"Armies of Heaven"

This week (Saturday) is Alma's birthday. I've thought about it many times throughout the month, but it hasn't been like in the past where August 1-August 31 is hard. We've just been so busy with moving, Jayze starting law school, Aidan starting kindergarten, and so many other things that I hadn't had time to really sit down and think about Alma's birthday until this past weekend. I knew his birthday was coming up, and I hate waiting last minute, so I wanted a plan for Saturday so I would be prepared.

We talked about it with Aidan and Kimball yesterday during dinner, and decided that we're going to make a cake, maybe drive to the temple, and of course, serve someone (we always try to do some sort of service on Alma's birthday). I also might snag a candle from the store, and that will be that, I thought. It's going to be a great birthday.

Initially when we moved to Snowflake, the thought crossed my mind that we would actually be close to Alma's grave for his birthday this year. Then a couple of months later when we were accepted to law school and I saw the starting date, I realized that we actually weren't going to be there for Alma's birthday, and I was sad about it. "Aw well," I thought. "We can still celebrate from afar like we've always done." And that was that again.

But I woke up this morning, walked to the bathroom, saw that Jayze had written a beautiful quote by Jeffrey R. Holland on our bathroom mirror, and I lost it. 

 "In the gospel of Jesus Christ you have help from both sides of the veil, and you must never forget that. When disappointment and discouragement strike—and they will—you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection. They will always be there, these armies of heaven, in defense of Abraham's seed."

~Jeffrey R. Holland~

As I read that quote - When disappointment and discouragement strike - with tears burning my eyes and a sob caught in my throat, I thought about holding Alma. I thought about having to say goodbye SO many times and hating it. I thought about seeing the autopsy stitches all over his tiny body and feeling so badly for him, feeling like I failed as a mom. I thought about how I should have a 7-year-old going to school this year. I thought about having to explain to my kids that they have a brother in heaven, and since I haven't had the heart to show them pictures yet - I haven't felt like it's the right time yet - they don't quite understand the concept. I thought about how we just had to bury their Papa this year and Alma being gone is just another reminder that another person we love isn't here. The concept of how anyone can die at any moment has been a struggle for me, let alone teaching it to my kids and having them see it firsthand. 

I guess I just didn't realize how much I was struggling. "I'm beautiful. I'm strong. I can do this," I've been telling myself since our last couple of weeks in Kansas. And this past weekend regarding Alma's birthday, "It's okay. I feel a little bit sad, but I'm strong. I got this."

It's important to say that to myself - it helps me get through. But in reality, it's also important to say, "This is hard, and I'm struggling. I'm sad and discouraged and feel defeated, but God's got this. God is strong. God's got me." With God, I can do anything. 

"...you have help from both sides of the veil, and you must never forget that...you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection. They will always be there, these armies of heaven, in defense of Abraham's seed."

My dad is a part of the ones "riding at reckless speed to come to [my] protection" now, and so is Alma. I imagine them up there cracking jokes, having joy in the paradise they enjoy, anxiously waiting for our turn, and wanting to help us in any way they can. I'm grateful for them. I'm grateful I'm not alone.

If there's anything I could say to anyone is that we really are NOT alone. Satan tries his best to isolate us, whether it's from us feeling shame about a sin or us feeling lonely in our grief, but that's not truth. God never leaves His children alone. Work hard to come unto Him, and He'll be there. I haven't been able to do any of this without him. And I won't be able to do this week without Him - at least not with true peace and joy. 

So I'm entering this week with courage. Courage to cry when I need to and then stand back up again and keep moving forward. Courage to be happy AND sad. Courage to find peace and healing amidst this ocean of grief. Courage to remember. YOU can have courage too, no matter what you're going through. Trying matters, and you WITH God got this. Keep moving forward one step at a time - there really is joy to be found in the journey. 

Love Notes

August is a heavy month and last year was no different. I dreaded it. I always found my mind straying to the past and anxiety was almost a constant. Last year was easier than the one before that, but difficult moments were never far away. It just seems to be one of those months, and I have a feeling it will always be like that in one way or another.

But just like every August since Alma passed away, tender mercies began showing up. Sweet reminders and messages (I call them love notes) from Heavenly Father letting me know He's there and helping me feel Alma nearby. I've come to depend on those love notes, especially when August rolls around.

On one day last August, I was at the temple. I always love going to the temple, and I was especially excited to be there because this was my month. The month where the darkness seeps into my soul and I needed my Savior's light more than ever. The temple is also the place where I usually feel Alma most often, and I was hoping so much to feel his presence there. I desperately needed that comfort and reassurance. As I went about the temple, I kept watching and waiting for something, anything that would let me know Alma was close by, but...nothing. I felt disappointed as I changed back into my dress. I tried to shake the feeling and thought, "Well, maybe next time." I grabbed my bag and began walking toward the exit. As I passed through the doorway, I glanced down and noticed a small rainbow prism illuminating the soft carpet. I took note of it and then strode right by it, thinking, "Hmm, that's pretty," with no further thought. When I stepped out into the foyer, that's when it hit me. That was my love note from Alma. There, at the very end when I had almost lost hope, was a very sweet and very personalized message from my son and from my Heavenly Father.

"...the Lord's tender mercies are the very personal and individualized blessings, strength, protection, assurances, guidance, loving-kindnesses, consolation, support, and spiritual gifts which we receive from and because of and through the Lord Jesus Christ..." (David A. Bednar, "The Tender Mercies of the Lord," April 2005).

