A few weeks ago, while driving in the car and having a serious conversation with Marc, I had a very strong impression come to me. I will share just part of that impression... it was that at some point (whether in this life or in the next) I would look back on this precise period and feel one of two things. Either regret that I let grief overcome me for longer than necessary (and turn me into a bitter, angry, prematurely-aged-old-woman) ... or relief that I was able to allow myself to grieve long enough and healthily enough to find true joy again.
I decided in that moment that I wanted to look back and know that I grieved deliberately and fully... knowing that going through the process of grief would actually make me free from my pain. While I've at times resisted the anguish and yearned for a pain-free life, I've trusted that somewhere along the way I would find a way to live again, a way to again find joy in beautiful things, and to still love being with those I love. It hasn't been easy to find the balance between healthy grieving and healthy enjoyment... but, little by little some is going and some is coming.
And, little by little, true moments of joy are replacing the raw pain and heartache that have caused such a heavy burden. I may not ever fully understand the reasons for some of the events in my life, but in quiet moments I'm gaining understanding and seeing things from new perspectives that weren't available even a few months ago. I'm grateful for answers that have come in their own time, and for the loving hand of a Provident God.
The older I get and the more experiences I have, the more this one simple truth rings louder and truer:
My parents will finish their mission this week. They have spent the last 18 months in Sydney, Australia. We took advantage of the opportunity and visited them for ten days in March of this year. It is one experience we will never forget - we had such a fantastic time!
It has been hard to face some of this year's challenges without my parents near. So many times I've yearned to have my Mom comfort me in only the way a mother can. And I've needed my Dad to lovingly put his arm around me and reassure me that everything will be okay. I have felt their love and support, though, from afar.
I'm extra grateful for my siblings and close friends who have stepped in and filled some of those needs and yearnings. Marc, especially, has been faithful in standing by my side every step of the way. We have found a new closeness with each other. How I love him.
With my parents' arrival approaching, I've been thinking a lot about our reunion. Anticipating the joy that we'll feel, and the tears of joy and relief that will be shed. Those long-awaited hugs and kisses will mean so much more, after the time and distance that have separated us. Just even the thought of seeing them in a couple of days brings tears to my eyes.
And, as I've envisioned being with my parents again, I've thought of another reunion where the roles will be reversed. Being now in the position of daughter welcoming my parents home from a long and trying mission, has offered me a better glimpse from the perspective of our twin daughters. I'm sure they feel many of the same feelings of anticipation and joy at the thought of welcoming us back home, with them in heaven.
There are no words to describe how I feel about that joyful reunion that awaits us. We'll finally be together with our girls again, and our heartache and grief will be swept away. Although, I have to admit that it's still so painful to recognize that our "mission" here will likely last for another 60 years or so. We find great comfort in the promise of the joy that will replace the pain. And, for all of this pain, there must be something truly great that lies ahead.
"The cavity which suffering carves into our souls will one day also be the receptacle of joy."
- Neil A. Maxwell
"The deep hurt is the mirror image of the deep joy that still awaits you."
I've had some heavy feelings weighing on my heart lately. I've written at least a dozen blog posts that have all remained unpublished, and I'm left feeling rather frustrated in my inability to express what I've been feeling lately. I think it's the wide range of topics and situations that have been pressing on my mind.
But, today, I just miss my girls.
If they could have waited until their intended delivery date, they would be about two weeks old.
I hate marking time now by their passing. I wish every month I could just skip over the 16th day. The more I try to avoid thinking about it, the more it seems to wait for me to take note of it. And, I've found it frustrating that if I don't stop and acknowledge it, then I'm pained with the most awful, guilty feeling.
Today I came across a verse of scripture that immediately brought tears to my eyes and seemed to sum up at least a portion of my feelings perfectly.
Yea, methought I saw,... God sitting upon his throne, surrounded with numberless concourses of angels, in the attitude of singing and praising their God; yea, and my soul did long to be there. - Alma 36:22
There is something about reading about a vision of angels praising their God that makes me so desperately want to be there with them, and with Him. I know that's where my girls are, and I know that's what they're doing.
