The Law of Sacrifice

This week I thought, briefly, that I might be unexpectedly pregnant. It was actually just a nasty stomach flu, but it made me wonder: can I handle pregnancy again? It's so difficult in so many ways: your body is given over wholly to another, tinier, growing body, and the result for you is nausea, back pain, heartburn, depression, fatigue, etc....

My mom often prints off articles she finds online that she thinks might be of interest to me. She gave me this one just today, from Meridian Magazine. I'm going to insert it here, in full, for all of the women who read this post (and especially those women currently experiencing the rigors of pregnancy!):



I shifted my weight on the pew and sighed as the sacrament meeting speaker stood to begin his talk. Seven months pregnant, I was swollen and sore, big-bellied, and exhausted from the constant demands of my five young children who were crawling on and off my nearly-nonexistent lap, whispering (or not) in my ear, and requesting backrubs and water breaks.

I wasn’t sure I could last the remaining fifteen minutes of the meeting, let alone the final months of the pregnancy.

I nearly let out an audible groan when the speaker launched into his topic — pioneers. The last thing I wanted to hear was heroic tales of handcarts and amputations; of babies born in wagons, then buried trailside days later; of mothers who kept walking resolutely to Zion no matter what they had to leave behind. I could barely drag myself from my living room to my kitchen.

I closed my eyes and drifted into half-sleep as the speaker droned on, only to be jolted upright by my toddler’s stray elbow jamming into my abdomen. The baby inside began to kick in response, pummeling my bladder and ribs as he somersaulted in his watery nest.

I bit my lip trying not to cry or scream, as waves of frustration broke over me. It’s too much, I thought. All these kids. Whining and poking and pushing and wanting and needing, their words and hands and feet chipping away at me from without and within. I can’t stand this one more day, one more hour.

It’s horribly cliché to claim that at that very moment, the speaker said the very words I needed to hear. But that’s exactly what happened. He was reading the story of the Sweetwater crossing, the day that grown men and women sat down and cried on the banks of the half-frozen river because their strength was utterly spent, the day that three young men carried dozens of people through the chunks of ice and onto the continuing path west that waited on the opposite bank.

And as those words penetrated the hazy fatigue that enveloped me, the Spirit spoke. Not with words, but with a deep impression that I roughly translate here: “Your sacrifice is like unto theirs.”

I sensed within myself the chasm that separates the premortal spirit world from the earth, and how there were spirits waiting on that bank needing to cross to the other side. And how I was carrying them, one at a time, to the opposite bank, so that they could continue along the path to Zion.

Paul’s words sprang to my mind, words that had burned into me years before at the start of my fourth pregnancy, when I was wondering how I would ever manage another baby.

I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service (Romans 12:1).

Present your body as a living sacrifice. Sacrifice: the word comes from the Latin sancire, meaning to make sacred. That’s exactly what I was doing: offering my very flesh and blood to God, to meet his purposes, to fulfill the desires for children he had planted within me.

All the pain and discomfort and difficulty, I suddenly understood, was having a sanctifying effect. It sure doesn’t seem that way, I thought as I shifted my ample weight on the pew and rearranged the various limbs of my children. I didn’t feel sacred; I felt bloated, achy, irritable — even desperate. And this little burst of revelation did nothing to ease my physical and emotional distress. But even so, I knew it was true: as a result of my bodily sacrifice, I was becoming more holy.

In the months and weeks that followed, I returned to this thought again and again, each time gaining deeper awareness of the significance of my labors. By using my body’s capabilities to build up the kingdom of God, I was consecrating myself, my time and energy and desire, in the most tangible, intimate way imaginable.

The awareness didn’t take away the sciatic pain or the killer heartburn or the bone-deep fatigue. But when the baby was born, I was keenly aware that I had ushered him across the gulf that only a woman could navigate. My husband quipped, just as he had at the end of each of my childbirths, that he was glad he wasn’t a woman. But I was glad — so glad.

And then, a year later, I had a miscarriage.

It was my first. Amazingly, I had completed six pregnancies without such incident, but my number was finally up. I was only six weeks along when the spotting began, followed by heavy bleeding, and finally, the passing of the tiny forming body.

