Love, Sisterhood, Memories and Heartache

Lisa and I have been best friends since we were 15 years old.  We moved into the same neighborhood within a few months of each other and became friends almost instantly.  We were both rule followers, list makers and the oldest child in our families, but she was brave, spontaneous and optimistic while I was a bit more practical, sensitive and empathetic.  We became an unstoppable team, practically inseparable for a good six years of our teen and young adult years.  I’m pretty sure a good portion of those we associated with can’t tell you which one of us is which.  We were simply “Lisa and Maria” or “Maria and Lisa,” depending on who you talked to.  That friendship was one of the greatest gifts of my youth!  It was through my fun, spontaneous friend that my adventure as a college sorority girl began. 

Lisa and I are only 10 days apart, but ended up in separate grades because the deadline for grade level falls right in between our birthdays.  She likes to tease me that I’ve always been older and wiser.  Pa-lease!!  Thankfully we ended up both attending Weber State University so we didn’t have to be apart in school for more than a short period of time.  

It was autumn and a new school year was upon us.  Oh how I love that time of year!  Lisa had attended leadership camp in the summer while I was in Lake Powell with family, but was so excited about the people she had met.  She was especially excited about Greek life at WSU and asked if I wanted to rush with her.  Huh?  I didn’t even know what that meant.  Of course I said yes.  I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity for a new adventure so we set out to learn all about sorority life.  The sororities at WSU were all local sororities, and one in particular stuck out to us.  We were immediately drawn to the girls of LaDianaeda (LD) and felt a strong connection to the sisterhood there.  Every sorority is a little bit different and each sorority changes slightly over time as new members join and old members graduate or get married.  The sisters in our sorority were seriously awesome!  They were classy, intelligent, goal-oriented, compassionate, competitive and slightly mischievous!  It was the perfect combination of characteristics I wanted to continue to develop.  Oh how I love those girls!  Plus, I’m a total cheeseball.  I love bonding and Kum-ba-yah campfire moments so joining a sisterhood was AMAZING for me!  When all was said and done, we received an invitation to pledge LaDianaeda and accepted with our signature.  A grand adventure had ensued.  

Kristen was a member of our pledge class.  She was excited and enthusiastic about EVERYTHING!  Greek life was a blast to her!  She loved the sisterhood, the activities and getting to know all sorts of fraternity boys.  Yep, there were definitely some perks to Greek life!  Kristen was also blessed to have an older sister, Melissa, who was currently serving as an officer in the sorority.  How freaking cool is that?  Um, yeah…we were all a little awe struck.  

I was an active member of LaDianaeda for a year and a half until my time in the sorority came to a close when a boy I attempted to avoid for over a year swept me off my feet and eventually proposed.  At my candle pass, the new president read a letter written by Marcos about why he deserved to take one of their sisters from the sisterhood, professing his undying love for me and promising to love and cherish me always.  Yep!  I’m also a hopeless romantic.  My ring was tied with ribbon on a candle and the candle was passed around the circle from girl to girl as the letter was read.  I did my best to hold back tears and try not to give it away too soon.  When the candle came back to me, I blew out the candle and everyone knew I had gotten engaged.  I loved that I got to share such a special moment with so many girls that I knew and loved.  I dragged several of my sorority sisters with me to try on wedding dresses and sang and danced the night away with them at my wedding reception.  A new stage of life had begun.  It was bitter-sweet, but I knew the closeness I felt to my sisters would remain in my heart forever.  

Thanks to social media, I’ve been able to reconnect with many of my sorority sisters and catch up on their current lives a little bit.  A couple of years ago, Kristen was diagnosed with brain cancer.  She has undergone several rounds of chemo and has been a trouper throughout.  I sat in awe of her strength and courage as she and her husband took their young family to Disneyland and many other adventures when she was able.  She continued to be optimistic despite many less-than-ideal results from her cancer treatment.  

I recently learned Kristen had been placed on hospice.  My heart sank as I thought of my friend and her sweet little family.  What a heavy burden to bear.  Within a few days, one of our sorority sisters was discussing the possibility of visiting Kristen.  She set to work arranging details, another sister gathered pictures to put together a book for Kristen from our "glory days," and another one set up a “Go Fund Me” page so we could gather donations and help relieve some of the financial stress the family is experiencing.  It was amazing how everyone came together to make it all happen in a matter of days!  Sisters living out of town expressed their love and asked about donating.  The love and friendship was incredible!  

On Monday evening, a few of us gathered together to visit Kristen.  I was a ball of nerves!  My husband is AMAZING in situations like this.  I tend to lean on him and follow his lead when dealing with illness or death.  I feel powerless and worry about saying or doing the wrong thing.  Perhaps no one feels comfortable in such situations.  It’s difficult to watch suffering.  But I felt strongly that I needed to be there and I felt a strange wave of support guiding me through the moment. 

When we got to her room, Kristen was sleeping.  She stirred a little bit as her parents told her some of her “Swabbie” sisters had come to visit.  We told her our names and as I reached out to tell her who I was, she grabbed onto my hand.  My heart burst with love and compassion as I took her hand in mine and sat in a chair next to her.  We talked for a few minutes about how she was feeling, how her children were doing and commented on her darling “minky” blanket.  But deep down I could sense that’s not what she needed most.  She needed to know she was loved by a HUGE group of women – a sisterhood that spans decades – by women who knew her personally and others who only knew of her, but who proudly call her sister.  And she needed a break, a break from her pain and suffering and thoughts of the present and the future.  She needed a blast from the past…and we were able to provide that.  We talked about all sorts of memories from our days in sorority and reminisced for hours.  We laughed and were light-hearted as we shared memories together.  Kristen hadn’t eaten for days, but was craving her favorite Chick-Fil-A meal (number 2 combo – no pickles, no cheese, no tomato – with Chick-Fil-A sauce and delicious lemonade).  When we realized her craving was not going away, two of the girls hopped in the car and headed to Chick-Fil-A while two of us stayed to visit with her.  I started flipping through the pictures from the book we had made and pointing her out and commenting about each event, making the memories even more vivid in our minds.  It was strange to me to realize how natural it was to talk with an old friend, despite the extreme conditions. 

