The mercy of a gradual goodbye

I can’t help but wonder about transitions.  Some approach us with clear deadlines, expectation, advance notice or ceremony, others without much warning, a bit more gradual, allowing us to say goodbye to a loved one or phase of life without fanfare.

I think part of the graduation drama, for instance, is found entirely in the pomp and circumstance.  We attend something akin to a funeral.  Which is good.  Closure.  Pictures.  A time to unite with friends and loved ones one last time.  I get it.  But what a potential tear-jerker.  The summer that follows is easier, looser, with former classmates starting colleges and vocations at various time, thus never requiring a final goodbye.  I remember writing in each others’ yearbooks that we’d see each other during the summer, and so it was hard to pinpoint when our mourning should begin and end. These kinds of farewells are made up of a lot of see you laters followed by unintentional absences that have lasted going on 25 years.  Easing the pain of cutting ties.

Similarly, I remember knowing the date a good friend of mine was moving from medical school to residency.  I made cookies, had my card in hand that morning for her, only to ever find their truck.  And so we never had the awkward encounter of admitting we’d never see each other again.  This happens all the time as friends have woven themselves in and out of my life.  Thankfully the last few weeks and days before a move are a crazy quilt of bustling activity and erratic and frenetic scheduling.  Trucks are both premature and late.  Dates have a way of changing on a dime.  Because most families relocate during the summer, it sometimes feels like we’re all on vacation.  Until fall sets in and I realize it’s becoming an extended trip.  Mercifully helping me avoid the inevitable tears that would’ve surfaced had it happened another way.

Our dear friends are currently separating, moving on, leaving the little world we’ve created between our families over the years.  But I have no idea what the details are because her troubles are concurrent with mine.  We are two ships passing in the night and so she has somehow tiptoed out of my life, while I feel helpless and toggled to my house, unable to help carry her burdens the way I’d like.  I hate it, but I can’t imagine helping her load a moving truck.  My bending heart would snap and all I’d be is a slobbery mess of tears, providing no support or perspective.  I can’t help but wonder if it’s good for us to say good bye in such a strange way.  It seems wrong, but I know it’s been easier.  Because I can’t begin to know how to tell her in person how much her strength and courage and faith have meant to me, to hug her knowing I don’t know when I’ll see her again.  We’ve exchanged texts but have never really come outright and said goodbye.  I need to go over.  But I’m afraid it will be so final.

I can’t help but love the way my dad transitioned from this phase of his life to his next.  Quickly, efficiently, without warning.  Sitting on the sidelines as a spectator to so many friends my age watching their parents slowly dying is a heart-wrenching trial.  I felt buffered from the acute pain of having to say one last goodbye to someone so close.  We were always planning the next trip, knowing we’d have cinnamon rolls at Christmas and that he’d show Avery how to use his industrial sewing machine next time. Taking his health for granted, it never occurred to any of us he’d be nearing the end.  And so in that bubble, I was insulated from the harsh reality of one last knowing hug. 

I marvel at how our culture insists we keep busy following a loss like this.  We needed to choose a funeral date and home.  Someone needed to alert those across the seas and down the street.  Our assignments required us to write our talks and to acknowledge floral deliveries.  To compose thank you notes and collect old photos.  It was a merciful shroud of business that kept us from mourning too deeply or from detaching ourselves from people who need and love us.  It all eased us over the emotional hump.

I relive summer days with Andrew, who in August would be heading to college.  We had a few bulleted “lasts,” but we had a million scattered ordinary moments that cushioned my emotions.  A completely normal request list to clean his garage, to do his dishes, to write his thank you notes.  We continued to tease him, to hound him, to wonder if he’d ever “get it.”  So our sorrow in seeing his life with us coming to an end was tempered by the fact that we were still in the middle of his life with us.  Except when I made a point to point out the obvious.  A last dinner out.  Finishing up one more game night.  A final road trip.  His last day home with us.  What good were all those notations?  Except to intensify a pending loss.  Interestingly, I ended up down in his college town a week before he and the others arrived, so I never had to watch him pack up his room or sweep his metal shavings into the trash in the garage.  I just caught up with him when he and the others made their way down to Utah the following week.

In fact, even dropping him off at his dorm was unceremonious.  He and his dad had been loading a trailer for us to take home early the following morning.  We’d moved his stuff into his dorm earlier that day, but he had a regular home-cooked meal with us at his grandma’s and about 10 that night we thought it might be time to take him to his dorm.  Nothing like a grand send-off, just a few tight hugs, a few awkward moments and see-you-laters.  We needed to get back.  And so, just like that, we’d detached ourselves from each other.  Not like the movies.  But just like us.

Interestingly, it was like that with my friend and her son during their last week together before he left for another country on a mission for two years.  They’d planned all these “lasts” only to be hampered by company and unexpected details, leaving them little time to pine or really let their pending separation get to them.  The day for him to leave just snuck up on them, and that was that.

Same with age.  What a blessing to grow old a day at a time, marking no significant difference year to year.  What kind of ceremony would it be, to be gathered with friends to say goodbye to our youth?  At what point would we suggest such a commemoration?  So merciful that it’s only in pictures we’re forced to acknowledge what we used to look like.  Because it’s such a slow and gradual process, we find the aging pill easier to swallow.  A merciful way to say goodbye to brighter days.

I guess this idea’s been on my mind because I’ve kind of thought of myself as a pre-surgery Caren and post-surgery Caren.  The original version contrasted with a new, broken, inferior model.  I cried so many nights in Todd’s arms thinking about it.  Wondering if things would ever be the same.  Knowing they wouldn’t.  So I hesitated embracing each day as surgery became more eminent.  I was afraid to love as deeply, fearing it would hurt too much to not have it be the same.  But mercifully, I had to have a smaller surgical procedure the week before my major surgery that helped ease my tension.  I was sore from it.  We were so busy.  We were tired.  We had a full calendar and lots of visits.  Before we knew it, the mastectomy day came and went and I was blissfully eased into a post-surgery room without having had a “this is the last day of our life as we’ve known it” party.  Mercifully, I never had to completely say goodbye to our former life.  We just sort of went with it and ended up on the other side.

I guess I’m just grateful for the diffused edges of difficult transitions I’ve had to make over the years.  Rather than facing so many endings with a definitive, fine-tipped Sharpie, I feel the mercy of a wide-angled watercolor brush, helping to soften the pain of a fresh absence, of saying goodbye to a cherished friend or phase of life.  It doesn’t always work out this way, and sometimes we’re called to a bedside as an aged parent takes her last raspy breaths or we tearfully wave goodbye at the airport knowing we won’t see him for two long years.  We end up with a little of both kinds of goodbyes in life.  I’m just saying that I look at the distractions and sort of sloppy pages here and there as a blessing, a way to take the edge off an otherwise-emotional chapter of life.  A tender mercy in a tiny trial.

An honest assessment

It's 6:30 on a beautiful Sunday morning, my favorite time of the week.  Just wanted to jot a note as it's fresh because sometimes we’ve strung a whole event together as we look back on it, not remembering the individual knots we’ve made.  We gloss over the details, forgetting the valleys or failing to acknowledge the peaks that have made our hearts soar.

