tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76675930328528085782024-02-20T20:24:29.774-08:00In the Quiet Heart is HiddenUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger105125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-22434284864127749452017-03-15T15:27:00.000-07:002018-07-24T15:28:35.750-07:00The WhaleOne of Clara's most discernible words is w<i>hale</i>. 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. <i>Whale. </i>Of all the words, and of all the animals, I wonder why this one that has risen to the surface of her simmering vocabulary.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqLywPhuSvZBVjAFM8ToQQBsHnZ1vJkcY2k0sOkr3ZzH9YFftgsQIwJ-tyAwJkK7LISoA8ajFtOAQmZf5C7_YOUPqeuQBejjtlMV-wBcLQkyYZkY1ttV22df6Fvu6UZfgfbD9LxpKKtcZ/s1600/IMG_20170409_162317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqLywPhuSvZBVjAFM8ToQQBsHnZ1vJkcY2k0sOkr3ZzH9YFftgsQIwJ-tyAwJkK7LISoA8ajFtOAQmZf5C7_YOUPqeuQBejjtlMV-wBcLQkyYZkY1ttV22df6Fvu6UZfgfbD9LxpKKtcZ/s320/IMG_20170409_162317.jpg" width="240" /></a>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. <br />
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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. <br />
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When I hear Clara's sweet voice say <i>whale </i>I often wonder how she will know her older brother. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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."<br />
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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? <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-38655256898151501372017-02-03T13:46:00.000-08:002017-02-04T14:23:30.441-08:00SafetyI 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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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Something told me to stop and talk to her. So I did. I asked her if she had a car. She said no. <br />
"Do you live nearby?"<br />
"Yes." She said. "A few blocks away." <br />
"Would you like a ride?"<br />
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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." <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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When this experience visits me I think of the apostle Peter walking on water with the Savior. <br />
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<i>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?</i> (Matthew 14:28-31)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhSx5WtTJQXxSwa7uwUKXn4KAxNHxVNEqbRErjk3KhPeVbC1qTrTNV22NM-1rWuHwbfMfTACnSzh9RYSBQORyZccq3t8mAJiUzmhFNzinqHewcAmp2XM8M0eM1ElkuIZS6658Tv0ek0_D/s1600/1253_10+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhSx5WtTJQXxSwa7uwUKXn4KAxNHxVNEqbRErjk3KhPeVbC1qTrTNV22NM-1rWuHwbfMfTACnSzh9RYSBQORyZccq3t8mAJiUzmhFNzinqHewcAmp2XM8M0eM1ElkuIZS6658Tv0ek0_D/s400/1253_10+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fishermen at Sea, by JWM Turner</td></tr>
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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. <br />
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. <br />
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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<i>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</i></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-75132187669685078502016-09-29T21:21:00.001-07:002016-09-29T21:21:56.344-07:00Last NightLast night Simon woke up crying just after midnight, moments after my own tired head melted into the softness of my pillow. I'm not sure why he woke up. Teething? Cold? Hungry? Wet? My tired brain can never really figure it out. Sometimes on really bad nights I change diapers, add a sleep sack, open windows, and dispense Ibuprofen in hopes that I've covered all my bases and we can all sleep peacefully for a few consecutive hours. <div>
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After letting him cry for awhile and whispering prayers to heaven that he would just fall back asleep, I flopped my legs to the floor and wandered into his darkened bedroom. When my eyes finally adjusted and focused I saw him sitting against the crib slats looking almost as disoriented as I felt. I gently laid him back down and gave him his pacifier which he angrily grabbed and threw across the crib, as if he was offended by the suggestion that he could be soothed so easily. He rolled over and around his blanket like a crocodile in a death roll and eventually bumped his head on the corner of the crib crying out even louder and longer than before. </div>
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Afraid he would wake Clara I gathered up his fuzzy blanket and hoisted his pajama clad body over the crib rail. We settled into the chair next to his crib and I laid his long body across mine. At first he tossed and turned and wiggled, but then slowly let himself relax into me as I brushed his wispy hair with my fingers. His body became heavier and softer and his breath slower. I traced figure eights across his back until sleep returned. I shifted my weight to move him back into bed, and then stopped. My inner voice whispered "stay awhile" and so I held him longer. I brought his face to mine and felt the warmth of his velvet cheek. I breathed in the sweet smell of his hair, a combination of sweat and lotion and grass and love. I noticed the way he felt in my arms - simultaneously long and lanky and yet small enough to hold forever. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfa6gUY-yROH7u-7c4fpOVRJhyphenhyphen-VIu9uxLhKoKhmYieEBeP5wUgmZhd1jlF8NwX6zjdfC8IUv3vUV3BlaCveYUY86nn39VC9q9ciNGOkkxzWUE9uVHsY3zuI0veGRQiHnkYoPtPmSGzRV/s1600/IMAG0330.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfa6gUY-yROH7u-7c4fpOVRJhyphenhyphen-VIu9uxLhKoKhmYieEBeP5wUgmZhd1jlF8NwX6zjdfC8IUv3vUV3BlaCveYUY86nn39VC9q9ciNGOkkxzWUE9uVHsY3zuI0veGRQiHnkYoPtPmSGzRV/s320/IMAG0330.jpg" width="191" /></a>I held him longer because I remembered this very night five years ago when I held his brother the same way. A sharp cry in the middle of the night. A bottle made. A diaper changed. A sweet boy soothed and cherished. I felt something hold me back that night too. Something that said <i>"</i>stay here longer" "remember this." And I did. I held his brother, and smelled his sweet smell, and let his feathery hair brush across my lips. I pushed away the exhaustion and stayed in that moment with him until we were both full of love and memory, not knowing then how much i would need to remember. The next morning would be our last together in this life. </div>
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I thought about that moment 5 years ago as I held Simon and it scarred me. The need to stay longer, to soak it all in, felt like a bad omen. I've often thought that I was given that prompting to hold Jonah longer because God knew I would lose him the next day, and maybe that is the truth. But as I held Simon and shook off the superstition of losing him I realized that voice is always with me as a mother. It whispers to me everyday, "be here, be present." Sometimes I'm too tired or distracted or frustrated to hear it. Sometimes I hear it and ignore it and go about checking items off of my to-do list. But in the middle of the night when the world is quiet and the room is dark, I listen. Not because calamities are coming, but because life is fleeting. </div>
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I am reminded that tomorrow everything will be different. My babies will be one day older, and they will know new things, and say new words, and climb on top of the table. Eventually they will sleep all night, and then sleep too much. Someday they will not fit in my arms or even want my touch. They will make choices and mistakes, and the only thing I can do about it is to listen to that voice, to be present, to be slow, to smell their hair and listen to them giggle, to let my muscles memorize their heaviness. Beyond that I am powerless. No matter what I do, tomorrow will come and bring with it all of the possibilities of joy and sorrow. </div>
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I believe that voice is always present, always reminding us to notice the life we've been given. We may only notice it when tragedy visits us, but I have a feeling it is always there. </div>
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Eventually I moved Simon back to his bed, gave him his pacifier and covered him with his blanket. I slipped back into bed beside Jordan, and pulled the comforter up around my shoulders. As I drifted off to sleep I heard a gentle rustling and then Clara's distinctive sputtering cry. I held my breath for a moment and waited. Then I left the warmth of my bed to hold my little girl. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3JcwkOHvDPXe3vJRO0w767LYM4akQM5fxnP8s00thGnAnSYmNmF_GUhoEj8de3mb3dZyS9DCuO83rDTchkIbVB6I0pD3bzO_pqyraLS5spjW2avSZ0X0vENYls0mRfvyoese0cJZXjK1/s1600/14500782_10154541593819402_1771447386599347286_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3JcwkOHvDPXe3vJRO0w767LYM4akQM5fxnP8s00thGnAnSYmNmF_GUhoEj8de3mb3dZyS9DCuO83rDTchkIbVB6I0pD3bzO_pqyraLS5spjW2avSZ0X0vENYls0mRfvyoese0cJZXjK1/s320/14500782_10154541593819402_1771447386599347286_o.jpg" width="320" /></a>When I woke, bleary eyed, in the morning I wondered what this day would bring. Today is a day of sorrow for us and for remembering. It is the day we said goodbye to our first born and learned what it meant to be broken and bruised. </div>
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I hoped for a day of happiness and peace and a nap. As I remembered the loss I experienced five years ago I tried to listen for the voice. I heard it when Simon and Clara spread tuna fish all over their faces at lunch and when we visited their brother's grave. I heard it when we sat in the late afternoon sun watching the babies throw birdseed toward a roving flock of chickens. I heard it when our family gathered for dinner, and when Simon splashed in the bath until the water ran out. "This is important" it whispered, "be here." </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-43890124912701929682016-07-30T14:53:00.002-07:002016-07-30T15:24:14.662-07:00One YearThere has been something so familiar about this past year. Even though having twins is very different than having a single baby, the flow and seasons of this year have matched those of Jonah's year with us. Jonah was born on the 14th of July and our twins were born on the 22nd, five years and one week apart. As a result, every milestone and every "first" has followed a similar chronology.<br />
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Jonah's first smiles came in the fall and this year as the leaves fell Simon and Clara started to smile. In the winter Jonah began to roll and scoot and Simon and Clara followed his example. This spring Simon and Clara ventured outside and explored the grass and leaves and tried to eat them, and as I watched them I thought about Jonah tasting rocks and dirt and crawling through the grass. And summer...summer is by far the sweetest: playing in the water, swinging, exploring the neighborhood, climbing, walking, and celebrating first birthdays. It's all the same. When I hold Simon next to me and feel his weight and the way he turns to direct me through the world I think of Jonah. When Clara squeals in delight as she gets in the bath and splashes water all over her face but doesn't seem to care, I think of him. I see him in every moment I share with his brother and sister. In a way it is so comforting and beautiful, and it also scares me. <br />
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I am constantly reminded that we only had one year with Jonah; We had one Halloween, one Christmas, one birthday. <br />
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We celebrated the twins' birthday last week and even that echoed the experience of their brother. We played in the yard with grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and cousins. It was a hot afternoon, even in the shade of our giant walnut tree. The air smelled the same - a combination of heat, and wind, horses, and grass. We played in the water to cool down, ate fried chicken, opened presents, and watched excitedly as Simon and Clara approached their first cupcake with caution followed by full bodied appreciation. <br />
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When I think about Jonah's birthday I think about what I didn't know. When Jonah turned one we didn't know that we would only have two more months with him. We didn't know that a small fruit snack could take the life of our precious boy. We didn't know that he would leave our family and in his absence a crushing sorrow would emerge. <br />
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Sometimes I wonder what I don't know now. <br />
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As we celebrated together I thought about time passing or rather marching, marching toward September. There is something in the familiarity and passage of time that makes me feel like I'm headed towards the same experience. I realize that August and September were the last months I had with Jonah, and I wonder what the future holds. It is a hard feeling to shake. <br />
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The weather at Simon and Clara's party was bizarre. One moment it was blazing hot, followed by a swift thunderstorm, then giant raindrops, and back to scorching heat. Those who attended moved quickly between the shade of trees, the shelter of our garage, the warmth of the sun, and the protection of patio umbrellas. It rained on our chicken and cupcakes and presents. My mom mentioned that she was looking for a rainbow, but none appeared. The sky only held black rain clouds or blinding sunshine. <br />