And, then I happened upon this quote by one of my heroes, Neal A. Maxwell:
Such longing for a heavenly home is real, especially in view of how this life is designed. After all, brothers and sisters, when we rejoice in beautiful scenery, great art, and great music, it is but the flexing of instincts acquired in another place and another time.
Life turns out, however, to be just what one would expect of a deliberately constructed proving and tutoring experience which features opportunities, choices, and deprivations. Furthermore, there is no way around—the only way to go is through!
And, so, tomorrow I will go through the day. I will give myself permission to feel whatever I need to feel. I will no doubt be reminded of the heartache that comes with many of the memories of July 16th... and longingly look forward to the day when that pain no longer stings my heart.
I've been thinking a lot about what it means to heal from a loss, what it means to "get over" a loss. The best explanation I've found has been from C.S. Lewis in A Grief Observed, which he wrote right after the passing of his wife.
"Getting over it so soon? But the words are ambiguous. To say the patient is getting over it after an operation for appendicitis is one thing; after he's had his leg off it is quite another. After that operation either the wounded stump heals or the man dies. If it heals, the fierce, continuous pain will stop. Presently he'll get back his strength and be able to stump about on his wooden leg. He has 'got over it.' But he will probably have the recurrent pains in the stump all his life, and perhaps pretty bad ones; and he will always be a one-legged man. There will be hardly any moment when he forgets it. Bathing, dressing, sitting down and getting up again, even lying in bed, will all be different. His whole way of life will be changed. All sorts of pleasures and activities that he once took for granted will have to be simply written off. Duties too. At present I am learning to get about on crutches. Perhaps I shall presently be given a wooden leg. But I shall never be a biped again."
I really love this analogy that he gives. It feels like there has literally been an amputation of the heart... and we're just having to learn now how to live in a new way. It won't ever be the same as it was before. Everything is different now. We'll adapt and find our new 'normal', but we won't ever really 'get over it' in the sense of 'forgetting about it'... but, we will find ways to live anew.
And, actually, though the pain is sometimes intense, I'm finding that I'm enjoying the perspective and view this new life has provided. Life is simpler. It feels less cluttered, less hurried, less distracted. Just one of the many blessings that has come with the whole package of this experience.
We went camping along the Northern California coast, in a rather secluded area that we had never been to before. Whenever we go to the coast we always have our usual beaches and favorite spots we like to visit... but, lately we've felt the urge to break away from the old, the familiar... and find new favorites and discover new adventures. I guess that makes sense. With our hearts feeling so vulnerable and exposed to such unfamiliar feelings, it seems fitting that we would feel most comfortable being out of our comfort zone.
The sunset was spectacular:
The three raccoons that were gently clawing at our tent, ended up being harmless:
The weather was cool and refreshing, without a cloud in the sky:
The waves and ocean brought renewal and healing:
Walking along the shore, watching the waves wash over the rocks, it almost felt as if we were getting an intimate glimpse into our own hearts. We are experiencing our own waves of pain and healing. There is high tide and there is low tide. There is the ebb and the flow. It's so much of how we've been feeling lately that being near the ocean makes us feel very much at home.
It's comforting to find that even when we're in unfamiliar territory that there are constants that we can rely on without fail... like that no matter what part of the ocean we go to, we are still going to find the same feelings of comfort and calm.
Even more than that, we're grateful that along this unchartered pathway of our grief we find constance in the One who has traveled this road before, who has not abandoned us in our time of need. We have felt His assurance again and again: I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. - John 14:18
1 Corinthians 10:13 - God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted (tested or proven) above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.
I've always taken great comfort in the promise in the scriptures that we won't be tested or tried above what we can handle. Except there are times (like now) when I've doubted that promise, questioning if God really knows me well enough to know what I can and can't handle. I find it interesting that every hard experience we've been through has been preceded by the thought, "that won't ever happen to us, because I just couldn't handle something like that." (I've since stopped thinking such thoughts... why tempt God to prove me wrong?)