The girls got back with her favorite food and we were shocked as we watched her eat several bites of her sandwich and sip lemonade the rest of the visit.  I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed anyone enjoy a meal more than I did that day!  By the end, she didn’t feel great and was extremely tired.  We stayed much longer than I thought we would, but as we looked over at her mother to check in every so often, she told us we should stay.  She assured us the visit was good for Kristen, and that she looked better than she had in weeks.  I could tell Kristen was happy and that's all that mattered to me in that moment.  So we stayed until it was obvious she needed to rest.  As we left, we hugged her and told her we loved her.  Then we went to the parking lot and cried and reminisced a bit more.  We all agreed it had been a healing visit for each of us as well.  

Today I learned that Kristen passed away.  My heart broke for her family as tears streamed down my face.  I immediately felt gratitude for the experience of visiting with Kristen before she passed on.  I think back to my initial nervousness as I wondered what to do or say.  Instead I feel a deep reverence to have had the opportunity to be a part of such a beautiful moment. 

A dear friend of mine recently shared some thoughts about the importance of suffering with others that I would like to share.  It is a very special moment when someone trusts you enough to tell you about their broken marriage, a wayward child, the trauma of a childhood experience, chronic illness, the death of a loved one or any number of other fears, pain or suffering.  At that moment you enter a very sacred space, a place that forever bonds you to the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  As you witness and help another during their suffering, you feel the love and support of the Savior in a way that is difficult to describe.  I felt that reality with all my heart and soul this week.  The love and compassion I felt for Kristen was beyond my own.  I was buoyed up not only by an incredible sisterhood of love, but by the love of our Savior and Redeemer.  I was given strength and support every step of the way so I could better comfort a friend in need.  Christ knew Kristen’s pain and he also knew I was scared. He strengthened me so that I could be part of a sacred moment to bring comfort and joy and momentary relief to a dear friend during her suffering.  

How grateful I am to have a knowledge of the great plan of happiness, a knowledge that gives me surety that Kristen’s spirit lives on today and that she will one day be reunited again with those she loves.  I sit quietly and reflect on the life of my friend, Kristen, and those she left behind.  Despite my sadness and tears, my heart is full of love, gratitude and joy as I ponder the comforting words of scripture:

“He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces…” (Isaiah 25:8).

The Parable of the Peach Tree

I love being in nature.  I love working in the dirt and watching things grow.  I love the sights, sounds and smells that abound.  It's a sensory feast to immerse myself in nature and fully digest it.  Such experiences are extremely healing to me and have often become spiritual in nature as I feel a closeness to the Lord that can be difficult to maintain during the hurried pace of everyday life.  

Christ taught through parables, often parables found in nature.  I have found my greatest learning often comes through simple parables that enter my thoughts as I am still and the Holy Ghost can speak to my heart and my mind.  One such parable entered my thoughts some time ago, but has recently come to my attention again as life experiences have caused me to once again reflect on what I like to call "The Parable of the Peach Tree."  

Several years ago, the neighbors behind us planted a couple fruit trees in their backyard.  As we do not currently have fruit trees, we get some delight in watching these beautiful trees blossom each year, and have even been lucky enough to get to taste of the fruit when harvest time rolls around.

A couple years ago, our family watched as the peach tree grew and blossomed and started to look more and more like a mature tree.  It was beautiful!  I smiled every time I walked out my back patio door and saw the peaches growing and eventually starting to ripen.  The tree was full and I was excited for our neighbors to have a huge harvest.  Our neighbors are sweet and humble.  They are a quiet family and keep to themselves most of the time.  But we consider it a great blessing to have them as neighbors.  

As the season progressed, I started to wonder about the tree.  The branches were beginning to bend and I knew the peaches would need to be harvested soon.  We tried to contact our neighbors several times, but they were never home.  Like I said, they are quiet and keep to themselves.  We don't have a phone number for them and didn't have a way to contact them.  In general, hopping into your neighbor's backyard to harvest their peaches is frowned upon when you haven't spoken to them.  So I watched.  And I wondered.  And soon I started to worry.  

One evening in August, the rain and wind picked up.  A loud crack was all it took to draw our attention to the poor peach tree.  In the morning, I walked out to see two of the big branches of the peach tree lying on the ground.  My heart sank.  Oh no!  I couldn't help but second guess my decision to avoid trespassing and leave the peaches on the tree.  It turns out our neighbors were on a long vacation and ended up being out of town close to a month.  When they returned, we asked if we could help.  The branches were pruned and the two small branches that remained were tied with rope and anchored to the ground.  It was the saddest looking tree I've ever seen.  Although clearly disappointed about what had taken place, our neighbors seemed surprisingly optimistic about their little peach tree.  

As I reflected on the experience, the parable of the peach tree began to take shape in my mind.  The peach tree was breathtaking!  It was growing and full and incredibly productive.  But the weight of the peaches (even if they had been harvested regularly) was too much for the young tree to handle. The tree had not been pruned.  As I pondered the peach tree, my mind was flooded with thoughts pertaining to my own life.  It's easy in this stage of life to be in full-swing production mode.  I'm a busy mom with a lot of goals and aspirations for myself, my children and my family.  But without pruning back some of the activities and responsibilities in my life, the quality of my personal harvest will not be as great.  I have had that thought multiple times the past few years and have tried to regularly prioritize and reevaluate how and where I am spending my time and energy to ensure that the most important things are given the highest priority.  Admittedly I often get this wrong, but I am aware of the need to "prune back" my commitments so the fruits of my labor will be meaningful and important.  