Later that month in the evening, I was driving by myself to a church meeting. It had been raining earlier, so the air and ground were still wet and the clouds were white wisps in the blue-gray sky. Since it was summer, it was still light out even though it was approaching 7:00. I was thinking about Alma and was rounding a curve when suddenly, right in my line of sight, was a beautiful, vibrant rainbow set against the soaked trees and rainy sky. I couldn't stop the tears from filling my eyes. Another love note.

"I will not leave you comfortless. I will come to you" (John 14:18).

To those whose grief is still very raw and whose sorrow is still a constant companion, don't give up. To those who are struggling through a trial, some heartache, or failure, hang on. Feel all of those hard feelings and know that it does get better. There will come a time when there is more sweet than bitter. Love notes are all around you...if you just look for them. God is there. And just like He has never, ever left me comfortless, He will not leave you comfortless. You can feel peace. Ask God to help you recognize those tender mercies, and He will send help and you'll come to cherish those sweet love notes. God knows who you are because you are His child.

"We should not underestimate or overlook the power of the Lord's tender mercies. The simpleness, the sweetness, and the constancy of the tender mercies of the Lord will do much to fortify and protect us in the troubled times in which we do now and will yet live. When words cannot provide the solace we need or express the joy we feel, when it is simply futile to attempt to explain that which is unexplainable, when logic and reason cannot yield adequate understanding about the injustices and inequities of life, when mortal experience and evaluation are insufficient to produce a desired outcome, and when it seems that perhaps we are so totally alone, truly we are blessed by the tender mercies of the Lord and made mighty even unto the power of deliverance (see 1 Ne. 1:20)," (David A. Bednar)

March 2019

I recommend this talk (so good): The Tender Mercies of the Lord.
Why rainbows remind me of Alma: 20 Weeks: Rainbow Baby

Shift

I avoided social media for about four months after Alma passed away. I felt prompted to check my messages the night before I gave birth to him, which was a tender mercy because one message in particular brought immense comfort and helped me focus on the good the next day. However, when I was back in the routine of things (as much as possible after losing a child), I logged onto Facebook. After about five minutes of seeing baby picture after baby picture, my heart turned so bitter and hard that I signed out and didn't get on again.

I admire those who have been through something similar and are still able to get on social media right away because it was too difficult for me. It took me awhile to even look at all of the kind messages people sent me online because my mind was blurred with grief and nothing anyone said at that time was good enough for my grieving heart.

When I finally decided I was ready to come back, it was for multiple reasons. One of them was that I needed resources. I needed help. I needed perspective from those who had done this or who were going through it right then like I was.

I remember jumping on the computer and searching online for any sort of personal reference to stillbirths. The hospital had given me a list of in-person grief groups I could attend, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to go and open up to a circle of strangers - even if they had been or were trudging through the trenches too. I think that was the denial part of grief talking me out of it. That, and fear. But one day when I got on Facebook, I saw a message from a girl in my ward. She had linked a blog post authored by a woman who had just announced she was pregnant with her rainbow baby. Although I was skeptical, I clicked the link which led me to find more posts. Posts of her grieving her first child. And I couldn't get enough. It was like I could have written them, and it felt so good to know I wasn't alone. Someone else had gone through this too, had the courage to share, and provided some relief. I thought, "I'm not crazy for feeling all of these things!"

I'm not crazy.

I clung to those blog posts. And then when I found more blogs written by women who had also lost one of their children, I clung to those as well. Then it was my turn. Four months after Alma passed away, I found the courage to log into my blog and write a few posts. Six months later, I changed my blog's name. The month after that, I shared Alma's story.

Looking back on some of my old posts, I am amazed by how open, vulnerable, and raw I was in my thoughts, feelings, and experiences about Alma. I shared a piece of my heart with the world. And in the process of trying to help even one person, I was able to help myself too and gain a greater relationship with my Heavenly Father than I ever had before.

However, a couple of years ago, I found myself at a crossroads. I felt like my blog had become just about Alma and that people were probably thinking, "Man, just get over it. Why do you feel like you always have to talk about him?" So I stopped writing so much about him. I began to lack the courage to be so open, but I guess, in a way, deep down I was also ready to stop writing about him so often. My perspective and healing had changed. The grief was still there, but it had slightly...shifted.

A blogger I followed once shared what she called her, "Piano Post." In it she shared an article describing personal, daily grief, which continues to resonate with me.

STEVEN KALAS:

When you lose a child, grieving is a lifelong experience

When our first child is born, a loud voice says, “Runners, take your marks!” We hear the starting gun and the race begins. It’s a race we must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition is called “I’ll race you to the grave.” I’m currently racing three sons. I really want to win.

Not everyone wins.

I’m here at the national meeting of Compassionate Friends, an organization offering support and resources for parents who lose the race. I’m wandering the halls during the “break-out” sessions. In this room are parents whose children died in car accidents. Over there is a room full of parents of murdered children. Parents of cancer victims are at the end of the hall. Miscarriages and stillbirths are grouped together, as are parents who have survived a child’s suicide. And so it goes.

In a few minutes, I’m going to address Compassionate Friends. This is the toughest audience of my life. I mix with the gathering crowd, and a woman from Delaware glances at my name tag. Her name tag has a photo of her deceased son. My name tag is absent photos

.

“So … you haven’t … lost anyone,” she says cautiously.

“My three sons are yet alive, if that’s what you’re asking me,” I say gently.

She tries to nod politely, but I can see that I’ve lost credibility in her eyes. She’s wondering who invited this speaker, and what on earth he could ever have to say to her.

My address is titled “The Myth of Getting Over It.” It’s my attempt to answer the driving questions of grieving parents: When will I get over this? How do I get over this?

You don’t get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.

You don’t want to get over it. Don’t act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child’s life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you’d fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere inside you, you know that.

The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.

Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it’s still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.