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At the end of the party the showers drifted towards the mountains and the sun was lower against the western sky. As we cleaned up and said our goodbyes I looked towards the east, past the large pine tree in our yard. I looked towards the same patch of sky on the day of Jonah's funeral, when the weather was identical: hot, then stormy, then peaceful. That day two rainbows appeared like a message from heaven and temporarily calmed my troubled heart. <br />
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In this moment, just above the mountain a faint rainbow appeared, peeking through, as if not wanting to steal away our attention. I stood on my patio and watched Simon and Clara playing with their cousins under the shelter of the pine, unaware of the beautiful rainbow above them. I thought of Jonah and my heart hurt and soared at the same time. The women I love gathered around me on the hot cement and looked toward the sky. It seemed clear that they knew what I knew. We simply said "Jonah." "He came." And we believed it was true. <br />
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Rainbows are symbols. They are symbols of promises and peace and freedom and love. They are symbols of a protecting hand. The two rainbows I saw on the day we said goodbye to Jonah felt like a promise that God knew my pain and that someday things would feel right again. And even though that seemed impossible at the time, it was true. Our lives feel good and whole again. <br />
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This rainbow felt like a different promise, a promise that Jonah was still a part of our family, and that there would be many happy days ahead. I felt overwhelming gratitude for such a simple but profound moment, looked up to the heavens, and believed it was true. <br />
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<i>Be of good cheer. The future is as bright as your faith. </i>- Thomas S. MonsonUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-67543828207916119562015-11-10T21:40:00.000-08:002018-07-24T14:58:04.919-07:00Blessed are the Peacemakers<span style="font-family: inherit;">A few months after Jonah died someone I love very much told me he was gay. His revelation was simple and sincere and not really a surprise, but we had never talked about it before. He had never said the words "I am gay" and I had never asked. Jonah's death seemed to open up a safe space in our hearts to be honest with each other about our lives. I can't remember the specific words that were said, but I remember feeling overwhelming love for him. I loved him more than I ever had before, and I knew without a doubt that our Heavenly Father loved him deeply. I also felt sure that my responsibility wasn't to persuade or to preach, but to love. It has never been hard to love him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This week I've reflected on that experience amid the whirlwind of accusations and explanations surrounding the <a href="https://www.ksl.com/?sid=37258228&nid=1284&title=lds-church-clarifies-new-policies-for-children-of-same-gender-parents">LDS church's new policy regarding the membership of children from same-sex marriages.</a> I have tried to tap into that feeling of love as I have read articles, comments, and opinions on the subject. But instead I began to build a wall to protect my faith and to protect my family. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt defensive because I love the LDS church. It feels like home to me. I have been carried through my darkest days by the simplicity of its doctrine and the Christ-like love of its members. I have felt my hope restored as I have listened to the messages of it's leaders. And most of all I have watched my parents and grandparents devote their lives to its ministry. My father is a Stake President, which means he presides over hundreds of individuals and approximately 10 congregations. He serves them without pay. He sacrifices his limited time, outside of his profession, to help families meet their needs and solve their problems. He shares his testimony of the Savior at countless meetings in hopes that each member of his flock will find peace as they deal with their unique trials. He rejoices with those who rise above their challenges, and he mourns with those that feel lost and alone. He is good and honest and kind. I know that there are thousands of good men and women like him throughout the church at every level of service and leadership. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So my immediate reaction to accusations of bigotry, hatred, and nefarious intentions was to defend my faith and my family vigorously. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But as the days have passed I have felt gently guided away from my defensive fortress and into a softer space of empathy. I have prayed that God would help me understand the actions of my church and the feelings of those who oppose it. I think one of life's greatest challenges is to mourn with those that mourn, and to sit in sorrow with someone even if we do not completely understand their pain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This morning I was blessed with a moment of empathy that opened my heart and mind. I pondered how I would feel if the church's new policy affected me in a deeply personal way. What if, hypothetically, the new policy was about in vitro fertilization, instead of gay marriage? What if my opportunity to have a family was in direct conflict with my faith? It hit me hard that I would feel incredible sorrow. I would feel conflicted and maybe isolated. I might feel wronged or misunderstood. It would take time and prayer and love to work through the pain. I would hope that my faith would endure such a challenge and that I could keep an eternal perspective. But even with perspective I would grieve what was lost. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know this is not a perfect comparison, and that I do not fully understand how those who are hurt by this policy feel. But, I do know that I felt a return to love. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I admire those who arrived with empathy quickly; those who did not waste time building a fortress. I admire the peacemakers on both sides of this issue that have acknowledged the others pain and offered love before explanation or accusation. I have heard touching stories of LDS families reaching out to their LGBT neighbors in gestures of genuine love and friendship. I have read beautifully humble letters from the LGBT community seeking common ground and understanding. These things have changed me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I hope that next time my heart feels bruised I will stop the hard work of constructing an </span>impenetrable<span style="font-family: inherit;"> wall. Instead I hope I will seek to feel the love He has for all of His children. I will pray to be given the gift of empathy. Then I will try to remember the words the Savior spoke at the Sermon on the Mount, </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. </span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.</span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. </i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br />Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. </i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><br />Matthew 5: 3-9</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-12366960135254450972015-10-25T20:51:00.000-07:002015-10-25T20:54:44.544-07:00Blessings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">I often wonder if you will ever know how much you are loved; how many prayers your dad and I said hoping that someday you would join our family. From the moment your brother Jonah left this earth, we prayed each night for you to come. Not just us. Everyone. Your grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, our friends, and neighbors, we all sent our prayers up to heaven hoping they would be heard. And then one day you arrived, and it seemed like you were always here with us, and all of the struggle faded and things felt right in the world again. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I look in your eyes I wonder what you will be. Clara is so full of wonder and Simon full of deep soulful stares. I hope you will become everything you can be. There will be times when you won’t realize all you can be. I hope you will let us, your parents, remind you. We will try to give you a safe space to grow and explore and learn. We cannot protect you from all of the struggles of life, because those are important too. And although we can’t remove your obstacles we promise will walk through them with you. We will help you carry any heavy loads and cry with you when life is hard.
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And when life is beautiful, sometimes overwhelmingly beautiful, we will laugh and play and celebrate with you. We will rejoice as you succeed and love and overcome. We will cherish the days when life feels soft and welcoming.
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Today was your blessing day. You were encircled and held by good men who love you, while your gentle father blessed you to have faith, to serve your fellow man, to trust your parents, and to be leaders. The women who love you surrounded them, and supported them, and whispered their own prayers for you up to heaven. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Clara June when you hear your name I hope you will remember the strong, loving, and righteous women who have come before you. Not just your namesakes, but your aunts, and grandmothers, and cousins. These women have shaped your family through incredible sacrifice, tears, and faith. They have opened the way for you to live a happy life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Simon Max when you hear your name I hope you will remember its meaning; God has heard. To me, you are a living witness that God truly does hear and answer prayers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before the blessing your father spoke Jonah's name, and reminded us all of your beautiful older brother. I often wonder what role he will play in your life. Will you feel his presence? Will he help you in your trials? Will he whisper to you when you don't know which way to turn? I hope and believe he will. He had a kind heart and a wise soul. I hope that if you ever feel him near you will notice and listen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are so grateful for you, our children. It is a blessing to have you in our home. It is a blessing to be your mother. It is a blessing to know that we can be a family forever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;">You will always have our whole hearts and all our love. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-36269920079930880942015-10-16T10:58:00.000-07:002015-10-16T10:58:08.305-07:00Fear<div>
A few weeks after Jonah died Jordan and I drove to Red Lodge, Montana to work. The drive north was long and lonely. I remember silently staring into the side mirror of Jordan's truck, watching the yellow stripes on black asphalt appear behind us and then disappear into the distance. The flashing yellow line felt symbolic, each stripe a memory of Jonah drifting into the distance with no promise of returning. I can't remember if Jordan and I said a single word as we drove through the vast expanse of central Wyoming. We were both lost in our own thoughts, or maybe we were trying not to think.<br />
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When we drove into Red Lodge, golden leaves drenched the town, and misty clouds rested on the foothills of the Beartooth Mountains. The usual bustle of summer tourists had long since passed and gangs of wild turkeys began to roam the streets. The air still held the crispness of Fall with a hint that winter was on its way.<br />
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We checked into our motel. It was dated but clean, managed by a young tracksuit wearing man from India. The carpeted hallways were incredibly long and reminded me of <i>The Shining</i>. I almost expected a young boy to round the corner on a tricycle or creepy twins to greet us near the elevator. Despite the vague similarities to a horror movie It felt like a good place to settle into my grief and to feel anonymous for awhile. </div>
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Jordan left each morning before the sun came up, kissing me goodbye while I lay half asleep. Later I would force myself out of bed and write, watch TV, then sleep some more. Occasionally I ventured out to the local coffee shop to get a hot chocolate or to read a book. It felt strange, and also freeing, to order a drink as if I was just an ordinary person, as if my world had not shattered to pieces. I could pretend for a while in Red Lodge that I was still a whole person instead of fragments of my former self.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXIt7QUzf1yfFkFr_15nh-4kxsUofZ6ddCsTXVxlP__eDEC4Vu9kUI23mzSfzsW5Mt9JjaZBF3ybntrw_33k3Tr7JvMslTM8LtkRtQl1PdITdocm-AxXeQMsnuXV9Yzg7RZ7oDWZ91HIhw/s1600/385266_10150439769549402_45234603_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXIt7QUzf1yfFkFr_15nh-4kxsUofZ6ddCsTXVxlP__eDEC4Vu9kUI23mzSfzsW5Mt9JjaZBF3ybntrw_33k3Tr7JvMslTM8LtkRtQl1PdITdocm-AxXeQMsnuXV9Yzg7RZ7oDWZ91HIhw/s320/385266_10150439769549402_45234603_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>One day work was cancelled and Jordan had a free afternoon. We decided to drive up the Beartooth Highway and lose ourselves in nature for awhile. Our wandering was cut short by a large metal gate blocking the road. The highway had closed for the season only a few days earlier. We pulled over, parked, and stood in the open silence that engulfed us. The quiet was overwhelming and felt heavy. Without much discussion we zipped up our jackets and began walking, past the gate, and onto the open road beyond. </div>
