Set Up For Failure (or at least, a Hard Time)

I began to write this several months ago, while we were still very much in a state of transition.  

Not just transition, but uncertainty, separation, and stress.  And sometimes, in the midst of the struggle, it is better to let one's thoughts and feelings mature and ripen in private, to allow for the work that perspective and time do.  So I didn't post it then.  

But now, while still in the end stages of transition, much of the stress and uncertainty have been worked through and things are not quite so raw, not quite so desperate feeling.

Goodness, anyone who reads this whole blog will probably think that I am a very dramatic, perpetually struggling, weak-willed mess of a woman!  Well, maybe I am.  I do tend to write more during and about my personal hard times.  I find it both cathartic and therapeutic, and I have found great relief and insight from reading about other's struggles, faith, and real lives, so I guess it doesn't matter how any reader might perceive me... If you know me, reading this blog might give you new insight into different facets of my character, and if you don't know me... I guess you can just draw your own conclusions. :) 

We had come to the conclusion that it was time to leave King Salmon, and went ahead with that move despite the fact that we, at that time, had no further employment.  I am so grateful to my dear husband for the way he listened to me and counselled with me and then had the faith and courage to jump, so to speak, out of a perfectly good airplane.  I mean, leave a paying job to move his family for their good, without another job already lined up.  He takes his role as our provider and protector very seriously, and does a very good job at it, and I know this period of time was a huge stress for him.  I was very excited to leave King Salmon, although it had come to be more of a blessing and less of a trial over the months.  In fact, our last months there were so good, so full of warmth and happiness, with so many new connections, that it was just starting to feel actually do-able.  I had a few fleeting thoughts that, perhaps, in seeking for something better, I would just be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, but for many reasons, it was the right time to leave.  

And so we did.  

I am so grateful for the generosity of my in-laws, in letting us come and stay at their house in Utah for several months.  It is not easy to add a whole other family to a household and maintain loving, peaceful order.  There were struggles all around, and I'm sorry for the added stress we brought to the house.  Nevertheless, it was a blessing to get to know Nate's side of the family better, to let them love our little ones and see our little ones learn to love them!  I was so disappointed that for much of the time we were there, Eden and Lucy were dealing with their first real colds, as well as the serious disruption of their previously very predictable lives and family, which meant that they were definitely not on their "best" behavior.  (As a parent, its almost sad sometimes how very much you want others to see the precious person that your child really is, how very easy it is to resent mis-judgment and long for mercy for your child's sake!)  

It really was such a blessing, on a very fundamental level, to have a safe place to come and be with our family and have their support while Nate was gone so very much.  I never thought I could find a harder schedule for families than that of a bush pilot, but - oh, my - I am SO glad that our time as a trucking family was limited! 

In the middle of it all, with Nate gone long and random hours (days, weeks!), trying to settle and balance two little girls whose world had turned topsy-turvy, our living compressed into one room and confined to the indoors due to continued temperatures below zero (even King Salmon was warmer!), not knowing where we were going next or when we were going there.... I came to a very important realization for me.

This was hard. 

There was no denying that.

But I had the power to make it infinitely harder on myself by thinking that it was harder than it should be. 

By expecting someone to help me with the house, the children, the state of my emotions. 

By thinking that my husband should always be available or around.

Such a very basic realization.  It almost seems silly to look at it written out. It made a huge difference in my life though! 

I don't remember what sparked my lightbulb moment. I do remember the illumination it brought!

This was not harder than it should be.

This is just the way it was.

With that conclusion, my ability to deal with it all increased greatly. 

So, to go back to the title of this post, I don't know who ever told me that life should be easy.  Or happy.  Or that it would go the way I wanted or expected.  In fact, I remember quite clearly learning the opposite! "For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things..."

So maybe I could blame it on our culture, this self-centered modern age, that wicked one, or Disney's happily ever after.  I think the actual culprit might just be immaturity (as in, just plain lack of experience and perspective). 

 But whoever is to blame, I think that we are set up for (or we set ourselves up for) a failure in life or, at the very least, a pretty hard time, by the attitude that life should be easier, more "fulfilling", more fun, more adventure, more enjoyable, more what we expected.  

Besides that, when we focus on all the things we think life SHOULD be, we miss life as it is - the ease, the fulfillment, the fun, the adventure, the enjoyment, and the blessing that we have right before us.

 :)

Scripture Thoughts

   Our last Sunday in King Salmon, Nate and I were asked to speak in church.  The topic was "Your Relationship with the Lord," and although I did think about it a lot, with packing and preparing for the move and all the normal demands of life, it wasn't until the night before that I actually sat down and put pen to paper.  It took me awhile, but eventually my thoughts began to flow and my talk took shape.  I don't really remember much of it, except one insight that I know did not come from my own wisdom.
  Going back a little further, sometime during the summer weeks that Nate was gone flying, I decided to read the Bible all over again.  In 90 days.  There are reading schedules out there that make all the figuring out easy, so I found one and began following it.  It definitely took commitment!  My scripture reading had suffered since having children, and going from a haphazard chapter or two of the Book of Mormon (sometimes verse or two was more like it!) to 10+ chapters of Old Testament a day was a big change! At first I was a little grumpy about it - I'd been reading for a few days, and while the Genesis review of all the old scripture stories was not bad, I certainly didn't feel particularly blessed to be reading about people's bad choices and the twisted lines of their lives from long ago.  I wasn't feeling the inspiration flow.  It wasn't relating to my life with that *BLING* of revelation and light.  After about a week, however, I did notice a difference.  I wasn't receiving pillars of light or angelic visits, but I was calmer.  I did have more patience.  My heart was happier.  Parenting our girls was easier, and dealing with Nate's absence was less aggravating/sad.  I continued my reading, and became more convinced of its effect all the time.
  And that is where my stroke of revelation for my talk came from.  Reading scriptures is totally important, but not because it is always going to speak to us in golden tones of heavenly light.  It is important because it builds our relationship with the Lord.  And THAT is where all the good things come from.
  It comes easily to most of us, given a listening ear, to pour out our hearts, our wants and worries, our desires and dreams.  Just like a baby, crying out for food or sleep, we feel our state so acutely and naturally reach out for help.  But as we grow in our relationships, we realize the other side has something to share beyond just what we might ask for; we want to get to know the other person, not just be served.  We don't expect every conversation with a friend or spouse to be deep and life-changing, revealing secrets and enlightening our understanding.  Just saying hello regularly deepens our connection.  Laughing at something together, hearing what drives them crazy or makes them really happy, discussing what happened with their day - these are the communicative bricks and mortar of a relationship.  These everyday, common conversations lay the foundation of understanding and connection that allow deeper and deeper discussions, that lead to those life-changing moments we remember all our days.  So it is with reading the Scriptures regularly.
  With that background, here are some thoughts I had today.
  I've been thinking about all the things I want, and don't yet have.  :)  While so very grateful for the blessings that are mine, quite frankly, there are some prayers that are, as yet, unanswered.  It is easy to worry over them.  It is easy to just want and want and want them so bad that, while waiting to receive, hope falters.  I want to believe that my Father will truly bless me, but when I want the chocolate cake and it feels like I'm being handed a bare carrot, its easy to feel let down.  So the other day, when these words popped into my head, I certainly was intrigued.

