The Courage behind “Congratulations”

Sometimes even good things hurt.

My husband always reminds me “perception is reality.”  This is something I’ve thought about a lot.  It helps me remember the world doesn’t revolve around me. And it encourages me to not assume I understand how other people feel, or why they do and say the things they do.  But it also helps me find peace in my anxiety, as I over-analyze and try to apply my own experiences to someone else’s.  In the end, our experiences are our own, only our own- even when shared.  They are perceived through our own lens- our own perspective.  And they become our truth. 

I don’t know if you’re aware- but we’re in standing in the middle of a very large, very pregnant, “Baby Wave”. 

A “Baby Wave” is what many people call a period of time when it seems like everyone and their mother, (forgive me…I couldn’t resist) is pregnant and/or having babies.  It’s remarkable really. And it’s beautiful.  This phenomenon (I believe it’s phenomenal anyway) has the potential to create an instant bond between women, as they symptom-swap and exchange battle stories of past pregnancies.  Then one by one, they give birth to their beautiful little ones, and the cycle resets.  Then all is calm, until the next wave.

“Don’t drink the water!” is a joke commonly heard during these wave-times, exchanged between individuals who are not looking to join the preggo-club for a variety of reasons.  It’s a happy time full of wonder, swollen bellies, and hope. 

But there are some women- who aren’t making jokes.  Who quietly smile on the sidelines through the “Oh my gosh! When are you due?!” conversations.  The women who would give anything to drink the water, no matter how bitter the taste.

It’s uncomfortable to acknowledge that there can be pain even in the most beautiful times.  Especially when that pain is selfish, and that pain is our own.

So, in the interest of being transparent, here is my perception/reality: 

(hold on folks- it’s going to be a long, bumpy ride!  Go ahead and take your phone with you if you need to take a potty break. I won’t judge.)

I was naïve, 21 years old, and about to begin completing my three required internships to become an elementary school teacher. (spoiler alert: I never actually ended up teaching elementary school.) My husband and I didn’t have a real “plan”- but we’d been married two years and deeply desired to start a family.  Summer seemed ideal timing for a having a baby within my teaching schedule.  And so our journey began!

“Aunt Flo” was late that very first month- and I took a test. It was negative.  I cried.  A lot.

The next day I came home to flowers brightening our, tiny, dingy (seriously disgusting… but cheap) apartment; and my husband telling me he would love me no matter what.  My period still hadn’t arrived, and he convinced me to take another test. I did so grudgingly- and left it on the bathroom counter to process while I laid on the couch in despair.  (I wish I could say I became less dramatic with age, but it would taste like a lie.)

The next thing I knew- my husband was whooping and hollering for joy as he came bounding out of the bathroom to come shower me in kisses.  It was positive! We were having a baby!  For the next nine months, I felt like I was glowing.  I felt set-apart. I have never known as much joy as I did in then.  There were a lot of tears, but far more smiles, and I walked on clouds.  I was so proud- and so excited.

Pregnant with our first baby!

Four days past our due-date in June, we delivered our oldest- (a boy!) via Cesarean Section at 9lbs 3oz.  I hadn’t progressed, 0cm dilated 0% effaced- without a single “real” contraction.  He was “sunny side up” (meaning his face was out toward the front of my belly instead of back toward my spine) and his head was lodged in my pelvis making progression unattainable. 

I didn’t handle the C-section well.  I was still only first-learning how to cope with the anxiety/depression cocktail that is my mental health, and had an anxiety attack on the operating table.  Technically, the surgery still went flawlessly, but emotionally, it sent me spiraling into a depressive state.  Because of my sensitivities, I struggled with the juxtaposition of pain and numbness that followed, and to hold my baby.  At times everything was dark, and I felt angry.  I was so tired.  I was in so much pain. And I just wanted it to end. 

Eventually I began to heal, and feel like my old self- but I was terrified to experience that feeling again. 

The pain faded, and my desire for a baby outweighed my fears.  When I was 23 (working as a Middle School Science teacher) my husband and I found ourselves planning for another baby!  We were aiming for May to maximize the amount of time I would be able to spend with the baby.  That first month I found myself in familiar circumstances.  My period was late, the test was negative.  I tried not to worry, because this had happened before, but the next day instead of flowers and a dance for joy like my first pregnancy- I broke into a new box of feminine products.  I wasn’t pregnant.

I braced myself for the storm.  There were tears- but I tried to put my circumstances into perspective. I realized it wasn’t realistic to expect a positive pregnancy test right away.  It was amazing that it happened the first time with my oldest, but I needed to practice patience. I knew better than to assume things would always go 100% according to plan. That particular lesson however was short-lived, as the following month found us reading two pink lines and expecting another June baby! 

Pregnant with baby number two!

My second pregnancy was a little more difficult than the first. I felt cautious.  I was happy- but I was also scared.  Over the last two years I had many friends who experienced miscarriages, birth defects, or other complications.  I felt convinced something was going to go wrong.  As the due-date came closer, I began to feel a little more calm, but still anxious about what was going to happen.  I walked and walked and walked, and two days before his official “due date”- I delivered our second little boy, 7lbs 4 oz, with a flawless VBAC delivery.  (Vaginal birth after cesarean.) 

It seemed my fears were unconfirmed, and I allowed myself to cling tightly to this new little life.

Two years later- I was feeling empowered after my positive VBAC experience. I had been feeling strongly about having another baby, and secretly hoping for a “surprise” pregnancy ever since my youngest self-weaned at 8 months.  I was just SO sure we had another little one ready to join our family, and I couldn’t wait to meet them.  So at the comfortable age of 25, my husband and I decided to aim for an April baby.  We joked that was how we would get another summer baby to compliment my teaching schedule. (Since it took 1 month with our first baby, 2 months with our second baby- it would probably take 3 months with our third baby, and we’d get all three of them in June!)

We played it cool, but after the third month irrational worry started to creep in.  I kept my fears to myself, because I knew with my anxiety I wasn’t being logical.  But as time passed- I started to internally panic, and it became harder to keep to myself.  I asked a few close friends and family members to pray for us, but still no baby.  I felt guilty for mourning each month.  I felt I didn't have a real right to complain after having it "easy" with my first two.  After 6 months we decided to take a break.  My niece had be diagnosed with Morquio (MPS IV-A), and my husband was going to have some genetic testing done before we continued trying to conceive.  We couldn't afford IVF, so I was terrified a positive result would mean postponing having another baby indefinitely.  Thankfully- his tests came back clear- so we resumed our baby-trying.  Everything always seemed to work out just right for us. Except, no baby.  I couldn't wrap my head around it.

