Mixed emotions

Every once in a while my birthday falls on Mother's Day. That happened this year. And, as most people know, Marc and I share the same birthday, so with that in mind and it also being Mother's Day, it was a pretty big day around here.

It feels very appropriate to me to celebrate the day I was born on the same day we honor our mothers. It's like a double celebration of my Mom and she deserves that, no doubt. For all who know her well, know how blessed and lucky I am to belong to her. And I am!

The whole weekend, though, felt a little overwhelming and kind of heavy. Like big, dark storm clouds hanging off in the distance. On Saturday there was a tragic drowning accident in our little town, to a family I know and a fellow young mother in our play group. She lost her little boy yesterday, just barely older than my two boys. It hits way too close to home. My heart felt like it broke in a million pieces when I first heard the news. There were a whole lot more tears at church today. It's just so heartbreaking and we're all in shock.

It seems that everyone is feeling a little more protective, a little more cautious, and a lot more grateful for even the crazy moments with our little ones. It's good to be reminded of what matters most in life, but it's hard that it sometimes takes such sad events to remind us. Life is so fragile and mortality is so unpredictable. Death can come to anyone at anytime for any number of reasons. We're just never ready for it to happen to someone so young, so fresh, so full of promise. And, it's humbling to realize no one is immune.

I've had a hard time processing this friend's loss. I can feel my defense mechanisms blocking my emotions to a certain extent, pulling me away from the strong pull of grief. I also fully recognize that my losses are totally different than this loss and it's just too painful to try to put myself in her shoes. It takes my breath away and makes my heart rate increase. It's awful even trying to imagine.

The other side, though, that brings me an incredible reassurance in the face of sorrow and pain is that there is a healing balm available that is equal to the wound. That is a beautiful, miraculous, merciful blessing provided by a very loving Father. No matter the tragedy, no matter the depth and the size of our wounds, there is healing that can be found. It is painful. It is hard and it will take time. But, it is possible to find... and as hard as that journey is and as unwelcome as the path appears, there are powerful experiences along the way.

I'm feeling so much more grateful tonight for my life, my family, my blessings. I just hope I can find ways to help lift the burdens of those who are mourning.

In Good Hands

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being Still

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two months...

Last night while I was trying to fall asleep, I was having all of these awful bike accident scenarios swarming through my head. You see, I had a little bike accident on Saturday morning coming back from my ride to the cemetery. Marc was teaching a class at the college, so I was on my own that morning and... anyway, it wasn't a big deal. I was definitely watched over and protected from suffering any major, serious injuries. It really could have been A LOT worse!

This morning those same scenarios from last night were still haunting me, and they almost kept me from getting back on my bike this morning. But, I was finally able to convince myself that my fears weren't going to win. Plus, today is the two-month mark of our girls' birth and passing, so I just felt like I especially needed to go today.

And, I was so glad I did.

When we got there, we noticed a newly buried grave closeby where our girls are buried, so after securing our bikes, we walked over to see who was just buried. We have found so much interest in other peoples' graves, wondering who they are, what their stories are, who their families are. The grass that had been cut up and placed back over the top of the burial place was bulging and still so loose you could pick it up.

It reminded me of an email I received from a new friend of mine who has also buried two of her children. About a month ago, she shared some thoughts in an email with me that have stayed with me and really helped me. I hope she won't mind me sharing them here... it's just too beautiful not to share!

After the funeral, the ground around the gravestone is torn open, raw, exposed. The rain comes along and tears it open again. It takes time for a few pieces of grass to begin to grow. It must be dealt with carefully, or it will not grow over and "heal." It is taken care of by the groundskeeper, and straightened and smoothed when we go to visit. And then one day, when we go to the cemetery, we notice something. The ground is grassy all around. It was such a gradual change that we hardly realized that it happened. The gravestone is there to remind us, but the ground is healed, completely healed from the stress of being torn open, and there is no more proof of the raw dirt that was there not so long ago. I think the ground and our hearts have something in common. They are both torn open and raw, but with time, we begin to see the beginnings of healing. And then one day, we laugh and have a good day and realize, our heart has healed.

Today, while looking at the bulging gravesite of this freshly buried grave, and then looking at how much our girls' gravesite has settled, there was such a contrast. And, I realized that, while we haven't completely healed yet, there is some healing that has taken place. The ground is settling, the wounds are healing.