 "Or what man is there of you, who, if his son ask bread, will give him a stone?

Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?

If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father who is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?"

  And then, today, 

"...he that will harden his heart, the same receiveth the lesser portion of the word: and he that will not harden his heart, to him is given the greater portion of the word, until it is given unto him to know the mysteries of God until he know them in full."

  I believe that my Father is a giver of good gifts.  Better than I can even imagine. I believe that he hears my prayer for bread, and he is not giving me a stone.  I do not aspire to know the mysteries of God "in full," but I do choose to not harden my heart, that I might receive those good gifts that he has for me, not the least of which is a closer walk with Him.  

Mud Puddles

I felt so convicted in my heart today!  Sometimes, church is hard for me because, I realize, I am focused on all my responsibilities, my jobs, my calling vs. my mothering, my abilities to do what I think is needed or expected of me, the struggles to get my children acting the way they should so that they, and I, and those around us, can get anything out of the meetings.  I end up feeling inadequate and judged and defensive and hostile.

Wow! Writing it out is pretty harsh!

You know, that’s a sin.

Not a sin like murder or denying the Holy Ghost, or even maybe like stealing or lying, but a more pernicious and undermining one.  Those others are so obviously wrong that they are like huge pits.

“Oh, look! There’s a pit! Drive around it! Don’t fall in! Stay far away!” is the natural reaction.

Whereas, this…

This is like mud, starting shallow, and gradually becoming a quagmire, a sinking slime of quicksand.

A little mud is not a problem, right?

I mean, you can just drive right on through and come up on the other side just fine; wash the splashes off and none the worse for wear.  We all get muddy every so often, right?

Ok.

Right.  Much of the time that’s true.

But what about when the mud only gets deeper?  How can you tell, just by looking, whether it's a surface puddle or a deep morass?

You can’t always.  And you can’t always avoid the puddles.  But you can avoid some of them.  And thankfully, if you do find yourself in one of those puddles, you can choose where your intake valve is.  If its low, you’re going to suck up water and your motor will totally die – not only will you be spinning tires, you’ll internalize the water, the darkness, the sin, and you will lose that power, that light, that desire in yourself to keep going and get out of the mud.

If its high, you can keep that internal drive, even if you end up spinning tires for a while.  Thankfully, there is a celestial tow service on call.

Often the tow, the jump (if needed) comes from one of their agents here on earth.  After all, to paraphrase a prophet, the Lord hears our prayers, but it is often through a brother or a sister that he answers them.

But even when there is no one around us, no mortal nearby, no physical hand to hold, no warm arms to hug, no audible voice to hear,

Even then, He is there.

Jesus is our Savior.  He WILL save us, if we just ask and reach out to him.  The real sin of my heart in these times is a lack of faith, a lack of focus on Him, that allows me to be so bogged down and depressed.  That lack separates me from His marvelous love and light just as surely as one of the more “serious” sins would, yet I am less likely to notice and change myself, and it is less likely that I will be chastened, uplifted, encouraged, or gently brought along by my brothers and sisters.

(Not that I want anybody to come after me all the time with lectures and sermons and preachiness!! J I’m not asking for a personal avenging angel on my case!  I really appreciate the opportunity to exercise my agency and grow at my own pace, in my own personal relationship and walk with Christ!  I just mean, if we knew that there was a sister who was tempted to or in a situation where one of those more serious sins threatened, wouldn’t we be more apt to reach out, include, talk about our faith, show encouraging examples, praise the Lord (openly, though not ostentatiously) for his power and mercy, etc?  Like I said, I don’t want/need anyone to do anything different toward me – this is just my musings, working things over in my mind.)

Anyway, it is true.

I do need to do better.

There are some things I need to be more mindful of, more careful of.

Repentance is in order.

But most of all, the repentance that I need is the one that turns my heart away from my own small self,

my own failings (real and perceived),

my little wallow of pity-party and resentment and lack,

 and focuses on He who is the Light of the World,

He whose grace can make my weak things become strong,

 He whose strength is made perfect in weakness and

He loves me so much that He died for me.

It really is that simple.

It really is.

Now to do it.

(This started as a personal reflective writing, somewhat stream-of-consciousness, but then the puddle of mud metaphor came out of nowhere and I was reminded of several times we or various acquaintances here in Alaska have gotten stuck in puddles, or pits, or boggy mud out in the middle of the woods... and the rest just came out. ;) 

Mother of Two

Somehow, I never thought it would be such a huge transition, going from one child to two.  I've done kids before!  Multiple kids, of all ages!  Why would adding a new baby to my so-far only child be so different, so  challenging, so down-right HARD?

(Okay, I didn't actually think that.  I just didn't really think about it at all.)

It was a challenge from the first weeks of pregnancy to adjust to parenting Eden under the simultaneous demands of morning sickness, milk decreasing, girth increasing, energy waxing and waning (but mostly waning), and all the changes that come with the expectant state.  I learned a lot about slowing down and allowing or even asking for help as I thought I needed it.  Thankfully, Eden was mostly happy and ready to become more independent, bit by bit.  

But when Lucy was born...

One night, when Lucy was just a few days old, Eden woke up crying.  I was in bed, next to the wall, with Lucy, and we had already spent most of the night wrestling with repeated newborn poopy diapers and the process of establishing breastfeeding.  Nate, sleeping to the outside, got up to comfort Eden and help her go back to sleep.  Except that she wouldn't.  She was still getting over a nasty cold, and all she wanted was her mama.  All I wanted was to go to her and make it all better, but Lucy had just latched on and was nursing avidly.  I knew Eden was safe in her loving daddy's patient (if somewhat exasperated) arms, and that I needed to lay still and let my body heal, as well as take care of Lucy, but my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my body!  It was so hard to not be able to be there for her!  (And I will ever be grateful to my husband for dealing so patiently with all of us that night and not just leaving her to cry it out.  I don't think I could have handled that!)

It was such a hard thing for me to learn and be okay with the fact that I could no longer give my all to my one child, because now I had two children to give my all to.  And the logical extension of that realization is that each child, therefore, gets less.  And I was not okay with that!  The depth of desire I have for my children to be blessed and cared for is beyond what I could have comprehended before they came into my life.  It is hard to back up, let go, and trust, when all I want to do is make it all right for them!  In this light, I can understand better some people's decision to limit the number of their children in order to provide more, be there more fully, or in any way, make their lives better.

Except...
I am the fifth of eleven children.
I do not feel deprived, neglected, or like my life was in any way worse for having ten siblings.
I am very glad that my parents did not stop before I was born, and just as glad that they did not stop after I was born!  I treasure each one of my siblings, and each has contributed so much to my growth, my development, and the quality of my life.
I love and admire my mother and my father; I never doubted their love for, and devotion to, me, and to all of my brothers and sisters.  I knew they were sacrificing and doing a hard work in inviting all of us to their family, and I was so glad they were willing to!
I do not consider myself to have received "less" of anything, really, due to multiple siblings.  Only more.

