling in prayer, when I honestly opened up and admitted I was really having a hard time. It all came out... my fears about living in a foreign country with very limited contact with my family, my frustrations with learning a new language, my insecurities about being fit to be a missionary. And, the most incredible thing happened. As I trusted those very vulnerable feelings to God in prayer, I was filled with peace and reassurance that not only did He already know everything I was feeling, but He had been waiting and wanting to help me get through it.

Over the last three months, I've found myself feeling many of the same feelings as I did in those early weeks in the MTC. I've been trying so hard to go through this trial with a clear perspective and a positive attitude, afraid that I might disappoint God in some way if I admit that I'm having a hard time coping and healing, and even accepting this loss.

I've been filled with fears and insecurities and frustrations, and they have added up against me this week. My heart has felt so heavy all week... and I'm trying to re-learn the same lesson I learned almost ten years ago... that admitting it's hard and that I can't bear the burden of this trial on my own doesn't make God disappointed in me, but rather it opens up the way for Him to comfort me and strengthen me.

I have always appreciated James E. Talmage's insight on prayer: 

"It is well to know that prayer is not compounded of words, words that may fail to express what one desires to say, words that so often cloak inconsistencies, words that may have no deeper source than the physical organs of speech, words that may be spoken to impress mortal ears. The dumb may pray, and that too with the eloquence that prevails in heaven. Prayer is made up of heart throbs and the righteous yearnings of the soul, of supplication based on the realization of need, of contrition and pure desire. If there lives a man who has never really prayed, that man is a being apart from the order of the divine in human nature, a stranger in the family of God's children. Prayer is for the uplifting of the suppliant. God without our prayers would be God; but we without prayer cannot be admitted to the kingdom of God. So did Christ instruct: 'Your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.'" (Jesus the Christ, pg. 238)

At a time like this when I can't make sense of the feelings in my heart, trying to express them in prayer can be a very overwhelming task... and that's why it brings me such great comfort to know that God already knows what I'm feeling. He already knows that I feel weighed down and discouraged, heart-broken and afraid. When I kneel in prayer, and emotions choke my words, I know He hears my silent pleadings and understands my hidden sorrow. And, I'm so grateful that He is so generous in reassuring me that He is not disappointed in me, but that He loves me with the perfect love of a Father. Not only do I find relief in my honest prayerful moments, I sense there is also a feeling of relief on His end when I fully open my heart to Him.

"Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered." - Romans 8:26

Burning fevers

"Too often we are so busy checking on our own temperatures, we do not notice the burning fevers of others."

- Neal A. Maxwell

Yesterday I mentioned some words of advice I received five years ago that have helped me lately. It was actually a priesthood blessing that Marc gave me just after my miscarriage. I was promised that I would find healing as I sought out opportunities to bring joy to others through acts of service. I was experiencing such deep emotions at the time that I was honestly frustrated by those words. I hate to admit that now, but I didn't understand how I was expected to serve others at a time when I didn't feel like I had anything to give. The phrase stuck with me constantly for a couple of days, until I finally decided that I would put it to the test and see if, in fact, healing would come.

All I remember is one day making loaves and loaves of bread and taking them to some of our neighbors. It was something so simple, but the advice was exactly right... I did find healing come to me as I looked for ways to help those around me. Even in very small ways. I got out of my comfort zone, and was able to see that I wasn't the only one with challenges.

It has been interesting to go to the grocery store or to be out in public right now, knowing that all the pain I have inside is completely unknown to most people I come in contact with. There is no outward indication of what is going on in my heart. And, as I watch people now, I find myself wondering what they might be experiencing that goes unnoticed to everyone else. If I can feel such intense heartache and still appear to be functioning like a normal person, I wonder what all these other "normal-looking" people are thinking about, worrying about, what burdens are weighing them down.

It reminds me of a talk by Elder Eyring from a few years ago that has always stayed with me. Here is just the very beginning of that talk:

When I was a young man, I served as counselor to a wise district president in the Church. He tried to teach me. One of the things I remember wondering about was this advice he gave: "When you meet someone, treat them as if they were in serious trouble, and you will be right more than half the time." I thought then that he was pessimistic. Now, more than 40 years later, I can see how well he understood the world and life.

Just like I have troubles that are painful and unknown to others, I know that, chances are, most people in my life have quiet sufferings as well. As I've been thinking about these things lately, I've found myself seeking for the strength and courage to put it into practice once again. I've had small glimpes lately of the healing that comes from finding ways to help others. And, those small glimpes are motivation enough to continue seeking the Lord's direction in who and how to help. I know He knows my quiet moments of suffering, because of people He has sent to comfort me in the precise moment I was needing it. So, I know He knows who else is going through quiet struggles, and can guide me to them, if I'm open to His promptings.

I understand there are still going to be moments when I'll need to grieve and have some quiet time to myself. But, I know there is truth in the promise I received five years ago, that healing will come through service. In the midst of pain, it is really hard to seek for ways to serve others, but I'm learning that we can do hard things, with the Lord's help. And, in return, I know He will bless us in abundance for what little we give.