Here is how it looked two days after the funeral:


Two months after the funeral, here's how it looks today:


I know there is still a very long road ahead, but I'm grateful for the healing that has come, for the pains that have been soothed, for the many people who have reached out to us and loved us and cried with us. So much healing has come from the love and support we've felt in abundance over the last couple of months. Our hearts are so deeply touched. Thanks to all of you....

Sundays...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- C.S. Lewis (A Grief Observed)

Local Cloud Cover

*Image credit: wikimedia.org

After getting through the first month of grieving, I sort of assumed the worst of the grief was behind us... and I guess in some aspects it was. We made it through our good-byes in the hospital, we made it through picking out a casket, we made it through buying a plot at the cemetery, we made it through the Memorial and Graveside services, we made it through the absense of our family members after everything was over. Those first weeks were definitely filled with some difficult tasks.

I guess what I didn't account for was making it through some of the days ahead when there would be less numbness and when reality would haunt me with its starkness. I shouldn't have been surprised when I had some recent days of completely overwhelming grief, which came with a heaviness that I never would have imagined. 

I usually don't talk much about those moments, but I have them. I allow myself to go through them. I try to go through them in a healthy way. I try to come out of those moments with something more than what I had going into them. More strength, more faith, more assurance of God's power to rescue. 

I don't know if my pleadings have gotten more sincere, or maybe heaven already knows how desperately I need help right now... whatever the cause, the result has been unmistakable. Heaven answers immediately. The pain doesn't leave, but at least there is a strong sense of being surrounded by unseen arms who are anxious to comfort me.

In those darkest of my "midnight moments" I have felt a love and calm so strong it could only come from heaven. I really appreciate those moments of calm because they remind me that the storm is temporary. I may have a few stormy days here and there, and while they seem like they'll never end or I'll never make it through, there always has been an end (or at least a break, long enough to catch my breath) and I've always made it through. 

Lately I've found a lot of comfort in the words of Neal A. Maxwell, having experienced his own terrible suffering and pain from leukemia. I appreciate this reminder from him:

“I share with you again a simple little insight that may help you at certain junctures in your lives. It is that you must not mistake passing local cloud cover for general darkness. They are very different things, and for us to misinterpret local cloud cover, which will soon be blown away, as general darkness is a terrible thing. The restored gospel is so full metaphorically of light. We must not be mistaken about this.”

I feel so grateful for the perspective of the low moments of grief just being "local cloud cover." As much as those moments aren't fun, they really are "just a small moment." Plus, because of the light of the gospel, this experience has allowed us to experience things that have deepened our understanding and given us a clearer glimpse of the love and sacrifice of the Savior. With that glimpse comes a much deeper gratitude for His many gifts and blessings. There are so many ways our life has been abundantly blessed, even while in the midst of this experience... it just becomes a matter of remembering and being aware of the blessings....

Source of Healing

I have always loved the story of Peter walking on the water to Christ, but in the last few weeks its message has come to mean even more to me. As we have had our own long, dark nights of navigating stormy seas, I have been touched with the message of Christ coming to the aid of his disciples who found themselves on a stormy Sea of Galilea. After a long night of struggling through the raging waters, Christ came in the fourth watch of the night, declaring, “be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.”

Peter then answers Christ, “Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.” The invitation from Christ, ever consistent, is “come.” Peter then enters the troubled waters and, with his eye fixed on the Savior, walks on the water towards Him. It is only when his focus changes from the Savior to fearing the winds and the waves, that he begins to sink. Peter, knowing Christ could save him in that moment of need, cries out, “Lord, save me.” And, I love the next part: “And, immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him.”

I find myself wanting to be as quick as Peter in crying out for help. When the burden gets too heavy to bear or when I feel tempted to dwell on the "if onlys" and "what ifs", I'm learning to turn my focus to Christ. I've experienced great peace in doing that. When my thoughts and feelings are directed towards Him, my heart is softened, my pain is soothed, and I find immediate calm. And, those moments of calm have come to mean so much.

About a week ago I found myself going through a low moment. To help me get through that valley, I knew I needed to shift my focus to Christ, and away from the doubts and fears. I decided to put together a slideshow of paintings of Christ. Somewhere in that process I was reminded again of how much I need Christ to get through this, and that He wants me to need Him.

