I feel sort of antsy, maybe a little melancholy, that our house is torn up again. It’s not bad, just the living room floor. So the couches are all pushed to the edges, our huge hutch is in our kitchen. We have towels on the floor. Nail gun and air compressor are center-stage. No railings for the stairs. Like I said, it’s honestly not that bad. It’s just that I was thinking about Valentine’s Day and remembered that I do have a few decorations I could’ve put out. But didn’t really see the point since it’s hard to tell what’s supposed to be out and what’s just sort of here temporarily. I also figure I may as well put away my winter snow decorations, less to get wood dust on, and fewer things to accidentally break (we’ve had one casualty already). I keep wanting to invite people over, but it’s a little disheveled for the time being. Maybe it’s just a season I’ll have to let go of and catch again next year.
I remember feeling this way when I had my cancer surgery almost five years ago during a most beautiful November. I was so sad to be tethered to my house and a lot of times to my couch when I longed to be taking walks and spending time outside in the leaves. And even being able to cook and mop. Yet I knew I had to give my body its time to heal, and so I bowed out of my favorite time of the year—knowing surely another would come around and I could embrace it then.
It was sort of the same thing when I had my fifth baby emergency c-section nearly 14 Mays ago. Another friend had her baby at the same time and she and another friend came to visit me. I felt fat and frumpy and so sore. She was out and perky and totally normal-looking. But I knew I had to be a little selfish, I needed this time to heal. As much as I longed to go to the park and play with all our little friends, I just didn’t feel well. And so I consoled myself, knowing next year would surely be different. This healing process surely couldn’t last forever.
And now that I think about it, I remember feeling this for the first time when I had Andrew almost 23 years ago. I’d been working full time up until I had him, and all of a sudden I was stuck in my little apartment all day in my new role. My family came, but I remember feeling sad that I couldn’t go shopping with them, I didn’t feel that well. I had very little contact with the outside world and I felt sort of forgotten and discouraged that this was my new normal. But we all know that’s not the case. I got back into life soon enough, just with a baby in tow.
I was so disappointed when we decided to move a couple of falls back, that our closing date would be the middle of December. I was sad to have to move in the first place. And that it meant fall and Christmas would be very different and disrupted. We couldn’t decorate the house we were moving from for Christmas, I patched and painted walls all those weeks instead. We packed up as our house—normally cozy and festive—became more and more messy. And less homey. As we moved into our new home—as the previous owners were moving out—during one of the coldest, snowiest weekends I can remember, I knew we had just over a week till Christmas and then it would be over. My holiday that I can stretch for weeks… I would only have a few short days with. I know there are many harder things in life, but I was sad to not be able to make it as special and festive as I wanted to. But I told myself next year would be different, better.
I’m reminded that Callum was sick last Christmas. On the couch feeling miserable on arguably the best day of year. I felt so bad for him. I remember throwing up one myself one Christmas a couple years back. I knew exactly how he felt to be missing out on all the fun. But knowing it likely wouldn’t be this way the next year pulled us through.
I’ve known kids who have broken a limb at the beginning of summer—could there possibly be a more inconvenient time to be in a cast? A summer without swimming? Our little friend just tore up her ankle. She’s an amazing high school soccer player and is out for the rest of the season. At least. Soccer has been her life for as long we can remember, and it’s devastating to be on crutches and to have to use a scooter at her age. It reminds me of when Andrew wrecked in a bike accident as a senior just weeks before state track, his last chance to compete in high school. Pretty devastating.
On and on. We can all think of seasons of our lives where we’ve been relegated to the side lines as the days and people go on around us. For whatever varied reasons, sometimes we’re to sit this one out. Hold tight. Just wait.
It’s helpful to remember that usually our setbacks are temporary. Most flu episodes clear up, broken bones mend, the house gets put back together, we adjust to having a new baby, we reapply for the program the following year, we rebuild after a flood or a fire. But yes, some are life-altering in a major way. Divorce, death, a serious accident, a stroke, financial ruin. These are serious and there’s no way to assure ourselves that next season or even next year will be different. Or that things will ever get better.
Or is there?
Does time really have that much power over us? Do a few weeks or months or years really ease the pain of even a traumatic loss? I honestly can’t say for sure because I’ve never weathered a severe enough storm. But if we sit out a few months or years, can our hearts start to piece themselves back together? Can we ever expect to be whole again?
Like I said, I don’t know for sure. I think whole is a big word when we’re talking about our hearts. I’m thinking we will always have a noticeable space when we’ve suffered a loss. When we’re talking death, I think that’s because they still live in our hearts and we need to keep a spot for them. But I’ve known many friends—including my own mom—who have remarried, who have created new careers for themselves, who have moved and built different lives for themselves, people who have come out the other side of heartache still intact. And even ok. Not overnight, but eventually.