I went to the doctor who ran some standard blood work, but assured me I was young, and because we had two successful pregnancies before “the plumbing worked”.  I offered an uncomfortable courtesy-laugh at his joke, but I didn’t feel like it was very funny.  He told me I shouldn’t be concerned.  It had been a year since we started “trying” for baby #3, but because we had taken a short break- I didn’t qualify for additional fertility tests, and he was confident I didn’t need them.  In fact, I was told that pursuing unnecessary tests could actually hurt my chances of conceiving so it was best to just keep trying and waiting.  “Next time I see you, you’ll be pregnant!” he told me.  I smiled hesitantly in my paper gown and waited for the room to clear so I could get dressed.

I was 26 by now.

And then I was 27.

I was struggling.

I watched the baby waves ebb and flow.  I told myself to relax.

Everyone told me to relax.

• “You have two beautiful boys, be grateful for them.”
• “It will happen as soon as you stop trying.”
• “You haven’t been trying that long- just be patient.”
• “It will happen when you least expect it.”
• “I had real infertility, you’re not infertile.”
• “You’re so young, don’t rush it.”
• “It took us X amount of time to get pregnant, everyone is different.”
• “Two is a good number.”
• “So many people have it much harder, they never have a baby at all.”
• “Are you really trying? If you haven’t done XY&Z for ___ amount of time you’re not infertile, you’re just not trying hard enough.”

Truth blurred with doubt and I was miserable.  I began to spiral.  I hated my job.  I pushed my husband away.  I felt like an awful and unworthy mother, like I was neglecting the blessings I had been given by wishing for something more.  There was nothing physically wrong, so it had to all be in my head- which meant it was all my fault.  I became angry with myself, frustrated at the cycle of worry I had both created & become trapped in.  I tried to remind myself that my children needed me.  I told myself I was being selfish.  I pushed myself to wake-up, get dressed, and do the things I was supposed to do.  I all-but invested in stock for home pregnancy tests, as month after month I peed on those stupid plastic sticks.  I'd forgive them quickly though, always convinced I was just testing too early, or that next month would be different.

I went to the baby showers.  I sat on the theoretical shore as a supportive, smiling face, for the passing baby waves- but I quietly hid the feeds of my pregnant Facebook friends.  Especially the ones who “Oh my gosh- we weren’t even trying!” 

It wasn’t their fault.  After all- I’d been there.  Both our previous babies were meticulously planned, but they had come so easily.  It can be surprising (and even scary!) when you get the news.  Surprising, scary, & exciting!  They wanted to share- and that was their right.

But here’s what I realized. 

Here’s where I remember that “perception is reality.”

That same beautiful moment, from a single pregnancy announcement, has been shared, copied, and even tainted.  While the emotion of happiness surrounding that experience is genuine & overwhelming, the ripples through perception are not uniform.  My lens of unfulfilled dreams took my ripple of joy and welcoming for this new life, and laced it with pain.  The news was full of light, but also shadows of bitterness. 

These moments aren’t fair.  But they are real.  They are individual, and they are all valid.

In the beginning of 2016, I decided to quit my teaching job, and work from home as a LuLaRoe consultant.  I wanted something flexible & low-key so I could focus on myself, and my little family.  I joined a gym- and began making time for the things I enjoyed.   I was making peace.  At the time I was preoccupied with the life-changes I was making, and to my surprise- just as everyone suggested of course- I finally got pregnant! A year and a half since our journey’s start to baby #3, but only one month after deciding to take this crazy leap of faith, we were finally expecting! 

My third pregnancy.  My three year old was the photographer- hence the cropped head.

“Expecting” is such an appropriate word for pregnancy.  Hopes and dreams are immediately whirled into action as quickly as those two pink lines appeared on the home pregnancy test.  I had expectations, and these particular expectations had been under construction for a long time.

Unfortunately, the foundation wasn’t quite set.  Our baby girl was diagnosed with Trisomy 18 (also known as Edwards Syndrome) and after 17 long, heart-wrenching weeks of pregnancy filled with tests, fear, and unanswered questions, we lost the heartbeat.  I delivered her tiny unfinished body on my oldest son’s 5^th birthday.

They say when you can talk about something without crying, you’ve healed. 

I’m not quite there yet, but it's happening slowly.  I’d like to write a post someday about everything that miscarriage has taught me, but not today.

That Fall, after a couple of familiar disappointing months, we experienced a “chemical pregnancy”.  The pregnancy test was positive on a Monday, and I began bleeding on Saturday.  I had two  LuLaRoe “pop-up” boutiques that day.  In the morning I prayed it was some kind of harmless spotting.  I pushed through the party, unwilling to believe that I could really be miscarrying again.  But the bleeding didn't stop. I took a pregnancy test on my lunch break, and it was negative, so I knew the pregnancy had not been viable long.  I smiled, and laughed and complimented ladies as they tried on clothes that made them feel beautiful while I was falling apart from the inside out. 

Every loss is significant, but to me, it just felt like one long, painful blur.  This would have been another summer baby.

It’s been almost 3 years since we first started trying for baby number 3.  Many of the ladies I surfed the “baby waves” with during my first two pregnancies have since had another little one.  Many of them had the sweetest most beautiful little girls. It's so strange to feel so happy for someone else while still feeling so sad for yourself.  Sometimes I worry my sadness is blemishing their happiness, but I'd like to think it has the opposite effect.  Seeing those little ones reminds me of hope- and that good things happen.  It stings to watch with empty arms- but my heart still feels full. I scoop up my own little ones and hold them a little tighter.

This week I went to Walmart with my youngest to search for some coordinating clothing for my men-folk because we had family pictures coming up.  I decided to do some light grocery shopping while I was there, and I was in the bread aisle when the modern marvels of technology delivered the news that another one of my friends was pregnant by surprise, one of the friends who had two children the same ages as mine, but also already had a gorgeous little girl since. I kept my composure & continued shopping for about ten minutes before breaking down in front of the Oreos.

The right thing is to say “Congratulations!” when something good happens to someone else. 

But what do you say when your heart aches, and the words feel hollow?  What do you do when their something good is your nothing?

You sob in the middle of Walmart like a crazy person while an old man awkwardly tries to get to the Nilla Wafers behind you.  You take a deep breath and let yourself feel everything for just that moment.  You wipe your tears and realize that there’s an appropriate time and an inappropriate time to share your heart.  You remember the times when good things have happened to you too.  You remember life isn’t fair, and that’s ok.  You choose to make room for happiness right beside the sadness in your heart.  There’s room for both.  You acknowledge that this is their moment, and you will have your own turn in your own way to interpret those ripples and process your own residual experience.  Even if it isn’t when, or how you thought it would or “should” be.