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It almost felt like we were walking into an post-apocalyptic world. A world without people. A world without cars. The mountains around us felt enormous compared to our small bodies moving slowly along the two-lane highway. The view was infinite compared to the previously segmented scenery through our windshield. The world around me was cold and beautiful and open, and I was small and afraid.<br />
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As we walked I thought about bears, and falling rocks, freak snowstorms, and serial killers in the wilderness. Before Jonah died these dangers would have flashed across my mind for a second, and then been dismissed by reason and statistics. But now they all felt possible. Losing Jonah made me feel vulnerable in a way I could have never imagined. I no longer felt sheltered by my faith or a powerful God or good luck. <br />
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I quietly held onto my fears as we crested each hill, all the while realizing they were probably irrational. But with each step away from our car they swirled and magnified. The beauty that surrounded us was trumped by my worried heart. Eventually, I turned to Jordan and said, "It is so beautiful up here. The mountains are incredible," and then in the same breath, "I'm afraid we will be attacked by bears." <br />
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This is when I discovered the power of speaking my fears. I don't even remember how Jordan responded. He probably just said "okay." But I remember feeling relief. I have learned that there is something about saying, "I am afraid of bears, and falling rocks, and freak snowstorms, and serial killers" that diminishes fear and allows me to move through it. So I told Jordan I was afraid of bears and then we kept walking. <br />
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I've been thinking about this experience a lot lately, because I am bombarded by fears. When I'm brushing my teeth or doing dishes my mind will present me with a thousand ways in which my current peaceful bliss could fall apart. These include but are not limited to: dog attacks, tumors, earthquakes, ISIS, liver failure, tripping down stairs, West Nile Virus, diabetes, abduction, the flu, addiction, extreme poverty, SIDs, car accidents, horse trampling, etc... Maybe my mind plays out these scenarios as a preventative measure, but in every instance, no matter what the danger, I see the same panic and heartache I felt as I watched Jonah die. I can imagine the intensity of the loss again. Even though I have survived losing Jonah and feel stronger for it, I know I never want to feel that kind of pain again. Somehow, deep in my subconscious I must believe that if I can think through every possible danger I can stop my heart from breaking. <br />
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Ultimately, I know that paying attention to my fears will not prevent future sorrow. I am not that powerful and we live in a world of adversity and trial. Listening to my fears will only keep me from living the life I want to live. It will stop me in my tracks and make me feel small in a big beautiful world. <br />
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So I choose to release my fears into the world, no matter how silly the concern of how outlandish the possibility. I tell Jordan in the middle of the night when he is barely coherent, "I think I have diabetes," or "I'm worried about Simon's liver," or "What if the crock pot catches on fire?" When the words leave my mouth the fears seem to leave my mind. <br />
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When I hold Simon and Clara, and my heart feels so full of love, I often wonder what the future holds for us. There is nothing that makes you feel more vulnerable than love. <br />
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I calm myself by thinking about Red Lodge. I imagine myself on that lonely highway, with Jordan by my side, both of us walking away from the imagined safety of our car, our home, our past life and into the wild magnificence of the mountains. When I visualize that moment I feel sure that I can do this. I can be a mother to these children. I can speak my fears. I can love with my whole broken heart. I can surround myself in beauty. I can move forward. <br />
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>I Worried</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>by Mary Oliver</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>flow in the right direction, will the earth turn</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>as it was taught, and if not how shall</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>I correct it?</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>can I do better?</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>can do it and I am, well,</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>hopeless.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>am I going to get rheumatism,</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>lockjaw, dementia?</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>And gave it up. And took my old body</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>and went out into the morning,</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">
<i>and sang.</i></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-29146199678435472832015-09-24T14:01:00.000-07:002015-09-30T08:33:43.688-07:00Introducing...Two months ago we welcomed our sweet little babies to the world. It has taken me two months to write this post because every minute of my day and night has been spent caring for them. Also, my brain is mush. Sleeping for one hour at a time does not make for a nimble mind. In the beginning if I had a free minute I would try to decide whether to eat or sleep...knowing I could not do both before one or two babies woke up. <br />
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Now the babies are sleeping for 3-4 hour stretches and I can see the light. After sleeping for four hours I feel like I could pen a classic American novel or run a marathon...or take a long afternoon nap. The latter usually takes precedence. Today I will feel satisfied introducing our precious children to you. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiwHuUiZ9j8fN-EEfMAcix6vC39IW-16hwkMwO3i4gPaYBdqf-V6hU_HWsKhfhtOTOQDHk8ifObgWSt4aTsfsXr8xypb3Jk6TbuIKAuwecxqFK267CU3fj74du8yVH83KKN2am4unKAon/s1600/11895015_10153596427074402_3392067602623780268_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiwHuUiZ9j8fN-EEfMAcix6vC39IW-16hwkMwO3i4gPaYBdqf-V6hU_HWsKhfhtOTOQDHk8ifObgWSt4aTsfsXr8xypb3Jk6TbuIKAuwecxqFK267CU3fj74du8yVH83KKN2am4unKAon/s320/11895015_10153596427074402_3392067602623780268_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simon Max Hall </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvMFpmuCGBtpoMcjL9oEh5H-ver_-z9jwGeahqMhJudlePfyXjalOUluQyMrvOD5Zy6j3E_ptHSIk_u1L_cCqamRGJ2m-nZzMcukPVFoZX7A_1ZuMdeZAwSLnZ4ZEiZJ2a_LLfil97lPX/s1600/11882611_10153579846579402_6216257994162702843_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvMFpmuCGBtpoMcjL9oEh5H-ver_-z9jwGeahqMhJudlePfyXjalOUluQyMrvOD5Zy6j3E_ptHSIk_u1L_cCqamRGJ2m-nZzMcukPVFoZX7A_1ZuMdeZAwSLnZ4ZEiZJ2a_LLfil97lPX/s320/11882611_10153579846579402_6216257994162702843_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clara June Hall</td></tr>
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<b>Simon</b><br />
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Simon is a mellow baby. He loves to eat and sleep and is generally happy. He was 6 lbs 1 oz when he was born and at 2 months he weighs 9 lbs. 9 oz. His weight is the 4th percentile and his head is the 75th percentile (I've been told this is a Hall trait). He is a quiet observer and often looks on seriously as his sister screams her head off. <br />
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All of his dark hair fell out except for a ring around the back from ear to ear. He looks like he has male pattern baldness. But he is growing blond hair on top and I think his eyes will be blue.<br />
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<b>Clara</b><br />
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Clara is sassy and curious. From the moment she was born she was wide-eyed and loud. She will let you know when she is not happy with a cry that escalates from coughs and sputters to ear piercing shrieks. But once she is fed and rested she is sweet and funny. Sometimes at night she looks around our room like she sees something that I don't and she smiles. <br />
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She was 5 lbs. 8 oz when she was born and is 8 lbs. 9 oz. now. She has held some of her long dark hairs...they hang out in the back and come forward almost like a bad comb over. Her hair is coming in dark and fuzzy and her eyes look like they will be blue. <br />
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Both of these babies love to cuddle. They love to be held by anyone and would spend their whole lives in your arms. Some people say it spoils a baby to hold them while they sleep. But really it spoils me. If I could live without sleep, and if my arms were strong enough, I would hold them all of the time. Their cuddles are like a healing balm for my worried soul. I cherish that they are here with me today. I want to hold them and love them while I can. <br />
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<i><br /></i>
<i>Children are the bridge to heaven. </i>- Persian Saying</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-51334349151331522742015-07-01T19:31:00.000-07:002015-07-01T19:35:40.717-07:00Does the Journey Seem Long?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzu_bt9DWoEScEoe-TipFVw1cEhBJXTe2U41H316yiNOhthLp3B0cZwrUW8tkUPc5s_YL5dBW5oe39_am9cEXWZoeJYQu4t-3CcTSNoOXLlSEAR-Y8VqpVnqFwV9g0I4tKronxz8v0MB1/s1600/IMG_0433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzu_bt9DWoEScEoe-TipFVw1cEhBJXTe2U41H316yiNOhthLp3B0cZwrUW8tkUPc5s_YL5dBW5oe39_am9cEXWZoeJYQu4t-3CcTSNoOXLlSEAR-Y8VqpVnqFwV9g0I4tKronxz8v0MB1/s320/IMG_0433.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Jonah was diagnosed with Treacher-Collins Syndrome the morning after he was born. Our new pediatrician, a man I had never met before, came and told us about his diagnosis. We spent the previous night worrying about our new little one, so any answers were a huge relief. We were grateful to learn that he would have normal development of his body and brain and that his vision would probably be fine. We braced ourselves as the doctor described the many surgeries Jonah would face, but again felt relief that his condition was not life-threatening. We tried to process this deluge of new information and challenges while dealing with the usual learning curve of new parenthood. My brain churned over diapers, cleft palates, nursing, pumping, craniofacial disorders, sleep schedules, bath time, hearing loss, etc... <br />
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Then everything stopped.<br />
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My focus became sharp as the doctor explained that I was the carrier of this syndrome. He could tell just by looking at me that my genes were responsible for our baby's fate. He went on to explain that we would have a 50% chance of passing on this syndrome to any children we had in the future, and that their expression of the syndrome could be mild or severe. My heart broke. Even though I had been a parent for less than 24 hours, and it had been a difficult 24 hours, I wondered in that moment if I would ever have the opportunity again.<br />
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As Jonah grew and progressed and became the light of our home my fears about never having more children were buried by the busyness of being a mother. I felt content to be his mother and decided I could deal with our challenges at some later stage of life, when it felt right. Little did I know that those feelings would soon surface because of circumstances beyond my control. Suddenly on a late September day our sweet boy was gone, in a matter of minutes, and we felt his absence deeply.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_k5rRS_hNxjdu8CXefs_hqIcZpXHLKCcpb4RM7nGRyb-7ansNk3dBFw3Udr8M6lRMWJpEPOBNuMsbI_UTONkEVOr10VCv0JEOQVE2_-uJtblsAl_tZYj-QApKWexM6LiwHMgf1l6cbFt/s1600/DSC_0130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_k5rRS_hNxjdu8CXefs_hqIcZpXHLKCcpb4RM7nGRyb-7ansNk3dBFw3Udr8M6lRMWJpEPOBNuMsbI_UTONkEVOr10VCv0JEOQVE2_-uJtblsAl_tZYj-QApKWexM6LiwHMgf1l6cbFt/s320/DSC_0130.jpg" width="320" /></a>In the days and weeks that followed Jonah's death I remember wondering if and how we would ever have more children. Jordan and I began to grapple with some very difficult ethical and moral questions in the midst of our overwhelming grief. We loved Jonah so much, just as he was, but also knew that his condition (more specifically his small airway) contributed to his death. We explored the ideas of embryonic genetic testing, egg donation, adoption, or simply taking our genetic chances. Jordan and I had different reactions and feelings about each of these options. No choice felt easy or inconsequential. Some choices felt selfish, while others felt too risky. We met with a genetic counselor to discuss our options and began a winding indeterminate journey back to parenthood. <br />
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It was about this time I met Katie.*<br />
