Desolate

Restore, my dear Savior,
The light of thy face;
They soul-cheering comfort impart;
And let the sweet longing
For they holy place
Bring hope to my desolate heart.
~William W. Phelps, "Reedemer of Israel", v. 5

I don't know why it is that the words of many hymns are rarely sung. On Sunday only the first four verses of "Reedemer of Israel" were sung to close the church meeting. As the voices quieted and heads were bowing for prayer, I irreverently looked at the bottom of the page. I couldn't concentrate on the prayer at all, reading those words which instantly became my own private prayer.

Desolate. Desperate maybe even. Last week I lost it as so many Lego pieces were strewn throughout the house, some so tiny they were buried in the carpet out of sight. I went from room to room trying to find them all, bring all the pieces back together into a pile. But I couldn't even know if I could find them all, and even if I could, I didn't know at all how to piece them back together to form the structure they had been. My mind and heart were too familiar with this scene. It is how I've struggled these last months and years, trying to make something out of the shattered tiny fragments of a broken heart.

Sometimes I think about this scripture:

I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.
~John 14: 18

Sometimes I feel so comfortless. I wonder and contemplate about God's promises. Are they sure?

In hope of eternal life, which God, that cannot lie, promised before the world began;
~ Titus 1: 2, emphasis added

Does God lie? I felt so lied to. I believed that it was an impression from the Spirit that Bridget would be a special needs child. Was it? Did I only misunderstand, and the Spirit did reveal this to me to prepare me for the week at the hospital? Did the Spirit try to prepare me, one step at a time, for the impossible for my heart to accept? Or was I just deceived? Perhaps it was only a silly thought that I had convinced myself of being meaningful for some strange reason.

I don't know. I tire so much of thinking of these and other questions. I'm so weary of it all. I want to give up and just wander away and never look back sometimes. But even the idea of wandering seems too much energy for me to undertake.

I just simply miss my kids. I really miss Dominic and Bridget. I don't understand any of it and I want to, but I don't. I hate feeling so inadequate. Powerless. Comfortless.

I don't mean to discount the tender mercies I've had. The kindnesses offered. When I do begin to wonder if His promises are sure, I realize that it is in these small things that happen every day that I can still move forward. It is a reminder to me, as well, not to give up. That even when it seems I'm not making much of a difference in this world, perhaps it is in a very small way that I can have an influence of good.

Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.
~Doctrine & Covenants 64:33

Endureth

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,
Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
~1 Corinthians 13:4-7, emphasis added

She is still alive. Our youngest daughter lived through Saturday, the 8th. It seems so irrational, I'm sure, to be so superstitious of a date on the calendar, a day of the week. But I was holding my breath, waiting to exhale as they say. Not only was yesterday the 8th-- Saturday, the 8th. But she was also exactly the same number of days old that Dominic was on the day he died. 151 days. The same exact age of two days shy of five months old. But she has endured, and somehow I have, too.

I feel so mocked at how so many times things align that way. It hadn't even occurred to me that there would be yet another Saturday the 8th to get through with a newborn, but I was counting as each day was passing and thinking of how old she was getting in comparison to Bridget, and then Dominic. Then I saw the calendar. It still didn't occur that the days would line up like that, but as I lay awake at night with those terrible things in my mind, trying to erase them to have some kind of restful sleep, I was counting again. And when I got up in the morning, I looked at the calendar and confirmed it. I was stunned. Angry in a way. How funny does God really think He is?

And so I mired my mind in politics, the most obvious lure for my head to be pulled into. It didn't really work, but I tried. It at least gave me something to focus on while I hoped we could get through.

In the middle of all the candidacies and issues of the election season was the dreaded Halloween. I didn't know how I would endure another year of the world being so oblivious to it all. I knew to expect the wall of skeletons at the elementary school this year. One of them was even created by my own child. I wasn't surprised this time by the rows of them. But as I stood waiting for the costume parade to begin, a black rose on the floor caught my eye.



To most, it is a symbolism for death. As I stood watching down the hallway for the children to pass by, I tried to find something to distract myself from yet another reminder. I looked up at the bulletin board. It was just above where the rose was laying. And I was caught by surprise this time:



An advertisement for IKEA. For a spook house, no less. I had seen the little flyer come home with the kids, and already felt the salt in my wounds as I thought about this staged attraction held in that same place where I fought away the grasp of death that had come to take Bridget. I was certainly not impressed by this idea. But I hadn't thought I'd see this right then. Right there where the black rose of death lay at its feet.

I turned away from it. Tried to catch my breath. Tried to turn my mind away from it, too. The children had started to come by. First the kindergarten, then first graders, second graders, and third graders. None of them were my children. But one of them should have been. I really missed Dominic.

Somehow, I had distracted myself and not remembered that the bulletin board was there mocking me. And as we waited for the parade to progress, to come back from the hall with the upper grades, my eyes wandered to pass the time. Then I noticed just above the poster for IKEA was another advertisement:



Lagoon. That same place where I fought away the grasp of death that had come to take Dominic. I hadn't thought I'd see this right then. Right there where the advertisement was for IKEA. Right there where the black rose of death lay at its feet.

How could these things continue to align like this? In such a mocking way. I wish I had a sense of humor and could just laugh at it all. I tried to think of it being such a funny thing. In the moment of it all, though, it was such a painful, aching reminder. Yet I endured.

So much I have endured. I know it could be worse. That's the way people try to make you feel better about it all. But it has been so very much for me. I look back at it all and, yes, I can see some lessons that I've learned along the way. Yet, I still would go back and change it all if I could. Bring my children home. I don't even care if they would be whole or completely healthy, and I guess that's what makes me so selfish. But I would bring them home with me.

In looking back over the years, my mind wandered to the project I worked on in the letterpress class I took in college. My final project, and the words that I set in type as individual letters. How that scripture had meant something so different to me then.

 

I had wanted it to be a statement about how little the world of academia really knows. That all the intelligent people on campus still didn't really know much at all about the world or the universe we live in, and how unimportant it all was. It was to be the final page of my little booklet that had made reference to different spheres and the symbolism each represented.

Now I look at the tediously placed type. Darkley doesn't seem to be right, and I went to the scriptures to confirm that indeed it was an error. One word, though, seems so much more important. Endureth.

Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

It is something I don't know if I'll accomplish. I don't know if I'll endure all things. But another day will come to take this one away, and if somehow I can endure the number of them left after this one, I still have to hope.

I know that enduring is not just suffering through. I know it is so much more effort than that. I still struggle with being submissive, rather than subjected. But I do have to hope that God, who has such a strange sense of humor, will also be kind. Will see ever so clearly, and deem me worthy of my sincerest desire, my greatest hope. Hope that there will be another opportunity for me to hold my little ones again.