The past several weeks, the health of my personal peach tree came into question and I saw the "parable of the peach tree" in a whole new light.  In the past, my thoughts about the peach tree always revolved around the amount of peaches, loss of productivity, the fullness of the tree (or lack thereof), etc.  It never once occurred to me to take into the account the overall health of the tree in general.  Yes, I get it.  Don't try to keep too many peaches on the tree or you won't end up harvesting nearly as many or the quality of the peaches will decrease.  If you don't address the pruning back of your branches, they will prune themselves for you, often in dramatic fashion.  But what happens when the tree itself breaks?  What happens if the trunk splits in two and nutrients can no longer reach the branches?  What happens when the tree is unable to produce blossoms or fruit?

For those who know me personally and are inclined to worry, my health concerns are not life threatening.  I could certainly be facing a much greater mountain or a more frightening situation.  But they are incredibly debilitating.  A couple months ago, I had the prompting that I needed to put more effort into my health.  Of course, these thoughts are often inspired by external motives like a desire to shed a few pounds or fit into a specific outfit at some random point in life.  Admittedly, that was a big part of it for me...at first.  But my focus shifted as I thought about my overall health goals.  I was eating clean, I'd added in some exercise and I was starting to feel pretty good.  Nothing extreme.  No major diet plan.  Just healthy eating and some dietary supplements.  And then...my body crashed!  I literally collapsed.  I could not get out of bed.  I was sleeping hours and hours and hours every night and still found myself exhausted and needing a nap in the middle of the day.  Sigh.  For a person whose strategy for dealing with any difficulty in life is pushing harder, longer and further, this was a true wakeup call.  How in the world do I deal with this type of situation when I literally CANNOT PUSH MYSELF HARDER?  I could barely even move.    

In the course of the last few weeks, I have made more changes, read several books, talked to specialists and tried to narrow down what is going on in this broken peach tree I have unknowingly taken for granted for so many years.  It appears my adrenal glands have more or less shut down and are not producing the cortisol necessary to make any of the other hormone-producing glands do their job well.  The endocrine system is quite complex, but basically if the adrenal glands are suffering, symptoms from the thyroid, pancreas and/or reproductive organs can be experienced.  Not good.  SO NOT GOOD!!  I have several appointments and tests to come, but am basically dealing with extreme adrenal fatigue likely caused by way too many years of living in a state of ongoing stress as well as a diet that adds to the stress my body is facing (caffeine being my number one vice and worst enemy in this specific situation).  In most of the books I have read, adrenal fatigue is broken down into three levels.  I'm at the worst one - the one they refer to as the CRASH level.  Oh boy!  I wish I could say that title was simply a cute nickname, but unfortunately it's a fairly accurate description of what is currently happening inside this tabernacle of clay.  

What does all this have to do with a peach tree?  If I had taken the full tree into account and not just the fruit of the tree, perhaps I could have avoided such an extreme disaster.  Instead of a couple broken branches and lost harvest this year, I am attempting to heal a trunk that has split down the middle.  Such a repair requires bolts and ropes and intensive care.  It also requires time and patience.  I have faith that this repair is not only possible, but also probable.  However, healing is not going to come by traditional methods of pruning back one or two branches, spraying the tree for disease or picking off a few peaches and hoping the tree can handle the rest of its load.  

In order to heal, I have to rest, reduce my levels of stress and eat a very specific diet (something I thankfully had already addressed when my health took a turn for the worse).  There are also several dietary supplements to help build up my adrenal glands while I'm resting and healing and learning to utilize relaxation techniques, breathe deeply, practice gentle yoga and learn the art of mindfulness.  YIKES!

As I reflect on my personal garden, my thoughts turn to the "Master of the Vineyard" and my heart swells with love and gratitude.  He who is able to prune and dig and nourish the roots of the tree.  He who can burn branches that have decayed and graft in young fruitful branches for the benefit of the tree (Jacob 5).  I take a breath and relax.  What an incredible gift! As I learn to embrace my dramatic new plan of health and healing, I will trust in He who can restore all things and will wait patiently on the Lord.  

Friendship

I’m not superstitious.  At all.  I don’t worry about black cats, walking under ladders or opening umbrellas in the house.  I don’t take everything and anything as a sign from the universe of my fate or destiny.  I’m open-minded, but I’m a skeptic at heart.  I rarely participate in random fact-predicting activities. It doesn’t bother me that such quizzes exist.  I remember fondly playing games as a child, folded paper opening and closing on the tips of my fingers that would accurately predict my entire future (husband, number of kids, career and wealth).  But as a grown up, it’s rare for me to participate in such things.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself clicking on a Facebook link a year ago that would choose my word for the coming year.  I had experienced a couple of rough months leading up to the commencement of 2016 and I looked forward to the New Year with great anticipation.  I kept my New Year’s resolution simple: joy and purpose.  I already lead a somewhat purposeful life, but I wanted to focus on activities that brought joy to me and to others.  That was it.  I thought for sure when I took the quiz, the word joy or happiness or maybe even adventure would pop up.  That would be the theme of my year.  I clicked with nervous excitement, anxiously awaiting my word.  It was going to be something super cool.  Maybe a word I’d have to look up in the dictionary.  Oh, how I love words and definitions!  For a knowledge-craving human, the idea of a word unique to me that could help shape my future was second only to Christmas!  And then, like an addicted gambler watching the slot machine in Vegas, I looked up in surprise.  FRIENDSHIP.  My word was friendship?

Hmm...strange.  I wasn’t disappointed.  But I was surprised.  Friendship has ALWAYS been a big part of my life.  It's not new or unique or a word that should define a year.  Friendship is simply part of who I am.  Stupid test!  I lost three minutes of my life taking that stupid test.   