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I was assigned to get to know Katie through the <a href="https://www.lds.org/callings/relief-society/visiting-teaching-training/purpose-is-to-minister?lang=eng">Visiting Teaching</a> program of our church. In that moment Katie and I seemed to have very little in common other than our approximate age. She was newly married and still in the honeymoon phase. I was grieving deeply after losing Jonah and trying to navigate this uncharted territory in my marriage. She was working full-time as a teacher, and I was trying to find ways of filling the quiet stillness of my days. <br />
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Looking back I'm sure no one would have judged me for choosing not to visit teach. I could have excused myself from the responsibility by citing my overwhelming grief, or the differences in our circumstances. But I felt compelled to go each month whether by guilt or responsibility or the spirit. I will always be grateful that I did, because our seemingly divergent paths soon became parallel and we both became witnesses to incredible miracles in each others lives. <br />
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As we met each month we talked about simple things like work, marriage, travel, etc... I shared some of the things I was experiencing as I continued to grieve, tried to find a job, sought solace in the mountains, and began visiting a fertility clinic in the area. We became closer as we honestly talked about life and it's challenges. <br />
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Shortly after our first visit to the fertility clinic we stumbled upon Katie and her husband in the lobby. We were just about to begin our first in vitro cycle and they were meeting with the doctor for a preliminary consultation. We all felt optimistic and hopeful about the possibilities ahead. <br />
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Our optimism soon transformed into endurance as we both faced disappointments and setbacks. For three years we consoled each other as we each dealt with the heartache and frustration of miscarriages, chemical pregnancies, unhealthy eggs, blood tests, hormone injections, changing diets, endless waiting, physical and mental exhaustion, financial burdens, and difficult doctors. <br />
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With each new attempt we hoped, prayed and fasted for each other. When we visited each month we talked about how hard it was to know if we were even on the right path. Should we continue or quit? Was adoption the answer? Would it all be worth it? I felt very strongly that I could only pursue one option at a time. I would follow our fertility journey to the end of the road and if it failed we would begin looking into adoption. Katie felt compelled to complete an application and home study and actively pursue adoption while going through in vitro. We talked about our choices and faith and hope and the love of our Heavenly Father. Then we took turns believing that everything would work out in the end.<br />
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Eventually Katie and her husband swtiched doctors and we followed suit. We ended up going to Dr. Andrew at East Bay Fertility. He seemed to be solving some of their problems and we were looking for new solutions. Jordan and I only had two remaining embryos, and one more chance to try. We put our trust in Dr. Andrew and began treatment for immune issues and a blood clotting disorder. In November we transferred the embryos, prayed for a miracle, and waited. Jordan and I braced ourselves for bad news at every blood draw and every ultrasound, and were stunned when the news was good. I was pregnant! Not only was I pregnant, but we were expecting twins! We held our breath through that first trimester and prayed that Katie and Josh would experience the same miracle. <br />
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They tried one more time with renewed hope and it just didn't work. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0dMxvtlyahz1VdQZJs41Nq8DyRzhii2XdHMedv8J8FsozR6k8WEukVHi_zX8nXFscSTH4gNGF3mMfl0hIhVgBLGEKECNhZzFsG_9iotunTYEx5c3PrMxVr_GsIvBsq95V4umVvK5Y8cMn/s1600/10648932_10153377071610520_3115822848306038214_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0dMxvtlyahz1VdQZJs41Nq8DyRzhii2XdHMedv8J8FsozR6k8WEukVHi_zX8nXFscSTH4gNGF3mMfl0hIhVgBLGEKECNhZzFsG_9iotunTYEx5c3PrMxVr_GsIvBsq95V4umVvK5Y8cMn/s320/10648932_10153377071610520_3115822848306038214_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>I took her flowers one afternoon, self-conscious of my growing belly in the face of such disappointment. Later I asked if they would try again, and she said she wasn't sure. She felt grateful they had options, but needed some time and space to choose their next step. We didn't see each other for a couple of months, but kept in touch through texting. <br />
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Then Katie's miracles began. One morning in March I got a text saying that Katie and Josh were headed to Idaho to meet a potential birth mother. The birth mom found out about Katie and Josh and felt sure that she wanted them to have her unborn baby, which was due any day. This young mother had previously fallen away from her faith, and then found it again as this new life grew inside of her. In the face of great opposition she convinced the biological father and her own family that this baby did not belong to her, but to Josh and Katie. In a matter of days and through a series of miracles the baby was born, and this brave young woman gave an incredible gift to our friends, a sweet and perfect little girl. As I await the birth of our babies, I feel nothing but admiration and respect for her and her selfless choice. I can't imagine being that brave.<br />
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Yesterday Katie, Josh, and baby Chloe stopped by to bring me a baby gift while they were in town. I sat<br />
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with them admiring their precious daughter, and awkwardly moving my giant belly around to get more comfortable. It felt so amazing to know that we had traveled this long road together. We both prayed for answers and miracles. We both tried to make good choices and kept moving towards the outcome we desired most. And in the end we both were blessed with unique experiences on our path to parenthood. After years of struggle the stars seemed to align and God's plan for each of us became evident.<br />
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When Jonah died I still believed in God. I believed in a God who loved me deeply even though he allowed me to suffer. But it became difficult to believe in a God who would listen to the desires of my heart. Traveling this parallel path with Katie has renewed my faith that not only does God love us, but that he actively works with us to help us realize the desires of our hearts. He requires us to be patient, to work, and to engage in the struggle, but in the end I believe he is placing people and solutions in our paths to help us find joy. I am so grateful that Katie's path crossed mine just when I needed it most. It has been such a blessing to watch our individual miracles unfold. <br />
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*A special thanks to Josh and Katie for allowing me to share their story! You should definitely watch this sweet video it will make you smile and cry.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/e87zRmMtPGU" width="560"></iframe>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">"I have absolute certain knowledge, perfect knowledge, that God loves us. He is good, He is our Father, and He expects us to pray, and trust, and be believing, and not give up, and not panic, and not retreat, and not jump ship, when something doesn't seem to be going just right. We stay in, we keep working, we keep believing, keep trusting, following that same path and we will live to fall in His arms and feel His embrace and hear Him say, ""I told you that it'd be okay, I told you it would be all right.""</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Mercury SSm A', 'Mercury SSm B'; line-height: 19.5px;"> - Jeffrey R. Holland</span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-16642332861028159202015-06-21T20:50:00.000-07:002015-06-21T20:50:04.501-07:00Weathering the Storm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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. </div>
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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. <br />
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0usF6i1I7VDUuPwHD71qtOEYPsSPSaZTjMt4QmyVDLDH9TppHbD7H_UbHWTp88gH0QIQBrq-VcmjAZGmYR-u8G-oC8_USSbfNjejyd_74A-8r5x_oVBTMWux6XhFsd7luq0VvAh3DRPNV/s1600/IMG_1895.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0usF6i1I7VDUuPwHD71qtOEYPsSPSaZTjMt4QmyVDLDH9TppHbD7H_UbHWTp88gH0QIQBrq-VcmjAZGmYR-u8G-oC8_USSbfNjejyd_74A-8r5x_oVBTMWux6XhFsd7luq0VvAh3DRPNV/s320/IMG_1895.jpg" width="320" /></a>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. </div>
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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. </div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-83855917136984311072015-06-08T14:56:00.000-07:002015-06-08T15:20:22.983-07:00This,Too, Shall PassLast 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. <br />
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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."<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwopWuW9JtAKbk57Dbchqadux5YVRnhGIAmtQ_9PLEoWr41LbbEBQ_PvcCJzbaTN-h0WihtkXPW8jVX67nOYFg4OTh3tMoXT_xi_y5jHKSXI6B1gYUhzXGupoXSrlQxXGrIB9VuX_pqug/s1600/IMG_0510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwopWuW9JtAKbk57Dbchqadux5YVRnhGIAmtQ_9PLEoWr41LbbEBQ_PvcCJzbaTN-h0WihtkXPW8jVX67nOYFg4OTh3tMoXT_xi_y5jHKSXI6B1gYUhzXGupoXSrlQxXGrIB9VuX_pqug/s320/IMG_0510.jpg" width="240" /></a>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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-81881650491645516422015-05-10T17:24:00.000-07:002015-05-10T17:24:49.367-07:00Motherhood and Miracles<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM67i3E2PfD7Dg9FPLU5umA0uDj3ndwi8l6Ve3eGqHk_rePhwGvUJmTbVPsF9NnvGA5l1CH7KPJRLz4lHH5kosePB1k2LzO-cf9ChOOz9ySQAHZ146B0unRHOqmkushIwQfGzDHMrcmeRb/s1600/20150510_165644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM67i3E2PfD7Dg9FPLU5umA0uDj3ndwi8l6Ve3eGqHk_rePhwGvUJmTbVPsF9NnvGA5l1CH7KPJRLz4lHH5kosePB1k2LzO-cf9ChOOz9ySQAHZ146B0unRHOqmkushIwQfGzDHMrcmeRb/s320/20150510_165644.jpg" width="228" /></a>Motherhood is complicated. Even as I sit here at my computer ready to write, my heart and head can't seem to agree on the message I want to share. My life as a mother has been a dichotomy of intense sorrow and overwhelming joy. I have had the unique experience of dipping my toes into motherhood, sampling it's trials and triumphs, and then watching and waiting on the sidelines wondering if I would ever return. Even now as I type and feel my expanding belly press against my thighs I wonder if I will return. Will we all make it safely through the next three months into the realm of motherhood and family again? How can something seem simultaneously tenuous and inevitable. <br />
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This morning as I dried my hair I had myself convinced that this Mother's day would be joyful. I even preached to Jordan about women needing to let go of the guilt, pain, and sorrow that often accompanies this day. Looking back I'm pretty sure this was a pep talk for myself. We talked about how men never seem to feel guilty on Father's Day. They just seem to soak up the love and adoration of their families. Why shouldn't women do the same? Walking out the door I felt empowered, grateful, joyful, radiant and ready for Mother's day. <br />
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Then I lost it, sitting on a hard metal chair on the very back row of church. <br /><br />
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I was fine in the beginning. Three beautiful young women who are about to graduate from high school spoke about their mother's and how their mom's radiate Christlike attributes. While they spoke I peacefully gazed at my belly watching little feet, hands, and unidentified body parts pop and glide across my stomach. My pregnant belly and the babies inside are nothing short of a miracle to me. My attention is always on them and I feel like I have been blessed with abundance as I watch them move. <br />
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I felt really good. Then the children in the congregation got up to sing a song for their mothers, and my heart began to break and I could not reign it in. As a rule for daily living I try not to focus on what Jordan and I have lost. Most of my grief and sorrow has transformed into gratitude for the experience of being Jonah's mother. And after years of infertility and longing for motherhood I feel like it was a miracle that we had him in our home, even for a short time. But seeing those children at the front of the chapel singing to their mother's tugged at my heart and brought my grief to the forefront in a way I haven't experienced or allowed myself to experience for years. I felt the profound loss of our sweet Jonah. It became so real to me that he would be four, almost five, singing with the children at the front of the chapel. <i>Mother, I love you, Mother, I do</i>. I started crying tears of grief and sorrow as my more sensible side tried to "keep it together." <br />
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As the meeting came to a close I wiped my tears from my red and swollen cheeks, accepted the token gift of mother's day chocolate from one of the young men and realized that motherhood is a messy endeavor. The choice to be a mother, whether realized or unfulfilled, is an act of faith and vulnerability. When you desire to be a mother you open your heart to the depth of all of life's emotions. Sometimes those emotions are amazing and sometimes they are devastating. I've decided that is why this day is so hard for so many. Everything is exposed and there is no place to hide. It is possible to feel intense gratitude and a multitude of sorrows in the same breath. But that is also the beauty of motherhood. It is frightening endeavor that is full of possibility. <br />