I’ve cried every morning I’ve been home when I’ve woken up.  Maybe it’s because I remember, it all comes back to me that this is my reality for another day.  I know—I really do know—that today will be better and easier than yesterday, and I love that!  Because I made it through that and I keep collecting days that push me further and further to becoming “better.”  But I still cry.  Only for Todd.  Because it really doesn’t last long.  Just a few tears of acknowledgment that this stinks, that I hate it, I’m so very, very sore.  It’s not that I’m surprised.  I knew this was how it was going to be.  I anticipated it.  Not like I lingered over it, obsessing over it.  What does that do?  It’s fine, it’s life, it’s textbook.  It just stinks so much.  And it hurts the most in the morning after a night in the same position.  It stings and burns so much to sit up.  Try lying down from a bed and test your chest muscles and your back muscles as you get up.  There’s no really great way to get around it.  I feel like I’m ripping individual muscle fibers like a piece of beef, like I’m injuring my wounds to the point of no repair.  I’m stiff and without even meaning to, I just start to cry out of nowhere.  Maybe it’s normal.  I don’t know.

Believe it or not, I’m still trying to decide which one has been more painful: this or my emergency c-section.  I honestly think this is better.  Because I can walk and do stairs and move around so much easier.  Laughing stings no matter what.  But that can’t be helped.  Like I’m not going to laugh.

I’m also trying to decide if the mental anguish of not knowing was worse than this physical hurt.  I think almost yes.  It makes me think about Christ in the Garden of Gethsemene and how painful that part of the Atonement was, the mental and spiritual heaviness.  When I was younger I’d focused on the physical pain on the cross being the main Atonement.  But I’ve learned that was only part, that the Garden was where He really suffered.  And I wonder how I feel.  I think this is easier than the few days I spent alone with myself, in another dimension, wondering what would become of me.  If Heavenly Father really thought I would be better off helping Him over there.  So anguishing to come to terms with His terms.  Because I knew, even though I hated it, I knew His way would ultimately make us happiest.  And so I spent quiet days even though I’d be making copies and shelving books at school, helping my friend in her pretty new kitchen, making dinner like always, wondering if I could accept His plans.  I wondered if that really was going to be my Test.  And so it’s easy to see why this is easier.  I even have a little booklet, a stack of them actually, that tells me what exercises I can do and what successive days should feel like.  I have drainage we can measure, pills that are scheduled.  I spend some parts of my days resting, a lot of the time I’m just up but doing quiet activities.  It’s a pretty straight-forward process, the recovery will continue to get easier, and I’ve known others who have gone through it; it all is fairly routine and that gives me comfort.  I know most physical issues resolve themselves.  I just know that as hard as this week is for me and how painful it’s been, thinking about possibly leaving my family was more heart-wrenching than even this pain.

I’m the kind of person—maybe like you—who can handle something once I’m assured it’s normal.  I don’t want a concerned look to cross a doctor’s face.  I want his confirmation that the gauges on my back look completely great.  I want to know it’s normal to feel like I’m in a constant mammogram machine—both sides, all sides—all the time.  I can handle that.  Once I knew I’d be leaking blood and fluid by the cupful for days and maybe weeks, I could take it.  And so I continue to read along in my hymnal about all the recovery stages and rest assured that thousands of others have apparently been pushed to their outer physical limits and are doing fine now.

I’m trying to be a good patient.  Because I want to heal quickly and get on with life.  I don’t want to linger here.  I sleep my regular night hours, and can get up and bathe and get ready for the day.  Put away some things here and there.  I’ve eaten normally since the first morning after my surgery.  (I got into my room Tuesday night at 7 p.m.) I have a pretty hefty appetite, and so that hasn’t been an issue.  My mom was eating lunch beside me yesterday and she marveled.  “You eat a lot of food, Caren.”  I looked at her bowl of grapes and cottage cheese and didn’t think much of it.  I had minestrone soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a container of fruit, a completely normal lunch for me.  She just eats her calories in chocolates.  But it warmed my heart so much because my little nine-year old made it all for me.  She was also the one who helped me with my bath, taking off my sweatshirt, helping me with a new one, holding my four drains for me.  I can’t tell you how impressed I was with her kind service.  So sweet.  I lie down for maybe an hour and wake myself up snoring.  Repeatedly.  (I have a sleep study for apnea next month.  Good grief.)  I write thank you cards and look over recipe books.  I started a Pintrest account (!) and showed my sister a favorite blog, 100 Days of Real Food.  I’ve looked at fluff magazines and have rested again.  We watched Beezus and Ramona because my mom and sister had never seen it.  We watched Afterlife on Netflix (one of my favorite shows) and Ben Carson’s story, Gifted Hands, as a family last night.  Pretty low-key.  I haven’t washed a dish.  Or even filed.  The drawers are too heavy.  I’m being good.  Really.

I’ve started doing my exercises.  Well, not my exercises.  Theirs.  Resting with my hands high above my head.  Opening and closing my fists, moving my arms all around.  Reaching.  In the hospital it was excruciating to lift my arm for the blood pressure cuff.  I’m noting how easy this is in comparison.  I am a proactive kind of person.  If there’s something I can do to prevent a negative outcome in the future, I’m all over it.  Just tell me what to do.  So I rest with my little exercise booklet on my blankets, reminding me.  It feels good to have some say in my healing.

Yesterday was the first day I was without many visitors since the second I woke up Tuesday night.  I only had two the whole day, and one came bearing chocolate and the other one was one of my best friend’s families.   How I love them both.  It was almost strange to have it so quiet.  I have loved—absolutely loved—seeing all of you.  Even though I was so tired in the hospital, I was never, ever disappointed when someone peeked a head in.  From CNA to the Director (our bishop).  I just marvel—and start to cry (so this part has got to be short)—when I think about all the people who raked the leaves from their day to get in the car, to drive twenty minutes, find parking, take the elevator to the new part of the hospital, check to figure out where my room was, buy flowers and write a note somewhere along the way, and to mentally prepare themselves for rejection as they open the heavy door to my room.  What friendship!  What love!  I nearly flowed out of my watery bed with all the sweet tears I cried every time someone new would stop by.  I still can’t wrap my head around it.  And of course I’m crying now.  Mostly people stayed about 20 minutes.  I loved it because I love them.  So much.  I am not an errand girl.  And I’m not a quality time girl.  So it never occurs to me to go visit someone in the hospital.  I just send notes.  Because I’m lazy that way.  So I just couldn’t believe people would do that for me.

Two came Wednesday night after all the action of the day.  At different times.  One is a 24 year old friend who is like a little sister to me.  Wow, how I love her.  She brought a mason jar full of sunflowers and dried fall stems.  So like us.  And her.  She raises sheep.  She lost her card but brought me half a sheet of ripped scrap paper.  That I’ll always treasure.  She is one of the prettiest girls I know.  But she is the real thing.  We marvel all the time how beautiful she is on the inside.  She is amazing.  Todd helped her out and showed her where to put the flowers (since I couldn’t have them in my room) and he came back awhile later saying she’d broken down crying.  I had no idea what to make of that.  I didn’t understand one bit.  I just know she is one of my favorite people, and I love her so much.  A bit later we were walking around the floor (I’d been up a few times that day already on walks but they were concerned about me not passing gas.  Can you even imagine a good answer for that question.  The lady-like side of me was appalled, the patient side of me was concerned.  What a quandary!)  So we were making the rounds and ran into one of my favorite big brothers ever, bearing two pink roses.  Seeing him with his pink shirt woke up those dumb tears again.  I couldn’t believe he would take the time to come see us.  His flowers remain my favorite.  I think because they showcase his personality and remind me of something my dad would do.  His wife’s text made me laugh, and my love for them just soared.  He walked with us for awhile.  I liked his company.  It felt so good to see him.  He’s enough like family—as were all the visitors—that I couldn’t even care that I had on funny gowns (two so the back wouldn’t fly open) or what this particular mission was about.

