Wednesday, March 15, 2017

The Whale

One of Clara's most discernible words is whale. She says it often and quite clearly, even with a pacifier in the corner of her mouth.  Her version is lilting and sweet and seems to follow the trajectory of her hand as she mimics the motion of a breaching whale.  I am mesmerized every time. Whale. Of all the words, and of all the animals, I wonder why this one that has risen to the surface of her simmering vocabulary.

The answer is probably simple. Whales inhabit our home. Not in a nautical way.  If you are picturing a beachy sea shanty - if that is even a thing - you've got the wrong idea. The average visitor to our home might not even notice them, but whales are everywhere.  There is a distressed wooden sperm whale in robin's egg blue near the front entry, a plush stuffed humpback in the toy bin, cartoony blue whales on the bath mat, a wooden whale lamp in my bedroom, and Simon and Clara often cuddle two little striped whales I made from Jonah's clothing when he died.

When Jonah left us it seemed necessary to remember him symbolically.  I can't really explain why.  But I have observed the same pattern in other's grief.  For my cousin's baby it is an acorn, for another the ruby hues of a sunset, and for Jonah it is whales. When I see these little tokens in my home I think of him, and I'm glad they are there.

When I hear Clara's sweet voice say whale I often wonder how she will know her older brother.

Sometimes in the mornings our babies crawl into our bed under the pretense of cuddling, but really they are interested in access; access to items that are usually unreachable.  They step across our heads and pillows to swipe framed photos from our bedside tables.

One photo is of me and Jonah on his first birthday.  He's holding a gold mylar balloon and I'm wearing a patchwork apron. Clara often holds this photo and looks at it carefully.  First, she points to me "mom" and then the balloon and then Jonah.  I say "That's your brother, that's Jonah." Confused, she looks at Simon knowing that he is her brother.  I say "Simon is your brother. This is Jonah, he's your brother too."  She usually points at Jonah's sweet face and then moves on to the next picture frame. After these brief interactions I wonder how I will ever tell her the rest of the story. "Jonah came first. We loved him so much. He died, in an accident, before you were born." It makes me sad to think that death will always be a part of our family story.

The name Jonah came to me one day while I was sitting in the temple.  I was waiting for Jordan to meet me at the entrance, and had been hoping to think of a name for our expectant little boy.  I anxiously sat through our temple session, listening to ancestral names, ready to receive inspiration. Yet nothing came. I was frustrated. Jordan and I have struggled to name all of our children, but the first seemed especially daunting.  It felt so important, and yet, so arbitrary to name someone before you even know them.  But that was our task and we were floundering.

As I waited for Jordan in the quiet of the lobby I picked up the scriptures and began reading from the Old Testament book of Jonah.  Honestly, the full story of Jonah as a prophet isn't really that inspiring. He ran from his responsibilities out of fear, judged the conversion of an entire city, and seemed to be a bit pouty at the end. But the part about the whale, that's where Jonah's story becomes remarkable and miraculous.

When Jonah is thrown overboard in hopes that his sacrifice will calm the troubled seas and save those who remain on board he is swallowed by a large fish, perhaps a whale.  The scriptures say that the Lord had prepared this fish to swallow Jonah, to hold him for three days and three nights, and to deliver him to the safety and warmth of a new land.

At the time, this story felt so common to me that I didn't think deeply about it.  I only felt the name Jonah stick to me.  When I suggested the name to Jordan he said it was "too whaley" and then facetiously suggested "Ahab" as an alternative.  But time passed and eventually we held a living breathing nameless infant in our arms and when the nurses asked us for the umpteenth time for a name we said "Jonah."

Now, when I think about Simon and Clara, and Jonah's death, and the large fish that the Lord prepared I think about our story, and I wonder how much God knew.  Did he know that my own Jonah would be swallowed up by death, in an instant, as I watched helplessly? Did he know that whales would fill our home?

In the last few weeks as Clara's soft voice has reminded me of the whales around me I have wondered if this large blue mammal is not a bit morbid as a symbol of remembrance.  After all, in the biblical story of Jonah, the whale is the undertaker, the darkness, and death itself.  The prophet Jonah prays diligently to be delivered from its prison, just as I prayed for our child to be delivered from death's reach.

As I've read the story of Jonah again and again my view of these whales has shifted.  In the New Testament Jesus taught that the story of Jonah and the Whale is an allegory about the Savior's death and resurrection.  This perspective changes the story and the whale becomes about more than death, but deliverance.  It is not merely a punishment, but rather a vehicle, prepared by a loving God, to cross to the safety of a distant shore.  It is a symbol of our ultimate hope that death is not the end.

As Simon and Clara get older I hope that I can use the whales around our home to teach them about their brother and about the belief we hold close to our hearts that we will see him again, and that God has prepared a way to carry each of us home.