So I am learning to trust that Heavenly Father will fill in the gaps, and that even as my capabilities are stretched to beyond their limit, His glorious grace will pour through the cracks into my children's lives.

(And yes, as the weeks pass, we are settling into our rhythm together and finding ease once again.  As a wise man once said (and I can't remember who it was), "That which we persist in doing becomes easier to do - not that the nature of the thing has changed, but our capacity to do it has increased." Or something like that.  But I know that much of that ease is coming as I learn to more fully rely on Heavenly Father as a mother of two.)

Looking Up, Not Down

Oh, My, Goodness.  It is so easy to look down.  It is so easy to feel the weight of my “burdens” and sag beneath the load that is mine.  It does me much good to get a little perspective now and then – that's why I love to read. 

            In the hormonal maelstrom of the early postpartum weeks, missing my newly-returned-to-Alaska husband, trying to balance the needs and demands of my now two children, and struggling with guilt and resentment at my somewhat incapacitated state of recovery and the service that required others to give, I found myself definitely looking down. 

            And then I had a few moments when both girls were asleep, and I was able to get online.  I checked emails and facebook, of course, and did a few more things before heading over for the first time in a few months to one of my favorite blogs.  I’ve been randomly following The Blessing of Verity for over a year now, and the chronicles that Susanna Musser has kept of her family and her own heart never fail to uplift me.  But not in a high-flown, fancy, head in the clouds way.  Oh, no.  This is very much a down to earth, practical application, day to day life sort of blog.

            Anyway, here is this mother of eleven, simultaneously expecting an twelfth baby and thirteenth child (older, with extreme special needs) by adoption, homeschooling and raising her children to love and serve one another, already dealing with the special needs of her youngest daughter, born with Down syndrome, and another daughter, adopted not that long ago, who also has Down syndrome as well as special needs resulting from her life pre-adoption.  Whew.  It wears me out just to type all that!  Yet she exudes a spirit of faith, love, determination, and worship.  I know that what is communicated through a blog is just a snippet of life, a little window through a wall, but when those snippets add up to a consistent whole, when each little window shows a slightly different, but very congruent, piece of a picture, I take it as a good sign that it's a true picture.  Besides, it’s just too much work to be fictional, or dishonest, on your blog when you have so much else to do! J

            She’s an inspiration to me.  She reminds me of where my focus ought to be.  She helps me feel new gratitude for my blessings, my challenges, and my Savior.  She shows me how to live with grace, and in reading her words, I find that much needed perspective on my own life.  She helps me to remember, as President Monson is quoted to have said,  to “look up!  It is better to look up than to look down!”

Songs of My Heart

It is a peaceful Sunday afternoon here.  We are wrapped in a world of white, snug in our house surrounded by the first snow of the season - whirling, whipping, gusting, drifting snow.  I'm sure by next April the sight will not be quite so amazing and perhaps more depressing than cozy, but for now it creates an effect of quietness and insulation - perfect for a Sunday at home with the family.

With General Conference last weekend, and Stake Conference this weekend, I've certainly had many things on my mind.  Thoughts of charity, of the Savior, of my calling, of my weaknesses and efforts to improve.  Thoughts of how to open my heart and life more fully to the grace our Savior extends so mercifully and immediately.  Thoughts of how to apply the gospel to my family, to raise up my little one(s) in truth and righteousness, to make my home a haven of peace and love.  Sweet touches of the Spirit, sometimes little pricks of conscience, and over all, a yearning in my heart to draw nearer to my Lord again and walk in the meekness of his light.

I sat at the piano as we hung up the phone after listening to our Stake Conference, and while Nate danced with Eden, I had a few moments to play and sing the hymns.  Soon we noticed that Eden's eyes were drooping, and rather than interrupt the serenity, I just made her a naptime bottle, and Nate sat on the couch rocking her while I extended my few moments into nearly half an hour.  (Its amazing how difficult it is to even play one song without someone else to occupy my little girl!  She wants to be in the middle of it all, playing and turning pages, or have us be all done, all together!)  They went upstairs to lay down, and I was left to play and ponder.

I truly do love to sing, and to play the piano, and the hymns are a special part of that experience.  "The song of the righteous is a prayer unto me," the Lord has told us, and while I may vary in my particular righteousness, when I sing and play the hymns mindfully, it is a prayer, it rises from my heart in an especially meaningful way.  I love to sing all the verses most of the time, because all of the words have meaning.  For me, the hymns are at once a plea rising from my heart and an admonition to it, a prayer and a comforting, a reminder and a teaching moment, as near to a face-to-face moment with my Heavenly Father as any other time I can think of in my life.

I remember, as a young teen, first becoming aware of the fact that I would never be perfect on my own.  Realizing, as I sat out in the golden fields behind my parents house and contemplated the light of a clear, warm sunset, that I was basically a sinner and that all my efforts to be what I should be just weren't enough.  It seems, perhaps, a bit melodramatic, but really it was the realization of my need for a Savior.  I remember feeling kind of hopeless, like Satan had already won because no matter how I tried I couldn't do it all right, even being raised in the gospel and knowing about Jesus Christ all my life, and loving Heavenly Father, and having felt his love so frequently and deeply.  The light faded, and I went inside and sat at the piano and flipped through the music there, the house around me bustling at first with all the going-to-bed busyness of little kids and gradually growing darker and quieter.  Hymn #85, How Firm a Foundation, came to my mind, and I opened to it and began to sing and play.  The last verse changed my life at that point.

The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, I will not, I cannot desert to his foes. 

That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,

I'l never, no never, no never forsake.

My whole understanding of the Atonement opened up then, and the peace and hope that grew in my heart were the greatest blessing I could have ever received.

A few years later, I sat on my room mate's bed in our dorm room after work and puzzled over a short note telling me to call home as soon as I got in.  I called, and received the devastating and unexpected news of my dear brother's death.  As soon as I hung up the phone, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I literally felt as if my world was shattering and turning like a kaleidoscope.  So far away from my family, in Hawaii, I felt my heartstrings snapping.  Some dear friends, sisters really, came and sat with me as we waited for a member of our bishopric to come and give me a blessing.  We went into the lounge to wait, and I couldn't talk, I couldn't sit in silence, my mind was whirling dizzy with thoughts of every kind, and all I could do was sit down at the piano and play the hymns.  When the RA's kicked us out because of the lateness of the hour, my dear friends went with me to the music labs, still open for practicing music majors (which I was not), and sat with me til they too closed.  Somehow playing those hymns kept my hold on sanity and a small measure of peace, a reassurance of my Father's love and his merciful plan of redemption for all his children, and a grounding anchor to those things I did know in such turmoil of what I did not.