Now, before you decide I'm a complete jerk for hating my fortune-predicting word, let me make myself clear.  I consider myself beyond lucky when it comes to friends.  In the friendship department, I hit the freaking jackpot!  Seriously!  I'm not even sort of kidding.  Somehow, I have always found myself surrounded by individuals who uplift, inspire and support me.  I’m certain much of it is a blessing from the Lord - a tender mercy - that has carried me through my life.  I love my friends.  I cherish those friendships.  I laugh when I think of the diversity of the people near and dear to me.  My friends are eclectic.  They range greatly in age, background and interests, but every single one of them holds valuable real estate in the deepest parts of my heart.  Friendship is a big deal to me.  But really?  My word for the year?  Come on computer!  Work a little harder. 

Last January, I never could have predicted that my couple of rough months in November and December 2015 would be a walk in the park compared to the torrential downpour of 2016.  My “determined optimism” and “sometimes life can be hard but I can do hard things” moments eventually collapsed and sent me into a downward spiral.  I have emerged several times from that whirlpool, gasping for air but alive.  However, keeping my head above water in the midst of incredible storms has proven more than I could do alone.  It was in those moments that the word FRIENDSHIP – my own personal word of the year – took on new meaning for me. 

I faked it.  I hid out.  I hit rock bottom…multiple times.  Not good!  I wrestled with life and faith and reality.  It was rough.  And when I thought I could survive no longer, a friend would reach out in my time of need.  There are good people everywhere and I can’t possibly name everyone who came to my aid in one way or another this past year.  What I can say is that everyone needs at least one friend like that.  The kind of friend you can call in the middle of the night when you’re stranded and alone who will drop everything and run.  The kind of friend you can text and ask for prayers or words of encouragement when your low reaches lower than you ever imagined possible – an embarrassing and shocking low that finds you wishing out loud that a bus will run you over.  Literally.  Everyone needs a friend with whom you find comfort sitting in silence or talking into the wee hours of the night. A friend with whom you can shed your defensive armor, exposing your deepest fears, weaknesses and insecurities, and still feel safe and loved.  The kind of friend who witnesses your ugly cry reach a new level of intensity yet still manages to see the beauty of your soul. 

I have had friends bring me meals, drive me to appointments when I couldn’t drive with my broken foot, take my children for play dates and outings of all kinds, lend me a car when I could drive again but the car, the van or both had broken down, run errands for me, lend me ingredients or materials I needed at a moment’s notice, bring me chocolate, a Fiiz, a book or a movie to brighten my day, convince me to go shopping in pajama pants and a sweatshirt because I needed to get out of the house and do something, pray for me, fast with me, drag me to the temple…     
There is no possible way to fully document the love and support I have received during my year of FRIENDSHIP!  The only thing I can attempt to do is say thank you.  At the risk of sounding sappy and possibly busting into lyrics from The Golden Girls theme song, I humbly and sincerely say, “Thank you for being a friend!”

The words of scripture flood my mind as I ponder.  “…Peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment.  And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes.  Thy friends do stand by thee, and they shall hail thee again with warm hearts and friendly hands” (D&C 121:7-9). 

Yes!  That’s exactly what I have experienced.  Friendship.  My friends stood by me with warm hearts and friendly hands.  What an incredible blessing!

The word friendship swirls around and around in my mind as words from the scriptures once again emerge from my memory.  “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13).  The reality of the love from the Ultimate Friend to us all hits me in an instant.  Despite the storm – the tempest tossed – I found peace.  I caught glimpses of hope in the midst of despair.  That hope came in the form of a newborn babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.  Without Him, I would be lost.  We would all be lost.  This year, I found healing for deep wounds I thought would not be possible in this lifetime.  Healing made possible through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.  Healing made possible because Jesus Christ was WILLING and ABLE to lay down his life for his friends.  I am filled with emotion as I ponder my PERFECT FRIEND.  My brain questions the unfairness of a friendship so lop-sided in nature.  My brow furrows.  And then I cringe. My heart aches as I imagine the pain He suffered because of my sins.  A lump forms in my throat as I realize the pain and afflictions Christ willingly carried so He would know PERFECTLY how to succor me.  Pain He took upon himself so he could run to me and comfort me in my time of need.  My chest feels heavy and my breathing slows.  I gasp as the magnitude of it all strikes me like a bolt of lightning.  What felt like a trivial word becomes deeper understanding and appreciation for the many layers of love and friendship offered to me daily.  Emotion washes over me once again and I pause momentarily as I seek to define it.  Gratitude.  It’s the only word that comes.  I am overwhelmed with a feeling of GRATITUDE.  Gratitude for friendship, a word I now recognize perfectly describes the year 2016 for me. 

Dylan's Duck: A Story of Heartache and Healing

Dylan has been working on a local farm for a few months now.  He’s learned a lot about quail, ducks, chickens, rabbits and dogs.  He’s always loved animals, but it’s truly become a passion of his this year.  He has such a tender heart and has had to learn to separate in his mind animals raised for meat and animals raised as pets.  That’s been a difficult, but good lesson for him to learn.

Years ago, I pictured myself living on a farm.  I, too, had a great love for animals and all things outdoors as a child.  Unfortunately, the more realistic, down-to-earth mother in me has become a bit more practical.  I want a nicely kept suburban yard and all that entails.  Even owning one dog has been a bit of a sacrifice.  So when Dylan approached me about purchasing ducks, I was reluctant.  After a lot of thought, Marcos and I decided it was manageable and proceeded with the duck purchase as well as putting some pretty firm boundaries for raising ducks in place. 

Dylan has been AMAZING with his ducks!  They quickly became like babies to him.  He cares for them daily without being asked.  They follow him around like he’s the mother duck.  He has come to truly love his little ducklings. 