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I came home, ate lunch, and settled in for a long Sunday nap. When I woke up Jordan was lying beside me. I asked him if it made him sad to see those children singing. He said it did. I embraced the feeling, uncovered my round belly, and waited and watched for the babies to kick. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-16067421834129569072015-03-10T20:41:00.000-07:002015-03-10T20:41:19.807-07:00Baby A and Baby B! 18 weeks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We got an unexpected treat of having an early ultrasound this week to check on the twins and to find out their genders! I have no words to describe how grateful I am that these two are healthy and moving and have beating hearts. I am overwhelmed by the opportunity to carry them and feel them move. It seems as if I pray for them every minute and every hour. I often wondered if I would get this chance again, and can't believe they are growing inside of me. It is so amazing and still feels unreal, but it also feels like the most beautiful miracle possible. </div>
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<br />Here is a short video of our two little ones. </div>
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We are having a girl and a boy! </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #333333; line-height: 30.5999984741211px; text-align: start;">"The Lord compensates the faithful for every loss. That which is taken away from those who love the Lord will be added unto them in His own way. While it may not come at the time we desire, the faithful will know that every tear today will eventually be returned a hundredfold with tears of rejoicing and </span><a class="no-link-style" href="http://lds.org/topic/gratitude/" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-image-outset: initial !important; border-image-repeat: initial !important; border-image-slice: initial !important; border-image-source: initial !important; border-image-width: initial !important; border: none !important; color: #2f393a; line-height: 30.5999984741211px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none !important; vertical-align: baseline;">gratitude</a><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #333333; line-height: 30.5999984741211px; text-align: start;">." Joseph B. Wirthlin</span></span></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-86373469295279990892015-02-01T14:15:00.000-08:002015-02-01T14:15:04.789-08:00A Season of Joy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpyVRR5DRDztm86iNz7AccRwLRSpV2cKAo7Nlik7sEfMm2jOXKumBvMAnY3DUZdPrO8FX6uOmG4fegK0cI0_KKeHxkdAUTtEyB387QUNvxYlS1vQrwjYaBbp3ZrNcPvNAfJz8OaarUVHN/s1600/226264_10150248990624402_268661_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpyVRR5DRDztm86iNz7AccRwLRSpV2cKAo7Nlik7sEfMm2jOXKumBvMAnY3DUZdPrO8FX6uOmG4fegK0cI0_KKeHxkdAUTtEyB387QUNvxYlS1vQrwjYaBbp3ZrNcPvNAfJz8OaarUVHN/s1600/226264_10150248990624402_268661_n.jpg" height="320" width="191" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On an indian summer day before Jonah died I remember feeling pure joy. The moment was simple. Jordan was home from work laying in the blue nylon hammock strung up between a fence post and our pine tree. Jonah was in his swing, giggling uncontrollably each time he approached my waiting arms. His laugh was infectious and seemed to fill the air and my heart with the same magnitude. I had a sweet moment where I recognized the pure joy that I felt. It was a feeling of love and gratitude without fear or longing. It felt set apart and holy. In hindsight I know that it was both of those things. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><br />Only a few days later our whole world seemed to crumble around us. We said goodbye to Jonah, soaked our pillows in tears, and tried to pick up the pieces of our home and family. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><br />In the three years that have passed since Jonah's death I have felt an amazing array of emotions. Some that I would not have believed were possible. The day we lost Jonah I experienced indescribable pain and the feeling of my heart being crushed by the weight of intense sorrow. In quiet lonely moments I have felt anger that burned inside of me and seemed unquenchable, peace that surpassed my limited understanding, and overwhelming fear as we faced seemingly endless disappointments. I discovered a deep and new found empathy for the heartaches of loved ones and total strangers. I have also fallen deeply in love with my husband as I have witnessed his kindness, endurance, and constant selflessness. </span><br /><br />But I am not sure I have recaptured the joy that I felt in that moment in our backyard. I have experienced happiness, laughter, peace and love, but joy has felt elusive. <br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Twelve weeks ago Jordan and I began our third and final round of in vitro. We had two remaining embryos to transfer and several obstacle to overcome including genetics, my killer immune system, and a blood clotting disorder. I felt excited about the possibility of getting pregnant, but I also felt an overwhelming fear of the additional pain and heartache that might come with another miscarriage. I woke up every night worried and anxious, my heart racing and my mind imagining all of the ways in which my heart could break again.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMyaI0hinKQCnm1Nb1vhPXV9BR3rdnW_yFn6TjfVffOZeRyU8hP9f_iL-aW1EuPpTxFRft9ifyhFkhtkPa0AtUOLBflysXCWO-W-QkoXItBx_u2yklbbS2C3kvJ9q4a0QeQfAS5D2y9Y9/s1600/2014-12-27+12.10.31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMyaI0hinKQCnm1Nb1vhPXV9BR3rdnW_yFn6TjfVffOZeRyU8hP9f_iL-aW1EuPpTxFRft9ifyhFkhtkPa0AtUOLBflysXCWO-W-QkoXItBx_u2yklbbS2C3kvJ9q4a0QeQfAS5D2y9Y9/s1600/2014-12-27+12.10.31.jpg" height="245" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">After a long two weeks of waiting I went for my first blood draw I braced myself for bad news and disappointment, but only good news followed. I was pregnant and my hormone levels looked great. Still each day I wondered if I felt sick enough or tired enough and waited for the signs of another failed pregnancy. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">At 6.5 weeks we went for our first ultrasound expecting the worst only to discover that we are pregnant with TWINS! We were both stunned. </span></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">We have had five ultrasounds and each time Jordan and I are a bundle of nerves, yet each time we have seen and heard beating hearts, wiggly arms and legs, and growing babies. It is nothing short of a miracle.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdj3LpQVFREkbbYZt_zlwNuOReJoT34m_IZd6M_V8ltqFK7QRyDLc2ce5eglSmTTgS-GBFd4yrm8Sdjpvke4OyjfQ5vYgbyxn0NWFvQyKtiM_qCcwdnTT_438vnTeMBQ3lbsFwJSrpPSMr/s1600/2015-01-25+09.09.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdj3LpQVFREkbbYZt_zlwNuOReJoT34m_IZd6M_V8ltqFK7QRyDLc2ce5eglSmTTgS-GBFd4yrm8Sdjpvke4OyjfQ5vYgbyxn0NWFvQyKtiM_qCcwdnTT_438vnTeMBQ3lbsFwJSrpPSMr/s1600/2015-01-25+09.09.48.jpg" height="320" width="263" /></a><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">And yet I am still so afraid. Every day I wake up and wonder if I am still pregnant. I have been afraid to share the news because it feels like celebrating will inevitably be followed by heartache. Each time I say the words "I'm pregnant...with twins" it feels like a lie or a crazy dream. But I am trying to be brave and say it and rejoice in it. I want to be joyful and I want to share that joy with our amazing friends and family who have supported us, and prayed with us, and loved us through 5 very difficult years. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">I fully recognize that it is still early and anything could happen. But I think my fear has become a barrier to the feeling of pure joy I want to recapture. </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">I felt prompted this morning to read in the book of Ecclesiastes about times and seasons. I read the following words:<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;"><i><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">To every </span><span class="clarityWord" style="background: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); border: 0px; color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">thing there is</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;"> a </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">season</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">, and a </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">time</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;"> to every purpose under the heaven...</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">A time to weep, and a time to </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">laugh</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">; a time to </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">mourn</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">, and a time to dance;</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00784314); color: #2f393a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15.5555562973022px; line-height: 22px;">Heaven knows that we have had our time to weep and mourn. It has been a long, painful, and sometimes shockingly beautiful season. But as I read this scripture I felt like I was given permission to move into a new season - a season of joy, and hope, and laughter.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFtm60JnI4M2OTAADVXhLoR6ak9CdEbNE9nfn3J9MDdLyqWxTfJhgZ1u_507oMNklRvHG36PoWCCyClfWqN16B3gGpkWj8utMcgYoWs1cvim3BYAGDf_IswZGDBIQ_q6CokldXRC89BstM/s1600/IMG_3876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFtm60JnI4M2OTAADVXhLoR6ak9CdEbNE9nfn3J9MDdLyqWxTfJhgZ1u_507oMNklRvHG36PoWCCyClfWqN16B3gGpkWj8utMcgYoWs1cvim3BYAGDf_IswZGDBIQ_q6CokldXRC89BstM/s1600/IMG_3876.jpg" height="320" width="177" /></a>On the mornings I felt like joining her, Mary would arrive at my doorstep with a smile on her face. She didn't have a yoga mat so she would bring a long green and white cushion from her patio furniture. As class started she would lay her lumpy cushion alongside my mat and begin moving through the poses. After a few sun salutations and downward facing dogs I would turn to see Mary in child's pose taking a much needed break. Although she enjoyed the class, I knew she was not coming to meet her own needs. Her choice to come to yoga each week was a choice to support me. She knew I needed to be strong again. She knew I needed help. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4BHAyWeXuV9i1ljmjqG7TTr8rxeGQXDs1Z2E9-17KQz_cRaPFI1448JdJoaybqbnEAPa-HC-hZ_YpN-cKT3UJ_DM5hEqontYQVcOiLMMQXZLl7WnR1twcDVhVTQF7b-OQg3vqizq80TC/s1600/IMG_3877.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4BHAyWeXuV9i1ljmjqG7TTr8rxeGQXDs1Z2E9-17KQz_cRaPFI1448JdJoaybqbnEAPa-HC-hZ_YpN-cKT3UJ_DM5hEqontYQVcOiLMMQXZLl7WnR1twcDVhVTQF7b-OQg3vqizq80TC/s1600/IMG_3877.jpg" height="320" width="177" /></a>As the weeks passed, and I began saying yes more than no, I began to feel strong again. It felt good to move and stretch. I regained my appetite and felt more energy. As I practiced hard poses my capacity and strength increased. As I fell out of other poses my muscles began to compensate and correct. At the end of each class, when I laid flat on the floor in meditation, I found space to reflect and I often cried. Mary became a dear friend and she carried me until I could carry myself again. </div>
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Now I wake up early in the morning, when the world is still dark, and I drive to a yoga class. I want to practice. Comparison is frowned on in yoga, but I can't help but strive to move as freely and effortlessly as some of the people in my class. I watch people in my class move through amazing poses: handstands, headstands, and arm balances. I think about the practice it takes to be able to push your body and gain strength, and to make such things look smooth and easy. I want to be that strong and graceful. I want to be able to move into the full expression of each pose. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQLJ4blp3g6-0PFKojFrEB_GinzZ_lnJb-iCUQXaCei1D4banSgsJj6J6_Ou0xBDZc_TNTVJA53T4-aT3M6-_-xD1FG_yqBTVfTAnhdq_b_1Y6o_GCqnL_TltQZH0QKjqkMARxxp1AhLhe/s1600/IMG_3900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQLJ4blp3g6-0PFKojFrEB_GinzZ_lnJb-iCUQXaCei1D4banSgsJj6J6_Ou0xBDZc_TNTVJA53T4-aT3M6-_-xD1FG_yqBTVfTAnhdq_b_1Y6o_GCqnL_TltQZH0QKjqkMARxxp1AhLhe/s1600/IMG_3900.jpg" height="320" width="177" /></a>Each morning when my class is ending and the sun is bringing light into a sleeping world I think about the ideas of practice and full expression. Everything in life requires practice. We try and fail and try again until we begin to master the challenges we face. We look to those who we admire and we follow their lead. We slowly become better at the things we practice and eventually reach a point where we can move into a fullness of understanding or action or love. </div>