Todd came early each morning before work and stayed late each night after a full days’ work, reminding me of college days when he’d stay late enough to tuck me in at night and then bundle himself into the dark wintry night to walk the 1-2 miles home to his apartment.  He has been a faithful supporter, trying to balance providing for us and attending to to his work responsibilities with wanting to be around for me while taking care of the kids and the home-front.  He has walked this tightrope splendidly, I’m in awe of his strength and gentleness.  My sisters have said my recovery has a lot to do with him and his support.  I completely agree.  I just can’t imagine having a different kind of husband.  Probably because I see the kind of men you all are, and I know you’d be exactly the same way.  Your wives are so blessed to have you, and I know you’ve had to be strong in some pretty trying situations.  This is what it means to be a man in my eyes.

I'm also indebted to my mom and sisters so  much I don't even know how to begin.  I can hardly believe they would take days, a week, out of their lives to come and just sit with me.  To strain blood and fluids out of my little hanging bulbs, to check stitches, to wash our clothes and cook for us.  To keep a schedule of pills and to get up early with me, to help me sit up, lie down, and get up.  They have run errands for me, bought treats and snacks.  Fielded phone calls and visitors.  Asked doctors questions, insisted I go get my rashes checked on.  Gave me a hard time about being up so much and gave me that look when I told them I was having a church meeting here on Friday.  They've made me laugh till I thought my stitches would burst.  They've brought me tissues when they saw my tears dripping down my eyes when I was lying on my back wounds that seem to hurt no matter where I put them.  Cheri has documented the whole thing, taking pictures of the sorry look of things as well as gallery-worthy photos of the kids.  Cheryl has validated me, she knows what it's like to be a mom in our family.  She is tender and nurturing in ways I just am not.  She just is.  My mom makes her home in the kitchen, dishes are efficiently and effortless whisked into their places by the time everyone is home from errands.  It's a well-oiled machine, these women of mine.  I just have no words for  how much I love them and appreciate them.

I left Thursday afternoon, after another morning of visits, beginning with our good friend (also  a doctor and bishopric member) who came bearing cinnamon rolls and juice.  How sweet!  So many doctors attend church with us, so they’d peep in throughout the days; I just couldn’t get over how thoughtful that was when they are busy well-known doctors with tight schedules.

My home had become a funeral parlor since I’d been gone and I was overcome again.  I told my sister I couldn’t even think about it without crying.  Every single time I started to mention something someone else had done, tears just started dribbling out like an old incontinent woman.  I was completely on edge, my emotions were so raw and I was so vulnerable, I just couldn’t—and can’t—get over how loving and generous and kind and thoughtful and creative everyone’s been.  I really, truly am overwhelmed.  A designer friend (that sounds weird, she’s a decorator/photographer) who I don’t always see showed up just after I arrived home with her daughter, carrying a tall skinny purple orchid that looked just like her.  And a bottle of fudge.  I couldn’t believe she would think to do that.  That is still so interesting to me.  Because it hasn’t been necessarily the people I always hang out with who have reached out to me.  Some of them have been more distant friends.  It’s just so mind-boggling.

I’ve gotten three fluffy blankets, luxurious, cloud-like varieties.  One anonymously.  It’s killing me.  Because how will they know how much it meant to me?  How will I ever be able to tell them it was perfect, that I’ve never felt so enveloped in love?  I ache to tell someone.  Two friends came over to wash my hair.  People keep asking me what they can do and so I’ve tried to really think what I need.  I knew I would like that, so I asked her before I even went in if she would be willing.  I loved how creative she was to bring her 18 gallon tote and have me lie on the bed!  She and another friend I don’t usually see brought over a HUGE basket overflowing with magazines and treats, movie rentals, popcorn, lipsticks, lotions, brand new books just for me (one is by Melissa Gilbert with old-fashioned recipes and stories about life on Little House!).  I was completely taken off-guard.  Who would spend all this time and money on me???  I just loved having them in my house though.  So much.

Another friend spent the morning with my sisters and me, I’d told her from the very beginning all I wanted was for her to come hang out and to keep laughing with me.  We share the most embarrassing stories—we have so many between us—and she is one of my easiest, most enduring friends, we go back to early college days twenty years ago.  A breakfast casserole.  Lotions, a gift card.  Random packages in the mail with robe and thank you cards?  A beautiful book of inspiring photographs and words.  Freezer meals.  And fresh meals.  A neighbor bearing a package of fluffy socks and nightgown (which I haven’t worn since I was about 12—I’m so excited!  If I can ever get my arms to work like that again).  Who thinks to be so nice?

I could write a paragraph about each of you.  I’ve kept a list.  I just hate that all I have is notecards.  How can a little piece of paper ever convey the love I feel for you in my heart?  Gratitude, indebtedness, awe, I need another language.  English isn’t doing it for me.

I’m still embarrassed to say I’m not sure I’m doing that great when I pray.  I get stuck from the very beginning.  All I can think about is how grateful I am.   But He is foremost on my mind when I’m lying quietly.  Because I want these same blessings for my friends.  I’m embarrassed that I haven’t been more spiritually in-tune.  I feel like I’ve missed out on some inspiration because I’ve been distracted.  I know I’m in a prime condition to receive something more, but I feel bad that I haven’t been receptive.  That honestly does kind of bother me.

I talked to my CNA one evening in the hospital.  I talked to everyone.  I see us as people, as potential friends.  Who cares what side of the bed we’re on or who’s been to school longer?  We’re all just here playing a little part.   Anyway, I know where all my helpers grew up, we’ve discussed their families and their pets.  Where he’s going hunting this weekend, and why they were drawn to this line of work.  One CNA just five years older than me tentatively asked me what kind of surgery I’d had done, and of course I told her all about it without hesitation.  She confessed she’d been diagnosed just three weeks ago with breast cancer.  All I could think about was how hard it must be to continue on with her regular work while carrying this burden inside of her.  She told me everything.  I empathized deeply.  Because now I can.  I assured her that her case wouldn’t hurt this much.  She would just be having one side done.  She wouldn’t be doing reconstruction at the same time.  She would do just fine.  She pulled up a seat and we talked and talked some more.  I felt a deep love and concern for her, so sad that she’d been living a similar uncertain kind of walking nightmare.  But I was more saddened because I knew in a way it would be harder for her.  She has a job, for starters.  I’ve been so spoiled.  I just didn’t know for sure if she’d have a network, a similar kind of support at home.  I wondered if her faith strengthened her and gave her power to draw on.  My heart reached out to hers, and, again I felt how easy I have it compared to so many.