But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

You learn to play that piano. You’re surprised to find that you want to play, that it’s meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief — together — begin to compose hope. Who’da thought?

Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you’re 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child’s life mattered.

You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play.

Copyright: Las Vegas Review-Journal

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling and Wellness Center in Las Vegas. Contact him atskalas@reviewjournal.com.

My piano, persay, continues to shift. A few years ago, it made me feel almost like a broken record sharing about Alma. But now I'm realizing that he is part of my play and my story, and he will always be a part of my life, even if the grief is no longer obstructing my view and I'm not constantly banging into it.

Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

So now it's time. It's time to come back and write the piano into the story of my life. It's time to open myself up again, to weave the hope back in, and help others (and myself) in the process. Because hope is there and healing is possible.

Alma's Birthday

The entire month of August leading up to Alma's birthday (August 29) caused me to reflect on the whole experience of losing him. This year, I tended to dwell on the terrible, devastating parts of it, when in the past I've tried to dwell on the positive parts. I kept sinking lower and lower into this black hole. I knew how to get out of it because I've practiced the process again and again over the past four years, but this year was a struggle.

I allowed myself to go through the horrific, hard, miserable, dark details and held onto the panic, despair, loneliness, anger, and sadness that came with the very real and paralyzing flashbacks from that time. It was a constant tug and pull on my spirit, and at times I could hardly function. Aidan kept asking me if I was sad and randomly gave me hugs and kisses when he saw I was having a hard time. He still doesn't completely understand what happened to his older brother, but he could tell something was wrong.

Another thing that added to the whole hot mess was that I had no idea what to do for Alma's birthday. Even though we have a special tradition around Christmas for Alma, I've struggled every single year figuring out what to do for him on his birthday. We've done something different each time. Since I was having an especially difficult time, I knew I needed to plan something so that I would have something to look forward to instead of wanting to just stay in bed all day.

Through the years I've learned that service brings so much healing, and healing was what I was seeking so desperately. There's a sacredness to it that I wanted to bring to my home, to my family, and to my heart to help pull me out of the grieving funk. Over the first couple weeks of August, Jayze and I bounced around a few ideas and something finally stuck.

Aidan is still obsessed with cars and trucks and planes, which also includes police cars, fire engines, and ambulances. Whenever a fire trucks zooms by, we make sure to point it out. He gets excited and yells out, "Fire truck!" every time and does the same thing for police cars and ambulances. We wanted to do something that included Aidan and Kimball, so we decided to provide service to someone (and something) Aidan would get excited about...Enter the police force.

Jayze and I picked out the candy and bowl, Aidan helped me color the thank-you poster, and Kimball walked all over the poster and tried to eat the candy. :)

On Alma's birthday, I dropped Jayze off at work and drove to the police station nearest to our home. I loaded Kimball into the stroller, and held onto Aidan's hand with one hand and the poster and bowl of candy with my other hand. We struggled to open the door, but the officer at the desk graciously helped us out.

I told him it was Aidan and Kimball's older brother's birthday.

"He would be four years old, but he died when he was a baby. We wanted to come celebrate by thanking you for your service. We're grateful for all you do to keep us safe." 

A woman officer circled around her desk and asked what my baby's name was.

Tears came to my eyes as I told her, "Alma," and got to say his name out loud. I told her, "We wanted to come do this for you on his birthday." 

It wasn't extravagant, and I'm not sure if it made the police officers' day, but I know it made mine. Planning and creating and having something to look forward to made all the difference. And not just anything, but something that would get me outside myself. Instead of dreading his birthday, I became excited for it.

Through serving someone else and trying to make their day a little brighter, I felt a little brighter too and felt peace and the much-sought-after and desired healing I needed to get out of the deep, dark hole I had been in since
August 1.

And to top it off with a cherry on top, there was a park right next door to the police station.

Love you, my Alma.

"As we extend our hands and hearts toward others in Christlike love, something wonderful happens to us. Our own spirits become healed, more refined, and stronger. We become happier, more peaceful, and more receptive to the whisperings of the Holy Spirit." 

~Dieter F. Uchtdorf~

Dear Alma,

February 2017

Hey bud, can you believe it's been four years (tomorrow)? Four years since I first saw you and held you in my arms. I didn't ever want to let you go, but of course, Dad had to have his turn too. :) We switched back and forth all day long until we had to let you go and leave the hospital with empty arms.

It seems like every time I sit down in front of this screen, words leave me. Lately it's been overwhelming to write to an audience. I think that's why I'm finally writing to you. It feels less overwhelming when all I need to do is talk to you.

This month has been so, so hard. So unbelievably difficult. I thought that after four years your birthday, and the days leading up to it, would get easier. They have been a little easier in the past, but this year. Oh, Alma, this year has been one of the hardest yet.

My arms aren't empty like they were four years ago, but they still feel heavy. When I hold on tightly to your two brothers, something is still lacking...I miss clinging to my invisible four-year-old. You should be playing on the couch, wrestling, laughing, running around, and teasing your brothers too. You and Aidan should be teaching Kimball how to hold a book and laughing at jokes only you three understand.

There is so much I want to say, yet I've felt inadequate to express my kaleidoscope of emotions. Sad you aren't here. Devastated at the outcome. Hope in the future. Joy in the moments I feel you close by. Imagining what it would be like if you were here.

Looking back at the past four years, I know I'm stronger, but I also know it's okay to not be okay. It's okay to miss you because you're real and you are my child. It's okay to cry and mourn and wish you were here for,

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain."

Kahlil Gabran

It's okay to want to see you again and feel the weight of you in my arms and just...be with you.