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I'm trying to carry these ideas into my religious practice. I have been trying to visualize what it looks like to fully express christ-like attributes like love, compassion, and service. I want these ideas to shape who I am trying to become. When I think about the fullest expression of charity I will always think of Mary, stretching into a difficult pose, on her green and white patio cushion, carrying me through my heartache to a place of health and healing. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">I believe that we learn by practice. Whether it means to learn to dance by practicing dancing or to learn to live by practicing living, the principles are the same. In each, it is the performance of a dedicated precise set of acts, physical or intellectual, from which comes shape of achievement, a sense of one's being, a satisfaction of spirit. One becomes, in some area, an athlete of God. Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #181818;"><br /></span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/47790.Martha_Graham" style="background-color: white; color: #666600; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">Martha Graham</a></i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-78278196798299046222014-07-24T19:01:00.000-07:002014-07-24T19:01:39.836-07:00The River<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc1xwWootBiipXiPqkLArvBTc6nF-yR1-HWP2wb8Wx0AK7pPunDlNCifmQec-OjC5Klv80Dxx2DjaFhaB1OWvkM99Qf7JxO9Bfd7AqlcElYWswDPOM34esDh5VsUD3uSjuAjka38QjsBWo/s1600/IMG_3663.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc1xwWootBiipXiPqkLArvBTc6nF-yR1-HWP2wb8Wx0AK7pPunDlNCifmQec-OjC5Klv80Dxx2DjaFhaB1OWvkM99Qf7JxO9Bfd7AqlcElYWswDPOM34esDh5VsUD3uSjuAjka38QjsBWo/s1600/IMG_3663.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a>Two nights ago I woke up to the gentle motion of the river's current lifting and lowering my body. My feet pressed firmly against the tightly inflated tube of our raft and I sat up. The hot dry canyon air lingered from another sweltering day on the river, waiting to cool until just before sunrise. I reached out in the darkness and was surprised to feel the rough grit of sandstone against my fingers. <i>We must have drifted in the night, </i>I thought<i>. We are pressed against a cliff. </i>A moment of panic filled me, and I glanced up searching for the reassuring light of vivid stars or the spotlight full moon from our previous nights on the river. But the night was only black. I looked more fervently trying to maneuver beyond whatever overhang was obstructing my view, but I only found more darkness and complete stillness. <br />
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Gradually dim horizontal stripes illuminated the wall behind me. My hand moved up the canyon wall and as it did the grit beneath my fingers became smooth. The lines of light rested on my hand, and the heavy-duty waterproof tube beneath my feet began to feel soft and fuzzy. I could hear the faint sound of an engine approaching as the light intensified. I turned to look at the source of the light and began to see the familiar angles of my bedroom window, the framed photo of Jonah on my dresser, and the wool Pendleton blanket beneath my feet. A car sped by outside, the light disappeared, and I found myself alone, crouched on the edge of my bed feeling completely disoriented. <br />
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In the morning the feeling lingered. I couldn't help but wonder why my subconscious mind remained on the river. Jordan and I just returned from a 10-day commercial river trip working as unpaid crew through the Grand Canyon. It was majestic and exciting. But I have never spent a vacation working so hard. Each day we woke up at 5:00 am as the night sky faded into dawn. We made breakfast, lunch, and dinner for 30 people amid blowing sand and blazing heat. We cleaned dishes and moved the groover (toilet). Twice a day we loaded and unloaded cots, chairs, bags, tables, and dutch ovens. We baked in the sun and watched our fingers turn to prunes after hours of torrential rain. We held tight through 8 days of rapids and felt our skin harden and peel in the dry heat of the canyon. We fell asleep each night, creating makeshift beds across the hard metal frames of the raft. On our final day as we motored off the river towards Lake Mead my body was ready to come home. My muscles ached, and my face was ravaged, but my heart and mind could have stayed much longer.<br />
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The day we launched on the river was July 14th. It would have been Jonah's 4th birthday. In the past I have found joy and peace in sharing this day with everyone I know. I have felt that the power of collective memory and mass observance would carry me through and make Jonah's short life more meaningful. It has meant a lot to me to know that people still remember him and think of him. But this year was different. Instead of posting on Facebook or writing on this blog I sat next to my husband in the sandy quiet beauty of Redwall Cavern. As people milled around and took photos we talked quietly about our little boy, and wondered what kind of 4 year old he would be. We said how much we missed him and love him and then returned to the river. It was a simple conversation in a beautiful place shared with the only person who loves Jonah exactly the way I do. And it felt like enough to me. <br />
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I recognize now that the river provided a much needed escape from my daily struggles. A place where few people knew my story and my heartache; where I could remain anonymous amongst the rapids. A place where I could lay in solitude beneath endless layers of stars and satellites and simply contemplate their beauty until sleep took precedence. A place where doctors appointments and life's trials faded behind more basic needs like food and shelter and safety. I found as I immersed myself in the canyon I was forced into the present moment. My thoughts stayed in the stretch of river that laid before me, with no anticipation of what would come around each bend. I lost any sense of time or sequence or obligation. I surrendered to the experience, disconnected, and let the river carry me. It felt like the purest form of freedom. A freedom that is not easily forgotten or abandoned.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTQXwZlICnfwQg3KwWuyFRyu3IWqsIsm9HmOm78cKzAcle4BiW2V9fZcpYoDiKtpnQZiyQ_whXomVmRUwqSlpkLKFRryaVmzJfKZbyzTwEj_UTqhBHvinyAtf5NlCRdBRkJ-1_Rk1-TU5V/s1600/268202_128490300572644_7957098_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTQXwZlICnfwQg3KwWuyFRyu3IWqsIsm9HmOm78cKzAcle4BiW2V9fZcpYoDiKtpnQZiyQ_whXomVmRUwqSlpkLKFRryaVmzJfKZbyzTwEj_UTqhBHvinyAtf5NlCRdBRkJ-1_Rk1-TU5V/s1600/268202_128490300572644_7957098_n.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Peace of Wild Things</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">by Wendell Berry</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">When despair for the world grows in me </span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">and I wake in the night at the least sound</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">I go and lie down where the wood drake</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">I come into the peace of wild things</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px; padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">who do not tax their lives with forethought</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">of grief. I come into the presence of still water.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">And I feel above me the day-blind stars</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">waiting with their light. For a time</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.</span></i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-39075443776833052222014-06-14T22:42:00.000-07:002014-06-14T22:42:09.461-07:00Answers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VX2ls2GKGjdRb_yPLh-TPwChJTmVGwzp3CP3NS5zM-TQmc3mDkVFCtogvDYvkNwWvc9dwqtWwS_GivIGGXwcFQLiUJgJZ5fbcPbWw2S0wJTIVxPUiv3Jv2KxwGA71npNqdBoi6qkryWN/s1600/JordyJulie+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VX2ls2GKGjdRb_yPLh-TPwChJTmVGwzp3CP3NS5zM-TQmc3mDkVFCtogvDYvkNwWvc9dwqtWwS_GivIGGXwcFQLiUJgJZ5fbcPbWw2S0wJTIVxPUiv3Jv2KxwGA71npNqdBoi6qkryWN/s1600/JordyJulie+(1).jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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On Sunday morning I drove to church with tears blurring my vision and waves of sadness crashing over me. I was in the midst a full blown meltdown in the car. I gasped for air as my shoulders shook, and my cheeks became a growing delta of salt and makeup. It was dangerous. I couldn't seem to keep the tears from coming so I made a quick detour and ended up at Jonah's grave, a safe a quiet place to cry. I parked the car, grabbed a tissue, crumbled at his headstone and wept tears of true and deep sorrow. </div>
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That morning a subtle change in a pinkish line on a home pregnancy test signaled another impending miscarriage and another failed round of IVF. More prayers spoken and seemingly lost in the ether between heaven and earth. More heartache upon an ever growing stack of heartache. More money down the drain. And yet another opportunity to meltdown in the car. </div>
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As I sat in my Sunday best on the slightly wet lawn of the cemetery I felt alone. Of course I felt intense disappointment, but I recognized that the root of my emotion was a sense of being unheard and forsaken. </div>
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When Jonah passed away I felt everything so deeply. The pain was heavy, but it was matched with a lightness of peace and perspective that was transcendent. The grief seemed endless, but so did God's love for me. I felt heartbroken, but I did not feel forsaken. As time has passed the emotions have become less extreme, more subtle, and more easily veiled by life's everyday distractions. And so I find myself wondering sometimes if God is still there and if He knows me. </div>
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I asked those questions aloud as I contemplated the difficult path that Jordan and I have travelled for the past 4 years. I wondered if I had missed some signal that would have led us down a smoother way. I begged God to show me His hand in my life. I asked Him to make his influence clear to me, even unmistakeable. I knew that if I could be reminded of His presence, and know of His love for me, I could keep trying. Once my face was sufficiently red and puffy, and every word of frustration and pain was uttered, I pulled myself together and finished my interrupted journey to church. Then I spent about an hour in the hallway and the bathroom trying to hide the evidence of a tumultuous morning. </div>
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The next morning I had my blood drawn, and by afternoon my intuition and the fading pregnancy were confirmed. I received the news at work and felt sufficiently numb to continue through meetings and menial tasks without much emotion.</div>
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But when I got home I found a simple white envelope waiting for me on the table. It contained a beautiful letter from a woman, a mother, I've never met. She told me that she visited the <a href="http://sacredgifts.byu.edu/">Sacred Gifts</a> exhibition at BYU and saw our story about loving and losing Jonah on the IPad app. As she listened to me talk about Jonah, she knew instantly about his genetic condition because 6 months ago she gave birth to a little boy with Treacher Collins Syndrome. She wrote with such love of how my testimony and experience touched her heart and also answered her prayers. Then she wrote these words:</div>
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<i>I hope that this note is something that can strengthen your testimony and reminds you that the Lord has a divine purpose and plan for all of us. I also hope this note reassures you that prayers are truly answered, because you were an answer to ours.</i></div>
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I knew as I read those words that she had been inspired to write them. I began to weep again, this time because I felt truly and uniquely known in a vast and endless universe. I recognized that this answer was inspired by God, penned by the hand of a loving mother, and delivered to my doorstep on the very day I needed it. I could not deny the beauty and power of such a quiet miracle. Her words echoed exactly the essence of my heartfelt and desperate plea from the previous morning, words whispered in the solitude of a sacred space. </div>
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As I read and cried, the peace I sought poured over me and I knew, as I have known before, that God is a God of love. I could feel His love for me, especially in the midst of pain. I felt sure that my prayers had been answered even while disappointment lingered. I felt gratitude creep past my resentment, and a fledgling hope remove the fears that were circling my heart. I envisioned in my mind a beautiful cycle of sincere prayers lifting up towards heaven and being redirected gracefully and purposefully towards the hearts and minds of ordinary people who need answers, who need each other, and who need to feel known in the universe. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Though we are incomplete, God loves us completely. Though we are imperfect, He loves us perfectly. Though we may feel lost and without compass, God's love encompasses us completely. ... He loves every one of us, even those who are flawed, rejected, awkward, sorrowful, or broken.</span><i> </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Dieter F. Uchtdorf</span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-27858129133474915652013-10-20T10:47:00.000-07:002013-10-20T11:38:23.164-07:00False Summit<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDy-99wwBXn02eSRDW03XmgztMRFBfc8Zbu3Bmt1rI9_W7cBuNM0XSTKh8tp92xroYP3YtQPMMsRsJqm_FBBvytwADt8iC2WSyupHeyjojPBYHs4jgvQSzSI3zIpRejYctP4aqSW2QXWIP/s1600/2013-10-15+18.14.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDy-99wwBXn02eSRDW03XmgztMRFBfc8Zbu3Bmt1rI9_W7cBuNM0XSTKh8tp92xroYP3YtQPMMsRsJqm_FBBvytwADt8iC2WSyupHeyjojPBYHs4jgvQSzSI3zIpRejYctP4aqSW2QXWIP/s320/2013-10-15+18.14.11.jpg" width="240" /></a>When I first started hiking mountains with Jordan I was continually fooled by the false summit. <i>Surely this is the end</i>, I would think. <i> Just a few more switchbacks, then one last scramble to the summit. </i><br />
