Tender Mercy

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

This is what I shared:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grateful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rebuilding

I know it's been a while...months even.  I have writer's block.  Every so often, mostly on lazy Sunday afternoons, I sit down at my computer to write.  For the past year writing has been my solace and, more importantly, free therapy.  I have craved your comments and support, and my heart has been soothed by your kindness.  While typing I have released all the messy emotions and complicated thoughts that tend to crowd my brain.  But lately, when I sit at my computer, that is all I do.  I just sit...and stare...and then I get up and do the dishes, or vacuum.  Sometimes I think about an idea all day.  I roll it over in my mind.  I sit and wait for my fingers to move, and they wont.

Its not that I don't have messy emotions anymore, or that I'm not thinking about God, or life, or death. I have not forgotten Jonah or the pain that punctuates my quietest moments, but I can't seem to share it with you. I feel hesitant.

I've been trying to pinpoint why. Why has this once intensely personal free-flowing river diminished to a trickle?  I have shared everything on this blog, my deepest pains, my regrets and my sorrows. What is different now?  I think that fear is at the heart of it.

I realize that I am moving into a new stage of grief now.  I don't cry everyday.  Sometimes I go a whole week without crying. I am distracted by work, and entertainment, and making dinner. My thoughts have shifted from the past, through the present, and now they spend most of their time in the future; worrying and dreaming. My grief is transforming from mourning to rebuilding.  Honestly, I don't know which one is harder.

Mourning is exhausting.  It is a constant physical and emotional struggle. In the depths of mourning I desperately needed help. I needed people to hear me and carry me and cry with me.  The initial stages of grief are so visceral.  It is all about survival.  My daily goals included trying to eat and to get out of bed. When you are in the depths of sorrow all effort and improvement feel impressive. You can't help but be proud when you put on makeup, or go to the store.

Rebuilding is different.  Rebuilding is about faith.

Rebuilding reminds me of playing with Jonah. I used to stack his colorful wooden blocks while he stood anxiously waiting beside me. As the blocks rose higher Jonah's chubby hand would reach wildly to swat it down.  When they crashed to the floor he giggled with delight and waited for me to build again. On my darkest days I wonder if God is like a destructive toddler, waiting to topple my flimsy towers.

That fear compels me to confine and qualify my dreams with the possibility of pain. The possibility of toppled towers. I think to myself be prepared...sometimes things fall apart.

But there is something brighter in me that responds...sometimes miracles happen.

I long to believe that God is a God of miracles.  I want to believe that life is not just about pain and endurance, but it is also about joy. I having been praying lately that God will help me have faith. Not faith that he can heal, because I have felt His healing.  And not faith that he loves me, because I have felt His love. But faith that He will make miracles happen in my life. I want to believe that God cares about my desires. As I have prayed I have felt a growing confidence that He not only hears my prayers, but that he cares about what I want most in life.

Rebuilding is far more personal that pain and grief.  It is the essence of hope.  In order to start again, to try again, I have to let myself dream of brighter days and taller towers.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. Psalm 30:5

September 29

The year anniversary of Jonah's death was September 29th, and here we are two weeks later, without a single commemorative word written about his passing or his life.  The thing is that I have felt pretty good for the past month.  I felt somewhat normal, even happy.  As his death date approached I felt an external pressure to dive back into grief.  I felt compelled by some sort of unspoken rule to relive his funeral, to release balloons, to be some sort of death party planner.  Honestly, I just didn't have it in me, which made me feel like a bad mother.

For me that "bad mother" feeling is a little funny.  When I was a full-time busy mother I rarely felt like a bad mother.  I know that is unusual.  Mothers are supposed to be riddled with mommy-guilt.  But I wasn't.  I knew I was doing my best.  Even the day Jonah died, the day I gave him a fruit snack that killed him, I didn't feel like a bad mother.  I tried so hard to save him and loved him so deeply, I could not feel the guilt of motherhood.

But on his death day, as friends and family remembered Jonah and came to comfort me, and I went about my normal business without tears I wondered what kind of mother I am.  Maybe a mother in denial.  Maybe a mother who has cried all her tears.  Or a mother who is trying to be brave and move forward.  Perhaps a mother with a heart that is hardening to keep pain at a safe distance.  It is hard to say.