Again, after losing our precious first baby, we drove home in mostly exhausted silence.  Once home, our house seemed empty and quiet.  What to do now... the surreal bubble surrounding me, the isolation and shock and disbelief left me without an independent mind, almost.  I sat down at the piano and began to play. I remember Nate standing behind me, tears on his cheeks, as I sang "Abide with Me."  I didn't cry during that song, but I was singing it with all my heart to my Lord, pleading with him that he be with me now because I felt so utterly lost and alone.  I sang another song, and the words "I shall rejoice in time" choked in my throat as my grief almost drowned my faith in that promise.  Yet still I sang, because clinging to that promise was all I could do.  Later, after several months had passed, craziness filled my head and threatened to "drag me down to the gulf of misery and endless wo." Literally.  I chose not to give in, but I sat, mentally and emotionally and spiritually paralyzed, at the edge of that pit, til a particular Sunday afternoon of singing and playing the hymns softened my frozen heart and let a measure of healing faith and love seep in through the darkness, as tears made distorted lenses of my eyes and splashed with fat wetness on my hands and wrists.  

I thought I could never be happy again, at least not fully so.  (In fact, when Elder Bowen spoke on Sunday, during this General Conference, all I could think was, "Please, don't talk about this!  Please, just don't talk about it.  The tears and pain and sorrow, and fear for this new baby, swept over me anew, and I realized again that only Heaven will heal this loss fully.)  Yet, skipping ahead just over a year from that time of loss and sorrow, I was again sitting at the piano.  This time, however, we were in Alabama, and though I played the same songs and Nate again stood behind me with tears on his cheeks, our circumstances could not have been more different.  This time, our precious little Eden, healthy and whole, was cradled in her daddy's arms, and as I played I began to cry because I felt the miracle of healing where I had not expected it.  Without negating our earlier loss and sorrow, I was suddenly overcome with a fullness of joy such as I had never felt. It was as if a piece of the celestial kingdom was wrapped around us and all things were made right, though they were not yet.  I cannot fully describe the blessing of that moment.  

These moments came back to me vividly as I sat at our piano just now, and others, perhaps not so dramatic, but still so valuable as small and tender mercies.  I am so thankful for the hymns of Zion, and the power that is within them.  I am so thankful for parents who sacrificed and encouraged and enforced and brought me up to play the piano and to value music.  I am so thankful for a husband who also encourages me, and who has made every effort to provide me with a piano to play in every one of our homes - even here in Alaska.  It is a blessing to me.

Mission; Mothering

I've been home from my mission for four years and four months.  It was truly a very wonderful, very difficult, absolutely challenging and fulfilling, fully worth every moment, year and a half spent loving and learning and growing and serving.  If someone asked me, "Should I go?" my answer would be, "Absolutely!"  But get as ready as you can first.  Be worthy.  Have a testimony.  And determine to do everything you can to serve however you can, to lift rather than to weigh down.  It was a wonderful time - but more challenging than you could ever imagine.  :)

I've heard it said that those mission years were the best two years of one's life.  I've rarely heard it said that they were the hardest two years, maybe partly because that is not a very positive view of such an important period of service, and who wants to admit that anyway?  I will say it though!  They were the hardest of my life up til that point!  However!  Life goes on, and I feel glad and blessed to say that now, while I count my mission as a very special time, it is neither the best nor the hardest years of my life.  I do feel, however, that the experiences and learning that happened during that time have been the best training I could have ever received for the rest of life.

(Some may wonder about my focus on what the mission did for me, seeing that the mission is supposed to be about what we can do for other folks.  I must admit, while others can claim baptisms and miracles, cite numbers of lessons and Book of Mormon placements, my mission was, in those terms, not so successful.  The truth is, I don't really know all that my mission did for others.  I hope it was a blessing to them.  I was able to participate in some baptisms (which, every time, were marvelous, blessed events!) and I know that I was able to do the work the Lord had for me, but I didn't get to see a whole lot of the fruit.  So, while I can't really say what my service did for others, I do know what the Lord did for me through those experiences.)  That being said...

Yesterday was a hard day with my little charge!  We had an epic struggle, and although it all eventually ended well, it spanned nearly an hour and a half, had me in tears at several points, and truly brought me to the end of my wits.  Without going into details, I will simply say in retrospect that it involved, in small degree, obedience and cleaning up, with a large measure of age-typical non-compliance, an already not-so-good day for me, and ... I can't even remember what else now!  It got blown way out of proportion and turned into a real perfect storm of a power struggle.  It was HORRIBLE!

I talked with her dad, and called my mom for suggestions later and, after Eden was asleep, did some reading and pondering.  I was comforted, :) and enlightened, and encouraged enough to keep going.  But more than anything, I was reminded of my mission, the true, eternal, overwhelmingly important mission of motherhood  (or parenthood, I guess you could say.)  It helps everything to have to proper perspective.  I'm not little H.'s mom, but I am acting in loco parentis for a good portion of her life right now, and of course, I have my own daughter and new little one coming.  It helps me to remember what I am actually doing here.

I'm not trying to only shape behavior.  I'm not being the boss just because I'm bigger and its easier if I run things.  I'm not (primarily!) making them do things to make my life easier!  What I'm really trying to do is exactly the same thing I was doing in Spain, and that is, the Lord's work.  Bring souls to Him.  Invite them to come unto Christ.  Every little thing I do influences these little ones' perception of Heavenly Father and His love for them, and who and what our Savior is.  Every teaching, implicit or explicit, registers in their little hearts and minds and leaves the mark of love and truth or the opposite.  (Good thing they're so forgiving and resilient, and we can try again tomorrow!)  I just as much, if not more, need His inspiration and guidance to mother these little ones as I ever did to teach the gospel as a missionary.  I just as much, if not more, need to draw upon His words, His revelation, the power of prayer, the guidance of the Spirit.  I just as much need to examine myself, repent, and be worthy.  Of course, mothering looks a whole lot different and has a different timeline, but I know of no better preparation that I could have had for this crucial and eternal calling in which I am now privileged to serve.

(And just to be clear, I find this calling to be way harder and way better than the other one - but then the other set the stage for this, so I'm not saying its an either/or thing!)


And if you're still reading, past all the parentheses, probably-run-on sentences, and highly condensed, somewhat cryptic thoughts, I give you a gold star! :) And I have a really really good book to review sometime when my little Eden is not pulling at my knee and loudly demanding my attention.

God Wants to Hear You Sing

This song was a timely reminder for me, here.

I thought maybe some of you could use it too...

Here are the words.

Their chains were fastened tight
Down at the jail that night
Still Paul and Silas would not be dismayed
They said, "It's time to lift our voice, 
Sing praises to the Lord
Let's prove that we will trust Him, come what may."

God wants to hear you sing
When the waves are crashing round you
When the fiery darts surround you
When despair is all you see
God wants to hear your voice
When the wisest man has spoken
And says your circumstance is as hopeless as can be
That's when God wants to hear you sing

He loves to hear our praise 
On our cheerful days
When the pleasant times out weigh the bad, by far
But when suffering comes along
And we still sing Him song
That is when we bless the Father's heart

God wants to hear you sing
When the waves are crashing round you
When the fiery darts surround you
When despair is all you see
God wants to hear your voice
When the wisest man has spoken
And says you circumstance is as hopeless as can be
That's when God wants to hear you sing.

Why is this so easy to forget?

And so hard to do?