Not to say it’s exactly dreamy.  Just that I’m not in the burn unit, being scrubbed twice a day.  I’m not tentatively holding onto life by my toenails.  I’m not anguishing over my kids and our severed relationship.  Or scared for my life, running from an abusive husband.  This is surface pain (well, and some muscle pain) that is slowly (like cold molasses slow) healing.  But I’ve loved feeling good enough for visitors and even a little trip to the airport to get my mom (my sisters assured me that lots of people wear pajamas in airports these days).  Another funny (and squeemish) part was Friday night when I realized my pain pumps that were connected to my back and front were empty.  (Those are the two black bags I was holding up in my picture.)  Meaning I could get rid of them.  My husband, being a vet and all, was elected to do the surgery.  It was soooo funny!  Ripping tape off even a relatively furless back is so sore.  And I yelped in pain with each tape fiber release.  Because it’s meant to stick.  Then tubing was wrapped up in more of it all over my tummy.  (I tried to up my ab workouts in the weeks preceding this surgery just in case of exposures such as these but I’m afraid to say there is just more virgin white residual baby fat skin than tight, tanned, toned muscle.)  Then he had to pull out tubes from each of my four quadrants.  Long tubes about 12-15 inches each.  Talk about a weird and icky sensation, feeling them uncoil themselves from being embedded within me.  SO gross.  But progress.  I only have four drains left.  They’re sewn into me.  Can’t wait to see what that’s all about.

I’m sorry this is so long, imagine if I’d tried to handwrite it in my journal.  I just think it’s valuable to have these memories logged somewhere so I can access them down the road.  And know that they’ll be accurate.  I’m doing fine.  Really.  Not awesome.  Not dying.  I don’t know that I’d be brave enough do this again, which is part of the reason I opted to do both at once, or that I’d do it just so I could buy a bigger bra.  I did it to hold onto life a little longer.  So with that motivation rattling beside these strange wires inside me, I’m making it.  Even though it hurts like the outer edges of hell, I’ve never felt so good.

Matters of the heart

In assessing the past few months and years of my life and observing the lives of those around me—as I have a tendency to do—I’ve made some assessments.  Bet you didn’t see that coming.

As overstated and cliche as it is to mention, everyone around us and among us is dealing the challenges, headaches, frustrations, broken hearts, just the variables of life. Inevitable yet trying.  I’ve wondered if there’s a spreadsheet or definition that helps us categorize one challenge as a mere inconvenience and another as a serious trial.

I don’t know that there is a clear answer.  Because one person’s trial, say a divorce or the death of a pet, is another’s blessing.   Depends on the person and circumstances, not so much the event itself.  A broken arm would devastate an Olympic swimmer, while a broken promise could debilitate a woman in love.

I’m no expert in trials.  If you know me at all, you know I’m not glazing over the facts, I’m telling you the truth.  But even though the issues I’ve waded through have never been much to write about, there’s a difference between the uncomfortable physical ones and others.  Because the real challenges have always related to my heart.

I’ve never dealt with much physically compromising really (well, until maybe later today).  I remember getting knocked down on the cement at daycare when I was maybe 11, roller skating when a heavy door swung open right into my soon-to-be-soft-and-blackened eye.  I’ve had gum grafting on both sides of my mouth at the same time, wisdom teeth pulled, all sorts of orthodontia, given birth five times—one emergency c-section that seemed to take months to recover from and once to a 9 lb 2 oz baby with no epidural.  I climbed over a fence at track practice only to have the barb at the top push its way through my upper thigh, leaving both me and my leg attached to the fence. That felt awesome.  I spent a lot of my daycare days with pink eye and tonsillitis, an occasional strep throat.  Like all of you I’ve had the flu, spent days shivering on the couch.  I know what mastitis feels like, same as a lot of nursing moms.  Hailing from Southern California, I’ve endured my share of sunburns and blistered shoulders, but not too much more than aches and an occasional pain for the most part.

What’s really distressed me have been the heartaches.  And these are the trials I anticipate will continue to taunt me.  My heart is more fragile than my body.  More tested, more sensitive.

Jealousy throughout my school years.  Relationships that could’ve been closer but were marred and stunted from my own insecurities.  How I wish I could go back and wrap my arms around the girlfriends I was jealous of.  I’d like to just start fresh and be their biggest supporters and cheerleaders, regardless of how they felt toward me.  I know I could be a better friend these days.  I’ve learned so much.

Feelings of inadequacy through these same years, not recognizing my gifts that were uniquely mine to develop and share but always surmising that I simply didn’t have anything to offer.  How destructive and taxing to carry such an unnecessary burden.

My heart is still a little saddened over missed opportunities throughout the years to be a kinder daughter, a more engaged sister and mom, a more forgiving friend, a more nurturing wife.  Admittedly yes, those holes do eventually fill, but the memories of what I left unsaid or undone are good reminders of what a pained heart feels like.  

This isn’t a true confessions blog post, although wow, wouldn’t that be a list?  Just a sampling of how tender our hearts can be.  Even after all these years I can conjure up sad phases, cracked ego days, a million bruised heart hours and years.  The other list in mighty short in comparison.  Although maybe if I had been the athlete I always wanted to be I would have better stories for you.

I’m not by any stretch minimizing a chronic disease, a paralyzing accident, any of the myriad ways our bodies are compromised in large and small ways.  Just that in the grand scheme of life here and later, these physical ailments will be healed completely.  But what really hangs in the balance always goes back to our hearts.  Will these physical set-backs make our hearts stronger or will they break us?  Will our hearts become hardened and bitter or soft and tender?  Our hearts don’t change just because we die.   And so our job now is to perfect them, which is more difficult than any surgery or body cast, stretching us and humbling us like no physical therapy or wig can.  Perfecting our heart means giving it away, accepting a larger, stronger, better version in return.  So whether it’s exercised through devastating divorce or damaged digit, loss of love or losing locks, the trial isn’t what defines us, it’s how we use our hearts that refines us.

So even as I venture to the hospital in a few hours to get worked on a bit, I’m just not that worried.  I know my shell is only that, it will hurt and it will bruise, it will look different for awhile, but it will heal.  Sooner or later, I’ll welcome a perfect version down the road.  It’s my heart I want to keep tabs on.

So far

I thought it might be good to log some thoughts along the way, a precursor to my major surgery on Tuesday.  Just a little re-cap of how it’s all gone so far.  Because I’m sure these vivid days will fade and will be all but forgotten if I don’t.

I can honestly say I’m doing fine.  It’s been a great, great learning experience, and I’ve felt overwhelmingly carried.  Loved, at peace, joyful, even energetic and strong.  But admittedly, days here and there have been sprinkled with tears.  Not as often as I’d thought, but showing up at the most random times.  I cried the evening after I found out.  Alone in my bathroom with Todd.  Sobbing.  Because I just didn’t know if I was going to die or stay awhile longer.  I was overwhelmingly sad for him, I’ll be so unattractive when I’m bald and cut apart, our life will change in small but significant ways, and he’ll have to deal with so much and carry such a heavy burden.  But that seemed to be my main crying spell.  It was a good few minutes, a release, a normal response I imagine.  There have been quiet moments, alone with Todd, when I realize things will never quite be the same.  But I don’t dwell on it too long; just seems like a waste of energy to stress about things I can’t change.  And so I indulge for a moment, admitting to myself that I’m sad about it, but I move on.  There’s so much more to use good energy on!