Afterward I grappled with many difficult feelings — grief, anger, longing. Sure, I had only been pregnant for a few weeks, but I had already invested great physical, emotional, and spiritual energy in this new life. And for what? Some women receive revelation that the life lost will be resurrected, that the forming child will be part of her eternal family. But I had received no such reassurance. I felt like the whole experience was a bitter waste.

A few weeks later, I spoke with a close friend of mine who had just suffered her second miscarriage. I confided my sense of emptiness and futility. But as I continued to speak, I heard surprising words coming from my mouth.

“It wasn’t a waste,” I said. “It wasn’t a waste.” I wasn’t quite sure what I meant. I did not feel any more certain than I had before that the partially formed body I had passed would someday live again. Nor was I referring to the personal gain of knowledge and experience that comes from our trials. Rather, I knew that somehow, my loss counted. God knew what had happened, he grieved with me. And in some inexplicable way, my loss would contribute to his work and his glory, as well as my personal holiness.

I felt better after that, even though it still took more time to recover, both physically and emotionally. But it was easier to accept my loss with the assurance that it hadn’t been in vain. I became convinced that when women offer their bodies as vehicles for new life, they are consecrating themselves to God’s purposes, and God honors this offering, whether or not it results in live birth.

I sensed that this is especially true when we offer ourselves consciously, purposefully, to God. And I began to think about how this is true for women in a variety of circumstances: women who try and try, but are unable to conceive; women who subject themselves to the rigors of adopting a child; women who remain single in this lifetime, who must forego maternity as well as intimacy on a number of levels.

I came to this conclusion: Every faithful Latter-day Saint woman consecrates her body as a living sacrifice. Whether our particular burden is fullness or emptiness, each of us is pushing forward against the river current of the world with our eyes on the kingdom of God.

(Kathryn Lynard Soper is editor-in-chief of Segullah, a literary journal by and for LDS women, and editor of Gifts: Mothers Reflect on How Children with Down Syndrome Enrich Their Lives (Woodbine House, 2007). Her memoir about mothering a child with Down syndrome, The Year My Son and I Were Born, will be released by the Globe Pequot Press in March, 2009. Kathryn lives with her husband Reed and their seven children in the mountain west.)

An "F" in Parenting

If I were being graded on my current performance, this is the grade I think I'd earn.

Maybe it would be a little higher. Hunter's a pretty easy-going kid, except when he's sick, like today. But generally he's no problem.

Helena makes up for it! I'm sure that she'll be SO sorry when I tell her these stories in 20 years. My mother SWEARS that Andrea and I never had any strange childhood quirks (did she know I used to eat Colgate toothpaste?). Also, Helena's never been naughty at Ga-ga's. Big surprise. But here? It's like some days she LIVES to push all of my buttons. Frankly, there isn't enough medication on earth for me to deal with her at times. (But still, pass the Paxil! Better living through chemicals!)

I can be funny about it while I'm typing, but in the middle of dealing with her I am so, so frustrated and upset. I can't believe that a girl who is so smart and loving, and who can be so caring, sweet, helpful, etc., can become a 4-year-old equivalent of Dr. Jekkyl and Mr. Hyde.

My "inner voice" says I should ignore the current, most pressing problem with what I will call "toilet accidents." My True Self says I need to just relax with her and not make such a big deal over her craziness. But my Mom Who Is Trying To Function During the Bad Days says this has to stop before I stress-eat myself into oblivion.

Also, and I don't like to criticize here, but why was I sent a "high-maintenance" daughter? Will it always be like this?

In fairness I have to admit that I don't think she's ever really naughty for other people. Just Dan and I. But isn't that enough? Whatever I did to my parents is now coming back ten-fold.

"This too shall pass..."

The Office - Japan

Go, now. Run, don't walk (with your fingers) to www.officetally.com.

You MUST see the original "Office" - from Japan.

Utterly hilarious.

"The Office" Season Finale

Can I get a collective "WHAT?!"

My Helena Marie

Today my beautiful Helena turned 4. I love her so much! In fact, I don't know what words can describe it. You can see from these pictures that although she's changed so much in the last four years, in the essentials she's stayed the same: preternaturally smart, major personality, strong will, happy - or sad - with a vengeance, thoughtful, observant, caring, understanding beyond her years, and very good at singing.