I've come to the conclusion that I really can't handle this experience. I've tried, believe me. Fortunately there is another part of the equation - the Lord. I really can't get through this, if I don't have the Lord's help. If I leave off that last part, then I am 100% right that I won't make it through this or any other really hard thing that comes in life. But, with God, I can do all things.
Standing on the outside of the refiner's fire, looking in, it's impossible to know the comfort and peace that will come while being in its midst. As we've entered this particular refiner's fire, and felt the extreme heat and pressure, we've actually experienced some of the most powerful moments, as they have provided us with experiences to feel a greater measure of the Lord's awareness of and love for us.
I know I can't pray for my daughters to come back to life... this burden is with me to stay. But, I can pray for a stronger back to carry the burden. And, while my weak muscles are going through growing pains, I know the Lord is doing His fair share of shouldering my burden, because He loves me.
Lately the burden has been heavy, the pain acute... and, I know the fastest way to find relief from that most intense pain is on my knees.
Without fail, He is always there.
The promise isn't that we will be able to handle life's greatest tests on our own... the promise is that with the Lord we will get through these paths that we do not know. It is only through our reliance on and acceptance of the Savior's help, that He will get us through life's hardest moments. Whatever the challenge, whatever the heartache, when we call out for help to make it through, we will find strength beyond our own to overcome.
I have found the Lord has lifted me, He has made up for the strength that I lack. He has soothed my heartache in such dark moments that I know the relief could only come from Him.
Alma 13: 28-29 - But that ye would humble yourselves before the Lord, and call on his holy name, and watch and pray continually, that ye may not be tempted (tested or proven) above that which ye can bear, and thus be led by the Holy Spirit, becoming humble, meek, submissive, patient, full of love and all long-suffering; Having faith on the Lord; having a hope that ye shall receive eternal life; having the love of God always in your hearts, that ye may be lifted up at the last day and enter into his rest.
In the final days of my mission in Italy I wrote a letter to myself. Basically it included advice to myself about how to return home, back to my old life, without turning back into my old self. I wanted the experiences I'd had to have a lasting effect on my life. I wanted to hang onto the things I had learned, I wanted to be a different person than I was when I had left home. I knew it would be hard, though, when nobody at home knew exactly what I'd experienced in that year and a half. I knew it would be easy to fall back into being the same person I was before I left.
Well, I came home and the adjustment was hard. I felt like a foreigner. I opened up with certain people who seemed genuinely interested in hearing about experiences from my mission. But, even then there was so much more that I felt just couldn't be communicated with words alone. I couldn't look at photos of my mission for the first six months without crying. I really felt like I was in a state of crisis, only nobody knew because I kept it all inside and put on my "happy face." Then, one day I decided to do something drastic with my hair (it was bad!)... and then I felt like it would have been more effective and less painful to wear a sign around my neck - "I'm in a crisis."
I was trying so hard to be "normal" again. I wanted to get back to a normal life. I wanted to function like a normal person. I wanted to feel comfortable in my own skin. I wanted to feel like who I was on the outside was the same as who I was on the inside, or how I felt on the inside. But, because there was so much going on inside my heart that I didn't understand myself, I didn't know how to act. I didn't know anymore what "normal" even meant.
While those feelings about returning home from Italy aren't *exactly* how I feel right now, I've realized that some of the feelings are very similar.
I feel like this experience has been sort of an accelerated course in humility, in faith, in patience, in pain, in heartache, in grieving. I've never been much of an over-achiever. I've always been happy to just do the bare minimum to get by. So, this accelerated course has not been easy.
I feel like a foreigner... even moreso than I did when I first arrived in Italy. I feel like I am completely unable to even attempt to make sense to myself or others what foreign things my heart is experiencing. I feel like my heart and my mind are in constant conflict. My mind tells me everything is going to be okay. But, as quoted in Steel Magnolias, "I wish somebody would explain it to my heart."