Balancing our very real human grief, sorrow, pain, and discouragement with the faith that allows us to "sing" in the midst of it all.  I don't believe that it does any good to deny those experiences and just pretend its all ok - that is not what God requires of us.  Jesus Christ, our very Savior, wept, groaned within himself, even asked that "if it were possible" the cup could pass from him.  Surely we too may do those things in the depths of our struggles.  But to be able to not give in to the temptation to let our sad times then become our sour times... that, for me, is one of the real tests.  And maybe that's what people mean when they say we were sent here to be tested - not that our hard times are our tests, but that what we choose to do with them shows what we have become, are becoming, just as a scholastic test is supposed to demonstrate what we have learned and what we still lack.  

Anyway, sometimes the only song we can manage is the faint melody of duty done for duty's sake.  Even that is precious to our Heavenly Father, I believe.  I appreciated this song, though, because it reminded me to allow that stage to pass and to let the full song come forth in my life as my strength does increase.  To not wallow in misery but to push through it and come out on higher ground.  

I'm thankful for tender mercies like this one.

Sabbath Eve Thoughts

My little bundle of energy is finally asleep.  

Whew! 

Finally!

This business of moving from two to one naps is wearing both of us out, but one of us is not willing to admit it at all. ;)  But when she goes down for the night, she is out!  And I have some time to, well, usually clean.  Or collapse early into bed myself.  Or wait up for my dear husband.  Or surf the web looking at fabric and patterns and reading other random blogs and homeschooling information. :) 

(And, by the way, I must apologize for the dearth of pictures lately!  Nate did show me how to get them from my phone to the blog but... I kind of forgot.  And haven't taken the time to figure it out again.  But I will soon! And you will be refreshed in the visual department, and delighted, as I am daily, with our beautiful, growing girl, and maybe even a shot of the growing baby belly too!)

Anyway, tonight, as I was laying there in the dark bedroom, putting Eden to sleep, feeling her little hands twining through my hair, I was pondering.  My phone was playing a recording of "Fishers of Men," and the beautiful music and testimonies both soothed my spirit and ignited my own chain of pondering.  The voices of the prophets diminished in my hearing, and I began considering the various parts of my life, questions I wanted to ask Nate about the Priesthood (as a side note, it is fascinating to me to learn from a priesthood holder all sorts of details about the priesthood and priesthood service that I never learned!) and opportunities to serve in various capacities that have been given to me.   

I have to admit, probably to my shame, that when I'm given a new calling, my first thought is not always joyful and excited.  In fact, oftentimes the first thought that comes into my head is, "Really?!  Why me?!"  Why me, sometimes in that I've-already-got-a-lot-on-my-plate, are-you-sure-you-want-me type way, but more often why me in the sense that I know very well my own limitations, struggles, and lack of experience and I know that there are other people who are much more qualified and better able to do this job!  

So I wonder, "Why me?"

But I say yes, because I'm not going to say no to the Lord, no matter how much I want to. (Please tell me I'm not the only one who has struggled with this!)

Well, tonight I realized that my YES is all He wants.

He doesn't need my skills.

He doesn't need my time.

He doesn't need my particular talents.

I'm not so special that He only wants me to fill this calling 'cause nobody else could do it, or do it better.

In fact, to mortal eyes, my own included, my serving in this calling might have no important effect.

He is able to do His own work.

He doesn't need me to do it.

What He needs, for His work and His glory, (that is, my immortality and eternal life) is my yes.  What He needs for His work and His glory (that is, the immortality and eternal life of all His children) is that some of us say yes.  He will work through us.  But we must say yes.

Of course, saying yes includes giving my skills, my time, my talents, everything I can and need to, to the particular ministry with which I am entrusted at the time, but beyond that, it lies in His hands.  The outcome, outside of me, is up to Him.  The outcome, inside of me, is up to me.  If I say yes to Him, regardless of what He asks and does with my offering, His work will be done in my heart and my life, 

and isn't that what I want?

I said yes when I was baptized.  And I meant it, with all my eight-year-old heart.

I had the opportunity to say yes again as I passed through the temple to receive my endowment,

and I did so, with much fuller understanding and intent.

So why does it matter now?

Why do I need to say yes when the Lord asks me to do this thing?

Because those yes's must be lived out every day, or in reality, what do they mean?

Anyway, just some thoughts on the eve of this week's Sabbath.  I can't do it all, sometimes I think I can't really do much, but I can say yes.  He'll do with it what He wants.  

And I'll get some pictures up tomorrow, I promise!

Women of Character

First, thank you to all of you who have left comments on various posts!  I love to know that someone is reading my thoughts, and your words uplift and encourage me.  I may not reply to your comments specifically, but please know that I read and treasure them.  They mean so much to me!

A few weeks ago, I received an unexpected package in the mail.  I always like to get mail, even those random catalogs that come from LL Bean and the like, :) and this proved to be much better than a random catalog!  A dear friend who has known me nearly all my life very thoughtfully sent me some words of encouragement and a book entitled "Women of Character."  Its full of the stories of LDS women, from many backgrounds and through many choices and circumstances, from the early pioneers to today's women.  The essays are just the right length for a busy, tired mama (or anyone else!) to snatch up and read during a baby's nap, a bathroom break, or a brief moment of quiet on the couch, and then mentally chew on throughout the rest of the day's duties.  Its been a blessing and an inspiration!

The other night, after a particularly difficult day, I lay in bed and this book came to mind.  I was having a conversation with myself, arguing back and forth between self-sacrifice and insistent discontent, between bad attitude and stuffing emotions, between wanting to be a good wife and wanting to have things my way...  The mental club kept whacking me upside the head, "This shouldn't be so hard for you... Just suck it up and be happy!...Come on, 'daughter of the pioneers,' what happened to cheerfully living with your decision?..."  I don't know why those things even come to my mind to say to myself; I'd never say them to someone else who was struggling!

So this book came to mind, at first as more ammunition to launch at myself - they did it, why can't I? They even had it worse, what am I complaining about?  Look at all my blessings, why can't I just be content?  It was not pretty.  But then I started to see things differently.  Yes, they were great women.  Yes, they overcame difficulties and persevered and demonstrated faith and love and sacrifice.  BUT! I was reading their stories after the struggle, on the other side of the difficulty, when the trials were passed.  Of course what stands out is the fact that they made it, they did it, they got through with grace and went on!  That's why we read such stories for inspiration!  It suddenly struck me that these women surely had their moments of inner turmoil, that being mortal, they had their moments of weakness, that there were undoubtedly moments when they wished things were, or could be, different, and probably even times when they (*gasp*) had to vent or complain or even burst into tears!  Yet those moments didn't diminish the greatness of their lives, the truth of their triumphs.  I doubt any one of them thought of herself as a heroine or someone who was going to be set apart in history as an exemplar of certain virtues, but here I am, reading their stories for encouragement and inspiration in my struggle.

I don't think of myself as a great heroine or some exemplar to stand on a pedestal.  I know too well my inner (and sometimes outer!) struggles and faults to presume that role even if I wanted to.  But it was a blessing to realize that having these struggles does not mean I am bad, or unable, or weak, or even particularly selfish.  Hard things are hard, regardless of why or whether they "should" or "shouldn't" be.  The point is to get through them the best we can, with forgiveness, faith, and a healthy measure of God's grace to see us through.

