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.     

Gratitude

Human behavior is often predictable.  Every once in awhile, however, I am pleasantly surprised when I witness a person react to a certain situation.  Occasionally that person is me.

Last week, I was given tickets to attend a conference.  It was fairly last minute, but I was excited.  Thankfully, even though we didn't have a lot of notice, Marcos was able to take a couple days off work to stay with the kids so I could attend.  The conference took place on Thursday, Friday and Saturday.  I had a great time and learned a lot!  Friday Marcos brought the kids on the Front Runner to see me.  It was a complete surprise!  The whole family walked in the door JUST as we broke for lunch.  The timing was PERFECT!  The kids were a little tired and whiney as we trekked around downtown searching for a place to eat.  The younger two were fighting over who wanted me to carry them (Marcos forgot a stroller).  But...it was good.  I enjoyed myself and felt renewed.

Saturday I woke up and was exhausted.  I don't know if it was two full days away from the kids, sitting still most of the day or just late nights and early mornings, but it caught up to me.  Dylan had a presentation for the co-op he participated in this year and needed a little help to go over a few things, and our "to do" list at home was growing in size.  I debated it back and forth, but ended up missing the final day of the conference to help my family.  Good, better, best.  Saturday, being a mom was BEST.  We got the swamp cooler set up and Dylan finished reviewing some things for his presentation.  Marcos took Dylan early to help set up.  I brought the younger three kids and was a few minutes late by the time I got everyone cleaned up and dressed.  But...I made it in time for everything but the opening song.  Wa-hoo!

Dylan did such a great job and it was fun to see the other kids and the progress they have made.  It's been such a good group for Dylan!  He presented on what they learned about cells in their botany and cytology class, played his piano piece, and recited the Declaration of Independence with his class.  He also discussed the business they created growing and selling plants in their permaculture class.  The whole thing was great!  I got teary eyed as the closing song, "Gethsemane" was sung by one of the girls in the group.  It was BEAUTIFUL!  The kids thanked their teacher at the end.  Dylan cried as he told of her love for him and thanked her for helping him fight his battles with anger and sadness as his family experienced many difficulties the last few months.  It was touching!

The students all went into the kitchen to bring out the refreshments.  I hugged Dylan as he walked over to me.  It was a tender mother/son moment!  Caleb saw us and walked towards me with a cookie in his hand.  I picked him up to join our big group hug and he PUKED all over both me and Dylan.  Gasp.  "Oh No!"  I did my best to keep the vomit contained as I rushed down the hall to find a bathroom.  I didn't realize Dylan had it all down his shirt as well.  I didn't have time to assess the situation.  I was in damage-control mode.  Thankfully both Marcos and my mom were there to clean up in the cultural hall.  I don't want to make this too detailed as I know many of my friends and family are squeamish, but this is THE WORST vomit experience I have had with any of my four children.  When I picked him up, half my hair had fallen to the front.  There was puke on my shirt, all the way DOWN my shirt, on my hair and on my pants.  Blech!  SO DISGUSTING!

My first internal thought was, "Oh NO!  What are we going to do?" followed immediately by, "I'm so sorry, people!  I had no idea he was sick or I would not have brought him."  I try to steer clear of crowds when I know we're germ-infested and just the idea of exposing the world to the vomit plague made me queasy.  I set Caleb down on the bathroom floor to pull myself together and formulate a plan.  Preston had followed us down the hall and was sitting outside the door complaining about the disgusting smell.  SUPER HELPFUL!  I told him to run to the garbage can or toilet if he thought the smell was going to make him throw up as well.  YIKES!!  Let's not turn this vomiting episode into a chain reaction of epic proportions!  That would be bad!  Really bad!!  And then...a wave of gratitude hit me.  "I'm so glad I got to see Dylan's program!  I am so grateful this happened AFTER the program finished."  Smile.  Deep breath.  I took off Caleb's shorts and shirt and attempted to rinse and ring them out in the sink.  I washed him off the best I could with paper towels in the bathroom and had him sit by the wall.  I put half my shirt in the sink and rinsed and wrung it out over and over.  I did the same with my hair and eventually took a paper towel and tried to clean off my pants a bit.  Ewww...!!  The whole time I was thinking how disgusting this was, I couldn't help but feel more gratitude.

As I continued the clean-up process, thoughts of gratitude continued.  "Thank You, Lord!  I am so incredibly grateful!  Thank You for allowing me to be here when Caleb got sick.  Sick kids need their mom!  It would have been really difficult if this had happened while I was at the conference.  And I probably wouldn't have been able to attend at all.  Thank you, Father!  Thank you for allowing me to attend the conference and still be here for my baby.  Oh my heck...this could have happened when Marcos was riding the Front Runner by himself with four kids.  Yeah, that would have been a disaster.  Thank you, Lord!  Thank you for understanding our need for timing Caleb's illness so that we could both be available to take care of him and still see Dylan perform.  Thank you!  You really do have this all figured out, don't you?  And You really do have our best interests in mind!  Why do I doubt that so often?  Why can't I see things more clearly?  I totally get it.  It doesn't mean nothing bad will happen to us, but look at how much worse this could have been.  And it wasn't.  It just wasn't.  Wow!  I am awe-struck right now!  I am blessed beyond measure!  I really am!  Life is difficult sometimes, but my perspective changed for a moment today.  Thank You, Father, for allowing me to see life through different eyes this time.  Thank you!!"

As I sit here a couple days removed from this moment in time, I can't help but reflect.  It reminds me so much of a talk by President Uchtdorf, Grateful In Any Circumstances.  I don't see myself as an eternal pessimist, but I am lightyears from achieving Pollyanna-like status.  Gratitude isn't something that comes natural to me, and I often find myself dwelling on the negative side of things.  I'll be honest, it's tough not to with VOMIT running down your hair.  But, I saw a different side of life with God's help on Saturday.  And in that moment I caught a glimpse of a better me, the person I can become with time, patience and grace.  Gratitude.  Who knew such a simple concept could have such a profound effect on one's soul?