As I turned my heart over for a deep analysis I recognized that the date, September 29, meant very little to me.  That sounds strange I know.  How could the day my only child died not hold significance.  I'm not really sure.  To me it felt just like a number on a calendar.  What significance is there in 365 days passing...why not a nice round number like 350 or 400.  The countdown seemed somewhat arbitrary because I have mourned Jonah's death each day since he left us.  So today, 380 days since his passing, I'm writing to tell you that I miss him deeply, daily, like a good mother should.

I missed him as I sat in a cheap motel room in Sheridan, Wyoming reading the journal I kept of his short but beautiful life.  I discreetly wept in the "happiest place on earth" as I soared through the air with my niece Lilah on Disney's Dumbo ride.  All I could think about as we dipped and flew was how much Jonah would have loved that ride.  I mourned when I saw my grandma's black office chair, where he once spun in dizzy circles with his dad.  And as I watched my two sweet nieces play in a tiny stream I ached to see him splashing and playing at their sides. 

My days are filled with memories and moments and missing.  I mourn his loss each day, and don't expect that to change.  When I feel his absence the most I often turn to Jordan and say "Jonah would have loved this."  I have learned in loss that grief does not come on scheduled days.  It does not understand anniversaries or special occasions.  It's fullness comes in the quietest moments: when my head finds the softness of my pillow, when I catch a glimpse of a drifting blue balloon, or when I hear the sweet giggle of a child.

My daily prayer, as I miss Jonah's smile, is that joy will come in the same way. 

I testify that because of Him, even our Savior, Jesus Christ, those feelings of sorrow, loneliness, and despair will one day be swallowed up in a fullness of joy. Shane Bowen, Because I live, Ye Shall Live Also

Related

The other day an old lady tried to touch my face at the DI (thrift store).  Somewhere between the abandoned Health Riders and vintage suitcases our paths crossed.  She slowly shuffled toward me in her red house dress, and I noticed her wispy gray hair and the almost transparent nature of her skin.  She seemed too fragile to be wandering such a junk cluttered aisle.  I pressed myself into the exercise equipment so she could pass by me, but instead she reached for me.  Not in a creepy way.  Her hand gently moved toward my face in a slow, loving way; as if I were her child. 

What should I do? I thought. My brain tried to process the appropriate reaction to being touched by a stranger at the DI.  Honestly, I'm surprised it has never happened before.  Anyway, before her hand reached my cheek it was caught and gently retracted by the young woman who walked beside her, and apologies followed.  No need to be sorry, I said and they continued their tedious journey.

I instantly felt a twinge of regret, really strange regret.  If only she would have said something to me, I thought. 

When Jonah was a few months old I had a similar moment while we waited in a hospital.  I wrote the following about it in my journal:

We went to see Dr. M today and had to wait for a long time in the hospital hallway.  This elderly woman was wheeled by and it was clear she had some dementia.  She kept asking if she knew the people in the hallway and her son said "no mom...you don't know any of these people." 

Then they went further down the hall.  A few minutes later while her son was distracted she made her way back down towards us, slowly using her feet to move the wheelchair forward.  She stopped right in front of us and smiled at Jonah.  He gave her a big smile.  I told her his name and asked her what her name was.  She said "Beverly." 

Then she said, "Does he (Jonah) have a hole in his mouth?"

A little taken aback I said, "yes...he does...how did you know." 

She said, "Because I know him, he is my relative."

It was pretty crazy.  I don't know how she would know that or even ask about it.  You can't see it from the outside.  I like to think that Beverly does know him! 
 
As I continued my search through second-hand clothes and mismatched dishes I thought, What if I missed a Beverly moment?  What if this seemingly senile woman in her red dress had something important to tell me; something that she could see that I could not.  I wondered if she could have given me a message about Jonah, or about God, or about my life.  I find that in my grief I am constantly looking for experiences to reinforce my belief in an afterlife...some sort of evidence that can transform my hope into faith and understanding.  

I like the idea that those who seem to lose their grasp of this life have a greater understanding of the next.  I loved that even if she did not have a message for me, this sweet old woman felt moved to reach for a stranger.  Perhaps she craved the softness of human touch.  Maybe she could see the invisible heartache that is buried in me and felt compassion.  Or maybe she knew me...like Beverly knew Jonah.  Maybe we are related.