Yes, I've been really struggling.  Yes, there are days when my attitude needs pretty constant adjustment.  Yes, there are times when things are not so good.  But I make it through, day by day, and when I can humble myself enough to accept it, the light of heaven gently shines through in small and unexpected ways to ease my burden and help me along.

Baby Mine III

Friday morning.  The last day of round the clock, nausea inducing antibiotics.  A week since it began.  I woke up to an odd feeling.  It was early, around 5am, and I thought maybe it was that I needed to go to the bathroom, but then I realized that my pad was soaked, and the fluid wasn't stopping when I stopped urinating. (Sorry for TMI, this is the whole story.)  In confusion, I put on another pad, and went back to bed.   I still felt strange, so I rolled over to get comfortable and immediately sprang out of bed with a full-on gush of liquid.  Now that, I knew was not supposed to happen.  I changed, woke up Nate, and we called the midwives.  One answered the phone, half- asleep, and told us to go to the nearest ER, and let her know what happened.

She did say the nearest ER, so we got in the car and drove north.  How many times I have wished we had gone south.  Not that anything would have changed, necessarily, but the whole experience, the whole demeanor of staff and personnel probably would have been different.  Oh, well.  We drove north.

There were no contractions on the way there.  I wasn't in pain, I wasn't sick, but I remember sitting as still as I possibly could, not even praying that the baby would be alright as I had the other times, just asking, "Please, be with us! Please, help us!"  As if by not moving, I could keep the future from happening.  We arrived in the beautiful July sunrise, a hot and humid Florida summer day already foreshadowed by the feeling in the air, and walked into the deserted ER.

I will say this - if you have to go to the ER, 6am is a way better time than 6pm, or even 12 midnight.  No one was there.  An oldish EMT with stringy red hair and a few missing teeth helped us with the intake.  He looked a little sketchy, but he was the nicest and most professional of any of the people we interacted with that day.  There was no wait, since we were the only ones there, and they immediately took us back.  By this time, contractions had started up a little, but not seriously and not regularly.  It was obvious by their questions and attitudes that they didn't think my water had broken.  They kept implying maybe I had just wet myself...you know, its ok, pregnant ladies do that sometimes.  Right.  I kept insisting I had not.  A doctor walked in, and without as much as an introduction, did a rough internal exam and told us that there was no dilation.  They checked the baby's heartbeat.  It was extremely elevated, and the baby was very active, causing them to lose it several times.  An ultrasound was ordered.

The policy at this medical center was to put in a catheter for all ultrasounds.  (At least that's what they told us.)  We tried to explain that I had already ingested over a quart of water and not urinated in the last several hours, besides the fact that I was recovering from a UTI.  Nope.  No excuses, in it went.  OH MY GOODNESS!  It was agony. Of course, the nurse says, "Does that hurt?  It shouldn't hurt.Anyway, it won't when you get all filled up." No, of course it doesn't hurt - why do you think I am gasping and tears are rolling out of my eyes? Why do you think I just started to cry? But you're the professional, you know what you're talking about, what you're doing... If this will help my baby, do whatever you have to.

The doctor and nurses left the room, and Nate and I were alone.  Peaceful music was playing from our computer, which Nate had thought to bring. (Several ER visits in one week have a way of letting you know you had better bring lots to do if you're not the patient, or even if you are, because you are definitely going to be waiting.)  The contractions started up again, in earnest, getting stronger, more intense, closer together.  The catheter was agony.  I lay flat on my back, still as possible to avoid the pain that came from jostling the catheter, and tried to relax through the contractions.  At some point I began moaning, loud through the pressure, and then dwindling to soft in-between. It was the only way I could think of to deal with the intense and even overwhelming sensations flooding over me, all the while lying perfectly still on my back.  Nate rubbed my feet, not sure what else to do.  He later told me I made less noise during Eden's labor and birth than I did than.


Eventually, a lab tech showed up.  She was young, and somewhat brash, and informed us that Nate couldn't come.  It was against "policy."  That was enough to make me take a break from my moaning and gasp out a plea for him to come.  She didn't say anything to that, but Nate just stated that he was coming, and he'd wait outside the ultrasound room if he had to.  We wheeled through the halls; my eyes were mostly closed as I tried to hold it together, but I saw the looks on the faces of nurses and people in the halls as we passed.  "What is wrong with her?!"

Sure enough, there was plenty of room in the lab, and faced with a very present and calmly decisive Nate, the actual ultrasound technician let him in with no problem.  She began to "fill me up."  We assured her that it wouldn't be necessary.  I think I actually said, "I don't think I can hold anymore!" and when she checked, sure enough, there was more than enough fluid already in my bladder to see clearly.  I began to feel some relief, as if the contractions had stopped.  As I lay there, eyes closed, trying to regain my equilibrium, I was vaguely aware of her taking measurements, looking at the screen, and then suddenly stopping the ultrasound. Without any explanation, we were rushed back to our ER room, and I mean rushed!

They parked the bed back in our tiny corner room and left, without a word.  A nurse came in and for the first time in my life I really, really wanted to swear.  "Get this (bleep) catheter out of me!" was what was on the tip of my tongue, but thankfully habit protects even in times of great stress, and what I actually said was minus the profanity.  She didn't say much and went about her duties without any explanations.  Although I had a pretty good idea of what she was doing, I felt as if I were supposed to be ignorant and silent.  Any comment, question, or even wincing and crying out were met with a critical and somewhat exasperated attitude.  I felt completely disempowered, if that's a word.  There was instant relief when the catheter was drained and removed, and the contractions had stopped, but I felt an odd pressure.  Hoping against a pretty clear idea of what was really causing that, I told the nurse I had to go to the bathroom.  I mean, honestly, what was I supposed to say? "Um, I think my baby's going to come out now?"

She brought in a commode, basically a grown-up potty chair, and left us alone again.  I climbed off the bed and sat on the commode.  Within a short time, with no real effort I can remember, our tiny little baby slipped out.  Disregarding the mess of blood and fluid, I knelt on the floor and scooped up my little baby, cradled the tiny body in my hands.  It was perfect.  Beautiful.  Not weird and alien-looking like some illustrations make fetuses look.  It was our beautiful, fully formed, just-needed-a-little-more-time baby.  The little legs were curled up, and from head to little bum, it fit snugly in my hands, filling them from fingertips to wrist.  The amniotic sac and placenta were still wrapped around like a protecting blanket, and we didn't know if we were supposed to change anything.  We didn't know if we were supposed to even touch and hold our own baby, let alone remove anything, so we didn't.  We just marvelled at the perfection.  One tiny arm was thrown up over the head.  The tiny mouth was slightly open and the other hand half covered it, as if in mild surprise at the way things had suddenly gone wrong.  Tiny perfect hand, just the size of my thumbnail.  Too soon, we felt constrained to replace the little body, still warm from mine, so recently alive, in the pool of blood, and climb back up where I "belonged."  A nurse and the doctor came in.  In some awkward way, they told us that our baby was not going to make it, that the ultrasound revealed that the heart was no longer beating.  Um, thanks for letting us know.  (When we got the records, we found out that the tech had actually seen the baby in the cervix, and that was probably why she had stopped the scan so abruptly.  No one wants a dead baby born in their lab!) We indicated that we knew and that the baby was in the commode.  I think then they felt super awkward then, because I don't really remember them saying anything else meaningful before they left.  The nurse began to tidy up, and suddenly the door opened again, and a social worker walked in, holding up a baby blanket and saying that someone told her we might need this...