Last Monday, I was in making dinner.  I had let the ducks out of their fenced in area to free range and catch some extra bugs around the yard.  Dexter (our schnauzer) was in the basement locked in the boys’ room.  Preston and Marissa were playing and I had just taken Caleb up to the tub.  Dylan looked out the window and noticed there were only seven ducks instead of eight.  This is extremely unusual as they are NEVER apart.  He counted them a couple times and was sure there were only seven.  I thought he must be wrong, but a tinge of fear crept into my heart and settled as a lump in my throat as Dylan rushed outside in a state of panic.  It was the worst of the worst.  Dexter had somehow been let out and had attacked one of the ducks.  Dylan was angry and emotional as he pulled his trusted and loyal dog from his beloved duckling. 

My heart sunk as I rushed to the duck to assess the damage.  The first thing I saw was blood dripping down his beak.  “Oh no!”  I grabbed the dog and brought him in the house as poor Dylan screamed and cried and let out the depths of his emotion without holding anything back.  This child is intense.  He always has been.  It’s a great gift.  It can also be a difficult challenge to help him learn to manage the intensity of his emotions.  

The chaos of the moment was indescribable:  toddler in the bathtub, dinner on the stove, two children roaming the neighborhood trying to get in a few extra minutes of playtime, deep sadness and explosive anger from a grieving child confused about the situation and a nervous husband weighing his options (Should he hit the duck over the head and put her out of her misery or allow her to suffer while Dylan holds her?  Should he allow Dylan to leave on his bike to let off steam or worry about what might happen to him if he leaves the house alone in his current state of mind?)  I went into crisis mode.  I quickly bathed Caleb and got him dressed so I could be present for the duck experience.  Preston kept talking about how glad he was that it wasn’t Donald Quack (his favorite duck) who Dexter had attacked (not exactly helpful but Preston's own way of expressing sadness and relief).  Marissa, my medically savvy curious little nurturer, was convinced that pouring water on the wound would help so she ran to fill her water bottle.  Dylan sat on the lawn holding his precious duck as her breaths became slow and shallow.  The image of my boy holding his bleeding duck in his arms, gently lifting her neck and head and speaking tenderly to her as she lived her last moments on this earth will forever remain etched in my mind.  It was painful but beautiful to witness.  He loves so deeply!  He cares so much!  My little boy – the mama duck – was grieving for his lost duckling.  And I was grieving for my boy.  

“The Golden One” took her last breath and Dylan held her, spoke to her and sat in silence.  After a while, Marcos found a spot behind the shed and dug a shallow grave.  The gratitude I felt for my husband at that moment is difficult to describe.  I pride myself on being a pretty tough chick.  It’s a badge of honor I’ve worn for years.  I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing.  I consider it a gift that others trust me and feel safe and protected around me.  I have a roaring mama bear instinct and would fight to the death to defend my own cubs (or others in trouble).  But I do recognize that my tough girl persona has often been a mask behind which I have hidden to protect myself from feeling weak or vulnerable.  I’m working on pulling back the masks of my youth and becoming more authentic as an adult – embracing my strengths and God-given talents and abilities, recognizing my weaknesses and human frailties…and loving myself for all of the above.  As I thought about my anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better, tough chick, girl power attitude, I smiled with deep appreciation for the man standing by my side ready and willing to take care of his family in good times and in bad.  I couldn’t help but pause in awe and reverence as I cherished this sacred moment.  It’s okay to need help, Maria.  It’s okay to not do everything yourself.  It’s okay that Marcos is here for Dylan.  It’s okay that you aren’t the one digging that grave.  It’s a good thing, a really good thing.     

That night was full of emotion.  A few times Dylan began to yell in anger and hatred for the dog.  Marcos tried to tell him to calm down.  Anger is a powerful emotion that we’ve tried to help Dylan manage throughout his life.  This time, however, I could see beyond the anger.  I could see his grief and pain. 

Preston is part of a book club for 8-11 year old boys.  In September, they read, “Where the Red Fern Grows.”  We were just finishing reading the final pages in the book as a family when we had our duck experience.  Words from the pages of the book went swirling through my mind.

“I don’t believe in prayers any more,” I said.  “I prayed for my dogs, and now look, both of them are dead.” 

Mama was silent for a moment; then, in a gentle voice, she said, “Billy, sometimes it’s hard to believe that things like this can happen, but there’s always an answer.  When you’re older, you’ll understand better.” 

“No, I won’t,” I said.  I don’t care if I’m a hundred years old, I’ll never understand why my dogs had to die.”

As if she were talking to someone far away, I heard her say in a low voice, “I don’t know what to say.  I can’t seem to find the right words.” 

Looking up to her face, I saw that her eyes were flooded with tears.

“Mama, please don’t cry,” I said.  “I didn’t mean what I said.” 

“I know you didn’t,” she said, as she squeezed me up tight.  “It’s just your way of fighting back.” 

I didn’t know what to do or what to say.  So I held him.  I held my boy and I cried with him.  I told him it was okay to feel sad, and that he didn’t need to hide behind anger.  I told him he would experience anger as well, but that the anger he felt most likely came from pain he experienced because of the loss of his duckling, an animal he had loved and cared for since she was 3 days old.  I told him that all those emotions were part of grieving and it was okay to allow himself to feel them.  I expressed my desire to make things better and my incredible sadness that I couldn’t take the pain away.  I told him I would be there to sit with him and love and support him through his grief.  It was tough.  Dylan held me tight.  He uttered words rarely heard from the mouth of a 12-year-old boy, “I need my mommy!  I’m so sad!  I loved my duck so much!  I was like her mama.  She was my favorite and I wasn’t there to protect her.  Why did Dexter do that?  Why did he kill her?  I hate him!”  He described his deep sadness when he spoke of the other ducks standing by the fence looking for their lost sister.  He felt pain as he looked to the other ducklings and saw their confusion and experienced their loss with them.  My mind again echoed words from “Where the Red Fern Grows” as I internalized the lessons from Billy and his mother. 

