A New Heart

Last week I found myself wandering across a talus hillside in Colorado. Crumbling sandstone,  wind-twisted junipers, and gatherings of sage brush repeated across the slope.  My eyes were once again trained to the ground, searching for fossils, bones, any evidence of ancient life.  Together Jordan and I crested each monotonous hill, turning rocks and scanning for anything important or unusual.  I took pictures and scribbled notes about the unchanging landscape, while a frigid wind whipped my neck.  I looked hopefully for unexpected signs of spring; perhaps a small desert flower amid the dust and barbed wire.  I discovered that spring comes late to the high desert.

In the solitude and quiet of the desert my mind began to wander.  I thought about the weather, Jordan, lunch, money, the Grateful Dead, insurance, Jonah, babies...   Then my ambling mind fixated on questions, not in anger, but with sincerity.  "Why am I here again?" "Why am I still doing this?"

Last year after losing Jonah I began working with Jordan in the oil fields looking for fossils.  It was a blessing.  It felt good to wander, to slow down, and to spend my days and nights with Jordan. I needed to be in a new place without expectations and memories.  I needed time to think.  "This is just temporary," I thought.  "Just until my life is restored to what it once was...Just until I'm a mom again."

Roaming the Colorado desert only punctuated the knowledge that my return to motherhood still seems distant.  Nineteen months after Jonah's death we are still just two instead of three.  And like my thoughts we are still wandering.

As I pondered my purpose and place in the desert I picked up a wide flat stone.  One reddish-brown stone among millions.  I was drawn to the bumps and ridges dotting its beveled surface.  I brushed my hand across its ripples, then turned it to discover the opposing side.  I was surprised to see a perfect heart shape worn by time on its face. I wondered how it was formed.  What forces of wind and water could have caused such symmetry? Why did the rock around it remain unchanged?  Was I the first to find and see this graven heart?

I thought of the scripture in Ezekiel,

A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you a heart of flesh.

I understood more deeply in that moment that a new heart and a new spirit do not come through a simple transaction.  Our hearts are not simply traded and replaced.  God's work on our hearts is more like the eroding and shaping power of the elements.  Each mineral or grain of sand is removed by a drop of water or a gust of wind.  Each miniscule erosion is replaced and renewed with purpose.  Our hearts are changed one thought, one tear, and one trial at a time.  We rarely understand what we are becoming, but God is shaping us.  I could feel in that moment that He was shaping me.

I wrapped my stony heart in a blue bandana, and carried it with me as I wandered. I felt its weight in my hand throughout the day.  With each step my own stony heart felt more submissive, more willing to accept the momentary chill of the desert wind.  As I meandered through the junipers my thoughts wandered again.  This time to a simple reflection.   I pondered the new heart being carefully shaped by my creator and felt at peace as I began to climb yet another hill. 

Purpose

My journal and this blog often feel monopolized by struggle.  My writing has always been this way.  I am an excellent journal writer when life is boring, when I'm disappointed, when I feel lonely or forgotten.  For me, writing is therapy, not record keeping.  I'm quick to abandon recording the history of my life when times are good.  I would rather be living my life, laughing with friends, and seeing the world,  than writing it all down. But this tendency leaves my written life in a lurch, lacking the balance of joy that accompanies the life I live each day.  There is joy...I promise.

About a year ago I was struggling to find purpose in my days.  I had nothing but free time.  Time to think, and sleep, and garden, and write.  I had more free time than any modern person has the right to claim and it was hard for me.  I felt like I was going through some sort of motherhood withdrawal.  The regression from full-time mom to self-centered 30-something was dramatic and surprisingly difficult.  I spent many nights praying that God would help me find some purpose.

It has taken time - time I'm sure I needed - but purpose has come in the most amazing ways.

Work
After months of applying for jobs, having great interviews, and being rejected...I stopped looking.  Then one day the perfect job flashed across my Facebook news feed.  I applied, and they hired me.  My job combines my love of art, education, and museums.  It is about 7 minutes from my home, and allows me the flexibility to travel with Jordan when he goes to work.  The best part: I love the people I work with. They are kind, and thoughtful, and amazing.

Love
Not romantic love... I mean the selfless kind of love you give to your child.  In the months that followed Jonah's death I really missed feeling that kind of love.  Its the kind of love that needs to be given.  The kind of love that grows through time and energy spent, and sacrifice.  I needed an outlet for the stockpile of love I had for Jonah.  I needed to give it to someone else.