You take courage, and find strength in the face of grief.

You say “Congratulations!”

My sweet boys playing at Grandma's house this weekend. 

Motivation Monday: Tailored Trials

Your trials are tailored to you. My trials are tailored to me. Trials can't be compared. 

We will each have moments of desperation in our life where we fall to our knees and beg for change. These moments might be brought on because of infidelity, death, or the recession. They can also be brought on because of a wayward friend or child, a depressed spouse (or self), or a stuffy nose that is seriously just kicking your trash on an already difficult week. Everyone has trials; some trials are more visible than others. But everyone is fighting a battle. 

Why? Because we can't know joy without experiencing sadness. We can't know success without experiencing failure.

Your trials are important. They are big. Please stop comparing bananas to oranges. Both are fruit, but they are not the same. Neither are your trials when compared to others. The principle behind the mountains in our lives is the same, but the experiences itself is not:

I have had cancer. You have not. But you have a spouse who is addicted to pornography and I do not. I have body image issues. You do not. But you struggle with reading and arithmetic and I do not. Who is to say which trial is easier? Who is to say that which troubles are more "valid"? No one.

Your trials are legitimate. Please don't discredit your own personal struggles simply because it appears that so-and-so has it better or worse.

Love, 

Every moment counts

In 2002, I met a family who forever changed my life. They had endured one of the hardest trials I could ever imagine. They lost two of their teenage children in a tragic car accident while driving back home together after a family trip.

I attended the funeral and watched as the parents stood up and hand-in-hand went to the front of the church’s congregation to share the sweetest and most tender memories of their children’s lives.

Their overall message? Every moment counts.

They shared intimate details of their lives, about the years of family activities like the water gun fights and the movie nights, blowing out candles on dozens of birthday cakes, and the times they laughed and cried together. They shared about how special the thousands of meals they spent together as a family were. There were so many precious memories. Their strength and their faithful words were forever etched onto my heart and mind on that day.

 I honestly had no idea how their story would have an even greater impact on me only a few years later.

It was my idea to run. It was my idea to pick up the pace.

On a warm Saturday morning in June 2006, I woke up to the sound of a familiar ring tone next to my head, on my bedside table. It was my dad. I heard that ring tone all the time. My Dad and I talked every day.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Dad asked me.

(Yawning) “Hey dad, just getting up. What are you guys up to?” I replied.

“We’re going to the park for a walk. Do you want to come?”

“Umm, ok…” (not as eager-sounded as I would’ve liked).

“C’mon…come with us.”

“Alright- I'll meet you guys there” (trying to sound a little more convincing).

I rolled over and asked BBH if he wanted to come with us. He said he had to run an errand, but would meet up with us after. I reluctantly got out of bed, did a quick stretch, and put on some workout clothes and running shoes.

After a 10-15 minute drive, I had made it to the park. I remember seeing my Dad walking closer to my car, with a big, cheesy grin on his face. Why is he wearing those spandex biking shorts again? I thought to myself. I made a mental note to tell him how “uncool” they were and how we were not biking in the park. We were walking in the park. I rolled my eyes and laughed to myself.

As I got out of the car, dad made a funny comment and we all said “hi” to each other. I was happy to be there with my parents. We were only walking two miles into the park, two miles back. Enough time to chat about the usual: my job, things that were going on in life, and of course, there were always the Dad-jokes.

About a mile in, I suggested that maybe we should jog a little. I smiled at my dad and told him that since he was doing so well lately with his exercise routine, maybe he should take it up a notch and start to jog. I challenged both my parents to jog with me and jokingly said they might not be able to "keep up". I ran a mile and then stopped at the water & rest station. I watched as both my parents slowly jogged closer and closer to me.

My dad was the first one to reach me. He was panting and was sweaty, but laughing. He got a drink of water from the cooler on the table next to the benches as we waited for my mom. Mom arrived soon after and got some water from the same cooler. My dad sat down on the bench opposite from me to rest a little. I stood in front of him as we laughed about something silly. Then, his laugh slowed down. He gave me a strange look, sat up a little straighter, and then fell to the ground. I screamed and dropped next to him, trying to turn him over. My mom turned around and screamed my dad’s name. A few seconds seemed to last an eternity. I started to call 911 while hailing down a cyclist passing by. He ran towards us and immediately started to help my mom while she performed CPR. I tried to calmly tell the 911 dispatcher what happened.

As the dispatcher talked to me, people started to gather around my dad. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I felt like I was dreaming. I listened intently for the ambulance siren. Where are they? I remember thinking. What if they can’t find us? We’re a couple of miles into the park… I asked and thought to myself. Every moment counts.

Finally the ambulance came. I wasn’t allowed to ride with them, so I watched as they lifted my dad into the ambulance and as my mom jumped in beside them. By this time the crowd had grown and people started to ask me questions about my dad. I couldn’t process what was being said. Finally, someone came up to me and kindly asked me if I was ok. I looked up and as if my trance had broken said: “I don’t know.”  The park ranger gave me a ride back to my car.

The only thing I could think of was: It was my idea to run. It was my idea to pick up the pace.

I rushed to the hospital all the while calling my husband to tell him what happened and where to meet me. When I arrived at the hospital, I somehow found my mom waiting for me near the ER. BBH came into the room soon after. Then, we waited for what seemed like forever.

I’ll never forget the doctor on call who came into that room only a few minutes later. His face was solemn. He said a few things to us, nothing of which I remember. The only thing I did remember were the words: “I’m sorry, he didn’t make it.”

Have you ever felt so hot and then so very, very cold? One second I was sweating and burning up and the next I was cold and shivering. I’ve never felt a sensation like that since that day. My head started to pound and all the voices and noises of a busy ER faded into silence.

I fell silent. I couldn’t feel my hands, I couldn’t feel me feel my feet, I couldn’t feel.

The only thoughts that came into mind were ones of disbelief. I asked the doctor: “What happened?”  He shook his head. Oh my gosh, he doesn’t know, I thought. How does he not know how my dad died?  He tried to explain that a thorough autopsy was the only way to know what exactly happened to my dad.

My confused thoughts were interrupted as someone finally ushered us into an ER room where he was. I looked at him and held my mom’s hand. How could life be so fragile? How could someone pass away so fast? How could I be talking to him one second and in the very next, he collapses and passes away? What if I hadn’t suggested that we run? What if…? Many questions and “what if” scenarios flooded my mind all at once. And a familiar thought I heard several years ago came into my thoughts once again: Every moment counts.  