But I also know it's okay to be happy. It's okay to love on your brothers even when you're not here. It's okay to be excited about the life I'm living right here right now. It's okay to find joy in this journey...now. To cherish each moment.

I know I won't ever get over losing you, and that's okay, too. Oddly enough, it's grief that keeps you close. I used to think it was there for just a day or a week or a month or however long it took for someone to "get over" their loved ones dying, but it's for life. And hard as it is, I'm grateful I'll never get over you.

I totally relate to what Elder Shayne M. Bowen (who lost his 8-month old baby boy) said:

"Sometimes people will ask, 'How long did it take for you to get over it?' The truth is, you will never completely get over it until you are together once again with your departed loved ones. I will never have a fulness of joy until we are reunited in the morning of the First Resurrection."

I also love his beautiful testimony that has brought me so much precious peace these past few days:

"Remember as you attended the funeral of your loved one the feelings in your heart as you drove away from the cemetery and looked back to see that solitary casket - wondering if your heart would break.

I testify that because of Him, even our Savior, Jesus Christ, those feelings of sorrow, loneliness, and despair will one day be swallowed up in a fulness of joy. I testify that we can depend on Him and when He said:

'I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. 

'Yet a little while, and the world seeth me no more; but ye see me: because I live, ye shall live also.'

(John 14:18-19)

I'm so grateful for Jesus Christ. He is what's made this past month possible to get through, and I know He will help me get through tomorrow too. Even though tears haven't been far away day after day since August 1, there has also been peace. There have been times when our Savior has helped me know that it's okay that it's hard and has cried with me. And times when He has stilled my soul and given me the sweet comfort only He can give.

I love you so, so, so much. Maybe it hurts so much this year because my love for you keeps growing. I hope you get a great big party in heaven for your big day. We'll be throwing our own small one here.

Love,

Mom

Power in Motherhood

This week I made it a goal to get outside at least once a day with the kids. We've been cooped up with potty training and rainy weather. Since potty training turned out to be a bust (we'll try again in a few weeks), and the rainy weather isn't too cold in the afternoon, I've decided even if it's raining, we're at least going to get out the front door on the porch to breathe in some fresh air. 

Yesterday was the perfect start to the new goal. It rained in the morning, but the sun peeked out through big, fluffy, white clouds in the afternoon, drying out the wet air. After nap time and a quick snack, we got ready to play on the still-patchy, but green, grass. 

I quickly changed diapers, pulled on Aidan's Lightening McQueen shoes, and stuck my feet into my flip flops. With a soccer ball and blanket in one arm and Kimball in the other, I opened the front door and didn't even have to coax a football-in-hand, totally excited Aidan who said, "I got it!" when I tried to help him open the screen door that enabled our final escape to the outdoors. 

He finally figured out the handle and pushed the black door open. He walked a few steps, then stopped and threw the football over the metal railing onto the grass and sidewalk below. Then we all hurried down to "play ball."

I set Kimball down on the dry grass, laid the soft, blue and yellow baby blanket down next to him, and then lifted him up and over onto the blanket. He was content just sitting there watching Aidan, playing with the soccer ball, and eating grass when he was able to grab a fistful of it. 

Those overalls just kill me. I wish I had a million more of them to dress him in. :)

While I was getting Kimball set up, Aidan took off across the lawn to a tall, dry bush at the edge of the parking lot on the other side of our apartment. Then he ran back, laughing and plucking up yellow dandelions along the way. He was almost beside himself being outside again. Obviously, this goal will be good for all of us. 

After sitting with Kimball for a little bit, I watched as Aidan ran up to me and asked, "Mom, play?" 

Well, how could I resist that?

I jumped up and chased him around, snatching the soccer ball from his hands and running away with it. He grinned from ear to ear and laughed with joy at the game. He then ventured on his own again, climbing the wooden fence, jumping in a small, muddy puddle, and asking me to help lift him to touch his fingertips to the lower branches of a tree. A few minutes later, I jogged over and picked up Kimball, balanced him on my hip, and sprinted after Aidan again. We ended up crowded together by the fence and watched planes fly by. "It's flying away! Bye, white plane!"

When we got tired, we all plopped back onto the blanket and grass and enjoyed the breeze playing across our faces and running its fingers through our hair.  

At one point, Kimball crawled into my lap, leaving the baby blue blanket sitting by itself right by my knees. It was then that I thought of Alma. 

That blanket was given to us at Alma's baby shower, and I've used it for both Aidan and Kimball. I thought of how he might be saying, "Play on the grass, Mom?" like Aidan does. Since he's a year older, he'd probably be saying it in more complete sentences, but I couldn't help but think a piece of him was there with us. The wind on my face. The yellow sun shining down, warming us up. The sounds of a toddler's laugh and a baby's happy squeal. The joy emanating from my heart in addition to the sweet love I felt for all of my boys. 

It's interesting how grief comes unexpectedly. It wasn't so mean yesterday since it was more of a reminder of Alma rather than a sudden, sporadic, heart-wrenching moment of missing him. It was a slight tug, helping me remember him and imagine him playing and giggling with his younger brothers. 

That slight tug yesterday reminded me of the sacred role of motherhood. Sometimes I get caught up in filling empty stomachs, diaper changes, grocery bills, brushing teeth, bath time, building block towers, kissing bonked heads and smashed arms, preparing the diaper bag, reading scriptures, praying, creating activities, bouts of boredom, and digging deep for patience - all the while wondering if it's amounting to anything. The world doesn't cheer mothers on, and it's easy to get caught up in wondering if there's "more" I could be doing that has "greater impact."

Then moments like yesterday happen - stacked on top of hundreds and thousands of precious, sacred moments - when I see the glow of delight on Aidan's and Kimball's faces and, with grief, I feel close to Alma. 