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I lacked strength and endurance, so after hours of switchbacks and rock scrambling my eyes would settle on the closest rocky peak. Time after time I would tap into what seemed like my final reserve of energy to scale the peak ahead, only to gain a new perspective. Once we attained higher ground it would become clear that the true summit was merely hidden from our view, and was still distant. A false summit always looks like the highest point, until you reach it.<br />
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Two weeks ago I thought we had reached a summit in our lives. After two years of doctor's appointments, surgical procedures, $20,000, countless blood draws, and even more shots I spent an anxious afternoon waiting for a phone call. I tried to distract myself by folding laundry, napping, and cleaning, but my anxiety was palpable and coursed through me. When the phone call finally came, the nurse gave me the news I had hoped for. I was pregnant. My hormone levels looked fantastic, higher than expected, and I felt so grateful. <br />
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Now two weeks later the blood draws continue, but the phone calls have changed. My hormone levels are dropping. The doctor has taken me off my medication. This week promises a painful miscarriage instead of a healthy growing baby; a false summit and more mountains to climb. <br />
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I knew this was a possibility. I knew that a positive could become a negative. I knew that it was still early. But I had so much hope, we both did. <br />
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I prayed for a different outcome. I did everything within my power to improve our chances. I endured shots every morning, and sometimes at night. I didn't eat blue cheese or deli meat. I took prenatal vitamins, and baby aspirin, and fish oil tablets. And yet I find myself on a foothill, and can't help but wonder if I have been climbing the wrong mountain all this time. <br />
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I have discovered when you arrive at a false summit your choices are limited, but you still have choices. <br />
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You can decide that the path ahead of you is too difficult, too dangerous, too steep, or too far. Or maybe you are just too tired of trying. You can abandon the time and energy you have invested, and the goal you have set, and return to your starting point. Sometimes starting over is necessary. <br />
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You can rest. Sometimes you just need to take a break, eat a snack, and replenish your reserves. Often we are replenished by stopping our frantic efforts, reflecting on the distance we've gained, and then taking a moment to see the beauty around us. <br />
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Finally, you can choose to acknowledge the reality of the situation, and continue on. You can accept the reality that although you have climbed difficult peaks there are more to come. You can cling to the knowledge that there is strength and endurance to be gained by continuing on a difficult path. You can hold to the promises of those who have reached the summit. The promise that the true journey's end will be worth the pain and struggle. <br />
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Last Tuesday I had a breakdown. It was the usual kind, full of questions, tears, and disappointment. But I found that I could not sustain my tears, and that my questions felt hollow. I recognized them as questions that I've asked before; questions that have been answered. I am finding it harder to dwell in this heartache, because I know that God will lift me out of it. I feel like I should be devastated, but instead I feel faithful and hopeful. <br />
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I don't know where Jordan and I are headed. I don't know how many false summits we will have to climb, but I do know that I am stronger than I used to be. I know that I want to keep climbing with Jordan. I am wiser than I was before. I am really tired, but I am not finished. <br />
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Today I have chosen to rest. I feel overwhelmed by the idea of moving forward. But today I can rest and recognize the distance I have traveled, the strength I have gained, and the new perspective that comes even at the peak of a false summit. <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-87106842087839292662013-09-29T06:00:00.000-07:002013-10-02T08:14:24.107-07:00Negotiations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today it has been two years. Two years since Jonah's sweet spirit left his beautiful little body. Two years since I last sang him a lullaby and held him in my arms. Two years since we had a busy little toddler creating chaos in our home. Oh, how we miss our Jonah.<br />
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The last two years have been filled with sorrow and disappointment; work and struggle; peace and hope. We have cried a lot, prayed a lot, and loved more deeply because of our loss. We have hoped for more children and endured difficult setbacks. We have served in new ways, met new people, and found a new kind of happiness to hold onto.<br />
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Today I have been reflecting on how my heart has been changed by the experience of losing my son. My thoughts keep returning to the way I pray to my Heavenly Father. My approach, my practice, and my purpose have shifted. <br />
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I used to be a negotiator. When life became challenging, or I wanted something deeply I would begin the process of bargaining with God. My prayers went something like this.<br />
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<i>Dear Heavenly Father, I really want (to ace this test, to buy this house, to get this job, etc.) </i></div>
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<i>If you give me this I will (read my scriptures, say my prayers, serve others, etc.)</i></div>
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Or, I would promise to give something up (swearing, skipping church, lying, drinking coke, etc.) It was a naive exchange of efforts and blessings. The amazing thing is, that although I often fell short on the promises I made, my prayers were answered, and I felt like God knew me and loved me. Looking back, I feel like even though my prayers were imperfect, and sometimes selfish, they came from a place of sincerity and represented my simple yet imperfect understanding of God and his ways. This is a testament to me that life is not about perfection, but about learning. </div>
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When Jonah died, my prayers changed. </div>
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I began asking God to give me understanding, to bless me with patience, to help me feel strong again. The thing is I felt like I had nothing to offer in return. I was weak, broken, and struggling. I had to abandon my previous technique, because I couldn't even get out of bed. How could I promise to do my visiting teaching? So I just asked God to bless me, not because of my works or my promises, but because He loved me. And He did. In the past two years He has blessed me with all of the things I have asked for; with love and patience and strength and incredible peace -- a peace that surpasses understanding. </div>
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Now after two years of learning how to pray, I find myself wanting something so badly. I want to be a mother again. I want to see Jordan be a father again; He is such a good father. I want another chance. I find myself praying earnestly and fervently for God to grant us the opportunity to be parents again. But something has changed in me. </div>
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I no longer negotiate with God; I trust Him. I no longer use the covenants and promises I have made as a bargaining chip. As I pray to my Heavenly Father, I ask for the things I desire most, and then I promise Him that no matter what the outcome I will do my best to keep my covenants. And I mean it. I will mourn with those that mourn. I will comfort those that stand in need of comfort. I will be faithful and loyal to my husband. I will care for my parents and siblings. I will clothe the naked, feed the hungry, visit the sick. I will give everything I have to Him, not because He is a genie that grants wishes. Although, I believe all good gifts come from Him. Not because I'm afraid of everlasting punishment or damnation for falling short. But because I love Him, and because I am His daughter. </div>
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On this two year anniversary I am astounded that my heart feels whole again. My life has not been restored to what it once was. It has been transformed. I don't have everything I hope for, but I find myself genuinely laughing, and smiling. The day Jonah died I feared that Jordan would stop loving me and that our relationship would crumble. And yet we are stronger and more in love than we have ever been. </div>
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As we left the hospital on September 29, 2011 I was sure I would never feel true happiness again. Life would only be an exercise in endurance and pain. And yet happiness is here. It is in my home and in my heart. </div>
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Now when I review my negotiations with God they seem so petty. The exchange has always been so lopsided. I hoped for small temporary blessings in exchange for a temporary change of heart. Now, I hope for something more, something eternal. I promise to give Him my whole heart, and I know that he will fill it until it overflows with love, and hope, and peace, and laughter, and joy. <br />
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<i>My dear sisters, the Lord allows us to be tried and tested, sometimes to
our maximum capacity. We have seen the lives of loved ones, and maybe
our own, figuratively burned to the ground and have wondered why a
loving and caring Heavenly Father would allow such things to happen. But
he doesn't leave us in the ashes; he stands with open arms, eagerly
inviting us to come to him. He is building our lives into magnificent
temples where his spirit can dwell eternally. </i>Linda S. Reeves<i><br /></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">P.S. This was all on my mind before watching the General Relief Society broadcast last night. I was so inspired by their messages about making a keeping covenants, and so grateful for the incredible spirit I felt as they shared their messages. <a href="http://www.lds.org/broadcasts/archive/general-relief-society-meeting/2013/09?cid=HPTH091213087&lang=eng"> If you missed it, watch it here.</a></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-78855846339301240692013-09-12T19:51:00.000-07:002013-09-12T19:51:13.893-07:00...Sorrow That the Eye Can't See<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-align: left;">You need to meet these people. They have incredible hearts, incredible testimonies, and incredible challenges. They are all featured in a new video called "</span><a href="http://vimeo.com/72974375" style="text-align: left;">Special Challenges</a><span style="text-align: left;">" that was created by my dear friend Katie Steed. Katie was my roommate at Brigham Young University, and is now a professor of special education at BYU. She is an inspiration to me. From the time she was in high school she has felt a special calling to be an advocate for individuals with special needs and their families. She has been a voice for those who are often unheard or ignored in our neighborhoods, schools, and congregations. She has taught me over and over again that love and faith can move mountains and heal hearts. </span></div>
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<a href="http://vimeo.com/72974375" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSRlA3ODuvRW9G_3n3oMZgFAEkeQlYwnh3kSrkYck5l2ux_UxE6tHDRY_SL4tEB28RL8aQdiwuZWvQotYZS8daCgR6T9pl73jPV3a0mytaSXvN7arSC3wDsDvhG1YJC0BMXIsVDBCq5WZl/s320/Screen+shot+2013-09-08+at+2.56.54+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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This <a href="http://vimeo.com/72974375">video</a> features three families that have children with special needs. It highlights their unique joys, but also paints a very realistic and heartbreaking picture of their pains and struggles.<br />
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As Katie shared this video with me a few weeks ago I wept. I wept because I felt inspired by the deep love these parents have for their children. I wept because I recognize in them some of the pain I have felt as I struggle through my own life. But mostly I wept as one mother shared her connection to the song "Lord, I Would Follow Thee." The title of this blog comes from the second verse of that very song. This sweet mother talked about her new understanding of the lyrics i<i>n the quiet heart is hidden, sorrow that the eye can't see. </i>As I listened to her share her connection to those words my heart connected to hers and I knew I needed to share her message, because it is my message too. <br />