We went back to my parents’ house to recollect our thoughts and to kind of deal with the shock of everything. As we entered the garage, I saw that the broom Dad had been using was still in the same place where he had left it. “Right before we left for the park he had been sweeping the garage,” my mom said in a numb-like voice .

An unfinished basket of unfolded laundry lay on the living room couch. I folded the rest of the clothes. I calmly walked around the house to see what tasks dad had started and had most likely meant to complete. Dishes, sweeping, laundry- I finished them all. As I obediently placed his clothes in his closet, I dropped to my knees and sobbed. What am I doing? I could smell his familiar cologne on his suit. I could see his old knick-knacks and jewelry on his dresser. I looked up and saw that his wallet was partially open. I saw some wallet-sized pictures of us (his kids), my mom, and my uncle and him when they were younger.

He lived a life full of love and rich with laughter, I thought.

 As I sat in my parents’ closet for a while, I reminisced about a time in college when I sat talking with my dad while eating ice cream. He was giving me a pep talk after what I thought at the time was a real “heartbreak” with a boyfriend who didn’t work out. I remember him saying, “Faye, this too shall pass…” His kind and familiar voice penetrates my thoughts even now.

My Dad was right. Even the hardest trials do eventually pass and as I’ve continued to live on without my dad, there are still so many lessons I’ve learned from the experience.

I've learned to cherish the moments spent with my family and friends and to seek after moments when I can spend time with them.

I've learned to forgive often and to apologize even more often.

I've learned to enjoy the “mundane” moments of life together: the cleaning, the cooking, the child-rearing, the chatting about whatever, or the snuggling with my kids and BBH just a few minutes longer in the mornings.

I’ve learned to find things to laugh about each and every day and then to share our laughter with our loved ones.

I‘ve learned to pay compliments when I think of them, because I never know what impact they could have on my family members or friends.

I’ve learned the importance of unselfishly serving my family and friends with a happy and grateful heart.

I’ve learned to say “I love you” even more.

I’ve learned the importance of striving to make each and every moment of my life count, to live with no regrets, and to push forward with optimism.  

There is not one day that I don’t think about my dad. And even though he is no longer here with me to share another joke or to let me cry on his shoulder, I continue to learn from him every day. Thank you, Dad.

“No pain that we suffer, no trial that we experience is wasted. It ministers to our education, to the development of such qualities as patience, faith, fortitude and humility. All that we suffer and all that we endure, especially when we endure it patiently, builds up our characters, purifies our hearts, expands our souls, and makes us more tender and charitable, more worthy to be called the children of God …" Spencer W. Kimball

(And thank you so much for reading. There is something completely vulnerable about sharing and writing about a trial we've passed through. Although difficult, my hope is that I have helped maybe even one person to persevere through the trial of losing a loved one a little longer and to push forward with a little more faith and optimism). 

My Painful Purpose

There was a time when I wished that I just didn’t care. I wished that I could put on a façade and smile my inner emotional instincts away. I wished that I could be decisively stoic and effortlessly composed. I wished so hard that I could look the other way and move on with my life. I wished I could be mean. I wished that I could manipulate my way in and out of situations,--with confidence and ease. I wished so hard. I hated how weak I was. I hated how affected I could be. I hated being an open-book. I hated that I so easily invested in people and ideas.

Even after years of living in a place with the power to shred a girl’s heart and hope to pieces, my stupid weak heart found a way to put itself in another dangerous situation. To be let down. To be ignored. To be forgotten. To be blindsided and left in a state of sheer pain. I wanted so badly to kick the lingering sting of hurt in the face and give it the cold shoulder. I wished to pound hard against my chest as strong as humanly possible to harden my heart. I didn’t understand why. Why wasn’t my heart hardening? I needed not to care… or I’d die of a broken heart and a trampled spirit. I felt utterly powerless in the face of adversity.

We belong to a world that pushes and pulls us in every way imaginable. We find ourselves in desperate situations with many questions: Why did I lose my baby? Why did my marriage fail? Why did I have to lose my job? Why was I raped? Why do I have this disability? Why wasn’t my baby born normal and healthy? Why did I have to get sick? Why should I have to feel this pain? Why me? This is so unfair.

Many of us, when faced with a negative life changing experience like this, find a little seed of darkness and bitterness growing in our hearts. A seed that threatens the very core of our souls. We shut off the world. We avoid social situations. We try to dispose of the memories and the ache as swiftly possible, to limit the suffering and collateral damage. Our objective is to preserve our hearts. We build an ever-growing fort around our core, to keep all the bad out.

A very special someone gave a short book that has helped me to see suffering in a different light. It is called Mee Speaks, by Mary Ellen Edmunds. It contains empowering short talks that could leave the sturdiest and thickest fort walls trembling. In her talk, Finding Purpose in Our Pain, Mary Ellen challenges us:

“I want you to think of an experience that was extremely difficult for you—one of the hardest you’ve ever had to face (Maybe you’re ogin through it right now.)

Now I want to ask you a question about your adversity, your suffering: What have you learned from your experiences? Have you learned compassion? Is your heart more tender? Do you judge others less quickly and harshly?”

Even as I quote her words to you, I am filled with a heavenly warmth and comfort. My tears run freely. Not because of sorrow, but because after years of trying to harden my heart to the world, I’ve found a sense of purpose amidst my pain. I am suddenly reminded of every soul crushing circumstance I’ve endured, every humiliating betrayal, and every bitter loss. And instead of hating myself for not “learning” from my mistakes or not “remembering” my pain and forgiving too easily, I’ve found new strength in my weakness. A purpose in my pain. I’ve now come to appreciate my “weakness.”

If we build a fort around our hearts every time the world deals a foul blow, we’re also incarcerating the experience and the potential to learn from it. The potential to love more sensitively. To have compassion for a hopeless mother. A rape victim. A jobless father. An orphaned child. A mother that so badly wants to conceive, but is left hopeless every month. A drug addict who feels worthless to the world. A child that feels abandoned, and wonders why his parents gave him away. A grandmother who feels embarrassed that she can no longer take care of herself. A cancer victim who fears she won’t be around to see her children grow up.

Everywhere we look, there is pain. BUT everywhere we look again, there is hope. We all have the power to turn our pain into purpose. Spencer W. Kimball warns that if we shut out sorrow and anguish from our lives “we might be evicting our greatest friends and benefactors.  Suffering can make saints of people as they learn patience, long-suffering, and self-mastery.” Through our suffering, we can become sweeter. We can be filled with more compassion for our friends, husbands, children, and family.