Up to that point I had been so overwhelmed, so exhausted, so absorbed in dealing with the intense physical sensations and uncomfortable psychological situation that I literally felt very little.  I was absolutely in the moment, dealing with whatever came as it came.  I felt wonder and awe at the perfection of that tiny body, and a kind of disbelief and inability to comprehend what had happened, but when that baby blanket was held up, I suddenly was totally engulfed in a wave of the deepest sorrow I have ever known.  It was as if every fiber of my being was overcome with grief.  I covered my face and the tears and weeping poured out of me. It would not be stopped.  I could not stop it.  Even writing this now, going back to that moment in my mind, tears prick my eyes and my throat aches.  I cannot put into words the depth of pain and grief I felt, even more extreme than at my own brother's death.

They lifted our tiny baby's body into the blanket, and wrapped it up a little, and then handed it to me.  It was all I could do to curl up on my side around my baby on that hard, narrow hospital cot and mourn.  Everyone again left us, and Nate and I stayed there with our little one for nearly an hour.  My crying stopped, and I just talked to that little one, telling him/her how very much we had loved and wanted and waited for their precious self, how sad we were to let them go... Somehow it was a comfort to just lay there with my baby, even knowing that he or she was not really there anymore.  We said a prayer together with our baby cradled between us, a prayer so heartbroken and grief-heavy, so raw and painful and utterly submissive and crushed.   And then it was time to leave.

Thankfully there was a nurse who was willing to hold that precious bundle as we walked out the door of that room.  I don't think I could have left if we'd had to just leave our baby there on the bed.  Even so, as the door shut behind us, I couldn't help it - I just broke down weeping and wailing again.  I heard one of the nurses murmur something about me "sure taking it hard." Yes, I was.  I definitely was.  But there was nothing to be done.  We had to leave.  Empty womb, empty heart, empty arms.  Empty.

Baby Mine II

The fever still didn't go away.  Nate had to get up and go to work as usual, so I just lay on the couch and drifted through the day in half doze.  That evening, while showering, I began to shiver again, all my muscles cramping and quaking.  But this time there was a strange sensation, a feeling in my lower abdomen that I had never before had and yet knew immediately was not supposed to be happening right now.  It wasn't painful, but it was wrong, and the fear came rushing back in.  We drove to the ER south of us - we'd had a negative experience at the ER to the north, so although it was slightly closer, we decided it was worth the few extra minutes to go south.  I, having started the pregnancy slender and then lost quite a bit a weight, did not look pregnant, I'm sure, but some ladies sitting next to us in the waiting room inquired about why we were there and why I was so worried.  I will never forget their kindness in letting us go before them, although we had arrived some time after.  The nurse took us back and after taking a sample, left us to wait.  I'd begun to bleed a little, but eventually it stopped.

After what seemed like a very long time, a doctor came in and told us that I did indeed have an infection, in fact such a serious one by this time that they wanted to stop the prescription antibiotics and immediately administer some more powerful drugs by IV.  Thankfully we asked if they were alright for pregnant moms - he had missed the fact of the pregnancy somehow, and had to adjust his prescription a bit, but they got it started and gave me some other follow-up antibiotics to take for a week.  To humor me, they checked internally and reassured me that everything was as it should be - no changes in the cervix to be concerned about.  We even got to have an ultrasound and see the squirming, kicking little baby inside my uterus, which was visibly (as I had suspected) contracting.  But all was well, they said, so we went home.

The intermittent bleeding and contracting continued over the weekend, but I just took it easy and tried to trust that all would be well.  By Tuesday, the midwives said we should go have an ultrasound at a special women's hospital in Orlando, so we drove out there and spent forever waiting in their foyer, finally to be called back for another ultrasound.  Again, the internal exam seemed to show no worrisome changes in the cervix, and the ultrasound showed that, although the little one was head down and very deep in my pelvis, it was active and apparently healthy.  Relief.  But still irritation.  If all was well, why was I still bleeding?  Why was I still contracting?  Why could no one seem to do anything about these things or tell me how to stop?

At this point, I get a little fuzzy on the details.  I think we went south to the ER again, and ended up having another ultrasound, but I don't remember exactly why, beyond the same reasons we had gone before.  All I know is that they showed, and told us that all was well and the baby was fine.  That was what I wanted to hear, and seeing the little legs kick and arms wave was a balm to my mama heart.

Poor Nate.  I was having a tough time of it, but he was still going to work every morning at 6, and at least three nights was up past midnight with hospital runs, while the others he had to take care of his invalid wife.  But he never complained.  He was always kind and considerate and supportive, willing to take my word for any symptom, any worry.  He was my rock.

Baby Mine

I think the primary emotion I felt during that time was anxiety.  Fear.  Fear that this long-awaited miracle would somehow not work out, fear of the medical establishment, fear of each new and strange change that came physically (is this normal? is something wrong?), fear of being told what to do, fear of not being listened to, fear of not making the right choice.  Yes, I was excited to be pregnant.  Are you kidding?! I was happier to finally be expecting a baby than I had words to express.  I think that is part of the reason that I was so anxious - this was the one thing that I had dreamed of, thought about, read about, and longed for literally all my life.  Seriously.  Since I was a little girl, I had wanted to be a mommy, and had known it.  I had played at being pregnant (my mom must have had a little laugh over that one!), borrowed every baby I could get my hands on, mothered my younger siblings til they probably were somewhat sick of me, and known, my whole conscious life, what a blessing and privilege and sacred responsibility motherhood was.  And what a miracle.

So, finally, here it was.  And what if I messed it up?  Those who have waited years for pregnancy might shake their heads ruefully at a wait of 11 months, but that was a hard year for me, doing everything right, watching for a sign, waiting for that elusive plus... and finally, on Nate's birthday, when it came, I was so overwhelmed that I was shaking.  So excited, and so anxious to do it all right.  Midwife, or doctor?  Hospital, or home, or birth center? What do I do about throwing up, about losing weight, about not having the energy to be the wife and housekeeper and just person that I have been?  Is this discharge normal, or should I be worried?  As someone prone to UTI's, every little twinge was cause for doubt and consternation.  Yes, I was so happy, but I was a bit of a basketcase, too.  Shortly after finding out we were expecting, I woke up in the middle of the night, frantically searching the bed.  Nate laid me back down, patted my tummy and said, "Its ok! The baby is right here still!"  Soon I was too sick to think about much except finding a way to eat, or not throw up what I had just eaten.