Those moments, along with the hard moments that come with motherhood, are when I remember that being a mom is who I am supposed to be and motherhood is the greatest thing I could ever do. Nothing could ever replace it, and I am grateful to be a part of all of the moments I get to experience with all three of my kids. 

And I'm excited to get outside more this week. :)

"Some women are not given the responsibility of bearing children in mortality, but just as Hannah of the Old Testament prayed fervently for her child, the value women place on motherhood in this life and the attributes of motherhood they attain here will rise with them in the Resurrection. Women who desire and work toward that blessing in this life are promised they will receive it for all eternity, and eternity is much, much longer than mortality. There is eternal influence and power in motherhood."

~Julie B. Beck~

Where Was God?

I remember sitting down in the chapel. I hadn't really wanted to come. I felt like I didn't fit in with anyone anymore. I felt awkward being around women my age again. Probably because many of them knew what happened, but there were also many who didn't know what happened. During those early days I was ALWAYS left wondering who knew about Alma and who didn't. Who knew I had lost my baby?

It was a struggle because most of the time I talked to people I knew who knew, I would get the sympathetic looks but no mention of Alma. The subject of him would be taboo - the elephant in the room per-say. But then when I talked to others who didn't know, I'd wait in dreaded anticipation for the question, "Do you have any kids?" It hurt every single time to get asked that, no matter how innocent it was. Being in a group of pregnant women was difficult, too, because my birth story didn't have a happy ending. It became emotionally exhausting talking to people, so that night in the chapel, I didn't really want to talk at all.

During the weeks that followed Alma's passing, there were times when I felt so much love around me. I felt it through the letters and packages and quotes we received daily in the mail. I felt it through priesthood blessings given to me by wonderful men at work, by my bishop, by my husband, and by my dad. I felt it through my doctors who knew what I had gone through. I felt it through a visit from the stake presidency. I felt it through the woman I visit taught. I felt it through a general authority who spoke with me and gave me encouragement through stories from his ancestors. I felt it through the women I worked with. And yes, I felt it through God.

All that being said, it was still a very dark time in my life. Looking back, I can still feel the weight and heaviness of the darkness around me and inside my very soul. I can feel the grief that occupied my mind and my heart almost every minute of every single day. I can feel the tightness in my chest, the infinite pit in my stomach, and the tears burning on the surface of my eyes. I can feel my heart harden and ache and fill with jealousy at other parents' happiness. And I can feel the frustration, anger, and bitterness overwhelm my entire body as I listened to them complaining about their children.

I remember many Sundays not wanting to go to church. I would get up, take a shower, get dressed, and then lay back down in bed, pull up the covers, and tell Jayze to go without me. I couldn't face the babies. I couldn't face the pregnant women. I couldn't face the happy parents. I couldn't face faking my happiness. I felt crushed and broken and oh so alone. There were days I felt far from God, even though I felt like I was trying with all I had to hold onto my testimony and my faith.

So, there I was, trying again. I had halfheartedly thrown on a skirt and driven to the church for the pre-conference get-together that involved chatting and eating veggies and dip. When the half hour was up, we all congregated in the chapel to watch the October 2013 General Relief Society Meeting. I sat by my friend and waited for the talks to begin.

I had brought a journal with me to write different impressions that came, but it wasn't until President Monson got up to speak that I remember really paying attention.

"There will be times when you will walk a path strewn with thorns and marked by struggle. There may be times when you feel detached - even isolated - from the Giver of every good gift. You worry that you walk alone. Fear replaces faith." 

It was as if God were talking straight to me. He knew how I felt! I sat up a little straighter and listened a little harder.

He told the story of a woman named Tiffany. Her husband was in medical school and many of the responsibilities of taking care of their four children fell to her. Right as she was feeling overwhelmed, she learned that one of her loved ones was diagnosed with cancer. She felt stressed and worried and became discouraged and depressed. She lost her appetite. She lost weight. She tried hard to connect with God through scriptures and prayer, but when no peace came, she felt He had abandoned her.

When a good friend was trying to get her to eat to no avail, Tiffany said the only thing that sounded good to her was homemade bread...but there wasn't any in the house. The next day, a woman they barely knew through Tiffany's sister dropped off a loaf of homemade bread. Tiffany later learned that the woman, Sherrie, had felt prompted to make two loaves of homemade bread that day. Later that same day, Sherrie felt prompted to deliver the extra loaf to Tiffany and despite feeling awkward, followed through with it. The Lord had responded to the prayers said in Tiffany's behalf.

As I listened to the story in the chapel that night, I could feel Tiffany's pain. After Alma, I lost a lot of weight through running and not eating very much. I ran to help me bear the pain of losing my son, but the stress and grief also caused me to lose my appetite. And like Tiffany, I too had been the recipient of someone else's service because they listened to the Spirit. In fact, I had been the recipient of many people's service, as well as the recipient of other tender mercies.

There was that one time when, even though I felt like we didn't really need it because we didn't have a baby at home to care for, the Relief Society sisters brought us dinner for a whole week after we had returned home from Alma's funeral.

As President Monson told the end of the story, I remembered other things...

A sweet embrace from a dear co-worker.
A random quote someone stuck on my front door after a long day at school.
Many visits with a caring bishop.
Special moments with Jayze and Alma.
Invitations to dinner.
Game nights with friends.
Facebook messages I took forever to respond to because I wasn't quite ready yet.

And as the weeks went by, other tender mercies popped up...

BYU-Idaho devotional talks given with Jayze and me in mind.
Other devotional talks with prompted add-ins I felt were meant just for me.
Meeting an apostle of Jesus Christ.
Other conference talks from the October 2013 General Conference.
Songs on Pandora and on the radio.
Blog posts written by others who lost their child (or children), too.