The way I see it, understanding someone’s predicament can be done in two ways. You either understand them with your mind or you understand them with your heart. Understanding someone with one’s heart, isn’t easy. When I’ve attempted to reach out to someone I could truly relate to because of my own past and tender experience, all of the scary and negative feelings swarmed in. It was uncomfortable. I’ve come to understand that active compassion isn’t attainable without being willing to revisit those raw feelings that once turned your world upside down and inside out. BUT this suffering we feel in the process is so special and different. As Mary Ellen describes it, “it is the most exquisite and painful.”

How exactly can we find purpose in our pain? How can we actively use the suffering we’ve undergone for a greater purpose? Here are some simple things you can do.

Love just one person.

You can’t solve all of the problems of the world, but we can “love on” one person. We can write one short and friendly note to someone who feels hopeless. We can visit one lonely person. We can make a call to someone in need of a rant. We can send a friendly text or a kind email. Just one person.

            Avoid saying things that aren’t really helpful.

Sometimes we tend to try to quickly talk each other out of our suffering. We assure one another “I know exactly how you feel.” With some honesty, patience, and genuine kindness, we might be more effective. Instead of “I know exactly how you feel” we can say “I’m not sure I really understand what you’re going through, but I am so sorry. What can I do to lighten your load?” If all you can offer is company and a listening ear, settle for that.

            Don’t push a quick cure.

Instead of a “Get well soon” card and a “There are better days ahead” reassurance, we should accept and recognize the true pain a friend might be enduring. Mary Ellen suggests comments like “May your deep water and fiery trials not be more than you can handle” or “I hope you’ll let me travel part of this journey with you.” Pain is a serious feeling, so we should treat it with the sensitivity it deserves.

            Avoid competing for a “worst” trial.

Sometimes, in an effort to relate to a friend, we find ourselves trying to top their suffering. Some funny ways as described by Mary Ellen:

“My kidney stone was a much nicer shape than yours!”

“My tonsils were a lot worse than that! Want to see the picture?”

“My root canal went clear through my collar bone!”

“I was in labor for forty days and forty nights!”

Here’s one I’ve encountered: “I had my baby without an epidural! Trust me, you had it easy!” Yikes! 

Learning from our pain isn’t easy. I think our instinct is to build our precious fort and keep our heart intact. If there’s at least one thing I’ve learned from my pain, is an appreciation for others. A sensitivity to their suffering. If we’ve been judged harshly before, then perhaps we may refrain from unfair judgment.

Amidst our suffering, we can find peace. We can find purpose. We can help heal an aching heart. We can make a friend.

Dirty Laundry

I hate laundry. I hate the piles of laundry on my bathroom floor. I hate the spoiled laundry in my washing machine that I forgot to put into the dryer the night before. I hate spending money on detergent. I hate treating stains. I hate matching socks. I hate ironing. I hate putting clean clothes away.

But my kids? They LOVE laundry "day" (day being a general term as this "day" often exceeds a 24 hour period). They love to push baskets of dirty clothes to the laundry room. They love making the washing machine their "hoop" and the dirty clothes their "bee-kit ball". They love filling the dryer with wet clothes. And they absolutely love climbing on the mountain of laundry that awaits folding.

Many of their play time hours revolve around this monstrous pile of laundry on my couch. Two weeks ago it was their castle. Last week, their wall filled with pipes that needed "fixin'". This week, a cliff to jump off of into the water (the floor). They simply love laundry day. They don't view laundry as tiresome, an eyesore, or just another "to do". Their perspective (which, yes, is innocent because they really don't have the responsibility like I do) allows them to enjoy something that their Mama so thoroughly despises.

While true literally, each of us also has figurative dirty laundry. It is a fact of life:  there will be adversity. Mountains of troubles. Stains of transgressions. Stench of afflictions.

One of my biggest "dirty laundry" moments has been cancer. I have now dealt with thyroid cancer twice in the last two and a half years. The first time I was diagnosed I had a "bring it" attitude. I was upbeat. I was peace-filled. "Bring It On". I fought that cancer. I learned from that cancer. I put that cancer behind me. Or so I thought.

When residual cancer was found in my neck after my newest babe was born I was devastated. I had the world's hardest newborn and I had cancer. Again. What the heck? Who does that? Why me? What was God thinking? I was angry. I was in denial. To make matters worse I had postpartum hormones surging through my body and past knowledge of how hard surgery and radiation can be. I was no longer naive to the trial of cancer. I was no longer naive of how much harder a newborn was going to get before he got easier.

I felt beat physically, emotionally and spiritually. My perspective, my outlook, was poor. The lessons came slower and much, much harder. The peace was fleeting. The fears were overwhelming. I was Mrs. Pessimism (and, on some days, rightly so)!

It wasn't until two weeks after my surgery that I met a lady at church named Jane. She had sought me out because she had just had a diagnosis of thyroid cancer. She wanted to know my story. She wanted my advice. She needed my experiences in order to get the help she needed.

After conversing with Jane my heart broke and soared all at once. I mourned for her and the trials she was about to experience. But there was a pep in my step knowing that I had helped her in a small way. In that moment, my perspective shifted. I once again embraced the adversity. I thought an exhausted "bring it on if it means I can help someone else." From that day this journey has been easier. I still find my chest constricting with worry over next week's appointment where I find out if I need another round of radioactive iodine. But good has come from my trials thus far. This will continue if I will but believe in God, in myself, and in this eternal plan that I am walking.

My "dirty laundry" is being made clean. It's hard work. But I'm tackling that mountain by focusing on my perspective--the one thing I can control.

To read more about my journey with Papillary Thyroid Cancer i n 2011 click HERE.

One of those moments- when it rains.

Be Strong: Facing Adversity.

This week’s theme left a pit in my stomach.  I wanted to write about something meaningful to our readers. I wanted to share something personal.  I wanted them to know they are not alone and even with all the little things add up in their minds and weigh on their shoulders; or the big things slap them in the face and hit them in the gut…  that it’s going to be ok.  Maybe not the same…and probably not any easier… but they will be ok.

So… this is long.  But this is what happened.

It was 1999.  It was raining.

On August 19^th my brothers and I were lined up on the couch watching a video- Pinocchio.  I was ten years old; my youngest brother, Ben, was five, and our middle brother, Josh, was turning eight the next day.  My dad was running late coming home from work. 