Unexpectedly, in the beginning I didn’t have any idea how to pray about it.  I didn’t feel like it was my place to ask to be preserved if that wasn’t His will, so I just sort of avoided the whole topic at first.  After a few days I realized all I had in me to pray for was for help to see this through His eyes.  If He thought I was ready for this, then I knew He’d help me through it.  Whatever it ended up looking like.  I prayed for strength to accept His ideas.  And so far, those days of not knowing have been the hardest part.  Waiting for results and wrestling with my emotions, trying to align my will with His.  That if He thought this would be best for our family eternally, then I would try to come to terms with that, I would try to accept it.  I hated even thinking about the possibilities.  I wondered if dying might be eminent.  I wondered if that would be the best for our family, I tried to wrap my head around it.  And I have to admit, I gave him my thoughts.  I told Him I would work even harder, that I would could get more done on this side of the veil than the other.  I wonder if he laughed a little.

As the weeks have progressed, the most overwhelming feeling I have when I talk to Him is gratitude, just overwhelming thankfulness.  For living in a time and place with such amazing medical advances.  For trusting me with this.  For the people at every turn who have helped me and been so kind.  I have hoped and asked that these experiences can help me share my faith with others, that I’ll learn some things along the way.  That the kids will feel peaceful and ok.  But other than that, I’m embarrassed to say I really don’t pray much about it.  I’m not sure what to ask, I feel so incredibly blessed that I feel weird asking for anything more.  I feel like a little kid praying for myself this way, asking for more when I already have so much.  I feel close to Him.  But I still wonder if there’s more I should be doing.  I just feel so spent lately by nighttime.  Squeezing in hours of doctors appointments into already full weeks.  Talking on the phone, emailing, and texting friends, family, nurses, the kids’ teachers, etc.  Writing thank you’s for everything people have done.  It’s as if I’ve taken on a part-time job.  And so I wonder if I’m giving Him enough of myself and my time and my energy, if He knows how much I love Him and how blessed I feel.  I hope so.

I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have a “traditional” trial, one that most people view as being a substantial hardship.  But I don’t feel like I’ve truly experienced it yet, which is why I wanted to record some feelings before my double mastectomy and reconstruction on Tuesday.  This problem has a pretty straight-forward solution.  Not every trial does.  The hard ones are those I see so many of my friends dealing with.  More private in nature, more heart-felt.  More long-term.  With no quick fix.  Even with this sitting in the back of my mind, I’ve felt my heart breaking for loved ones going through divorces or loneliness, friends who have family members in critical condition or parents who are worried about their kids.  So many of my tears have been for them lately.  Like so many of you, I pray, wondering what else I can do.

We never gathered our kids together for a pow-wow about it.  In fact, we were running out the door and I had to drop off the kids and Bronwyn asked where we were going.  I just hurriedly told her I had an appointment because I have breast cancer.  “Hurry, let’s go!”  Avery intercepted a text awhile back and asked me if I had breast cancer.  That was pretty easy, and Callum just somehow knew.  The boys were harder, and I put it off, knowing they were old enough and sensitive enough to take it more personally.  So we’ve cried.  But we’ve laughed a lot.  We’re casual, open, relaxed, at peace.  I’ve told them the funny parts of what I’ve been through, we’ve laughed over the wig choices.  I’ve shown the little kids my bruising and incision from the node removal.  But we don’t talk about it that much, it’s just not in the forefront of our lives.  It’s just another development, along with our broken dishwashers and homework we’re not that great at doing.

I guess I put off telling people for a few reasons, mostly there wasn’t much to tell until I knew what I was dealing with, a cyst or a life sentence.  And when I did mention to a couple of close girlfriends that I’d been waiting for the results, it made me sad because it made them sad.  I hated hurting their feelings and making them worry.  People wanted to know what they could do.  I didn’t know how to be more honest: nothing.  I am still healthy and energetic, the same as always.  Just scared to know how serious it could still be.  I think during chemo it will be great to entertain my kids.  Recovering from a c-section a few years back, that’s what made me the happiest: knowing my kids were happy.

Avery suggested we make some meals to freeze.  I loved it!  I’m excited to see my kids pull together.  I want them to see self-sufficiency in action.  I want them to know we can unite as a family and work together.  And yet I know it’s important to let them see people serve.  It’s so humbling, you all know I hate it.  But I acquiesce because I care about my friends.  I know how good it makes us feel to do something tangible when loved ones are going through hard times.  I know we all need to take turns, and so I hope to learn to balance humility with self-sufficiency.

The best thing friends have done with me is just to laugh with me. I’ve had some of the most embarrassing appointments, I can’t help but relay them to my friends.  It’s weird to have come to terms with the body I’ve lived with for 42 years and now to be having the plastic surgery I always thought I wanted.  Just interesting how now all I want is my regular self.  I don’t mind people knowing or anyone asking me questions.  Nothing is off-limits.  It’s fascinating, I’ve learned so much and you know how much I appreciate a good teaching moment.  It’s also good to move on and talk about them after a couple of minutes.  You know I hate being in the spotlight, good grief.  I just don’t want to be like the old ladies who can’t quit talking about their colonoscopies and diabetes.

I don’t know that I can itemize all that I’ve learned quite yet.  I’m only at the beginning really.  I found a lump back in July, got in to the doctor by September, had a mammogram and biopsy within a couple of days, and waited.  That was Thursday.  By Tuesday I could barely hold myself together, so I finally called.  So not like me.  But I couldn’t focus on much else.  I remember on my way to my mammogram seeing the Cancer Center off to the side.  I couldn’t help but wonder if it’d become part of my new life.  But now here we are, I’ve been cramming in a million things these past few weeks and am ready to wash with my special surgery soap again on Monday.  It’s been a whirlwind, but good.  I’m realizing how powerful prayer is.  I’m learning how valuable loved ones are.  And how wide that circle is.  I know now it’s not flippant to say or hear “I’m praying for you.”  And how it’s not limited to a few close friends.  I feel love from near and far, all expressions have been equally meaningful and touching.

People have hugged me, teared up when we’ve talked.  Mostly people have told me they’re praying for me.  My son’s college ward (congregation) fasted for me—I loved it!  A friend brought over a note and a sweet children’s book, Going on a Bear Hunt, highlighting how sometimes we can’t go under or around but have to go through an obstacle.  Three friends pitched in to buy my a subtly pinkish sweatshirt with a loving note.  I can still feel the soft touch of women who have held onto my hands.  Another friend brought our family a grocery sack of gourmet snacks, fun napkins, egg nog and other indulgences I’d never buy myself.  A young student made me a small pillow for under my arm to make resting more comfortable.  Isn't that cute? Our friend brought me a pink breast cancer awareness pen from his work.  A woman I work at church with brought over a cleaning bucket loaded with snacks and treats for the kids, luxurious soaps I’d also never buy myself.  A friend had her mom make a prayer shawl.  My kindred spirit friend from years and years ago sent me the girliest package that is so like her: slippers and two pairs of pajamas and fun magazines.  I still can’t get over the generosity.  A practical friend who speaks my language brought over six containers of frozen cookie dough balls.  What could be better?  Two friends have already brought us dinner when I spent part of the day under anesthesia, even though I was fine, just so I could spend more time on other pressing issues.  More dinners next week.  Endless texts, Facebook messages, cards and emails.  Phone calls and get-togethers.  I feel pampered beyond belief.  I’m moved by how kind and generous everyone has been.  I really can’t get over it.  A big part of my thoughts lately has been assessing how I’ve responded when loved ones have had a challenge.  Have I been there?  Have I helped?  Did I know what to do?  It makes me want to serve better and more.  I’m so inspired.