Looking back, I can see that God was in all of these moments and working through all of these people. He was there! I just had to look for Him, and I would find Him.

Lately I've been feeling distant from God again. Before moving to Wichita, I told God, "I'll go wherever you want me to go. Please, just lead us. Please guide us to where thou wants us to go. We're stuck. We don't have a job. We're about to have a baby. I want to serve thee. Please, don't leave us alone."

And he didn't. I can look back at our move from Rexburg to Michigan to Wichita and see God's hand in all of it. He didn't leave us alone. But once we got to Wichita, I began feeling that lonely feeling yet again, especially during these past few weeks.

Where was God?

I was doing everything right. I was getting up with the kids. I was cleaning, organizing, and de-junking our new apartment trying to make it into a home. I was reading my scriptures. I was trying to stay within our new budget. I was trying to support Jayze in his new job and not complain about not having the car during the day. I was trying to get used to a city I had never heard of before it became an option to move there. I was called as a counselor in the Young Women's. I was exercising and eating healthy.

Yet, with all of these things, I still felt anxious, stressed, lonely, and overwhelmed. I wasn't measuring up. I wasn't perfect.

I felt like I wasn't enough.

All of the changes our family went through last year were catching up to me. We had been going, going, going since April. Jayze graduated, we had Kimball, Jayze got the job, we moved to a hotel, we moved to Wichita, and then...back to real, real life. Real, let's slow things down a little bit life. It slowed down enough that the realization came that we wouldn't see our families as often. The realization that I loved living in Michigan and missed it, even though we had only been there for 10 weeks. The realization that we wouldn't be moving again for awhile; we were here and starting afresh for real.

It was like whiplash leaving our long-time friends in Rexburg, making new friends in Michigan, leaving our new friends in Michigan, and starting all over again from total scratch in Wichita. New apartment, new city, new ward, new time zone, new job...new everything, except for the decorations on our walls - y'know. It was exciting and thrilling and sad and exhausting all at once. Jayze loved Wichita right away, while I took more time. I don't know why, but it didn't click for me. And through it all, I felt that, even though I was putting forth a ton of effort, I had lost my constant connection with God...again.

Where was He?

I've learned since our first day here at the end of August that again, it's all about God's timing. I don't know why Alma had to go back to Him sooner than I wanted him to. I don't know why we're in Wichita. But both of them have had to take time.

It seems like God keeps telling me, "Trust in me. Have peace in me. I haven't left you. Don't leave me. I haven't given up on you...don't give up on me. You're right where you need to be. I know you don't know why, but it's all going to be okay. Hold onto me, and I'll lead you and guide you. Don't be afraid. Place your faith in me, not in man. I will lead you along."

I'm continually learning that some things take time. I was thinking the other day how in just a few months' time, I can get around the city without a GPS. I'm more comfortable asking people questions about where to go and where to avoid. I'm getting better and more efficient with leaving the house with the kids. I'm making friends and learning that people really do care.

In short, I'm not alone, and Heavenly Father is sending me all of these tender mercies to remind me of that.

There are going to be days that are just downright lousy. There are going to be times when you wonder, "Where is God? Why is life so hard? Why am I going through this? Is it ever going to get better?"

A few days ago, a quote I posted awhile ago by Boyd K. Packer kept coming to mind:

"It was meant to be that life would be a challenge. To suffer some anxiety, some depression, some disappointment, even some failure is normal. Teach our members that if they have a good, miserable day once in a while, or several in a row, to stand steady and face them. Things will straighten out. There is great purpose in our struggle in life."

So don't give up on God, because He for sure is not giving up on you. He cheers for you. He cries with you. He loves you. You are His child, and He will never forget you. Trust in Him and have faith that you'll get through because God IS there.

"As we seek our Heavenly Father through fervent, sincere prayer and earnest, dedicated scripture study, our testimonies will become strong and deeply rooted. We will know of God's love for us. We will understand that we do not ever walk alone. I promise you that you will one day stand aside and look at your difficult times, and you will realize that He was always there beside you."

~ Thomas S. Monson ~

Picture source

I Still Miss You

Dear Alma,

I still miss you. The pain of losing you has lessened, but there are still days when the grief hits full force. Today is one of those days. Questions come. Why did I have to lose you? Why did I have to say goodbye before I even got to say hello? Why aren't you here? 

I miss the weight of you in my arms, and then I think that you should actually be three right now. Three years old! In August you're going to turn four. That sounds so old to me. Four years since I last felt you kick. Four years since I saw you moving on the ultrasound screen. Four years since I gave birth to you in a dim, silent room. Four years since I held you for the first time in my arms, and for the last time, too. Four years. 

I wish I could say that I miss the sound of your voice, your cry, your laugh. 

I wish I could say I miss the color of your eyes and getting up with you in the middle of the night. 

I wish I could say I miss carrying you around in your car seat, you getting heavier at each doctor's appointment. 

I wish I could say I miss seeing you crawl because you're walking and running around now.

I wish I could say I miss hearing you say, "Mom." 

I wish I could say I miss playing and reading to you.

I wish I could say I miss seeing you play with Aidan and Kimball in the morning since you go to preschool now.

There are so many things I wish I could say. But I can't because I never heard you cry, or saw you open your eyes, or even brought you home. I never will in this life, and I guess that's the hardest thing right now. I can't experience you here every day...I can imagine you as a baby, but I can't really imagine you as a three-year-old.

What would you be like? Would you be obsessed with cars, trucks, planes, and trains like Aidan? Would you know your ABC's and know how to count to 10? Would you still be taking naps? Would you love to read? Would you like primary? 