I'm trying to get back to a "normal" life, but I don't know what that means anymore. I want to be true to myself. I want to be honest with how I feel. But, the truth is that I'm completely confused by all that I feel. The fact that pain and peace constantly co-exist in my heart in the exact same moment doesn't make sense to me. But, they do. I feel like I should paint my face like one of those mimes where half of the face is painted happy and the other half is painted sad. Then, everyone would be as confused as I am about how I'm doing.
I want to soak up all the lessons I can learn from this, because I want to become a better person than I was before, but also because I don't want to go down this road again.
So, maybe it's already obvious... but I'm going to admit it outloud - I'm completely faking my way through this period right now, because that's all I know how to do. I feel like I'm having to re-learn the basics... even having to remind myself to breathe sometimes.
I know I'll eventually get back into a "normal" life, but it won't ever be whatever "normal" was before July 16th. I guess I'm in the process of reinventing "normal" for my own life... and I get the feeling it's going to take some time.
(And, if I mention to any of you that I'm thinking of changing my hairstyle in the midst of all of this, please convince me to wait at least a few more months... I really don't need a hair crisis like I had before.)
"The thermostat on the furnace of affliction will not have been set too high for us - though clearly we may think so at the time. Our God is a refining God who has been tempering soul-steel for a very long time. He knows when the right edge has been put up on our excellence and also when there is more in us than we have yet given. One day we will praise God for taking us near to our limits - as He did His Only Begotten in Gethsemane and Calvary." - Neal A. Maxwell
The following is a little story - perhaps fictional, but still containing truth - that has helped me on many occasions to put things into perspective when in the midst of the "furnace of affliction." In particular, it has helped me through recent heartache and pain.
Years ago, a group of women met together to read the Bible. While reading the third chapter of Malachi they came upon a remarkable expression in the third verse: "And He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver."
Intrigued by this expression, they debated its meaning until one of them proposed to visit a silversmith and report back to her friends what he said on the subject. She went accordingly and found an old silversmith. Without telling him the objective of her errand, she begged to know the process of refining silver. He then proceeded to describe the process to her. "But Sir," she said, "Do you sit while the work of refining is going on?"
"Oh yes, Madam," replied the silversmith, "I must sit with my eye steadily fixed on the furnace, for if the time necessary for refining is exceeded in the slightest degree, the silver will be injured."
The lady at once saw the beauty and comfort of the expression, "He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver." Christ sees it needful to put His children into a furnace; His eye is steadily intent on the work of purifying, and His wisdom and love are both engaged in the best manner for them. Their trials do not come at random; the very hairs of their heads are numbered.
As the woman was about to leave, she thought to ask one more question of the silversmith: "How do you know when the refining process is complete?"
He then replied, "I only know when the process of purifying is complete by seeing my image reflected in the silver."
There is purpose for what we experience. We are known in such personal and intimate ways by a loving Father, who tenderly watches over us as we go through our refiner's fire. I find great comfort in knowing that He knows me and is with me every step of the way.
While I'm still trying to find my own words to express some portion of what I'm feeling, I thought I'd share some of these words, expressed by others much more eloquently than what I could say. We also wanted to thank all of you for your thoughts and prayers for us... we have never felt such a tangible strength from prayers offered for us. They have carried us through the events of the last week and our hearts have been deeply touched by the kindness and love extended to us. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Some thoughts on the purposes of sorrow and pain:
Robert Browning Hamilton wrote:
I walked a mile with Pleasure. She chattered all the way, But left me none the wiser For all she had to say. I walked a mile with sorrow, And ne'er a word said she; But oh, the things I learned from her When sorrow walked with me!!
"Being human, we would expel from our lives physical pain and mental anguish and assure ourselves of continual ease and comfort, but if we were to close the doors upon sorrow and distress, we might be excluding our greatest friends and benefactors. Suffering can make saints of people as they learn patience, long-suffering, and self-mastery."