After she had tucked me in, she sat on the bed for a while. As if she were talking to the darkness, I heard her say, “If only there were some way I could help – something I could do.” 

“No one can help, Mama,” I said.  “No one can bring my dogs back.” 

“I know,” she said, as she got up to leave the room, “but there must be something – there just has to be.” 

I wanted so many times that night to fix the problem.  I rushed to the duck hoping and praying I could patch her up and everything would be okay again.  I wished I could rewind time and figure out how the dog managed to get out back when he had been behind three closed doors only moments before.  I wanted to swallow my emotions and solve the problem.  I did not want to deal with this much pain.  I did not want to experience it fully.  The next day as I reflected on our experience, I realized how uncomfortable I am with grief and sorrow.  I want to make it go away.  I want to fix it.  I want to make it better.  Once again, the words of Billy’s mother came to mind.

”Do you feel better now?” she asked.  “It still hurts, Mama,” I said, as I buried my face in her dress, “but I do feel a little better.” 

“I’m glad,” she said, as she patted my head.  “ I don’t like to see my little boy hurt like this.” 

Oh my goodness!  I could not believe how true those words were to me.  It’s natural to want to help others feel better when they are grieving.  It’s normal to want to ease the pain of others.  But we border on unhealthy when we are unable to sit with another person through intense emotions.  

Life lessons are never easy.  In this particular case, my son learned he could allow himself to feel grief.  He learned his mom and dad were there for him and would weep with him through the process.  He learned parents can’t always take the pain away, but that having someone to grieve with you brings its own type of healing.  

I learned that showing up and being present is a really big deal.  My own roller coaster ride this past year has created a lack of trust in my own reactions to all sorts of emotions in different situations.  It’s caused me to run and hide and avoid a lot of things.  Unfortunately, when dealing with my own emotions, I quickly search for the easiest way out – usually ignoring the emotion or attempting to numb the pain.  With this experience, I had no choice.  I could either walk away from my child because the emotion was too much to handle or I could sit with him and be present.  I could choose to experience the emotion with him.  Thankfully, I chose the latter.  It was not easy.  Even a week later, the pain tugs at the strings of my heart and I grimace as I attempt to shield myself from the moment.  But I didn’t run.  I didn’t hide.  I was there for Dylan when he needed me most.  It was extremely difficult.  It was emotionally exhausting.  But it was important.  It was powerful.  It was healing.    

I pondered the ups and downs of this personal experience and turned to the scriptures for solace.  At a time when I am unable to “make it better” for my son, I found peace and comfort in the words of Isaiah.
“…Surely [Christ] hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows…”  (Isaiah 53:4).  Powerful words.  A tender mercy.

My Abinadi Moment

A few months ago, I had the impression I was supposed to speak in church.  I was still in the midst of a deep depression, family crisis, physical ailments and lingering emotional wounds.  I was a fragile soul who had barely been surviving for months.  My first thought was, “You’ve got to be kidding me, right?  My life is in shambles!  I’m the LAST person anyone needs to hear speak right now.  I’ve hardly even attended church the past several months.  I literally cannot get out of bed most days.  This cannot be what I’m feeling.”  I skipped and jumped around the subject for weeks hoping it would go away.  Maybe I was delusional.  Perhaps I’d become so desperate for adult conversation that I’d decided public speaking was better than wasting my life away alone.  I knew better, but I attempted to logically wrestle with the prompting for weeks.  It did not go away.  The nagging sensation grew in intensity until I could stand it no longer.    

I hesitantly let my Bishop know about the feeling that kept surfacing, but assured him I actually had no desire to speak and would not be offended at all if he had other plans.  It was a noble attempt at dodging the inevitable bullet, but I was put on the schedule to speak the Sunday before girls’ camp…and I happen to be the camp director.  Oh man!  This has got to be the worst timing ever.  My super woman persona emerged to save me from a looming panic attack.  “I can prepare a talk while I get camp ready.  No worries.  I totally got this, yo!”

Although I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of speaking in sacrament meeting, I wasn’t terrified either.  The one good thing that has come from months of intense trials is my ability to rely on the Lord on a regular basis.  I have found my prayers are more heartfelt, my scripture study more productive.  I started a new journal on May 1 this year that I filled it before the end of July.  It isn’t even a “history” type of journal.  It is filled with spiritual impressions that have come to me as I read, study and ponder.  I figured with that many notes in my journal, I was bound to figure out something worthwhile to share with the members of my congregation.  “I can do this!  No problem.  The Lord wants me to give a talk the week I go to girls’ camp.  I’m sure there’s something I’m supposed to learn from all this.  And hopefully there is someone who needs to hear what I will say.” 

I sat down to write my thoughts and a basic outline for my talk.  I had a couple scriptures I had been pondering a lot that seemed like a good starting point.  I also had a couple conference talks I’d been reviewing that I thought I could use.  Once I’ve pondered a topic extensively, I am usually able to get thoughts down on paper fairly easily.  I sat down at my computer and typed out the scripture reference.  I paused for a minute and stared at the screen.  Nothing.  Um…okay.  Moving on.  I skipped down a couple lines and typed out another scripture reference I’d been pondering and sat thinking through what to say.  Silence.  Empty space.  Nothing.  My brain does not operate this way.  I have thoughts constantly flowing in and out, like waves in the ocean.  Sometimes I experience high tide and other times low tide, but there is always movement, a steady flow of informational exchange taking place. Silence during deep thought is a foreign concept to me.  “What is the world is going on here?” 