My sister had this same experience at 34.  She has been invaluable from the moment I told her.  An absolute strength.  I asked her a million questions, she researched and called her doctor for me.  She rallied her friends even though I told her not to tell anyone around here.  Her friend sent me a book.  Their foundation offered me a donation.  She and my other sister and my mom are leaving work and kids and responsibilities to come help out for two weeks.  I can’t even tell you how stubborn they are.  And how guilty I feel.  Because I’ve never been in a position to do anything like that for them.

There have been so many tiny miracles that have shown me that He’s aware of each of us.  Doctors assigned to me from my church, one whose specialty is breast care.  My pathologist is a good friend, and I know he expedited results to ease my mind.  An anesthesiologist firend happened to stop by while I was waiting for my procedure.  So nice to see a familiar face!  My friend in the cancer center was one of the first people we told, she drew my blood that first morning.  Just over and over, I’ve seen His hand in my life.  One that stands out happened just after my little surgery last week when Todd and I were in the recovery room.  Of all the days and places she could’ve been assigned to within the hospital network, my dear neighbor friend from yesteryear saw Todd as he was sitting with me and was able to come be with us and wheel me out.   Her daughter had just gone through this the previous year.  I couldn’t help but burst into tears as we visited.  Not at all because I’m nervous or sad or worried.  Just out of pure love for Heavenly Father, I couldn’t believe He would take time to send me a tender hug this way.  I was overcome with happiness,  knowing again how intimately aware He is of not just me, but each of us.  He loves us, His children, and shows us in small ways, a million different ways.  This was just an especially poignant moment for me.

I cried the last Sunday I was at church too.  A sweet, sweet friend of ours lost his wife to breast cancer a few years back.  I knew he knew.  He had on a bright pink tie and wrapped me up in his huge strong muscly arms, and I again burst into tears.  He tried to comfort me, but it wasn’t about that.  It was that feeling of love that I felt.  I don’t know that my emotions knew any other way to go except out my eyes!  And so it’s been with every person I’ve told or who has found out.  Most of their eyes have become a little shiny, and there’s been an immediate connection, a feeling of love for each other.  I’m a touchy, huggy person (but careful with who since I’ve had some bad experiences), and so I have loved the hugs, just loved feeling close to brothers and sisters we’ve come to love as our family.

One of the very first and most spiritual experiences of all of this was in October, General Conference weekend.  I asked two friends if they would give us blessings that Sunday afternoon.  So while our kids played gymnastics on the lawn with the dog, we gathered for a memorable hour together, intimately connected as friends.  I felt calm, at ease, willing to accept the future but also feeling that maybe this wasn’t quite my end, that maybe I’d be permitted to linger a bit longer.  I promised in my heart that I’d work hard, serving in any way He wanted.  I still cling to that special time with our close friends.  I felt the Spirit so strong, I felt a tight bond with the other two couples.  I felt completely enwrapped in love,  knowing that He really does have a plan for me and my family and that He is completely aware of me and each of us. It really was an amazing experience for me, I wrote about it in my journal so I’d remember more of the details.  I’ll always treasure it and appreciate the love and goodness of our dear friends and a loving, knowing Heavenly Father.

I have a favorite scripture I cling to, “Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter?  What greater witness can you have than from God?”  That idea has carried me through so many days throughout my life.  Our eternal perspective and our faith help me see little hiccups like these through clearer lenses.  I just feel blessed and at ease.  It’s the perfect time for a little wake-up call.  My kids are not too young, I’m not too old.  We’re just at a perfect place in our lives to see what we’re made of.  And I’m happy to say, I’m realizing it has nothing to do with me.  It has all been the work of you and a loving Heavenly Father that have made this past month so good.   Prayers have a way of levitating another, I feel like I’ve been riding on a cushion of soft air, the prayers and thoughts of loving friends, people whose goodness is nearly tangible.  There aren’t enough thank you notes in my box or even at TJ Maxx to express my appreciation for all you do.  My only hope is that someday in some way I can pay it all forward, that I can live a better life having lived through this short trial, that I can serve in more meaningful, thoughtful ways.  The way you’ve been serving me.

To see just one of many inspiring talks on the enabling power of the atonement, click here

Returning from vacation

A pretty rough start, late on the first leg of an all-day journey, but in the chaos of the past season, I’m not surprised we forgot to confirm flight times, failing to note that our 10:22 a.m. departure had moved without us to 9.  Hailing from a tiny regional airport, the next one out wouldn’t be till 1:30.  But we were on vacation.  Already.  Having dropped off three kids at various spots on the way to the airport, changing sheets and towels and putting dinner in the crockpot for my mom’s arrival later that morning, and packing late into the the previous night (because we decided hanging out with friends trumped being prepared), I was ok with a little quiet time as a voyeur in our own little airport.  For four hours.  Todd was tense, visibly frustrated.  It would all work out, I kept telling him.  To his annoyance.  Our late start triggered a domino effect, and we were routed through Denver to Chicago and supposedly Baltimore.  But because of a mechanical failure we stayed overnight in Chicago (deposited by a wicked-fast cab driver weaving his way through late-night traffic at a slightly oldish hotel about 20 mins from the airport).  Left at 6 the next morning to make our eventual way to DC.  But that’s how vacations go.  Not like the glossy brochures.  Not always according to itinerary.  A vacation is a deviation from normal life, an opportunity to experience life in a different way.  For just a little while.  So in my eyes, we had already been doing that the minute we said goodbye to our lanky driver of a son as he left us at the airport.  Todd and I were alone together.  On our way to a continuing ed vet conference in North Carolina with a few days tacked on to celebrate our twenty year anniversary.  

Once we landed in Washington and left the confines of the airport rental car lot, the stresses of the city quickly relegated themselves to a distant memory.  Trees shrouded our paths, and we discovered the wonderland of Southern color, having arrived just at the peak of fall tourism.  Over the next four days we meandered through Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina, taking in the vistas of three national parks and spoiling ourselves with Bed and Breakfast retreats.  The same type of trip we embarked upon years earlier as newlyweds, feeling just as we did back then: too young for this sort of thing but not caring.  Enjoyed luscious breakfasts, cozy old-fashioned rooms, HGTV, staying up, sleeping in, and antique shopping.  Conserving where we could, we dined on trail mix and baby carrots for lunch from the grocery store but found quaint local restaurants for dinner, a challenging and rewarding endeavor each night.  We hiked mountain trails immersed in fall color, providing enchanting views new to our Western eyes.  Cascading waterfalls tempted us; we conceded, awe-inspired, never tiring of water streaming over shiny rocks and cliffs, meandering creeks and still rivers.  It was all so rejuvenating, soothing.  Cathartic. 

We perked our ears at random conversation, delighted by the drawl and cadence of the South.  We toured homesteads, mills, and farms.  We happened upon an obscure mountain cemetery plot bearing tombstones with no names and woke to birds right outside our sleepy bedroom windows every chilly morning.  In one B&B we camped out in a room from the 1800s furnished with a rustic, perfect-to-us, open-faced wood-burning fireplace, the ideal complement to the night air we beckoned in.  A dreamy combination.