In September, my inspired neighbor asked me if I would consider serving on a development board for Primary Children's Medical Center.  I was nervous at first, but said "yes" and have been healed and strengthened by the experience.  I get to work and serve with 30 incredible women who care deeply about children. Each time I visit the hospital I interact with families who are struggling and worried, and I get to help ease some of their burden. I meet ordinary people - waitresses, cashiers, and store managers - who tell me they are donating their tips, their time, and sometimes their paychecks to help families in need.  It is humbling and healing.

Spring

On the anniversary of Jonah's death I decided to break some rules.  I was tired of going to Jonah's grave and seeing dead flowers and faded toys.  I wanted a symbol of life and a reason to return to his resting place.  So I planned a covert op.  At least it felt covert.  I ignored the sign at the cemetery gate that says "no planting" and I planted crocus bulbs around Jonah's headstone.  I worried all winter  that the bulbs would not come up.  I worried that the cemetery would mow them down, or spray them before I could see their life and beauty.  But my plan worked, the crocuses are in bloom, and they make me so happy.

Life is good.  There is pain, but there is also joy.  I have been hurt, but I have also been blessed.  I know that God loves me because he has opened doors for me that seemed locked, maybe even dead-bolted.  My problems and worries are still present, but they are beautifully balanced by a renewed feeling of purpose.


Wednesday, March 27 is Cookies for Kids day at all Utah Chick-fil-A stores.  

When you buy a cookie 100% of your purchase goes directly to charity care for sick children at Primary Children's Medical Center.  

So tomorrow treat yourself for a good cause!

Writing

Last week as I was trying to fall asleep I had a perfect memory of Jonah.  The kind of memory that I have often hoped for.  A memory where I see Jonah fluidly, instead of as a jumble of frozen moments and fractured images.  I closed my eyes and I saw him...climbing up on a chair, wearing his red and black moose shirt and denim overalls, waiting for a doctor to arrive.  He moved around the room opening drawers, and checking cupboards, and for a moment I felt the physical sensation of being his mother again.

It was so vivid and instantly shattering.  It made me angry instead of whole.  It brought me back to the pain that I have tried to set aside, or subdue, or maybe repress.

Tears began to fill the crease between my pillow and cheek.  My shoulders shuddered with each sob.  And then things fell apart.  My strength disappeared and I tumbled into a free-flowing question-filled rant about life.  Here are some of the highlights:

"Why is life so hard?"
"Why can't we just get a break?"
"Why do other people get to just have healthy babies whenever they want?"
"Haven't we experienced enough heartache?"
"Why did Jonah have to die?"
"Why does insurance dictate our life?

Followed by...

"I'm done with this"
"I hate this"
"I can't take it anymore"
"I'm so angry"

Poor Jordan didn't know what to make of me.  Our day had been normal and productive.  Our evening was pleasant and ordinary.  There were no signs of an imminent breakdown.  And suddenly he was at ground zero.  Ground zero looks like me angrily throwing snot-filled tissues across the room while I ask incoherent questions and sob uncontrollably.  What's a boy to do?

What are any of us supposed to do when the world feels overwhelming?

I felt a little crazy that night, and in the morning I wondered why my reaction was so intense.

Obviously I'm still grieving.  Even when everything around me seems to move on, the most important parts of me are still with Jonah.  Life is still hard.  Jordan and I are dealing with incredibly difficult challenges and sometimes optimism and faith and hope seem like a poor substitute for a full-blown cathartic breakdown. 

It feels unnatural to discuss topics like death, and grief, and infertility, while you talk about your weekend at work, or stumble on a friend at the grocery store.  It becomes harder with each passing day.

I haven't been allowing myself to grieve like I used to.  I'm keeping it to myself, and that's not working.  I need to write.  I stopped writing on this blog because I thought I was past the pain, and ready to move forward.  But apparently I'm not.  I'm still knee deep in the struggle. 

I have also stopped writing out of fear.  What if people are tired of my breakdowns?  What if I get stuck in the past, and can't move on?  What if it is too personal?  What if more heartache and disappointment is ahead?

I have to remind myself that I started this blog with a promise to myself: to be truthful, to be authentic, and to write it for no one but myself.  So I will try to write again, for Jordan's sake, and most importantly my own.


There is something about the process of writing— perhaps because it usually takes place in the privacy of one’s own room— that allows and indeed encourages the expression of thoughts one would never say aloud.