I wish I knew.

I want you to know that I'm grateful families are forever (it's true - they are!) and that your dad and I are fighting for that. We will teach Aidan and Kimball to fight for it too. We want to see you again and be together again! Oh, it will be such a joyous day. 

Yes, my dear boy, I still miss you. And even though I miss you so much right now, I want you to know that I love you. I love you so much, and I am grateful to be your mom.

I hope you're having a blast with all the other kids up there watching over their parents, too. Have a good day in heaven, today. 

I love you,

Mom

My Alma Wreath

The day after we found out Alma passed away, we had many heartbreaking and surreal decisions to make. One of them was where to bury our baby.

My first instinct was to bury him in Idaho. It was where Jayze and I lived and had already made so many special memories, we could visit him anytime we wanted, and, frankly, it was the most convenient. Plus, I honestly didn't even think it was possible to have him buried anywhere else because I didn't think we had the resources to make all of the arrangements for that.

However, after talking to our families, we found out that it was possible to bury him somewhere other than Idaho. Although, upfront, it would be less convenient and more heart-wrenching, we knew that burying him in Arizona was where he was supposed to be. In our heart of hearts, we knew that Rexburg was temporary, whereas Arizona was more permanent. Both sets of our parents live in the same town, so it was more likely we would have more opportunities to visit our baby boy once we no longer lived in Rexburg.

I wasn't sure how it was all going to work out, but through many earthly (and, I'm sure, heavenly) angels and tender mercies, it all did. All the nitty, gritty details worked out, as well as bigger issues. We were so blessed and grateful and knew we weren't alone.

Now, three years and a half years later, I'm glad that Alma is buried in Snowflake. I wish I was able to visit him anytime. It's hard not taking Aidan and Kimball on a regular basis to go see him, too, but I'm grateful he has loved ones nearby who can and do visit him and leave flowers and decorations.

My mom and Jayze's mom send me pictures from time to time of Alma's graveside. It's usually decked out in the decor of the season: spring flowers, fall leaves, snowmen figurines, summer daisies, and a "Happy Birthday" sign in August. Seeing the pictures always make me tear up and wish we lived closer. But I'm grateful others are there to give him love when I can't be there in person.

When Alma was first buried there, I remember before Jayze and I left for the Phoenix Airport to go back to Rexburg, I wanted to see him one more time. So we drove to the cemetery and, hand-in-hand, walked to where he was buried. The fresh mound of dirt was the only thing marking our baby's burial place. It was then that I realized I didn't have anything for him. No headstone, no flowers, nothing. My arms and hands felt even emptier. I had to leave some token of love for my sweet baby boy before flying miles away from him. I knelt down on the soft mound and with my finger I drew, "We love you," with a heart. It was still more difficult than I can express to walk away, but leaving something there helped.

A few days later, my parents texted and asked if they could put a small, homemade metal plate to mark Alma's graveside. That was the beginning of the outpouring of love Alma would receive on his grave.

I'm grateful for my mom and Jayze's mom who, after the first set of decorations had been up for awhile, offered to put them in a box and save them for us. When I first saw and held the decorations, I couldn't help but get teary-eyed at all the love and support. We really weren't alone, and Alma wasn't forgotten. We toted the box back with us to Rexburg and put it with Alma's other things. I knew I wanted to keep the small treasures, but I didn't want them to just sit in a box in storage. In essence, I wasn't sure what to do with them.

When we finally made it to Kansas and things settled down a little bit, I started making our little apartment into a home. We found some couches and a coffee table, Jayze assembled our black bookshelves, I arranged and re-arranged bookshelf decorations, and we worked together to fit Aidan's toddler bed and Kimball's crib in the kid's bedroom. I hung up some pictures, and organized our closets (still in the process, haha).

One day as I was organizing our front closet, I found the box full of Alma's graveside decorations again. I stopped for a minute to look through them. As I touched the leaves and flowers and picked up the figurines, the thought came to me, "Why not make a wreath?"

Background: I've wanted to make a wreath ever since Jayze and I got married and just never got around to it. I love wreaths and other door decorations because it's kind of like a, "Welcome to my home!" before stepping inside. Well, this was my perfect excuse to buy a lovely grapevine wreath (they smell sooo good) and break out the glue gun.

Once the kids went down for a nap, I pulled up Pinterest for inspiration and went to work designing my own, custom wreath. I have to admit, it was hard pulling the leaves and flowers off. I didn't want to ruin them! I prayed and crossed my fingers everything would work out.

And it did! I tied a piece of twine in a loop in the back and hung up my new wreath on my front door. I love how it turned out. It feels wonderful and makes me happy to see another touch of Alma in our home.

During the past three and a half years, I've thought many times how such a small person with such a short life could make such an impact on others...and on me. I've thought of how Alma's life has helped me pause and reflect on the sacred moments life gives us every single day. How his life has caused me to be more service-oriented and caring towards others. How his life has shown me the good in others and how willing people are to give of their time, talents, and love. How his life has taught me to love being a mother and to not take it for granted. How his life has increased my love for his siblings. It's been humbling, to say the least.

Tomorrow will be the third Thanksgiving without him. Lately, seeing Aidan play and interact more with Kimball has made me ponder what it would be like to have Alma here. I wonder what it would be like to see three of my children physically play together. I wonder what it would be like to convince two toddlers to go to bed and hear them giggle together. I wonder what it would be like to see my two older boys fawn over their baby brother.

I think that all of the wondering has brought some sadness, but it's also filled me with gratitude. I'm so grateful I've been able to have more children. And not just more children, but children HERE. Here to raise and love on. Here to teach and discipline. Here to pray, cuddle, and play with. Here to practice motherhood on.