I walked away from the computer a bit confused, but grateful I hadn’t waited until the last minute to attempt to put my thoughts together.  I have plenty of time before I have to speak.  No worries.  I waited a day and tried again with different scriptures, talks and ideas as a starting point.  The SAME EXACT THING happened…on FIVE separate occasions. 

“Holy crap!  What am I going to do?  Seriously!  Who volunteers to speak in sacrament meeting and then has absolutely nothing to say?  What in the world is wrong with me?  That’s it.  I’ve had a mental breakdown and the low point is volunteering to speak in church even though I can’t get one logical thought to flow through the intricate folds of my brain.”  I had every negative thought and emotion imaginable floating through my mind.  “Really?  I’m trying to follow a spiritual prompting and this is what happens?  What am I missing here?”  I debated my options.  Do I call the Bishop and tell him I’m crazy?  Do I bail?  Is there time to sell my house and get the heck out of here before I have to face this disaster head on?  I’m not sure I’m ready to completely wing a talk in sacrament meeting and hope it all comes together well.  Yikes!

I stepped away from my computer again.  I pulled out my notes in my journal and started reading them.  There were a couple conference talks I really felt I needed to include, but somehow the ideas didn’t flow.  “Why do I keep having the impression to use these talks, but the words will not come?”  I paused to pray.  Then I paused again to listen and reflect.  Words immediately flooded my mind.  “You need to share part of your story.  Talk about humility and forgiveness.  Testify of healing – true healing – that is found through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”  Gulp. 

In the midst of what will likely be known to me in the future as “Spring 2016: My Personal Hell on Earth,” I sought comfort, support and healing.  On one occasion, I requested a priesthood blessing and then went to the temple.  I wrestled with some very difficult issues and eventually found myself speaking to the Lord in the form of a prayer.  It was intense.  It was uncomfortable.  It was personal.  It was spiritual.  And when all was said and done, that experience brought more healing than I ever anticipated was possible.  It was the kind of experience you write in your journal and share with close friends and family.  Something you share with your children to help them with their own personal growth and development one day.  It wasn’t exactly the kind of story I would openly share with a large group of people, with the entire congregation of my Church.  YIKES!!  “Is that really what I’m supposed to do?”  I questioned the thoughts and feelings that were gaining momentum as I pondered this moment.  My stomach was in a knot and I thought I might throw up just at the idea of what was being asked of me.  “Pour out my heart and soul?  Publicly?  Really?  Talk about hurt, pain, doubt, fear, hard heartedness, faith and forgiveness? Seriously?  Do you understand how difficult that is going to be?  Stand in front of hundreds of people and testify of personal healing and a new understanding of my Savior and the Atonement?  Despite my best efforts, most weeks I haven’t been able to get myself to even attend church, let alone interact with anyone.  It was too painful, the depression too intense.  There has got to be another way.  Please let there be another way!” 

I sat down to see if I could connect the words from the talks that kept bouncing through my head and the parts of my own experience I felt needed to be shared.  The words practically fell onto the screen, with few pauses and little hesitation.  “OH NO!!  There’s my answer.  This must be what I’m supposed to say or it would not have come together so effortlessly.  Dang it!  Can’t I just talk about service or motherhood?”  Perhaps I’ll share the details of my talk in another post.  For now, the important part is to understand my discomfort speaking in sacrament meeting, my fear and anxiety about sharing something extremely personal with a large group, and the added stress I felt from the less-than-ideal timing from being assigned to speak a few days before I left for girls’ camp.  But I was determined to do what was asked of me.  My internal conversation with my Maker continued.  “I may not know why, but I trust that there is a purpose behind this, Lord, and I’m willing to do what you ask of me.”  Nephi’s words echoed in my mind, “…I know that [God] loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things” (1 Nephi 11:17).  Deep breath.  “Okay.  I’ll share whatever you need me to share.  If someone needs to hear the words I’m going to speak, I will do so with courage."

The next day, I was not well.  My body was achy.  I stayed in bed most of the day thinking I could sleep it off.  I was wrong.  I woke up the following day and could barely swallow.   I tested positive for strep throat, which hit me like a freight train.  My temperature fluctuated between 101 degrees with medicine and 104 degrees when the medicine wore off.  Physically speaking, I’m a pretty tough chick.  When I say I’m ill, it’s for real.  I take aches and pains in stride and rarely complain about physical ailments.  This was rough.  I was MISERABLE!!  I spent four days in bed – four days immediately preceding the date I was scheduled to speak in sacrament meeting...and less than a week before I would be leaving for girls’ camp.  YIKES!  What am I going to do?  I let my bishop know I was very ill, but was hoping to be able to speak still.  I had been on an antibiotic for three days already.  Honestly!  At some point I should start to feel better, right?

Sunday morning I was still not feeling great, but I had the distinct impression that I needed to give my talk anyway.  “Really?  You’ve got to be kidding me, Lord.  Why?”  Sigh.  Pause.  “Never mind.  It doesn’t matter why.  I know.  I remember.  ‘Your ways are higher than my ways and your thoughts are higher than my thoughts’ (Isaiah 15:8-9).  I don’t need to know why.  I’ll go.  I’ll do it.  I can physically endure an hour.”  I stood and delivered my talk.  It was surreal.  I barely remember most of it.  Between not feeling well and the emotional and spiritual intensity of the experience itself, it resembled an out-of-body experience.  I knew I was standing there delivering my talk, but that’s all I remember.  I could barely even glance up at the clock.  In my mind, time stood still.  It didn’t matter how long it had been or how long it took to complete my talk.  I had to speak the words of my heart and then sit down. 

I went home and crashed.  I was physically, spiritually and emotionally exhausted!  But I knew I’d done what the Lord had asked me to do.  And that was enough.  It was a rare experience for an overanalyzing perfectionist.  But it felt good. 