—	Elizabeth Forsythe Hailey, A Woman of Independent Means

Tender Mercy

Today I had the incredible opportunity to share my testimony with a living apostle and about 1000 BYU students.  Elder Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles came to our Stake Conference (regional church meeting) to speak to us, and I was invited to speak at the meeting with him.  I felt as if I was enveloped in the spirit, and at the same time felt as if my heart would escape my body.  It was a transformative experience to listen to Elder Bednar, to shake his hand, and to have him speak to me.  Being there was another witness to me that God knows me, and that he knows my heart.  I feel so blessed to have been there...It was a tender mercy.

This is what I shared:

Last night I was having trouble sleeping.  I felt so anxious as I anticipated the opportunity to stand before you today.  So instead of sleeping I turned to my scriptures and read Alma 37:35-36, where we find the theme for this conference.  I wanted to understand the context of that scripture, so I read the chapter.  In Alma 37, Alma is speaking to his son Helaman and giving him advice.  For the first half of the chapter Alma teaches Helaman about the importance of keeping and preserving the record, and remembering.  In verse 8, He talks about the power of a record to “enlarge the memory of the people and bring them to a knowledge of their God.” I would like to testify of the truth of that statement, and share an experience that illustrates this point.  I hope that as I do you will pay close attention to the blessings of record-keeping and remembering.

Seventeen months ago my day-to-day life was very different.  I was a full-time mom to my incredibly curious little boy Jonah.  Jonah was born in the summer of 2010 with a rare genetic disorder called Treacher-Collins Syndrome. The syndrome affected the development of his ears, cheekbones, jaw and palate.  He looked a little different than other babies, but he was so beautiful, and his condition never really slowed him down.  As he got older he climbed to the top of everything, loved meeting new people, learned to sign, and for the first year of his life it seemed as if he never really slept.  I was exhausted trying to keep up with him, yet really blissfully happy being his mother.  And then one September morning my life changed. 

I suddenly found myself in the front of speeding ambulance, praying for strength, as paramedics tried to resuscitate my sweet boy.  Jonah and I spent the morning playing at a friend’s house, and I gave him a fruit snack.  That small fruit snack became lodged in his airway and he stopped breathing.  I tried desperately to save him, as did the paramedics and the ER doctors, but nothing could be done.  Within a half an hour my life changed dramatically, and instead of putting my busy boy down for his afternoon nap, my husband and I returned home with empty arms and broken hearts to a too quiet home. 

The minutes and hours that followed Jonah’s death were the most excruciating of my life.  I couldn’t eat or sleep and I found myself simultaneously praying for God to take the pain away, and then wondering if He was even there…if He knew me…and why we had not received a miracle.  Maybe some of you have asked the same questions.

I also felt fear.  I was afraid of forgetting Jonah, and how it felt to hold him, and how he smelled, and the sound of his laugh.  So I turned to my journal to remember. 

I have rarely been an everyday journal writer, but I try to record things that feel important.  I began to write everything I could remember about Jonah so I wouldn’t forget, and then I started to read through the record of his life that I had already kept.  My son’s whole life is held in the pages of this small book, my own “small plates.” They are my greatest material treasure.

As I read my journal a miracle happened in my heart. While I read my own words, I really read my own testimony, and I felt an incredible peace that Jonah would not be forgotten.  And more importantly I began to remember how my Heavenly Father had never forgotten me.    

I read and remembered the peace that flooded my anxious heart as I sat in the temple trying to decide if I should marry Jordan.  I read and remembered the quiet promptings that came when we were newly married urging me to prepare and strengthen myself spiritually. I read and remembered praying for the opportunity to be a mother, and then dreaming about a unique blond haired blue-eyed boy.  I remembered looking into Jonah’s slanted little eyes for the first time and knowing that his spirit was not my own creation, but that it had come from God.  And most importantly I remembered all the joy of becoming a family, and being his mother.

As I read, I recognized that in order to deny God’s existence or His goodness in my moment of grief, I would have to deny the truth and record of my own hand.  I could not deny it. 

Reading my journal, and remembering, opened my spiritual eyes and helped me see again.  I could see again how God was helping me, in the days that followed Jonah’s death.  I saw it in the kindness of my friends and neighbors, and in the beautiful rainbow the covered our home on the day of Jonah's funeral.  Then upon deeper reflection I could see how God helped in the moment that Jonah died. 

I have been struck as I’ve read the Book of Mormon this week how often the ancient prophets warn against forgetting.  Nephi continually asks his brothers “how is it you have forgotten?” when they murmur and drift after seeing angels and witnessing miracles. 

