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.)

Renewed, Recharged

Well, here we are, back in King Salmon.

My feelings about that have run the whole spectrum, but now I have resigned myself to the fact - in fact, embraced it - and here we are.

I just have to say what a blessing it was, in so many ways, to spend these last few months down in California, at my parents house.

It was a blessing to have so much help with Eden, to be taken care of physically, to not have to worry about cooking or cleaning (much), in those last bulky weeks of pregnancy and first overwhelmed weeks of postpartum recovery.

It was a blessing to reconnect with my sisters and brothers and their families at our leisure, not only in light conversation at rare whole family gatherings.

It was a blessing to spend time co-mothering my children and nieces and nephews with my own mother, with my sisters.

It was a wonderful blessing to have such lovely weather, such freedom to be outside, myself, and even better, to let Eden run and play in the sun and grass and gravel, exploring the fields and roads for the first time.

It was a blessing for Eden to be with two of her older cousins practically all day, every day, and to learn from them and with them.

And it was a special blessing to be able to attend church, to physically go to church and sit in the church building, to see and talk with and serve the Saints, to feel the fire of my faith renewed and my life recharged every Sunday as the one little solitary coal of my soul was placed back into the glowing warmth of so many others' faith and testimony.

Thank you, Wheatland Ward.  

Every Sunday, I was aware of being strengthened and prepared for these coming months through all of you.  So, thank you.

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!”

Blessings and Sacrifices

Inside the tough, tedious, sometimes very bitter rind of sacrifice lies an indescribably sweet nectar of blessing.

(This post is not to judge anyone who does not parent the way I choose to parent, nor to say anything at all about their style of parenting.  As in all of life, I believe each person has a responsibility to carefully and thoughtfully seek out the methods, styles, etc. of parenting that are truly in the best interest of their family and children.  I do feel very strongly about many of my parenting choices, but I want to say very clearly that I have to answer to my own conscience regarding what I do, and I don't hold anyone else to that standard.  So basically, this is just my experience and I'm not trying to judge!)

I began to write this post several months ago, after a very trying day which ended with a long bedtime battle to get our determined daughter to calm down and go to sleep.  It was hard.  Very hard.  I wanted very much to give up and just let her cry it out.  But I didn't.  I breathed deeply, deliberately relaxed my tense muscles, and silently prayed for grace.  I rocked her and sang to her and shhhed her and bounced and lay by her side, and she finally went limp and lay, warm and soft, cuddled in my arms, both arms around my neck and a hand twined in my hair.  I, too, went limp and just lay there, letting the relief wash over me like waves.  In that moment, the words with which I opened this post came very quietly and clearly to my mind.  I was filled with the sweetness of my child, the blessing of her trust, the physical enjoyment of those moments snuggled so close.  The fleetingness of the experience was impressed upon me.  I realized that I could not have all this, would not be able to savor it so, if I had chosen a different path of parenting earlier, when the sacrifice was so tedious and tough.  I would have other things to be doing, enjoying, experiencing, but not this moment.  And this moment was totally worth it.

And one more thing.

This is our little daredevil's latest feat of daring.  We left the bathroom door open for just a minute, unattended, and found her here -

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.

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!

Random Updates and Thoughts on Grief

Well, sometimes the black clouds roll in and blot out the sun despite our best efforts.  Hopefully we see more clearly after the rain...

Anyway.  So now I'm 15 weeks along and if I can lay quietly (without falling asleep) for long enough, I can occasionally feel the little popping squirms of my new baby inside.  I was so grateful to pass the 12 week mark and find the nausea at first not so constant and now quite rare!  Although I do still throw up if I go long enough without eating.  Blech.  I don't like throwing up at all.  I'm adjusting again to being in Alaska and learning much about myself in the process, and am so very thankful to have a husband who is on my side, who cares about and wants to know how I really feel, and who is willing to sacrifice for me, for us, and for the good of our family.  Nate is truly a blessing to me.

Eden is growing so fast, both in her physical and mental capacities.  She's probably just going through the normal development of an almost 1 yr. old, but without anyone nearby for comparison, it all just seems miraculous to me!  Her comprehension of our words truly amazes me - so many things from "where's Daddy/the light/Jesus/your head/etc.?" to "Put your foot down" (at the table) and "That's not for eating!" (books, crayons, and the like) she comprehends and shows it by either complying, pointing, or looking.  She loves to look at books and even turns pages by herself, though we have to supervise that now that we've had a few torn out!  Her favorite things are going outside and seeing, talking about, or being near other children or animals - horses, cats, dogs, and bears are among the most favored.  She says "dad," and "hi" sometimes, and cruises around holding onto furniture, hands, or legs.  She waves hello, but the bye-bye wave usually doesn't come until after the intended recipient has truly gone bye-bye.  She's even started giving kisses - the open mouthed, gentle "touch my lips to you" type which sometimes turn in to a bit of a sucker fish imitation. ;)  She is amazing to me!