We sampled grits and spinach cakes, fish tacos and fried chicken on waffles.  Hailing from Montana, we’re partial to beef and potatoes, but we felt pampered and spoiled at every turn.  We collected pinecones and acorns.  And purchased our souvenir of choice: national park cds; we have one from every park we’ve visited.  A few pens and candy for the kids, never anything fancier than that.  We tried on Little Switzerland and Gatlingberg, TN, paying $10 just to park our car for a rare lunch out.  Relished and savored Five Guys, not caring that it wasn’t indigenous fare; but we couldn’t abide the harshness of the town and quickly found a way back to the slow and winding Blue Ridge Parkway.  We likewise tickled our senses with downtown Asheville, NC, but with a similar exit.

One of the most interesting detours was an hour spent at the Dutch Girl laundromat in a seedy part of Asheville, about half-way through our trip, furnishing the ideal time to catch up with our college freshman son on the phone.  A natural people-watcher, I noted the various patrons, some who had a story or two to tell, having seen some life; a few middle-aged single men; couples from various countries, a young mother-daughter duo.  This breather reminded me of all the hours I’d spent in laundromats throughout my life, and I soaked it all in, grateful to trade bundles of traveled-in clothes for piles of fresh wares.  Truly lifted my spirits, as I imagine it does for most others who haven’t always had the luxury of clean clothes.  Something I really do appreciate, even on a good day at home with facilities right downstairs.  Just a note-worthy side trip.

Our laundry hour passed, and we basked in yet another evening without constraints.  Days continued to indulge us with the symphonies of crunching leaves and soothing creeks on their way to becoming waterfalls.  We knew no one, a freeing realization holding us to no standard, no worries about what we wore or looked like.  We were completely alone with each other, careless about concerns back home, simply completely content in our days together.

But in a still moment, alone in a charming Southern hotel lobby while Todd was in classes, I wondered what I thought.  Decidedly I felt rich.  Pampered, at ease, relaxed, loved, at peace.  But lacking.  I knew I loved these carefree days.  We were living a life from pages of our Country Living magazine. I realized if I continued much longer I’d come to resent this plush life that provided no opposition, no work, no contribution or service.  A life of leisure yet without focus.  But I savored our time away wholeheartedly because I knew it was temporary, simply a respite from what matters most.

I missed the association with people I know intimately, not just at a small-talk breakfast table or on the couch beside me in the lobby waiting for an airport shuttle.  Mildly and temporarily gratifying, but nothing like the longing I have to know and be known, hearts intertwined and willing to share.  Being a community member satisfies a desire to belong, whether it’s a school, church, neighborhood, family, or town association.  To be anonymous in a crowd leaves me lonely and hungry for something deeper.

A vacation by definition is short-lived, a bit of time-off from the pressures of everyday life.  And so it was just that.  Admittedly, it wasn’t easy to leave the rolling hills and waters, crisp mornings and leaves, but I inhaled deeply, impressing the details of our memories within the recesses of my mind, to be retrieved at a later time.  I wasn’t exactly excited to leave what we’d fallen in love with, like cutting off a whirlwind romance, but I anticipated the customary joy in feeling arms of loved ones squeezing us, purposeful work, a home craving attention.  I yearned to serve, to assess needs up close, to be nearby to help where needed, to surround myself with friends who have become like family and to care for my own little chickadees who enrich my every days like no shopping center or fancy restaurant meal ever could.

So as we returned to our stack of mail dutifully collected throughout the week, worries we’d shelved for several days, and a calendar filled with commitments rather than colorfully decorated leaf trails, I’m neither sorry we went or let down that we’ve came home.  I love both experiences and parts of life.  Exquisitely!  I’m rejuvenated from trying on a new culture and being in love.  Logged memories like these have a natural way of carrying us through the heavier periods of real life, of brightening inevitable gray days down the lane.  I can’t help but marvel at the precise timing of this particular trip, the abundant beauties we never tired of, and the confirmation of the love and friendship we’ve been blessed with for over twenty years.  All orchestrated to strengthen us and to remind us of the beautiful life we already enjoy.  Back home. 

Regular brushing

I remember when I was little asking my mom if she was going to brush her teeth a litlte extra since she was heading to her dentist appointment, and she taught me that no, she wasn’t going to do anything she hadn’t been doing all along, she brushed and flossed everyday, even going so far as to invest in one of those electric brushes.  Confident that she’d been doing her part throughout the days and months leading up to her appointment, it didn’t matter if a dentist was going to check her work or not.  Interesting.

It seems like when changes come that we aren’t anticipating, small hardships that seem to warrant a little extra support from the heavens, that we should up our efforts, give a little more, do something extra to prove our devotion and commitment.  Showing we deserve the blessings we long for.  And are petitioning for.

But aren’t we doing the parts already?  Or shouldn’t we?  Why should anticipating a day at the dentist make us scrub a little harder and why should a little hiccup in our life’s plans suddenly cause us to look to Him in a new light?  In desperation.  Haven’t we been taught to brush and pray, to floss and to do our part to develop a deep and abiding relationship with Him everyday?

I notice that when a challenge shows up I’m all of a sudden face to face with myself.  I tentatively look at my recent past, hesitantly assessing how I’ve been doing.  And to be honest, in a really difficult time I even wonder if I can muster the energy to do more than I’ve been doing.  I wonder if what I’m currently doing and have been doing is enough.  I’m pretty good at brushing.  And flossing. But I always kind of wonder in the deep recesses of my mind if it’s been enough. And if I need to do more.

I’ve never been great at cramming. I’m a slow and steady student.  The way I am in life.  But maybe there’s a pop quiz, a life issue I need immediate help with.  I have to rely on what I’ve been doing, the studying I’ve made time for, the relationships I’ve developed.  Oil in my lamp.  Drop by drop.  There isn’t a Costco gallon size available, it takes time and small but consistent contributions.

And so I hope the deposits I’ve made will be sufficient when I need to draw on them. 

Because I don’t know how to pray harder than I already do.  I don’t know that leaving my family to spend more hours in the temple is what’s required when what we really need is more time at our house together.  I don’t know that I should sequester myself in silence for hours on end devouring the scriptures for the first time when what I really feel to do is to use them as an example of how to serve others.   

A few extra swishes of that pink fluoride the morning of or an extra yard of floss isn’t going to change things when my dentist is going to be checking my teeth within the hour, and no matter how I tried to quickly rehash several chapters of my child development text as a college sophomore on the steps of the testing center with the test looming, I knew it was basically pointless.  You can see this principle at work throughout our average days.  We might submit to a crash diet before a wedding or wrestling weigh-in, but we know better, that it’s not healthy and won’t last.  People do the same with friendships, calling only in crisis but not putting in the regular care the relationship needs.  A garden doesn’t live with a once-a-month deep watering, and our souls don’t thrive with a once-a-week worship service that does nothing to change how we behave throughout the week.  The principle is the same: most relationships and successes are based on small but consistent deposits and care.  Not only in anticipation of a harvest or a sound report or because you might need something from a friend, but because there is comfort and peace in knowing you have done your part and there is joy along the way whether it’s the good feeling in our innards when we choose vegetables over chips, teeth that don’t ache, satisfaction from actually learning and assimilating new ideas in a college class or simply lovely memories and close, loving relationships.