Somehow I got through the first trimester.  I told myself my fears were irrational and silly and tried to put them away.  My sweet husband did his best to reassure and comfort me.  I was beginning to recover from the horrible nausea.  We had a few appointments with midwives to choose - I was adamant that I wanted a midwife.  The first was a homebirth lay midwife.  She was kind and seemed competent, but Nate especially was not comfortable with that idea, so we drove about an hour away to a birth center to meet with the staff there.  I was a bundle of nerves, defensive as a porcupine, and more than a little on edge.  The midwives were not particularly personable, but they were nice enough and, again, seemed very knowledgeable and competent. The birth center was lovely and very comfortable.  We decided that this would be the place.

Hearing the heartbeat for the first time was incredible.  A peace, a tangible relaxation came over me, and the look on Nate's face was priceless.  They showed us a little rag doll the approximate size of our baby, and Nate just held it and looked at it in awe.  "There really is a baby in there!" he said.  Ya think? ;)

We talked about it all the way home, and all the sickness began to seem worth it.  My fears were eased.  We were well out of the first trimester, it seemed that nothing could stop us now.  I began to feel what I realized after I no longer felt it was the baby squirming around.  I'd lost 15 pounds, but was slowly feeling up to eating again.  For about two weeks, life was really good.  My back started to hurt, and I couldn't get comfortable at night, but everybody says that's normal when you're pregnant, so I just shrugged it off.

When doubts and fears and questions surfaced, I did my best to push them down.  After all, we were safely out of the danger zone, weren't we?  I didn't want to make trouble or inconvenience anyone, especially since it was probably nothing.  Other women I asked seemed to not really remember, or not know what to tell me, or be a little embarrassed at discussing intimate pregnancy details.  Professionals seemed a little impatient and dismissive.  I was surely just a paranoid first-time mom, right?

Wrong.  So very wrong.  There's no knowing if anyone would have noticed the infection sooner, if anything could have been done, if my baby could have pulled through...but looking back I would have told myself to not worry about the others - they could take care of themselves.  I was the only one who could take care of this baby at this point, and if it took inconveniencing and pestering and demanding - if I felt something was off, I had every right to be taken seriously.  But how could I know?  How can you tell when you've never been through it before and you have never had to demand or inconvenience or put your foot down on something you might be wrong on that costs time and money and ....

So I didn't.  One evening, after hosting a wonderful and fun baby shower for a dear friend, my back just ached terribly.  Everyone went home, and we went to bed.  Nate was working morning shifts, so he was exhausted.  I woke up in the middle of the July night, shivering so badly I could hardly move voluntarily.  I rolled out of bed, literally stumbled to the dresser, and after fumbling with the drawer for several minutes because my hands were shaking so badly, pulled out a pair of socks and put them on.  I grabbed a quilt from the closet and made it back to bed, where I huddled under it, shivering and quaking, teeth chopping together, shaking the whole bed with my involuntary movement.  I couldn't get warm, so I woke up Nate to snuggle and help the process.  He was so confused and kept telling me to just relax and stop shaking.  I was doing my best, but I couldn't.  Finally he woke up enough to realize that I wasn't just cold, and got a thermometer.  My temperature was soaring.  He called the midwives, and one of them sleepily recommended I take some ibuprofen or tylenol or something like that to bring down the fever, and call back in the morning.  (I think.  I must admit, I was a little out of it at this point.)  He got some pills and water, and after a while, the shaking stopped and we both went back to sleep.  We deduced fairly quickly from the combination of back pain and fever that it was probably a kidney infection from an undetected UTI and the next morning got a prescription of antibiotics to fight it.  They said it should be fine, wouldn't hurt the baby.  Keep the fever down with round the clock doses of whatever it was I was taking.  Call them back if we needed anything else.  And that was supposed to be that.

Beautiful Savior

Over the last few weeks, I have not written much, either privately or here on the blog.  I've been a little drained by the demands of daily life combined with the natural effects of the first trimester of pregnancy, and had to let a few things go by the wayside.  As Nate so patiently put it, living with a pregnant mama (at least this pregnant mama!) in the first trimester is a lot like bachelor life again - everything tends to be put on a "do it only as it needs doing" schedule, rather than the more ordered and routine manner in which we try to accomplish life usually.  I am grateful that he is so supportive and loving.

Although I have not written much, my mind and heart have been full.  I have come up again against the conflict between the desire to honestly share my heart and experiences as they flow out of me, and the desire to protect against misunderstanding, judgement, and assumption.  But why write at all, unless I write honestly?  Why write at all, unless I write about what is important to me and weighing upon my heart?  So I have waited out the conflict to write.

Much on my mind has been my first baby, my first pregnancy.  Not Eden, but the first.  You see, for three years now, I have been pregnant at this time of the year.  This year, I am almost out of the first trimester.  Last year, I was two months away from giving birth to Eden.  The year before that, 2010, I was in my second trimester, barely recovering from horrible morning sickness, not knowing that in about two weeks I would deliver my tiny, precious, lifeless firstborn.

Someone asked me, once, after I had briefly shared that experience, if it was still hard to talk about, if it still hurt.  I don't really remember what I answered at that time.  I would say that it is not hard to talk about - it has never been hard to talk about.  In fact, it was (and is) harder to not talk about it.  Of course, as time passes and life goes on, it is not so present, so pressing, so immediate all the time.  But yes, when the moment is right - it does still hurt.  A mother's heart holds all her children, and longs for them when they are not with her, even with understanding and peace at their absence.

I will share, over the next few posts, perhaps, that experience.  It has touched and changed and broken and filled me more than any other one event in my life.  I do not share it lightly, and know that there will be those who do not understand or who maybe don't want to read it.  That's ok.  Take it or leave it, as you please.

But today, sitting on our somewhat smelly old couch, Nate and Eden and I just relaxed after church and watched an old DVD from his mission, entitled "Fisher's of Men." It contains quotes from conference talks by prophets and apostles, testifying of Jesus Christ and his mission, over a background of videos of His life and beautiful instrumental music.  I heard it for the first time on my mission, and have always been so touched by it, but today I found the tears just rolling down my cheeks.  I thought of my childhood and youth and the beauty and peace and blessing of growing up in the gospel.  The way I never doubted the truth of the Savior, always knew my Heavenly Father loved me, found answers and solutions and blessings for all my small and childish concerns.  I was truly encircled in his love.  Then, gradually, how my life encountered more and more of the more serious difficulties, trials, and disappointments that are natural to this fallen life.  I never used to cry when I felt the Spirit - I just felt peaceful and filled with joy.  I think that is my natural tendency, but I know that now I cry because I know my need, I know my brokenness.  I know that life is not about fairness, and there is no guarantee of the perfect ending in this life no matter what we do.  My heart has been shattered in ways that I never could have dreamed of, and I'm still at the beginning(ish) part of my life! And yet...

And yet, I cry because I feel His light streaming in through the cracks.  I cry because I am so humbled, so grateful, that He stops to reach me, where I am.  I cry because I long for the day when all the wrong shall be made right, and all promises fulfilled.  I cry because I see my brother, enfolded again in the longing, loving bosom of our family. I cry because I see, in my minds eye, that tiny little baby in my arms, in white, never again to depart.

Beautiful Savior!

Lord of the Nations! 

Son of God and son of man!

Thee will I honor, praise and give glory!

Give Glory evermore!

Evermore!