I'm so grateful to be a mom to THREE wonderful, sweet, happy boys. I'm grateful for my marriage with Jayze. I'm grateful for the glimpses I get of Alma when they do come. I'm grateful for God's love for me. And I'm grateful that this life isn't the end.

"Regardless of our circumstances, each of us has much for which to be grateful if we will but pause and contemplate our blessings."

~ Thomas S. Monson ~ 

What Matters Most

I was out in the foyer sitting with Aidan because he had screamed yet again during Sacrament Meeting. I held him close and tried to listen to the speaker. He was telling his conversion story, and I always love hearing those. I was only able to hear bits and pieces, but one specific one that made it through caught my attention, "My mother was Catholic and always wanted her son to receive the priesthood. She passed away a few years before I joined the [LDS] Church. She was not able to be there physically when I, her son, eventually received the priesthood...but I know she was there."

That last phrase caught my attention because it was so familiar. I've heard similar phrases so many times from people about their loved ones who have passed on. Phrases like:

 "I know my mom was there at my wedding." 

"I felt my dad close by when I graduated college - one of the dreams he had for me."

"My grandpa is my guardian angel."

I've said phrases like that myself about Alma. He's been there during especially tough moments when I've wanted to give up, and he's also been there during special and sacred moments. I know I have felt him close by.

As I sat there in the foyer and thought about how people are able to feel their loved ones, who have passed on, close by (and this isn't unique just to Mormons), it occurred to me that the veil is thinner than we think. It was probably more of a reminder, but it's true! Sometimes I feel like the veil between me and God and my loved ones is a wrought-iron door, but in reality we have angels all around us. And I think that especially includes our loved ones. Sometimes it's just easy to forget as time goes by.

Because it's so easy to forget, I love moments of remembrance. The moments of silence, remembering and respecting those who have lost their lives for our country, or who lost their lives in a senseless shooting or bombing. Or at funerals and memorial services when people speak softly and reverently, trying to keep the spirit of their loved one close by as long as they can before the day-to-day distractions and hustle and bustle somehow whisk him or her away.

I love those moments because it's when people pause and...remember.

Remember their loved ones.
Remember the event.
Remember that this life is not the end.
Remember that we will get to see our loved ones again!

Ever since Alma passed away, it seemed that people wanted us to move forward...move on...get past this...heal right away...because life goes on whether you want it to or not. After someone you love dies, the world just keeps right on spinning, even though it feels like you're stuck in one spot and you're not ever going to move again. You wonder, how can the world go on and expect you to go on? People want you to be the same and are disappointed when you aren't. But how can one be the same and move on after such a life-altering experience?

The truth is, you can't.

Sometimes I get caught up in the desire to be who I was before Alma died. Retain the innocence I lost and not feel a tightening in my throat every time someone asks me how many children I have. Or be able to say without any hesitancy and a smile on my face, "Three boys," rather than having to say with a brave face, "Two boys, with their brother watching over us in heaven."

But I'll never be the same.

My life changed the minute I saw the positive sign on the pregnancy test, the first time I felt Alma kick, and the moment when the nurse couldn't find his beautiful, perfect heartbeat.

And more and more I'm realizing that it's okay that I'll never be the same.

Looking back on how much Heavenly Father has taught me and shown me, I don't want to be the same. Realizing this reminded me of the story about the class criticizing the Martin handcart company. After hearing the story a few years ago, one survivor's quote stuck with me:

"The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay, and I am thankful that I was privileged to come in the Martin Handcart Company."

("Refined in Our Trials," James E. Faust, 2006)

I've learned - and am still learning - that becoming acquainted with God is such a beautiful thing. He transforms us through our trials. Heartbreak can be a beautiful thing, because the Savior is there to heal us! He can heal any heartbreak that we encounter, and even more - he helps us along in the process.

 
President Uchtdorf told a sweet story about "Great-Aunt Rose" that touched my heart. This part stood out to me:

"Aunt Rose smiled. 'I discovered faith. And faith led to hope. And faith and hope gave me confidence that one day everything would make sense, that because of the Savior, all the wrongs would be made right. After that, I saw the path before me wasn't as dreary and dusty as I had thought. I began to notice the bright blues, the verdant greens, and the fiery reds, and I decided I had a choice - I could hang my head and drag my feet on the dusty road of self-pity, or I could have a little faith, put on a bright dress, slip on my dancing shoes, and skip down the path of life, singing as I went..."

'Faith in the Savior taught me that no matter what happened in the past, my story could have a happy ending...

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

(Revelations 21: 3-4, emphasis added)

Trying to have faith in my Savior has taught me that, like Aunt Rose and despite the tragedy of losing Alma, my story can have a happy ending. The Lord promised that very thing when He said:

"But blessed are they who are faithful and endure, whether in life or in death, for they shall inherit eternal life" (D&C 50:5).  

And that's what I want - eternal life. I want to be with my angel again. I want to hold him in my arms and experience him every.single.day. Until then, Alma helps me keep an eternal perspective. He is our angel on the other side of the veil cheering on his family. He's there encouraging us to not give up so that we can all be together as a family.

Because, really, what matters most on both sides of the veil is family.

Whether you're old, young, married, single, divorced, widowed, male, female, teenager, child...whatever...you have family rooting for you - on both sides. Angels are all around us, give them a chance. Like Aunt Rose, choose faith, hope, and confidence in the Savior, because He is the one who provided a way for us to be with our families again.

Because of Him, I'll get to see my Alma. Because of Him, all wrongs can be made right. Because of Him, all tears will be washed away. Because of Him, joy can be found in the journey now.

 

January 1, 2016