-*-*-*-

I've been thinking about what I have written concerning the miscarriage.  Although the actual experience and the time leading up to it were the most trying physically, and were confusing, difficult and heartbreaking, it was definitely the aftermath and dealing with the emotional, mental, and spiritual effects for the following months that were the most trying.  I remember driving home in silence from the ER, both of us totally exhausted, feeling flat and empty and cried out.  For the first time in months, I was physically hungry.  Famished, in fact.  We stopped and got a doughnut, and when we got home I devoured a small chicken pot-pie some kind ward members had brought over.  Then, despite it not yet being noon, we lay down for a nap.   Nate was hoping to go to work for the afternoon shift, and we were both completely worn out from the morning, not to mention the early mornings, late nights, and constant stress and worry of the last week.

Nate was out the moment his head hit the pillow.  He was so tired!  I, on the other hand, could not sleep, although I was worn out as well.  I was so tired, so exhausted - I needed to sleep - but I couldn't let it come.   Somehow, although I knew our little one was already gone from us, I could not just let her go and go to sleep.  It was the same feeling I'd had in the hospital room - please, hold my baby, so I can leave.  I cannot leave and just abandon this little body on the bed, all by itself.  There, the nurse took my precious bundle and I barely made it out the door, my whole being rebelling.  But who can take the little one you carry in your mind and heart?  I lay there, knowing she was gone but unable to leave her and let unconsciousness take me away.  Hot, agonizing tears slid down either side of my face, pooling in the cups of my ears, soaking into two unpleasantly wet spots on the pillow below.  The physical pain was over - I felt the best I had in months physically - but the mental and emotional agony were almost unbearable.  I didn't want to wake Nate, so I lay rigidly on my back, weeping in silence, struggling within.  I remember finally crying out in my mind, "Jesus, I know she's already with you.  But please, just hold my baby for me so I can sleep.  Please, Jesus, please hold my baby for me.  Please... " over and over and over again.  I had never felt so alone.  Finally, after I'm not sure how long, I saw in my mind's eye a glimpse of my Savior in a white robe, cradling my tiny baby in his arms.  I saw that he held her, and I saw his love.  And I fell deeply asleep.

The bad thing about sleep when you are grieving is that you have to wake up and come to terms with the new reality all over again.  I cried more than I knew it was possible to cry over the next week or so.  There were times when my eyelashes felt strange and I reached to touch them only to find them stiff and white with salt from my tears.  I read online about other women's miscarriages and how so many of them still mourned years after the fact.  I often felt unreal, as if in a dream or some alternate reality.  I sometimes felt crazy - had I really ever been pregnant?  Was I a mother, now, or not? And what about when my milk came in?  Not generally supposed to happen at 16 weeks, but by then it seemed that the medical establishment (midwives included) really knew nothing about what was really happening or going to happen with my body.


Imagine, if you will, a town on the edge of the ocean.  It is busy with life and activity and people and purpose.  There are wharves and docks, and even some boats.  But this ocean is like those on medieval maps - there is no end.  It doesn't go anywhere.  It just extends, and extends... out into nowhere.  Far out, away from the noise and bustle, is a lone dock extending into the waves.  One rope is tied to the very end, and on the end of that rope is not a boat, but a bubble, a fragile transparent bubble, about to just float away on the next strong wind.  The only thing connecting it with the rest of the world is that lone rope. That is the image I have had of myself during that period of time.  I was that bubble, and I felt lost to real life.  Nate was my only connection to reality, the only safe place, the rock I clung to desperately.  Thankfully I had him.  It was several weeks before I lost the unreal floating feeling and began to sink back into a more normal daily life.

Visit Home

I stepped out of the car.  The night was dark, sky speckled with glittering stars, soft sweet dusty fragrance of California summer rising to meet me.  A great elemental peace fell upon me, as if in my whole self were sighing in organic relief - home! Roots reach up again to connect with thirsty branches, and a sense of ease and completion settles over me.  People talk about having a sense of "place," and I feel what that means every time I return to visit my parents home.  I feel like rejoicing in the smallest, most mundane things - turning my eyes upon the arch of sky in its particular shade of summer blue, savoring the toasty warmth of sun on my face and arms, walking over the soft, slippery gold of mown weeds - I cannot express how it fills and grounds and lifts me.  I even find nostalgia in my heart for the neglected fields behind the clay factory that I walk by on my way from the dentist's office to the park.  