Not only that, she can give a talk and say a prayer with aplomb. She loves her friends, even the imaginary ones and those who live only in the television (like Dora and Diego and Alicia). She loves Heavenly Father and Jesus. She loves her family. She is taking this "being four" thing very, very seriously.

She pushes me to the Outer Limits of parenting, in both directions. Her assignment in this life is to be my "refiner's fire" - burning away the bad and leaving the good. Someday she'll start to feel the responsibility of being the oldest sibling, and she'll be ready for it. I love that she is already such a caring older sister to Hunter (except when she pushes him, because she's trying to help him walk faster).

I love you, Helena. I can't wait to see you grow up, but I hope I can remember every moment of watching it go by. From the day you were born you have held my heart firmly in your hands. You're my sweet girl.

Mother's Day Surprise

First I have to apologize if I offended anyone with that last post. It's not that there actually IS no one to call; it's that I'm too embarrassed to call, especially late at night or when I'm an enormous wreck. And maybe I'm the only one who has that problem; I have LOTS of unique problems, like my feet.

Anyway, I had a really nice Mother's Day. Dan and the kids made me breakfast in bed, a very lovely card with Art By Helena, and I got a present - a real, actual present -



The camera isn't that shade of magenta; it's a nice calm purple color - perhaps grape? Eggplant? Aubergine?

I had joked with Dan earlier about how that camera was meant for me: simple, small, idiot-proof, and featured in commercials with Steven Tyler.



Clearly, the camera for me. I just about fell off the bed when I opened it, since we don't usually get big gifts for Mother's and Father's Day. Dan gave me a (completely unnecessary) tutorial, but it's so simple. Yep. Even for me. PLUS - it's nice and small. So many, many thanks to my technologically savvy hubby, without whom I would never be on speaking terms with iPods or cameras or computers or anything else that plugs in.

On another totally random topic: Dan, the kids and I were taking a walk tonight around the neighborhood. We noticed a couple of houses two blocks away that had been under-maintained for years (they were the homes of two elderly women who recently passed away). One has just sold, and we commented on what improvements we thought it would need, etc. As we were coming around the block, we ran into my old high school friend, Jana Peterman, and her new husband Phil. I haven't seen Jana much since we graduated, but her parents live a block over from me, and we've run into each other occasionally because of that. Turns out that she and Phil just bought the aforementioned recently-sold house we'd just been discussing. They'd just walked past my Mom's house, too, and was telling Phil all the old stories about the "library" we'd opened and later closed, since we were its only patrons, or the imaginary families we'd created. It was nice to see her, and now that we're near neighbors I hope we get more chances to visit. I've been hearing more from old friends lately, mostly through Facebook, and in a way it's kind of fun: although we'd all spent over a decade together, now we've all been apart for a decade and started our own, separate lives. Something to think about. (I'm also near neighbors with Ryan and Laura Wiles, my sister's friends from her graduating class. Crazy!).

Soon I'll upload a few of the pictures from the new camera, and you can see the BEAUTIFUL flowering trees in our yard (and some of our neighbors' yards!).

2:00 AM Friends

WARNING: THIS IS PRACTICALLY A JOURNAL ENTRY.

As a teenager, I had a plethora of 2AM Friends. These are the people you call in the middle of the night when things are SO BAD you can't function alone, and you need a living, breathing human to communicate with.

Now, as an Old Lady, I'm so much more cautious in my relationships. I try to have a little more respect for people's sleep (goodness knows we none of us get enough). I don't want to bother someone at that time of night, especially since these phone calls typically involve some crying and hyperventilating, sometimes simultaneously.

Not too long ago, I had a 2AM moment and there was no one to call. Not that I couldn't talk to Dan, or say a prayer, but I'm hoping all of you reading know what I mean when I say I needed to talk to a 2AM friend. What ended up happening instead was that I broke down on someone at church who isn't a terribly close friend and probably wasn't expecting it - but who has such a gift for discernment that she KNEW something was wrong and innocently asked what it was. She had NO IDEA that Niagara Falls was coming to her shoulder.

Also, I feel this compulsion to have everything Look Good. Don't get the wrong idea: about 95% of my life is Very Good, with that little 5% of Oooh, That Ain't So Great. When I start to get hung up on that 5% I need someone to talk me down from the ledge, metaphorically speaking. But I don't want to call someone and confess that, oops, I'm definitely not perfect. Wow.