Friday, February 3, 2017

Safety

I have been haunted lately by a memory.  It comes to me in quiet moments when my mind seems to wander between to-do lists and crazy politics and craving sleep.  It clears a space for itself amid the clutter to grab my attention and demand my focus.  But it is painful.  This memory brings with it shame and regret and speculation.  I find myself wishing I could reverse it and relive it.  But I can't. So instead I have been trying to pay attention to it and learn from it.  I have never told anyone about this moment other than Jordan, but now I feel compelled to tell it to you.

It happened a couple years ago when I was pregnant with the twins.  Jordan and I had spent most of our savings and all of our emotional strength on trying to bring these babies into existence, and my pregnancy still felt new and vulnerable.  We had ongoing worries about losing the pregnancy and became hyper vigilant in avoiding risk.  I avoided questionable foods, rested abundantly, took all my medications on time, and prayed every night that our babies would arrive safely.

One frigid winter evening Jordan and I stopped at Harmon's to pick up some tasty bread or pumpkin cookies.  I ran into the store while he waited in the car for me.  I grabbed the one or two items that I needed and headed to the check out stand.

I noticed a few things about the woman in front of me. Her little boy sat in the cart in mismatched and threadbare pajamas, his hair hadn't seen a comb for a while and his face was dirty.  He was busy and rambunctious and pushing her to her limit. She snapped at him a few times as he grabbed things off the shelf.  Her appearance matched his, unkempt hair, faded sweats, and an oversized jacket.  But the thing I remember most was an intense weariness in her eyes and across her shoulders.

I stood behind her, waiting patiently, arms resting on my swollen belly.  She purchased her food and left, and without a second thought I did the same.

Then I saw her again. This time just inside the automatic doors, unloading her cart, lining her arms with grocery bags while trying to wrangle her young child.  It became clear that she was preparing to walk home on this bitter winter evening.

Something told me to stop and talk to her.  So I did.  I asked her if she had a car.  She said no.
"Do you live nearby?"
"Yes."  She said.  "A few blocks away."
"Would you like a ride?"

I watched as her burden seemed to lighten, and she thanked me for the offer. "I'm so sick" she said. "I've had bronchitis for a few weeks and can't seem to get better."

Suddenly fear came over me like a wave, starting in my head and moving to my heart.  Sick, I thought.  What if I get sick?  What if something happens to the babies?  Is this safe?  Should I do this?  Although probably irrational the fear of losing the babies overwhelmed me.  I asked her to wait while I talked to Jordan.

Moments later I returned and told her we could not take her home.  I offered a brief explanation about my pregnancy and my fear of getting sick and then turned away.  I don't even remember her reaction. I just remember feeling her presence behind me like a shadow as I walked away.  My fear and shame and sorrow all swirling together yet propelling me out the door into the cold night air.

It has been a couple years since this happened, and I still agonize over the choice. I'm sure she made it home - she didn't live far away.  But I wonder if she felt a little less sure about human kindness because of me. I wonder if she stayed sick a little longer, if she was unkind to her child, if she lost faith she could have gained.  And although I could make a very logical argument for the conflict I felt that night, in my heart I know it was a betrayal of my values and of my spirit.

When this experience visits me I think of the apostle Peter walking on water with the Savior.

And Peter answered him (the Savior) and said, Lord if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.  And he said, Come.  And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.  But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.  And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? (Matthew 14:28-31)

Fishermen at Sea, by JWM Turner

I have always felt empathy for Peter in his imperfect faith.  I relate to his desire to do great things, while being hampered by his own human frailty and fear.

I have also reflected on the call of the Savior to step out of the assumed safety of the boat to follow him.  He simply says "Come" and expects us to move forward through the boisterous wind and waves that create fear in our hearts.  

That cold winter night I was swallowed by the waves.  I sought the safety of the boat rather than heeding the whisper of the Savior to help one of his children.  

Each night Jordan and I pray together.  We pray as a family with Simon and Clara and we pray together as a couple.  In the past I have heard these familiar words come out of my mouth "bless us with safety."  But lately I haven't been able to say them.  As a mother it seems like there should be nothing more that I would want in the world than for my children and my family to be safe. Especially since I know the excruciating pain of losing a child.  But I can't pray for safety anymore.

That night at the grocery store I secured my safety, but I lost a little piece of my soul. I realize now that when I pray, I need to pray to be brave.  Safety will only insulate us from the troubles of the world, and make us feel as if they don't concern us.  Bravery will compel us to act when sadness and sorrow and weariness seem to be as prevalent as the air we breathe.  As I've studied the life of the Savior I've found very little evidence that he is concerned with our temporal safety.  He has always called his followers onto unsteady ground, past dogma and platitudes, and toward his example of healing, cleansing, ministering, and loving.  

So tonight when I kneel to pray with my family, I will let this memory haunt me once again.  Then, instead of asking God to grant me some sort of ubiquitous safety, I will ask him to teach to me to be brave.  

It seems to me that the Savior is saying to each of us that unless we lose ourselves in the service of others our lives are largely lived to no real purpose....He who lives only unto himself withers and dies, while he who forgets himself in the service of others grows and blossoms in this life and in eternity." - Gordon B. Hinckley