As imperfect beings forgetting is our default.  Our minds are designed to forget for a reason.  If we could remember perfectly, I think we would be paralyzed by our fears, our pains, and by our sins.  As a result remembering requires action and intention. 

President Henry B. Eyring taught us that “Trying to remember allows God to show us what he has done in our lives.”

Keeping a record has helped me remember, and has strengthened my testimony, so I can stand before you today and testify without reservation that God knows me and that He loves me.  He loves me so much that...

“He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”

God is a God of miracles and the greatest miracle he works in our lives is on our hearts.  Through the atonement of His son he can heal the broken-hearted, and bind up our wounds.  I testify that He can ease our burdens, and strengthen us, because I have felt strength beyond my own.  I believe that God wants us to be joyful, and I can testify that joy and happiness can be part of our lives in the midst of great difficulty, if we turn to Him.

I urge you to keep a record.  Follow Elder Bednar’s counsel to write on your own "small plates" the inspiration and revelation and blessing you receive.  I promise that in your times of greatest need your record will have the power to “enlarge your memory, and bring you to a knowledge of your God.”

I am truly grateful to know my Heavenly Father and to have this testimony, and I leave it with you in the name of His son, Jesus Christ.  Amen.

Grateful

A few days ago a kind man shared some advice with me. The advice was given in love, and came from a place of understanding.  This man lost his son to suicide a few years ago, and was trying to comfort me in my grief.  He shared with me some advice about a mother who lost her child and sought counsel from a religious leader.  The leader listened to the mother in her mourning and grief and then said she should be grateful that she had a child, and to think of those women who are unable to have children.

I have been thinking about this anecdote all week.  I'm not sure what the source is, or if the story was told correctly, but I understand the point. The point, I think, is to be grateful.  Be grateful for what you have...to recognize that you are blessed even in the midst of trials.  Gratitude is a principle I believe in, but true gratitude seems somewhat twisted by this story.  I keep thinking about the story because it feels wrong to me on some level.

Gratitude is not born of comparison. Teddy Roosevelt said that "Comparison is the thief of joy." I believe that is true whether we are comparing ourselves to individuals we consider to be "above" us or those who seem to be "below" us.  Comparison robs us of joy because it forces us to rank ourselves on some imaginary scale of happiness, when no such scale exists.  Happiness is not linear, it's not a ladder to be climbed.  It is more fluid like water.  It moves around us and through us.  Sometimes it fills us, and sometimes we thirst for it.

When I traveled to Africa with a humanitarian group I was unprepared for the abundant joy I found among starving women and children. These children would be considered at the bottom of the happiness ladder by many.  They were experiencing the trials of death, and starvation, and sickness.  Yet they sang when they greeted us and smiled freely.  They were simply grateful, and their gratitude was not tied to the prosperity and health of others.

I don't believe we can rank life's adversity.  Sometimes I find myself trying to evaluate someone else's pain in comparison to my own...would it be harder to lose a child to an accident in infancy, or to a drug overdose in adulthood? Is it harder to miss someone after a lifetime of memories, or to be left with only 14 short months of joy to remember?

People often tell me that losing a child is the hardest trial. I have come to the conclusion that it is all hard.  Wanting children and not having them is hard.  Being alone is hard.  Nursing a parent through old age and death is hard.  Cancer is hard.  Divorce is hard.  Watching your child die is hard.  It is all hard, it is all pain, and finding respite in someone else's suffering is short lived and ultimately extremely unsatisfying. As I grow older and understand more fully the pain of others my heart aches more, not less. 

Since losing Jonah I have discovered that it is possible to feel gratitude in the midst of darkness.  Gratitude brings with it a light and recognition that my life remains full of mercy and grace, even though I have lost someone so precious to me. But gratitude should be able to stand on it's own two feet.  I am grateful for food, because it nourishes me and gives me strength.  I am grateful for my home because it is a refuge and place of safety.  I am grateful for Jordan because he strengthens me and loves me with all of my weakness.  I am grateful that I had the chance to feel Jonah grow inside me and to be his mother because it was a transcendent experience.

My gratitude for these things is not increased in the lack of others. On the other hand I'm learning that my gratitude is not, or should not, be diminished because I desperately want things that others have. 

Gratitude is an illogical response to a world that never had us in mind as an audience; but it is the fitting tribute to an original Creator who anticipated our joy and participates fully in it.  from The God Who Weeps.