I often call my friend Sky, but he's a model who lives in New York City and whose life is the most completely opposite of mine imaginable. It helps, particularly because he makes me laugh, but since he's not married, or a parent, or female, there are some things he can't advise me on.

Luckily, I live with my best friend, and Dan does help immensely. He tries so hard to understand everything (even the hormonally whacked-out things) and actually gives me wonderfully practical advice. I love him for that.

Still, on those nights when things are bad and it's 2AM and I don't want to wake him because he has to work the next day...I remember those times when I had more 2AM friends.

On the downside - there was a LOT more drama back then. Things have calmed down considerably. :)

My Mom

I've never been asked to speak on Mother's Day, so I've never had a chance to tell the world why I alone have the best mother that ever breathed. But this blog is at the mercy of my keyboard, so here goes:

First, my mom loves me unconditionally. I know that she probably wishes I were more "perfect," or even "less horrible," in some respects, but she never says so. At the worst times in my life, she was the first person I called. When I'd lost my first chance at becoming a mother she told me she loved me and Heavenly Father would let me try again.

She's very strong. In fact, I only remember one time that she wasn't totally strong and completely in control, and then she let me be strong for her.

She gives excellent advice. She once told me that "If you have to work, you might as well make as much money as you can doing it. You'll spend the same amount of time whether you're making a good salary or minimum wage."

She knows the answer to every question I've ever asked. "Mom, how many begonias do I need to buy to fill up my windowboxes?" "Mom, how do I get chocolate out of the carpet?" "Mom, why was Japan involved in World War II in the first place?"

She's an excellent writer and, frankly, hasn't been given enough opportunities in this area. Once or twice she's written a Letter to the Editor of our local paper, and very eloquently pled her case.

She could have a second career at any time in any one of a dozen fields. Realty and floral design come to mind. She knows what looks good and what goes together best.

My mother is a musician. She plays the piano beautifully and beats Aunt Melody at sight reading. She can handle "stride" and accidentals with aplomb. She encouraged and at times forced me to practice on...well, choose your instrument: piano, violin, clarinet - I needed forcing sometimes. Of course, now I can play for enjoyment or use those skills to fulfill church callings, or earn money. She's doing the same for Helena: they play and sing together whenever Helena comes to visit.

Speaking of Helena, and Hunter too, my mom loves them, possibly more than me. :) She has both of them in giggles with songs and games from her vast memory, plays puzzles and watches silly kids' shows with them.

My mom taught me about determination, respect, dependability, and love. She always magnifies her church callings, shows up on time, attends every recital and concert (even the ones I gave as an adult for my own students), and remembers the little things for her family, friends, and coworkers.

When I was giving birth and was sure that my body would give up any time and I'd just die, she convinced me to breathe instead and helped me count through the contractions.

She knows the Latin name of every flower in Michigan (and she knows Latin, too, and enough French to be dangerous).

She manages to look like she's in her late 40s when she's really...older than that.

She has a wicked (and occasionally hidden) sense of humor. I mean, at the least expected times she'll break out with a one-liner and having me laughing out loud.

Mom gave me my first delicious taste of Disney, and shares my (ahem) "interest" with enthusiasm (or at least tolerant understanding).

Even though her life hasn't always, or even usually, been exactly the way she wanted it, she managed to make lemonade out of lemons (yes, she cooks.).

When my children are adults, I hope they love me as much as I love my Mom.

Happy Mother's Day!

Bawb

This week a good friend, whom I have never met, passed away unexpectedly at only 56 years old. He was Bob "Bawb" Varley of the DISUnplugged Podcast.

Some of you know that I listen to this podcast religiously every week. I listen to its archives in between because it's so hard to wait. I have laughed and cried and laughed again listening to the six members of the Podcast team. They were good friends who enjoyed the time they spent together, even though it was their "job."

I can't explain to anyone why I would cry over a person who did not know I existed. (I cried when President Hinckley died, and I never met him either.) In many ways, though, I knew Bob personally because of the way he let his listeners into his heart.

Another listener wrote a blog post that was spot on. Here's the link, if you're interested.
Click here


This was also a good reminder to me that life is unexpected. Good and bad things can happen anytime. Do it now, whatever it is.

Thank you, Bawb. I hope you can finally meet Walt and enjoy a Dole Whip together.