Quoted by Spencer W. Kimball, Faith Precedes the Miracle, p. 99:
Pain stayed so long I said to him today, "I will not have you with me anymore." I stamped my foot and said, " Be on your way," And paused there startled at the look he wore. "I, who have been your friend," he said to me, "I, who have been your teacher -- all you know Of understanding love, of sympathy, And patience, I have taught you. Shall I go?" He spoke the truth, this strange unwelcome guest; I watched him leave, and knew that he was wise. He left a heart grown tender in my breast. He left a far, clear vision in my eyes. I dried my tears, and lifted up a song -- Even for one who'd tortured me so long.
I came across this video the other day and it made me laugh so hard! It's title is: The Day after the Marathon. Those runners out there will really appreciate this:
My good friend, Camille, first introduced me to the idea of running a marathon while we were out running early one morning down the cobblestone streets in Mestre (just outside of Venice). She had run quite a few marathons before coming to Italy and assured me I could definitely do it, too. So, we decided when we were both back in the States the following year, we'd run the St. George marathon together. And, we did. And, then we did it again the next year. And... then... I got married.
I stopped running marathons for a couple of different reasons, but have always had the urge to pick it up again. The whole experience is so cleansing - physically, emotionally, and mentally. The months leading up to it require discipline in eating healthy and getting out to build up stamina and distance. And, then comes the day to run all 26.2 miles at the same time. The adrenaline is high, the excitement unmatched.
I don't know how it is for others, but I know for me there comes a point when the excitement wears off and the running is no longer about physical strength... it becomes completely mental. That's about the point when I start singing the chorus of this song (please enjoy this flashback to the retro 80s):
And, then before you know it you're coming down the last stretch... that ".2" that some people leave off when they talk about marathons, that ".2" that almost seems like ".2" more than what you can do after completing the 26. When I crossed the finish line in 2001, I was giddy with laughter. I had actually completed my first marathon and had accomplished my goal of running the entire time. Success!
2002 was a different story. I hadn't trained as hard, partly out of thinking I didn't need to since "I had already run a marathon," and partly because I had been too busy planning my wedding to run 10-15 miles a day. So, when I reached mile SEVEN I was in so much pain I told myself, "at the next mile marker, you can give up and be escorted down the rest of the way." Well, I got to mile 8 and thought, "okay, I'll just go to the next one, then I'll quit." Those thoughts literally went through my mind for the entire remaining 19 miles. My physical abilities helped me to only get through the first seven miles, after that it had to come from somewhere else. The moment I crossed the finish line, I burst into tears. Marc was waiting there for me and I collapsed into his arms with jelly-belly size tears gushing down my cheeks. The second marathon was much more emotional for me than the first.
Somehow I had finished. Somewhere deep inside I had found something to keep me moving forward. And, on that marathon course I learned a lot about the strength of the human mind and spirit. While my body was telling me, "you can't do this, you didn't train as hard as you should have, you don't have it in you to finish," my mind was telling me a different story - "don't give in yet, just go a little bit further, just one more mile." Those thoughts literally carried me to the finish line.
Sometimes life throws hard experiences our way, and sometimes in the midst of those hard things we are overwhelmed with negative thoughts that try to convince us to throw in the towel - "just give up now", "it isn't worth it", "you're not good enough", "you're not strong enough", "you'll never make it, so don't bother trying." Those are the moments we need to turn up the volume from deep within, relying on strength that surpasses all physical strength to get us through. Sometimes that is simply breaking down the challenge into more manageable pieces - just tackling it one piece at a time, or one day at a time, or even one hour at a time. And, before long, the challenge has been overcome and we have crossed the finish line.
There might be giant tears and achy muscles, but there will also be deeper joy than we would have ever imagined when we learn how strong we really are. And, the only way to really learn that is by going all the way through those hard things and then coming out on top and seeing how far we've come and how deep we had to dig to get there. And, the thing I'm learning is that the joy waiting at the finish line is always worth it. Always.
Through a long journey of seeking to create our family, we've experienced infertility, miracle pregnancies, loss, and adoption. Along the way, we've found purpose in the pain and joy in the blessings life has offered us. We love our life together!