But here’s what I’m learning.  So maybe the dentist has some advice for us about how to cut down the tarter, and maybe I didn’t get Piaget’s stages in the right order, and maybe I asked amiss, knowing I really hadn’t been doing my part to build the relationship like I wanted.  But that’s the beauty of life and learning and tests and check-ups!  We get to try again!  We are still here, it’s not the final!

Not only that, but He isn’t the dentist or our professor.  He is merciful.  All He asks is that we come to Him.  Offering nothing but our contrite and humble heart.  He will dismiss our negligence, remembering nothing of our forgiven past, just so grateful to have us close once again.  And the other parts of life are like this too.  We can change and decide we’ll brush better, study more consistently, forget the diet of the day and add carrots and the stairs.  We can ask a friend we may have used or neglected if we can start anew.

So a challenging time is a blessing.  Because it wakes us up.  It forces us take a look at ourselves and assess where we are.  And then we can feel confident that yes, we have made deposits, we have done our best to be consistent.  Not perfectly.  Definitely far from perfectly.  But I feel that He’s accepted my small and simple devotions, that my relationship with Him is close, it’s good.  And I feel that with friends and my scriptures too.  I, like you, have felt the joy that comes along the way.  And so even though I do feel I can do better in all facets of my learning and life and relationships, I feel like my small and simple offerings have laid the foundation, that He is no stranger, that He is as close today as He always has been.  Over the years I have come to know and love and trust Him, so that in a difficult time I already have Him as my dearest ally and don’t need to brush extra now that the hygienist is calling my name.

A toolbox for all occasions

I’m no expert.  Like I always tell you.  On anything.  But I’ve been around for awhile.  Learned a few things.  Had some heartbreaks.  A few set-backs.  But here’s what I’m learning about life’s  struggles.

There’s no sliding scale that tells you which ones are really hard and which ones are the ones you don’t need to stress about.  If it’s big to you, it’s significant.  Even if it wouldn’t be to someone else.  And oddly enough, just because you’re supposed to be broken up about something isn’t enough of a reason to act contrary to what you’re naturally feeling.  Who’s to say what’s normal or what your reaction should be, what’s hard or what’s easy?

The tools are the same.  Regardless of what you’re dealing with. Whether I’m dealing with a life-long struggle with jealousy, the death of my dad, or an overall question of purpose.  Maybe not trials in the traditional sense, but maybe little hiccups, a hill here and there to take note of.  So I’ve cried over misunderstandings with friends.  I’ve worried about my kids, are they even assimilating any of the spiritual teachings we’ve exposed them to?  What’s my part to play in the world?  I’ve been worried for my sisters with breast cancer and unemployment.  I’ve cried over regrets, not having been a better daughter to my dad, feeling so sad that it’s too late to make things better.  I’ve had hard days filled with guilt and pride and loneliness.  So maybe they aren’t hard things like a divorce or losing a child to an accident, but I’ve pulled out my tools, always certain I have what I need.

It’s not a large box, just a basic toolkit. Rudimentary supplies for both the apprentice and skilled laborer alike.  Accessible to all.

When I find myself wondering what to do with a challenge, it’s just natural to become a little introspective.  I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done something to contribute to the problem.  What part did I play in the misunderstanding, the sore throat I’m coming down with, why my younger kids don’t like to read, why the cars are all falling apart, and why doesn’t our money stretch further?  Just important to me to assess the information at hand.  And a lot of times, yes, I’ve contributed to the problem.  I said something flippant or indulged in gossip, I’ve stayed up a little too late a few too many times and run myself down.  I haven’t been as diligent with the younger set in our reading as I was with the older ones, we ran the car without oil for who knows how long, I’ve been a little careless with our money lately, we’ve had a few too many treats.  So yes, these are things I can take issue with and improve.  Learn from, do better next time, regroup and move forward trying again.  A small but natural exercise, recognizing that sometimes we’ve helped create a problem.

But a lot of times life just happens.  It’s not really our fault that rocks hit our windshields or that appliances break.  All at the same time.  Sometimes we have no idea we’ve said something wrong.  People get sick and others die.  Some years there’s an early frost that kills the garden. Occasionally a kid is contrary.  Thankfully, the tools I’ve relied on for years have helped me with all the scenarios, big and small.

I look upward.  I wonder what my part to do now is.  I ask Him about it.  I pray for people near and far who are struggling with such hard, hard things.  Families falling apart, health deteriorating, people losing their faith, accidents, set-backs I can’t even fathom.  I pray for our little family.  For strength and peace.  And guidance.  And to align my will with His.  Thankful for whatever He thinks we’re ready for.

I look to His word and counsel.  I want to know what He has for me.  But I’m not very good at this part.  I dabble instead of immerse sometimes.  Because I’m not sure where to start.  I listen to a lot of good talks, I read inspirational messages.  And I cling to the words of prophets and apostles.  And these help so  much.  But I know He has more for me.  When I’m ready to sacrifice and really study, to engage, to feast.  Because it’s worked before.  It just takes a little more effort on my part and I get distracted so easily.  Sigh.  But I soak myself in His spirit.  At church.  In the temple.  In my secret closet.  He always meets me.  He’s wherever I’m willing to go.  

I look to loved ones for support.  My family.  A couple of close friends.  My church family.  I’m pretty open in what I write, but things closest to my heart are reserved for my husband and sisters and mom.  A couple of close girlfriends.  And Heavenly Father.  They know me and my intentions.  They’ve forgiven me and have allowed me to walk imperfectly.  It’s reciprocal, and I trust them with my heart.  They are my earthly angels who never let me down.

I look for ways to get busy. I open my eyes instead of shutting them to the world, which is maybe a natural inclination.  Instead I’ve learned it’s better to ask who needs what.  What will cheer up someone else?  What does He need my hands to do today?  Easiest way I know to work through something that’s weighing on my mind.

And I write about it all.  In letters.  In my journal.  In the margins of my scriptures.  Quotes that touch me go in my quote book.  But that’s just me.  Words help me sort through my feelings and give me perspective.  And I hope—oh, how i  hope—they will help someone else down the road.  To avoid the pitfalls and mistakes I’ve made.  To learn from my errors so they don’t have to face the same struggles.  Especially my children.  A mother can’t help but hope for her children to be better than she has been, and so I record my failings and weaknesses and ups and downs for them.

Just a handful of tools that have worked on projects of all sizes in my life.  Problems of all proportions.  A small toolbox, just the basics.  I suppose you could try the fancy ones out there.  You could try shopping or drinking or being spiteful and bitter.  You might want to try blaming someone or looking for revenge.  You could try to show God you don’t need Him if this is how things are going to go. You could wallow and become shallow.  You could use those tools.  But we know that eventually they rust and break and become useless.  And get thrown away.

The toolbox our Father has given us is a gift.  It’s up to us to either tuck these tools away in a dusty garage and decide they are old-fashioned and too simple for the task we’re up against or to keep our box handy, close by, with the lid open, accessible.  Because it doesn’t matter if a picture needs straightened or our vision needs a tweak.  If a car is dying or a loved one is fading.  These are the tools at our disposal.  No job is too small or too big for the tools He’s given us.  I know that because I’ve used them.  It’s simply up to us.