He had taken a new job a few counties away and he had been commuting while my parents were house-hunting.  The drive was long and my mom was irritated that he hadn’t come home yet.  We had somewhere to be.  I didn’t pay much attention as she tried calling his work to make sure he’d left.  After a few more phone calls I noticed she went into the garage.  Sometimes she would go out there and walk in the driveway so she could talk on the phone alone without three kids hanging all over her begging for snacks. (Sound familiar?)

But, of course, as the dutiful oldest child- I noticed her absence and after a few minutes I took it upon myself to follow her.  I walked through the kitchen and opened up the door to the garage expecting to see my mom casually leaned against the car or the opening to the garage chatting to one of her friends about the day or Josh’s birthday or what she made for dinner.  But before I could open the door all the way- it hit something.  My bare feet had barely touched the concrete step below the door when I found myself being quickly ushered back inside by the source of the blockade- our neighbor from across the street.  I remember her saying “Go back inside honey” and I remember looking out in the driveway to see another one of our neighbors standing with her hand on my mom’s shoulder.  Something wasn’t right.

I protested for a moment, but she insisted.  The door clicked behind me and I stood in the quiet kitchen processing what I’d just seen- and what I had heard.  Who was it my mom had been asking to speak to on the phone? Highway patrol?  What was that? … and why did I suddenly feel so scared?

I walked in a stupor back to the living room and sat on the couch next to my brothers.  Pinocchio was getting close to being over.  I think they were at the part where he gets swallowed by the Whale.  Like Jonah being swallowed by the big fish; right when everything in his life had turned upside down.  When he was afraid.  I let my mind relax as I focused back on the cartoon. 

Not too much longer after that I heard the garage door open and I stood to greet my mom as she came back inside.  But she wasn't alone.  Our neighbors had come with her.  What was going on?  They never came inside our house.  We didn't even know them that well.  And why did my mom look so pale? 

And now came one of those moments.  You know the ones.  When the air gets sucked out of the room and everything sounds a little muffled like your ears are about to pop.  When you feel cold and hot all over- and you start to wonder if time travel really is possible.  If you can go back to just a few seconds before when everything was normal.  If this feeling would please just go away because something bad just happened and it makes your head pound and your blood hurt. 

My mom knelt on the ground in front of us.  I can’t remember if I was standing or sitting- but she was definitely kneeling.  I remember because it seemed very strange.  Her face was serious and she had a sense of calm to her voice even though I could tell she was holding back tears.  There had been an accident.  Daddy hydroplaned on the high way and his car was hit by a truck and a trailer.  He was in the hospital and someone was coming to get us.  My mom wasn't coming with us- she was going to go to the hospital to see him, and no sweetheart you can’t come with me.

[ My Daddy and I ]

My memory of that time feels like a movie filmed with time-lapse photography.  I think I blinked and we were being loaded into a mini van.  Our bishop’s wife and her kids had come to pick us up.  I remember the image of seeing my mom with a white bag over her shoulder.  I can’t remember if it was hers or one of ours.  She was getting into the front seat of a car or a truck and seeing her face when she didn’t know I was looking.  It was like stone.  Pale, smooth, sad, and determined.  Her back was straight and there was pain in her eyes- but I didn't see any tears. 

I didn't understand what was happening.  I felt like when you’re a child at the beach and an ocean wave knocks you over- with the water rushing in your ears and tumbling your body around and around until it beats you up on the shore.  But now, I know what that face means.  Quite fear.  The kind of a fear a young mother feels when her husband is running late for work and it starts to rain.  Florida rain… hard and powerful.  When she calls his work to find out he’d already left- hours ago.  When she calls high way patrol and gives a description of their car only to have the voice on the other end pause and ask… “Ma’am? Do you believe in miracles?”

We went to the house and our bishop’s family welcomed us with open arms.  They pulled-out their camping gear and we laid on the living room floor in sleeping bags watching another video- Lady and the Tramp.  I remember they had a little dog.  It sniffed around my sleeping-bag-cocooned legs and peed.  I didn't like dogs.  They got me a new sleeping bag and put the dog up.  I wanted to go home.

The next morning Sister Hadderly (our bishop’s wife) made us pancakes.  Josh got a special one shaped like the number “8” for his birthday.  We went home later that day but my mom didn't come home.  There were other ladies there- ladies from church.  They cleaned the house (the kind of anxious cleaning church-ladies do when something sad happens and they’re trying to be helpful.) while my brothers and I felt like guests in our own home.   There was a tornado that night.  We were still living on the Air Force Base and the bomb-siren went off so we huddled in the hall closet with these women who were nice- but were not our mother.  They smiled and made jokes and told us to not be afraid.  And sometimes we weren't. 

My mom would come home now and then- tired and distracted.  Our Aunt Linda flew in from Utah and helped us make a blanket for our dad to have in the hospital.  We still hadn't seen him.  He was in a coma.  I don’t remember how long the coma lasted, but eventually he woke up.  My mom pulled down the Tupperware containers she kept the pictures in and asked us to each choose one of ourselves for my dad to have in the hospital.  She didn't tell us at the time- but later we found out the pictures were to remind him.  He had forgotten who we were.   He forgot he had children.  He thought he and my mother were newlyweds.   I wanted to send in three pictures- but my mom told me I could only send one.  I chose one of myself standing on a bridge at a wooden playground and made a card to go with it. 

After a little more time had passed my dad’s memory started to come back.  We went in to see him.  And there was a moment within the moments.  We walked into the white room- it felt strangely sterile and was full of wires and flashing lights that beeped.  There was a man sitting up in the bed.  But he was not my father.  This man was hurt badly.  His eyes were swollen like plumbs and the side of his head was shaved with staples in it.  There were cuts and stitches all over the bruises that colored his mottled skin.  He looked confused.  I was afraid.

We didn't stay for very long.  I remember my dad trying to grab his cup and take a drink of water.  There was a straw and he kept missing his mouth and my mother quickly helped him.  When he got up to use the restroom the back of his gown hung open and she grabbed the edges and held them together to cover him as he leaned on her to walk.  It was alarming to see him like this.  My dad was in the Air Force.  He was strong.  He wore a uniform to work.  He came to my school in kindergarten to kill a spider in the bathroom when I was too afraid to pee.  He wrestled with us on the floor and lifted us on his shoulders when we couldn't see.  He made us elaborate forts in the living room and cinnamon toast when we were sick.

And now he couldn't even take a drink.  Now he couldn't walk to the restroom on his own.  Now things were different.

That was over ten years ago.   My dad healed amazingly.  Things were a little different- he is legally blind in one eye and has some short-term memory troubles, but he healed.  He can walk, he can talk.  He can make jokes and he still kills spiders when someone is afraid to pee.  He can wrestle with his grandsons and lift them on his shoulders when they can’t see.  I do believe in miracles. 