A few days later I left for girls’ camp.  My voice was GONE.  “Really?  This is so unfair!  All this hard work and I don't even get to enjoy myself at camp?”  Anyone who has experienced girls’ camp with me knows what a big deal this temporary disability was for me.  I LOVE engaging with the girls, singing, dancing, playing games and being just a bit more rambunctious than I probably should.  My internal dialog once again became a prayer.  “Why?  Why am I even here?  Why was I given this calling if I can’t even fulfill it?  I don’t understand.”  Again the impression came that I didn’t need to understand.  My Father in Heaven was aware of me.  He knew everything I was experiencing.  He cared.  He would be by my side.  But he needed me to experience this.  There was a reason for my being at camp and all that mattered was that I showed up and did whatever the Spirit lead me to do. 

I had to lean on other leaders to help more than my independent nature prefers.  I had to delegate a lot of tasks I had planned on doing myself.  I saved my voice as much as possible for the final night when I would lead the devotional and set the tone for the testimony meeting.  There were tender mercies along the way.  I was blessed with enough physical strength to be able to hike with the girls, play keep away and football, and thanks to the mischievous encouragement of our river rafting guide, I even became the pirate who jumped ship to start a brawl with the other raft from our group, pushing girls and leaders into the river during a major lull in the rapids.  Yep!  Girls’ camp was still memorable, but it was not the experience I had anticipated.  I stood the final night using all the power my voice could muster and bore powerful testimony.  Our theme for girls’ camp was the Olympics.  I had so many words prepared, but found myself floundering looking down at my notes.  And then it hit me.  I knew what I needed to say.  I set down my notes and spoke with the guidance of the Holy Ghost.  It was extremely powerful!  I don’t remember a lot of what I said, but inside I felt strength and courage flow through me as the EXACT WORDS that needed to be spoken came to my mind and were delivered with the full emotion of my heart and soul. For the second time in a week, I stood to bare powerful testimony despite the turmoil I was personally experiencing.  It wasn’t an easy week.  But it was amazing! 

When I was home and my health had improved, I reflected on the month of June.  The spring had been one trial after another and by June I thought I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I was going to be okay.  I could get through this after all and still fulfill my calling as camp director.  Instead, my desire to serve faithfully and do what was asked of me was met with even greater opposition.  Why?  Okay, even though I recognize the Lord has a plan for me, I still often ponder why.  I felt at peace with my contribution in both situations.  Neither experience was what I had hoped or planned, but I showed up anyway and did what I felt the Lord required of me.  But I still wondered why.  Why did I need these experiences?  What was I supposed to learn?  As I pondered these questions, the name Abinadi popped into my head.  For those who may not know, Abinadi is a prophet in the Book of Mormon who testified under extremely difficult circumstances.  He was bound, scourged and eventually suffered death by fire.  If you want more information, this is a good talk that tells the story of Abinadi.   

“Abinadi?  Really?  I didn’t suffer death by fire.  I may have testified around the fire at girls’ camp but that is far from an Abinadi-like experience.”  As I sat pondering, I was filled with light and truth.  Abinadi was asked to testify under extremely difficult circumstances.  He didn’t know if he would live or die, but he knew what the Lord had asked of him.  He HAD to deliver his message.  After that, nothing else mattered.  He didn’t know why.  And he didn’t get to see or understand the bigger picture.  He didn’t need to.  He trusted the Lord and was willing to obey, even though his situation was extremely difficult. 

One of the priests of King Noah was named Alma.  He heard the words of Abinadi and believed him.  He was converted and gained a testimony of Jesus Christ.  He plead with King Noah to let Abinadi go.  Instead, Alma was cast out and the priests of King Noah were sent to slay him.  King Noah had Abinadi killed, suffering death by fire.  Alma escaped.  He lived in the wilderness and taught and baptized others.  Alma became an incredible prophet and lead his people in truth and righteousness.  But Abinadi didn’t know that.  He didn’t know Alma would be converted by his words.  He just knew the Lord needed him to testify boldly in the midst of great trials and that his life would be spared until he was able to deliver his message.

I like stories.  Scratch that.  I LOVE stories!  I am moved by stories!  I feel connected to the characters I read about or hear delivered by a gifted storyteller.  But I like to know the ending.  Cliffhangers are painful!  In life, I find myself searching for the rest of the story.  I want to know the ending.  I want to know why.  I am inquisitive.  I ask who, what, where, why and how…a lot.  It’s the science loving part of my quirky personality.  Sometimes I find answers.  Other times I don’t.  In this case, I didn’t.  I still don’t know why.  Why in the midst of my greatest trials was I asked to testify before so many people that I know and love?  And even after agreeing to do so, why did trials continue to bombard me, like the ball inside a pinball machine ricocheting wildly and unpredictably until it discovers a weak spot to penetrate?  I could have given a talk in sacrament meeting a month later.  Another leader could easily have continued the work I had done for girls’ camp.  Then why?  I do not know.  The one thing I am certain of is that the Lord asked me to do just that, to testify boldly despite the extreme difficulties I was facing.  He needed me to learn to lean on Him more.  He needed me to remember that His ways are greater than mine and to gain greater trust in his ability to lead and direct me.  Did my words mean something to someone or was it simply an intense growth experience for me?  I may never know.  I’ve had to make peace with that.  It doesn’t matter why.  What matters is that I stood strong.  Despite suffering all kinds of afflictions – metaphorically being bound and scourged – I accomplished what was asked of me.  Even as the flames engulfed me, I felt power from the Lord to sustain me until my message had been delivered.  I experienced faith, courage and determination, and in so doing was given a glimpse into the reality of a truly remarkable prophet named Abinadi.  The intensity didn’t last, but I will never forget the lessons learned during my own personal Abinadi moment.