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<a href="http://vimeo.com/72974375" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQrHr7UZ-glzVaAe_0NTiI2ABqQmnUzDvaCqEH1Jy9tagLcgM7R467RhfzZ_vur7jqUqcYUekWvowbX9lo4mvCAZ8s-vvKJAH4NfaEiIPAQoXxH2NguIQ9VqfopxvCfV8Afo-uhfxGaea/s320/Screen+shot+2013-09-08+at+2.59.44+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Love is the answer. We each carry our own personal heartache and yet we each have the capacity to choose love. We can each learn the healer's art and reach out to those around us who carry sometimes deep and often unseen sorrow. <br />
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Katie has taught me about love. She has mourned with me, listened to me, and comforted me in my darkest hours. She is an incredible example of Christlike love, and the love she feels for these families is evident in the powerful message this <a href="http://vimeo.com/72974375">video</a> shares. <br />
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Please take a few minutes to listen to these families and their experiences, share this message with others, and let it guide your actions.<br />
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<a href="http://vimeo.com/72974375">Special Challenges</a><br />
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<i>A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another. </i>John 13:34-35</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-34906844106044154252013-07-12T05:56:00.001-07:002013-07-12T05:56:56.402-07:00Jonah's Gift<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJ7PU2FMvWr7EabozevLmFLSBSPUsSKHjK9NPQDRWlfXpsYddB8uDP1wh8KycV1FYevF3scLGi8bmeYOacIMitYX9vPxo6OZcAUBlGgrFYrsZiivXbd_492ekNV-HNI4F5eXiuFozlSpU/s1600/283312_128489353906072_100002350249798_218965_801031_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJ7PU2FMvWr7EabozevLmFLSBSPUsSKHjK9NPQDRWlfXpsYddB8uDP1wh8KycV1FYevF3scLGi8bmeYOacIMitYX9vPxo6OZcAUBlGgrFYrsZiivXbd_492ekNV-HNI4F5eXiuFozlSpU/s320/283312_128489353906072_100002350249798_218965_801031_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
This week I've been thinking a lot about Jonah. Three years ago this week I was very overdue and anxiously awaiting his arrival. I spent my days wondering if Jordan and I would ever agree on a name for him. I spent my nights walking around our neighborhood, eating spicy curry, and turning like an alligator in a death roll instead of sleeping. I imagined that Jonah's birth would change me. But I could not possibly comprehend how his life would shape mine. <br />
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I am so grateful to Jonah for helping me understand what it means to be a child of God. His life helped me learn to love with my whole heart. His challenges helped me grasp the beauty of an imperfect life. His laugh made me laugh. His smile made me smile. Serving him helped me redefine exhaustion. Losing him taught me that pain is inevitably linked with love. <br />
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Tonight as I sit in a dimly lit motel room in Rangely, Colorado I feel disoriented by the divergent paths our lives have taken. I feel like I should be in the midst of potty-training and preschool preparation. My heart still aches, and my arms long to hold him. And yet, I have come to accept his absence as time has passed. I accept it, but I still want to honor his life and celebrate my sweet Jonah on his third birthday. <br />
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<b>This year, <a href="http://inthequietheartishidden.blogspot.com/2012/07/gift.html">like last year</a>, I hope to honor Jonah's life through simple acts of service. I invite you to celebrate his life with me by mirroring his generous spirit. Do something good on Jonah's birthday, July 14. </b>Be unusually kind. <b> </b>Pay attention to the people around you. Hug someone you love. Call an old friend. When you see someone in need help them. <br />
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Keep it simple. Jonah taught me that love is the simplest gift we give. <br />
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P.S. I would love to hear what gifts you give in Jonah's memory this year. <br />
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<span class="bqQuoteLink"><i>Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope</i>. Maya Angelou</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-31763803012702672102013-06-30T15:35:00.000-07:002013-06-30T15:38:05.482-07:00Mormon Women Project Interview<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.mormonwomen.com/2013/06/27/a-grief-observed/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqqYUB2FVUwXlYHCob6qwZgbF6loDYQS3UoSprprpqQXoNkMk3Yk6vM4qcLvTEvrfi5FDKsKkiDiZ0PWXwSosUh1gvGY-QVokgIdMHjzj5jAzfaFOIScyUc5AD23xSsmqlrAi296OV86KM/s400/Screen+shot+2013-06-30+at+3.58.12+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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I was recently interviewed by my friend Kathryn for the <a href="http://www.mormonwomen.com/2013/06/27/a-grief-observed/">Mormon Women Project</a>. I was so grateful for the invitation, and for the opportunity to share my experience and my testimony with a new audience. But most of all I was grateful to talk about Jonah. It felt so good to say his name. I'm so grateful for the simple conversations in life. There is so much healing in sharing our stories, and so much love in a listening ear.<br />
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Thanks to Kathryn Peterson for taking the time to listen, and to each of you for reading my words and sharing your own stories with me.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>If a story is in you, it has got to come out. </i><br /> William Faulkner </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-17358053994274799402013-06-28T21:12:00.001-07:002013-06-29T05:52:03.176-07:00Scars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.ldsmag.com/ldsmag/churchupdate/images/draperTemple/Draper%20sealing%20room2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.ldsmag.com/ldsmag/churchupdate/images/draperTemple/Draper%20sealing%20room2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
A month ago I sat in the peaceful silence of the Draper <a href="http://www.lds.org/church/temples?lang=eng">Temple</a>, waiting. I stared at the two stark white tube socks that shrouded my feet and contemplated their strange presence in a place of such beauty and refinement. They seemed to me the perfect representation of Mormon practicality - a simple and unpretentious solution born to protect the purity of a sacred space.<br />
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My eyes drifted up to take in the elegant vaulted ceiling, the understated stained glass, and the expansive mirror that hung directly across the room. I took in the beauty and light that surrounded me, but could not seem to look at the people around me - my family. My mom and dad sat beside me; my aunt and uncle and cousins throughout the room; my grandmother nearby. I could not look into their eyes because I knew I would fall apart. I did not want to distract or draw attention to myself so my gaze returned to the safety of my cotton clad feet, and my thoughts turned inward. <br />
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As my eyes scanned the cream-colored carpet I thought about my lovely cousin Lisa. After all it was her joy that brought me and my family to the temple. I thought about the drawn-out heartache she faced on her road to motherhood and the miracle we witnessed as she and her husband adopted two sweet boys from Ethiopia. This day was their day; a day to be <a href="https://www.lds.org/church/temples/why-we-build-temples/what-happens-in-temples">sealed</a> together as an eternal family. My brimming emotion was the result of joy, love, grace, and heartache colliding. I prayed that I could contain the overflow, but my control seemed tenuous at best. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4CXS4lkjVFuNEP3cOg5N8rpvdXJaXQEx8Ga7xnb-JySBw2w80GSJul75CRffSp530H3FThnyRXGAlwQGL7ey4JNq-T1Ui2QkgIfdVJ9M5KvdvGZKXnPZdo6nePMAv22i4275jpv9q0mU/s461/180919_10150142210349402_6699392_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4CXS4lkjVFuNEP3cOg5N8rpvdXJaXQEx8Ga7xnb-JySBw2w80GSJul75CRffSp530H3FThnyRXGAlwQGL7ey4JNq-T1Ui2QkgIfdVJ9M5KvdvGZKXnPZdo6nePMAv22i4275jpv9q0mU/s320/180919_10150142210349402_6699392_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
All at once, I felt the intense physical yearning of my heart to be with Jonah again; to be a whole family again. If only I could hold him for a moment, and feel him in my arms. I felt like singing and praising God for the miracle of my cousin's joy. At the same time, I couldn't help but imagine how and when our miracle would come. I wondered if my return to motherhood would find finality in this life or the next. <br />
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My thoughts drifted to the reality of a doctor's office. Months ago, I found myself looking intently at a small white blip floating across the grey undulating ocean of an ultrasound. <i> </i><br />
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<i>Scar tissue</i>, my doctor explained.<br />
<i>How?</i>, I wondered.<br />
<i>Probably from Jonah's birth</i>, he said.<br />
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His explanation continued. <i>Abnormal. Surgery. Insurance. </i>Throughout this dialogue my thoughts drifted to the symbolism or maybe the irony of an unseen scar; a life-altering change born of joy and pain. How is it that my new heartache is the product of previous joys?<br />
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My eyes were drawn from their downward gaze and my thoughts returned to the present, as Lisa and her family arrived in the sealing room. I looked at her and felt so much gratitude for her journey, and her own unseen scars. Those scars brought such beauty and meaning to the moment. I looked at her mother, my endlessly-compassionate aunt, and quietly acknowledged the scars that grace her heart. I felt very aware that my sweet parents and my wise grandmother share the scars of their children and grandchildren. I contemplated the scars that are added with each passing generation. Then I thanked my Heavenly Father for the beauty of my own scarred life<br />
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In that moment of gratitude the tears finally escaped. I felt such joy in my wounded family. I felt a wholeness that I can only describe as Jonah's sweet spirit, and I felt a perfect peace that is still lingering in the corners of my heart and mind.<br />
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<i>It's a shallow life that doesn't give a person a few scars. </i><br />
Garrison Keillor Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-38192773953314709452013-04-16T22:58:00.000-07:002013-04-16T22:58:30.864-07:00A New HeartLast 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.<br />
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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?" <br />
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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." <br />
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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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLGxaUpHgedAh_OtJa5Z2wumM2AW4A1PBU34rxxIZHIfHxSEwFRPFQKly8isutn7MUwizl2xPNzJ8jFuMoUIZzdwwZrFAWhvE9cZ53HUSmSuftMfDosjaVN5qIdDTahHjSb1xaASWQuUAf/s1600/2013-04-11+12.15.52.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLGxaUpHgedAh_OtJa5Z2wumM2AW4A1PBU34rxxIZHIfHxSEwFRPFQKly8isutn7MUwizl2xPNzJ8jFuMoUIZzdwwZrFAWhvE9cZ53HUSmSuftMfDosjaVN5qIdDTahHjSb1xaASWQuUAf/s320/2013-04-11+12.15.52.jpg" width="240" /></a>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?<br />
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I thought of the scripture in Ezekiel,<br />
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<i>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><br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7667593032852808578.post-70147205396641969722013-03-26T21:09:00.002-07:002013-03-26T21:23:13.866-07:00PurposeMy 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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It has taken time - time I'm sure I needed - but purpose has come in the most amazing ways.<br />
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<b>Work</b><br />
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.<br />
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<b>Love</b><br />
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. <br />
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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. <br />
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<b>Spring</b><br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc1Mw2Rot2v3G-K9BF1Cmr8gjlPqdrf-eh3JHx6edg7SYU1sIiKHEWhlJLl0AjFkTDIvKdxQrXW-TMadP281hPscZdOn19YX7bZC5yOntxvcgfHmHppzVPxdeKXRQSmJGDtDWlzUC7LJAj/s1600/601550_10151354438158388_83252511_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc1Mw2Rot2v3G-K9BF1Cmr8gjlPqdrf-eh3JHx6edg7SYU1sIiKHEWhlJLl0AjFkTDIvKdxQrXW-TMadP281hPscZdOn19YX7bZC5yOntxvcgfHmHppzVPxdeKXRQSmJGDtDWlzUC7LJAj/s320/601550_10151354438158388_83252511_n.jpg" width="245" /></a><br />
<i>Wednesday, March 27 is Cookies for Kids day at all Utah Chick-fil-A stores. </i><br />
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<i>When you buy a cookie 100% of your purchase goes directly to charity care for sick children at Primary Children's Medical Center. </i><br />
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<i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151354438158388&set=a.280791843387.143395.204326053387&type=1&theater">So tomorrow treat yourself for a good cause!</a> </i><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1