Of course, as I realize, it is easier to feel those things when being there is a privilege instead of a necessity, when my visits are by choice and eagerly anticipated instead of by circumstance and unexpected.  But oh! I simply love that combination of people and place and feel in my very being every nuance of season and space.  I so wish I could have it all there! :)

On Friday, much of the family gathered for a dinner and visiting.  Things have changed since our last visit - babies are older, new babies born, all growing and changing and experiencing new things.  There is so much to talk about and catch up on, and its hard to do all at once! We catch each other in little aside conversations, over changing diapers and setting the table, asking and listening, sharing the tidbits that make up our daily life.  And then it gets late too soon and babies must be put to bed and long drives home undertaken far too soon to have our fill of the visit.  We were able to fit in some music though, with accompanying laughter and tears.  Laughter, because of the sheer hilarity of certain family members in combination with each other...

My brothers, egging one another on in lusty harmony (and sometimes disharmony!) with "Let Me Be Your Salty Dog" and other old favorites thrown together into silly medleys of mostly bluegrass with a few nursery rhymes and hymn refrains thrown in for good measure.  I am trying not to wake my sleeping baby on my lap, trying not to wet my pants, laughing so hard I am crying and struggling to breathe.  Its not just the comedy of the moment, great though that is.  I am transported back 15 years to sweaty homeschool days, remembering those same two brothers whanging away on fiddle and banjo, blasting out trumpet duets, experimenting with mandolin and voice and style in the downstairs bedroom between 4:30 and 5:30pm (sometimes even earlier if algebra and civics were particularly dull that day!) while I studied spanish and browsed the chicken catalog upstairs.  

Tears, because having the family all together brings tender hearts and easily touched feelings quickly to the surface again.  Singing hymns in sweet melody, blending our voices in praise and song, brings the angel band close around us and fills my soul with a "peace that passeth understanding," sets my heartstrings to reverberating in celestial chords and choruses, even the kind I "cannot sing."

I also love to be home to watch my parents parent.  They were wonderful parents to me, and I can only hope to be as wise as they have been.  It is a unique situation at the moment, because my mother has the opportunity to watch two grandchildren full time some days while their mother, my sister, goes to school.  Eden is somewhat behind them in age, but I love to see her in action, so to speak, as the caregiver of these young ones and learn from not only my memories but directly from her example.  For one thing, I so very much appreciate seeing her wisdom in its real-life application!  But for another, it helps me not to romanticize her mothering.  Mom is, and has always been, a wonderful mother - couldn't be a better - but it helps me to remember that even so, she is not perfect nor was she as we were growing.  And its ok! Heavenly Father gave us imperfect mothers to bless us!  She has very definite ideas, principles she bases her parenting choices and actions upon, but it is not a formula or in any way a rigid plan - this is living parenting!  It helps me to relax and breathe and be at once more flexible and more determined about my mothering.  I try to observe and absorb all I can while I'm there.

Yes, it was a truly wonderful visit, for many reasons even beyond these, but now we are back at home in Alaska.  And while I am so happy to be reunited with my dear husband again, I can feel the dark clouds of discontentment and depression hovering at the edges of my mind, just waiting for the slightest breeze to sail out and blot out the light.  I won't look at them!  I know they are there, but I am determined to choose the happiness that is here for me and let the light continue to shine.  This is a good life, too! 

As for sharing my experience with the miscarriage - I do not share it to say "poor me," or to in any way to compare it to anyone else's experience, grief, or healing.  I do not share it to hang out dirty laundry.  I do not share it to have a juicy story to chew over.  There is more I will share, partly because this is my blog and I can if I want to, ;) and partly because I think that we share very easily the small, sound-bite smiles and trials of our lives, somewhat less easily the big bright sunbursts of joy, and, paradoxically, too easily and yet not enough, the big struggles and trials.  Too easily the complaints, the self-pity, the blaming and anger.  Not enough, the depths, the changes that come, the new understanding that you can only come to after being broken.  The comfort that can be found even while in the mists of sorrow and struggle.  I do think that the first has to come out somewhere, especially if its been held in for a while, like pus out of a festering wound. And I do think that the second can only be shared in appropriate times and ways to be truly communicated at all, especially in person.  But there is a wonderful and strange effect when it can be shared.  Somehow it is healing, both to the hearer and the speaker.  Honestly shared, it allows us the courage to continue living as imperfect beings in a fallen world.  I never wanted to be a part of the secret club of women who have lost a baby to miscarriage.  But how grateful I was for the understanding of those who had also gone through that valley when I found myself there.  It was, as much as anything, the knowledge that I was not alone.  So, if one person reading my experience is going through, has gone through, will go through a struggle and can find hope and light in sharing or knowing mine... well, I would be honored.  

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!