I also felt a sense of Him wanting and needing me to get through this, needing me to come out of this stronger and more faithful. It'll be a process that might take a while, but I am so grateful to know He is there to help me through whatever comes. He is there, just like He was for Peter, waiting and wanting to lift us and save us.

* Image credit: Greg Olsen, Simon Dewey

Hurdles and Angels

We've cleared what feels like the first big hurdle - four weeks.

This week started off okay, and then got progressively harder until it peaked last night. I was sitting in our backyard reading a book, trying so hard to distract myself from the fact that it had been four weeks since we shared our brief moments with Elliana and Emmaline. The harder I tried to avoid the memories from that day, the more heavy the burden became. So many emotions surfaced and I found myself quietly sobbing.

Those sobs reflected sadness at experiences that have been delayed, an aching to be with my girls just one more time, and a fear of not being able to make it through the coming days and weeks. In those intensely painful moments, the road ahead seems impossibly steep and long. Hence, the wisdom in following the good advice to take just a moment at a time becomes a powerful coping tool.

I'm grateful for the comforting words from a friend last night, that gave me strength and courage to hang on, and the assurance that the road ahead isn't impossible to travel since she's already much further ahead of me in getting through it. She has been a blessing in my life, an angel.

And, the truth is we have been surrounded by angels on every side. Last night I had a dream that I had collapsed from carrying a load that was too much for me to handle. (I've had some bizarre dreams lately, but this one wasn't too hard to figure out!) While laying on the ground, I became aware of "angels" lifting things off me, so that I could get up again. I wasn't aware of who they were, but just very aware of their love and concern.

This morning I awoke feeling "light". The burden that had followed me to bed last night was no longer weighing me down. I know that we've survived the last four weeks, in large part, to the angels in our life, who have so lovingly helped carry our burdens. Heaven has sent us angels in so many forms in the last month. I have felt like we have been abundantly blessed with this promise in the scriptures: "I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up."

My sister shared this song with me the other day... and, I must say that for a pop song, it has a rather profound message:

Sometimes I feel like I don't belong anywhere.
And it's gonna take so long for me to get to somewhere.
Sometimes I feel so heavy hearted, but I can't explain cuz I'm so guarded.
But that's a lonely road to travel, and a heavy load to bear.
And it's a long, long way to heaven but I gotta get there.
Can you send an angel?
Can you send me an angel to guide me.

At the flip of a coin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last night was...

LONG...

and

AWFUL.

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

The GOOD news: the Sun won. 

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

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

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

*Image credit: Pip Wilson

Finding Peace

As of yesterday, all of our family members have returned home.

The numbness is starting to wear off, the reality of everything that has happened is sinking in.

Today is the five year mark of our first miscarriage. Time really has healed the pain from that, but with everything that has happened in the last few weeks, I'm just reminded of the long journey we've had, and fearing how much longer and harder it's still going to be.

I'm learning to allow myself to feel every emotion that comes, validate each thought and feeling, and even find some element of joy in the sorrow. We've been reminded that sorrow is a by-product of love. If we didn't love, we wouldn't be sad. The last five months were full of greater joy than we have ever experienced, anticipating the arrival of our two beautiful girls. So, yes, we do grieve our separation from them. The pain and heartache are real. 

Gratefully, the peace and healing we've found are also very real. 

We have found peace in each other. Lately we've hugged a little tighter and held on a little longer. Our time together is precious. Our priorities have changed. 

We've found peace in the temple. There is such powerful healing there.

We've found peace at the cemetery. It's a comfort to have a place to go to remember our girls, and to know where they are, both physically and spiritually.

We've found peace in quiet moments of study and reading.

We've found peace in writing. The process of putting feelings into words is therapeutic.

We've found peace in laughter.

We've found peace in music.

We will continue to feel pain, and we will continue to find peace and healing in the midst of that pain. One of my favorite titles for the Savior has always been "The Prince of Peace"... and I feel that even more now. In all these places where we've found peace, it is Christ who is the true source of that peace we've found. 

John 14:27 -  Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

John 16:33 -  These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.

Phillipians 4:7 - And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Alma 38:8 - I did cry unto him and I did find peace to my soul.

Doctrine & Covenants 19:23 - Learn of me, and listen to my words; walk in the meekness of my Spirit, and you shall have peace in me.

Walking with Sorrow

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!! 

In the book "Faith Precedes the Miracle", it reads: 

"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. 

-Anonymous