Yes, we’re still missing out. On a lifetime with a spouse or child. On being independent the way we had been. On playing for the college we always dreamed of—or even getting in. On getting married or staying married. On a comfortable retirement. Yes, all sorts of upsets, both big and small. But maybe things can still work out. And maybe time really can ease the sting.
Obviously, we acknowledge how painful set-backs can be, to have times in our lives when we’re not able to do what we planned, to have to remain in a holding pattern while others seem to carry on, oblivious to our discomfort and pain. And yet, all of it is still temporary—regardless of how long the temporary is. We will be reunited with loved ones, we will walk and run again, we will be healed and whole. In time, all that we missed out on will be compensated us.
“It isn’t as bad as you sometimes think it is. It all works out. Don’t worry. I say that to myself every morning, Gordon B. Hinckley taught. “If you do your best, it will all work out. Put your trust in God, and move forward with faith and confidence in the future. The Lord will not forsake us.” It also helps me to remember this adage, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways…. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.”
“Find the compensatory blessings in your life when, in the wisdom of the Lord, He deprives you of something you very much want. … You will discover compensatory blessings when you willingly accept the will of the Lord and exercise faith in Him” (Richard G. Scott).
I do feel that time is not quite the same to God as it is for us. I trust “that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.” Because there are always, always lessons to learn and people to serve and love, regardless of what we’re missing out on at the moment.
I think when we’re reeling from a loss of any kind, when we feel like something has unfairly taken from us, all is not as tragic and black as we initially think. And I love that idea of compensatory blessings, the reality that he is blessing us, even as we’re not able to live as we’d prefer.
For instance, during a crisis or misfortune, I’m freshly aware of the people who are still here. So when I had my babies and had to bow out of my regular activities for a period, I obviously gave all my attention to them. What an amazing period of life. What most of us wouldn’t do for a day with our newborns again. More than ever, I looked forward to Todd coming home, I don’t know that I appreciated his companionship as much as when I had to be all alone during the days. When I’ve been home with a sick kid, it’s been so nice to just have time one on one, to focus on her needs and to just watch Netflix together cuddled on the couch. When do we do that in regular life? When my dad died, there was nothing more comforting than having my sisters and mom with me. Obviously we were close before his death, but it hit us that this was our new family arrangement for awhile and we relied on each other. When we’re recovering from a surgery or a fall, when we’re dealing with a loss or any kind of devastation, it’s eye-opening to see our friends and family members with new eyes, those we normally take for granted. All of a sudden we appreciate them more intensely, we recognize that they genuinely care. That they’re here. It’s overwhelming at a funeral, as we know, to see how many people have lined the pews to simply support us—and I think that’s partly where some of our tears spring from. I don’t know if we have any idea until something as life-altering as a death happens, how widely and deeply we are known and loved and cared about. As wrenching as it is, there is something incredible about noting this palpable love we were simply not aware of on our other days.
I’ve also noticed that in my weakened state, these are the times when I’m forced to slow down. And in our frenzied world, that is a true blessing. Sometimes it takes a hardship—debilitating or simply inconvenient—to make us become more present. We’re not up to our usual speed. We simply don’t have it in us, maybe physically, maybe emotionally. But there is beauty in slowing down. In noticing the artwork on the walls that you never really pay attention to except for when you’re lying on the couch and rest. In face to face conversation as visitors come to spend an afternoon or a few moments. In having to read. Or listen to music. In watching the leaves flutter on the tree outside the window. In hearing the airplane or wind or dogs or lawnmower, the background of our life we take for granted.
Additionally, these unusual days and years allow us to see what we’re made of. What can we still do? What new skills are we developing? What’s changed? What’s better even? What am I capable of? How am I stronger? Wow, look at what I’ve done and learned and become.
These periods of disruption can also be times to be grateful in ways we never really acknowledged before. We can be thankful for having had so many amazing years together, that we know what love feels like, that we still have an arm, that the burns weren’t more devastating, that we can still walk or talk or breathe. That we’re still here.
And the most significant compensatory blessing when we’ve been let down, hurt, or broken is that we always, always have God’s love with us. If we allow it, these can become sacred days of our lives. It’s in these quiet desperate moments when we have no where else to turn, that God is there, so close. Christ—more than anyone in the universe—gets it. No one knows better what we’re feeling when our dreams have been crushed, when our hearts have been shattered, when life’s derailed, when we’re feeling dark and desperate. And it’s precisely in these moments that it can be the easiest to feel His love. Partly because we’re forced to slow down. Partly because we’re vulnerable and desperate for our people to love us and tend to us. And partly because we’re taking time to notice our blessings and to be grateful. All of these lead us to feel God’s love in our lives more intimately than we sometimes notice in the times of our lives when all is tranquil.
And so I acknowledge of course it’s ok, appropriate, and expected to be mad, to cry, to feel overcome with grief when we’re missing out, when the rug’s been pulled out from under us. Obviously. But I still think there are significant blessings associated with these losses, and I wonder if we can ease our pain by considering them.
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