[ Dancing with my Dad at my wedding.  He chose the song and we both cried all the way through. ]

Almost five years ago Brandon and I were married.  Like my dad- I had long since healed from his accident.  I did not expect the scars to bother me again.  However, only a year earlier, before Brandon and I had even met,  my future husband had one of those moments. 

You know the ones.  When the air gets sucked out of the room and everything sounds like you’re swimming underwater.  When you feel dizzy and empty- and you start to wonder if time travel really is possible.  If you can go back to just a few seconds before when everything was normal.  If this feeling would please just go away because something bad just happened and it makes your blood pound and your heart hurt. 

Brandon was serving a two-year mission for our church in Colorado when he learned that half-way across the country his dad had passed away unexpectedly.  When I met him, he’d only been home about a month.  Six months later we were engaged, and six months after that we were married.  Our lives were a whirlwind of college classes, apartment shopping, and getting to know this new person we were going to spend the rest of eternity with.  For Brandon, there was not much time for processing.  There was not much time for healing. 

Now and then there would be another moment.  He would see something. Hear something.  Feel something that reminded him.  I would find him lost in a memory, of sharing chili cheese dogs at gas stations or waiting in line to see a ninja turtle movie at the theater.  The healing process wasn't being long and smooth.  No scars were forming.  Just open wounds being covered over and over again before being ripped open unexpectedly at any moment.  Just as unexpected as the first time had been. 

It is incredibly painful to see someone you love in pain.  When there’s nothing you can do.  When you’re on damage-control and you know that as much as you know, you’ll never REALLY know.  When you can’t possibly understand.  You may have almost lost your father... but you didn't.  It's not the same. When as much as you hurt seeing them hurt, you know they are hurting a little more.  When someone is your everything- and you know that somehow there will always still be something missing from them.  At least in this life. 

It has been hard.  I have found myself at times standing in the artificial yellow-light of our bathroom, washing off my make-up or brushing my teeth… and I see that same face.  The face my mother had.  The face of stone- of quiet fear.  Fear for my husband.  When he is in pain.  Fear for my children, when I am weak, but their only strength. 

Sometimes things happen… Moments.  You know the ones.

And as much as you want to- as hard as you wish- you realize you can’t turn back time.  Not even a little.  You can never go back to that moment when everything was normal.  The feeling won’t go away… because sometimes bad things happen.  And the only thing we can do is move on.

When I was ten years old, I almost lost my father.  I didn't understand.  It wasn't fair.  It wasn't fair to me, it wasn't fair to my mother or my brothers, and it certainly wasn't fair to my dad.  I've heard that everything happens for a reason…and to be honest- I’m not really sure I believe that. 

But what I do believe- is that there is always something good. Even if it is very small- so terribly, terribly small that its not even worth mentioning at the time.  Even in the darkest, blackest, most painful of times. 

Even if sometimes the only good is knowing that it happened.  So when someone else goes through something similar, you can take their hand, hold it tight, and say "I know, my friend.", and sit in that place with them.  Just so they don't feel quite as alone as they did before.

I’ve learned that there is always going to be darkness in the world… but there will also always be light.  The darkness is powerful, it can overwhelm you- blind you.  But there cannot be darkness where there is light.  And we choose where we stand.  Darkness will always find us- but we don’t have to stay there.  If we follow the light, if we keep it in our hearts, dawn will always come and night (even the longest of nights) will never win. 

Sometimes when it’s raining, I have one of those moments. 

You know the ones. 

When the light catches the drops and reflects back your favorite color.  When the grass takes-in an overdue drink and the air is left smelling clean.  When you see the clouds clearing and you feel the heavy air lifting and the leaves on the trees seem to be stretching after a long nap.  When you feel new and you know that no matter what happened yesterday or the day before- things will be different now.  Better somehow.

Lessons from Lamb's Ears

 "€œWhy couldn'€™t I have been born with that infamous green thumb?"€ I wondered to myself. After all, it was certainly a family trait. Virtually everyone on my mother's side of the family was a gardening guru. I wondered why this knowledge had not been implanted in my brain at birth. While weeding in my garden, I had noticed that my lamb'€™s ears (which are my absolute favorite of all plants) were starting to brown and wither at the bottoms. I had marveled all summer at how much they had grown, now almost as tall as my azalea bushes. I had never seen lamb's ears grow that large, they were amazing! It surprised me to see that they seemed to be struggling as tall and glorious as they were.

I consulted a gardening friend who suggested to me that the plant might be getting too big for its root system to support. The only solution was to cut back the long stalks and remove some of the base plant. I am sure the look on my face expressed my feelings adequately. "I'€™m sorry, perhaps you
didn'€™t hear me. They are as tall as azaleas! They are amazing and beautiful, how could I ever cut them back?!" €œUm, okay. Gulp.
After delaying a bit I decided it was time to trim them back, knowing that it was the only way that I would save my lamb's ears, which were becoming increasingly brown and withered by the day. It was a sad sight, all those beautiful stalks laying in a pile on the ground, huge sections of lamb'€™s ear up-rooted and removed. What was once so beautiful now looked so pitiful. Ugh, what a mess. For a moment I contemplated reaching down and ripping up the whole plant, roots and all and just calling it quits. After all, the poor thing would probably die now anyway, might as well make it quick. I clenched my fists in frustration at the wreck that had once been my beautiful plant and then sighed. I turned and trudged into my house with a heavy heart and tears in my eyes. So much for Mother Nature knowing best! It seemed all that she did was pick and choose what could live and what would die and there was nothing that I, or anyone, could do about it. My interference certainly had done the plant no good; at least, that was how it appeared at the time.

My demolished flower bed seemed a perfect metaphor for the past year of my life. Like the lamb'€™s ears, I too had been cut and pulled and left alone. My lamb'€™s ears and I were now only shadows of our former selves. For about the eight hundredth time that year I wondered, "€œwhy"€?

As I sat on the floor in my bedroom, still donning my pair of gardening gloves, the memories of the past year came galloping back at me, uncontrolled, wild and in full stampede mode.

It had only been a few weeks before last Christmas when I had made that first trip to the hospital. I had already take notice of the fact that my five-month-pregnant belly was not as large as I would have expected, my appetite was no where to be found and I had not felt so much as a nudge from my little belly dweller. It wasn'€™t unheard of but for my fourth pregnancy, it was strange. When the bleeding started I knew, still I don'€™t think I'€™ll ever forget the fear I felt as the nurse struggled to
find my babies missing heart beat.

