Weathering the Storm

 

When I was in elementary school we lived in Oklahoma, and I lived each day in constant fear of tornadoes.  In the morning I would wake up and peer out the window at the sky and try to determine the likelihood of a tornado destroying our home or my school that day.  If it seemed questionable at all I began implementing a strategy to stay home.  If there were storm clouds on the horizon I would suddenly feel a stomach ache churning.  Every slight chance of rain was met with a cough and possible fever.  I was sure that a tornado would come when I was away from my family and we would all be separated or killed.  The danger felt very real to me and I could not seem to shake my fear.  I checked the news, called time and temperature daily, and learned all of the signs of trouble: wall clouds, green skies, and anvil shaped thunderheads. 

I remember driving home one stormy night with my family through a severe thunderstorm and feeling the panic rise within me.  My anxiety transformed into a slew of questions. "Could lightening come into the car?" "If a tornado came what would we do?" "How could we be sure that we were safe?"  As a scientist my dad answered my questions, explaining that the rubber in the car would conduct the electricity into the ground, and providing logical answers for my other questions.  But none of that seemed to calm me.  Then I remember him turning to me and asking me a question.  He asked me to look at his face and to decide if he looked scared.  I looked at him and decided that he didn't seem to be afraid at all.  Then he told me that whenever I was afraid I should look at his face, and if he wasn't scared, then I didn't need to be either. 

My whole life I have looked to my dad in moments of joy and pain as a confirmation of safety and peace.  When I have felt overwhelmed or afraid I have gone to him and felt his calm comfort and reassurance that things would work out.  When I have been worried about a major life decision I have looked to him and felt his complete confidence in my ability to make good choices.  When I have experienced great joy I have looked to him and felt his joy magnified. 

On the day that Jonah died my dad was doing research on the north end of the Great Salt Lake.  The news traveled to him slowly, and then he began the long drive on dirt roads and highways to the hospital.  I remember the moment he finally walked in the room.  I saw his face and felt such a release, like I could let go of some of my strength and that he would help me carry this new sorrow.  In that sacred space he mourned with us and gave us blessings so that we could endure our new heartache. 

After Jonah's funeral service and burial we all retired to our homes to rest and recover from an emotionally exhausting day.  A storm moved in while I slept and I woke to the sound of car doors closing and my family arriving with food to sustain us.  I walked outside and looked to the sky.  The dark storm clouds were receding and the setting sun shone across the valley.  Two vivid rainbows arched over our home.  I stood in our yard amazed by the poetic and biblical feeling of the moment. Then I felt my dad's strong arm reach around me.  He leaned down and whispered that rainbows are symbols.  They are a promise from God that we will never have to pass this way again.  Before that moment I felt so much uncertainty and fear.  But as we looked to the sky together I wept and let my heart believe in that promise, because I knew my dad believed it.  

My dad has calmed my fears, celebrated my victories, mourned beside me, and let me lean on him for strength. I believe in a benevolent God who loves his children, because of the way my dad loves his children.  His love for each of us is unique and unconditional.  In those times when storm clouds seem to gather on the horizon and fear builds in my heart I remember my dad's counsel to me as a child.  When time or distance separate us I know that I can find the same peaceful reassurance in looking to my Heavenly Father.  I also know that when the storm finally passes, God's promises will be clear and reflect the beauty and pain of all that we have experienced.  

This,Too, Shall Pass

Last night I woke up at 3 am and began my usual pilgrimage through the dark hallways of our house to the kitchen.  I stood in front of the glowing refrigerator trying to decide which midnight snack would be least likely to give me heartburn, and took my chances on peanut butter and jelly toast with milk.  Then I walked a few laps around the kitchen and living room to relax my muscles.  After feeling my way back to my room, I gingerly crawled into bed trying to minimize the pain in my pelvis, as I adjusted a multitude of pillows to support my growing belly, elevate my head, and take the pressure off my joints. Then I waited and prayed for sleep to come.  It was elusive.  My mind was filled with thoughts.  Not anxieties or concerns, but random thoughts, like how to spell "Absaroka," the name of a county in Wyoming.  I read a little, worked on my meditative breathing, and eventually got up again two hours later to have a bowl of warm granola as the sky began to lighten and the birds starting singing their morning song. 

Each night when I feel overwhelmed by my cumbersome shape and the possibility of never sleeping again; when the frustration and emotion of sleep deprivation come creeping in I think to myself "this, too, shall pass."

I know some people don't like that phrase.  Perhaps it seems too easy when applied lightly to deep heartache and sorrow.  Maybe it has been overused or just used too flippantly.  But for me it has become a reminder that all things pass away, whether it is sleepless nights or difficult pregnancies or years of infertility or grief.  It also reminds me that when difficulties pass away there are often accompanied by blessings and beautiful moments that pass with them.

When Jonah died I prayed and prayed to find a job that would feel meaningful and give purpose to my days.  After almost a year of applying for jobs and being rejected I found the perfect fit, but realized that while I waited and struggled I had learned to love the simple time I had with my husband in our home.  We grew to love each other more deeply in the waiting space.

The same is true of our journey through infertility.  Jordan and I began searching for ways to have more children shortly after Jonah died.  We knew their would be obstacles because I am a carrier of the Treacher-Collins gene, but I had no idea how many obstacles we would face on our path to become parents again.  We began six in vitro cycles and had 3 canceled, due to unforseen issues.  We spent thousands of dollars on tests and procedures.  We experienced two miscarriages and spent many nights and days crying and praying for relief from our trial.  After 3 years, I found out I was pregnant with twins and we were overjoyed, but I also realized that I had found incredible support and joy in my work as we waited.  I had developed deep friendships with the girls I worked with and knew that as this trial passed, so too would my time working alongside my dear friends. 

When Jonah was with us I could have spent my days and nights wishing away his genetic condition, or praying to move beyond the struggles and surgeries he faced.  But his time with us was short, and I'm grateful that I didn't wish away even the difficult times, because they are precious to me now. 

And when Jonah's spirit left our home, and we plunged into grief, we also entered a realm of love a support that I can only describe as angelic.  Now, sometimes, I miss the deep emotions of the grief and loss I felt, because it was always paired with the comforting presence and peace of God's love for us.

In the middle of the night as I try to fall back asleep I recognize how fleeting this moment really is.  This will probably be the last time I get to be pregnant. Which means that I may never experience the heartburn, anxiety, fatigue, body aches, hemorrhoids, nausea, and pain that comes with growing a baby, or two, in my body.  But I'm well aware that it also means that I may never again get to feel the incredible sensation of little hands and feet moving and pressing inside of me.  This may be my last chance to marvel at how powerful and capable my body is of changing and supporting the life of another.  I may never get another chance to witness Jordan exclusively taking care of me and protecting me.  As the heartburn and joint pain pass away, these blessed moments, too, shall pass.  They will be followed by new experiences filled with frustration and joy, but I will never be able to return to them.

So in quiet of my room, as the singing birds signaled the approaching dawn, and as I shifted positions one more time, I waited in the dark for the babies to kick, and tried not to wish the moment away.