The ultrasound confirmed that our baby had died a few weeks earlier. I was sent to the hospital to deliver. I decided that I didn'€™t want to see the baby afterwards. I didn'€™t want to hold it. I didn'€™t want to know the gender. I didn'€™t want to know the weight or the time of---, time of what? Birth? Death? Delivery? It didn'€™t matter. I felt like knowing those things would only cause more pain.

 It was almost four in the morning when my theory was confirmed. The medication I had received after the delivery had helped me to sleep soundly and I awoke to an empty hospital room. Everyone had gone home. There was not a nurse in sight. Down the hall I could hear the sweet sounds of newborn babies crying out to their mothers. I desperately wanted to rip the IV from my arm and run full speed down the halls and out the doors, miles away from that room and from the pain. As I sat on the bed crying I noticed a small table covered with the flowers, cards and candy that my friends had left for me. Next to one of the vases was an unfamiliar yellow box, with a flower on the top. I wondered which of my friends had left that for me. I went over and opened it, only to find the unwanted answers to all my questions. I curled the tiny hospital bracelet around my fingers, trying to be angry at the nurse who had left that box, after I had made my wishes not to know anything about the baby clearly known. Instead of anger all I felt was overwhelming sadness.

As I left the hospital delivery room later that day I remember thinking, "€œthis just isn'€™t fair. I should leave with an empty belly or empty arms; I shouldn't have to leave with both."€ All that came home with me was my little yellow box with that tiny hospital bracelet and a little blue card, "€œBaby Boy Ramsey, delivered December 10th."

What followed was six long months of trying: trying to heal, trying to be normal, trying to get pregnant again and finally succeeding. The first seven weeks of my pregnancy were flawless, maybe a little too flawless. I felt absolutely perfect, normal, as if I weren't pregnant at all. Then the bleeding started again, the same way it had last time.

Again, I found myself on that drive to the hospital. I will never forget sitting at one particular stoplight. It was red, of course, another small delay on my seemingly endless drive, and truly the longest ten minutes I have ever spent. My stereo, as if feeling my surge of emotion, seemed to be speaking to me. All the sudden the lyrics of a favorite song, one I had heard a million times, were written for me, for this moment in my life: "€œI'€™m not okay. I'€™m not okay."€ How very appropriate I mused. I allowed a small and strained chuckle to escape at just how true those words were. I was most definitely not okay.
By the time I finally reached the doctor’s office I felt so dizzy I could hardly see. My entire mental energy was innately focused on keeping the room from spinning. I could hear the nurse but it sounded as if she was talking to me under water. "€œI'€™m so sorry dear, there is no heartbeat." No heartbeat. No heartbeat. Would I still have one when this was all over? Could I actually die from a broken heart?

 I tried not to look at my husband, though I would not have been able to see him through the tears even if I did. This could not be happening, not again. This had to be a dream. I hoped it was a dream.

 After all of this how could I possibly be back at this awful hospital, getting ready to go home with no baby? This time there would not even be a box; there would be nothing to have of my little precious baby except the emptiness I would feel without it. How much could my one little heart really take? How were we going to tell our other sweet children at home that the baby that they were so excited for was not coming after all? Why was this happening?

The two miscarriages were one day shy of seven months apart. For everyone around me, these two days would be entirely opposite in every way. For me, however, these days were marked with the same overwhelming sadness.

For weeks after the second loss I tried to focus on the good things. I had a wonderful husband and three beautiful, bright children. I had been assured, re-assured and overly assured that there was nothing wrong with me, that I was, by all accounts, normal and healthy. I had been given every pearl of wisdom ever collected and stored for these very circumstances: "€œYou are so blessed to have the children you have.", "€œYou are so young, there is plenty of time for you to have more babies."€, "€œThere is a time and season for everything."€, "€œMother nature knows best."€ These words, spoken with love and concern, and being quite true, still they did not console my aching heart. Truly what could they have said? Nothing short of, "€œoh I am so sorry, there has been a terrible mistake, your baby is just fine" was going to ease the sorrow.
Reminders stared me in the face from the cover of every magazine, every advertisement on the television, every novel and every film. Had there always been this many pregnant women roaming through the grocery store? I cringed at the image of times I had walked through the isles with my cart full of my fidgeting children, my pregnant belly a shining beacon in the eyes of some poor woman who had suffered a miscarriage, some aching heart that I wasn'€™t even aware of. The onslaught of emotions was overwhelming, not only sadness to cope with but also anger, frustration, envy and guilt.
I was angry for feeling so sad. How could the sadness of losing two babies that I never even met be so overwhelming that it clouded the happiness of raising the three healthy ones who were right there with me? At times, the emotions felt entirely overwhelming, like trying to swim with all of your
clothes on, seemingly impossible and yet somehow doable.

My mind was constantly engaged with questions that appeared to have no answers. What would happen now? Would I be able to get pregnant again and did I even want to? Would it just be followed by another devastating miscarriage? (For those who are curious, the answer was yes. We had a third miscarriage two months later.)  Now, sitting alone on my bedroom floor, tears streaming down my face I mourned my babies and my lamb's ears, two broken things that I could never put back together. I looked at my gloves, covered in dirt and thought of the baby that had been ripped away from me, the way I had just ripped away part of my lamb's ears. My stomach twisted and the back of my throat ached trying to contain the sobs from escaping my chest. I wondered if I would ever understand why these things happened.

It was not until a week or so later that I received an answer to that question. One day as I passed by my garden I started to notice the change in my lamb'€™s ears. They were gaining back their beautiful color; the leaves were reaching up and out, strong, vibrant and full. More startling still was what I found in the middle sections where whole parts of the plant had been removed. Little tiny buds were sprouting and reaching up for the sun. New life was forming in spite of what I had seen as insurmountable challenges. I had thought that removing part of the plant would mean the ultimate demise of its entire being. I was wrong. My lamb'€™s ear did not just decide it was not worth the effort and wither away. It did not turn away from the sun and stop absorbing water. It did what it was intended to do. It kept on growing, changing, becoming better. I had removed so much from it and yet, ultimately, it had to lose a part of itself in order to thrive and reach its full potential.

I too now felt prepared to overcome my personal tragedy. I found myself smiling again and recognizing things that I had learned. The loss I had suffered had given me new compassion and empathy for others, tender and soft like a new budding lamb'€™s ear. The tears I had shed helped build my  root system and reminded me of what I treasured most. When I finally let go of that painful part of my life, I was able to fill that space with something new and wonderful. In the end, my beautiful lamb'€™s ears grew even stronger than before, and so did I.