Turning

For the last 2+ years I feel like I've only been going through the motions of believing the gospel. I've gone to church, said my prayers and been decent at reading the scriptures. I've read and prayed with my kids, fulfilled my church callings and participated in church meetings. I've shared head knowledge, or what I once firmly believed, but felt like a fake even as I shared. But something has been missing, and I'm pretty sure it's been the Spirit.

When Mom decided to go on hospice care I unknowingly started to sever my ties to deity. When she died I tried to turn to God, but couldn't. I tried to take comfort in temple covenants, but the hurt was too new, too raw, and I was too angry.

The anger and raw pain have subsided over the last 2 years, leaving a dull ache that flares up at times, but I still haven't repaired my severed relationship with God. Over the last few months I've felt a gentle pull to turn to Him, but not until last night could I identify my feelings.

Stephen and I went to the adult session of stake conference, where 2 speakers told their conversion stories, then others spoke on repentance. They were nice talks, but I didn't let them get through to me. Finally, our stake president spoke. He quoted President Uchtdorf's April 2016 talk about the Good Shepherd.

"What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?

"And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing."

I felt at that moment that, right now, I am the one lost. What a realization!

"Our Savior, the Good Shepherd, knows and loves us. He knows and loves you.

"He knows when you are lost, and He knows where you are. He knows your grief. Your silent pleadings. Your fears. Your tears."

"It matters not how you became lost--whether because of your own poor choices or because of circumstances beyond your control.

"What matters is that you are His child. and He loves you. He loves His children."

Now that I know I'm lost, I have a very important choice to make. Do I want to be found? Or do I want to keep floundering on my own? I haven't enjoyed just going through the motions without feeling connected to my Savior, but have kept going on my own anyhow. I'm no longer angry, just lonely and sad. I think I have the broken heart necessary to humble myself...but where do I even start?

I read the rest of President Uchtdorf's talk this morning, and thankfully, he had some insights for me.

"'Turn...to me.'

"'Come unto me.'

"'Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you.'

"This is how we show Him that we want to be rescued.

"It requires a little faith. But do not despair. If you cannot muster faith right now, begin with hope.

"If you cannot say you know God is there, you can hope that He is. You can desire to believe. That is enough to start.

"Then, acting on that hope, reach out to Heavenly Father. God will extend His love toward you, and His work of rescue and transformation will begin.

"Over time, you will recognize His hand in your life. You will feel His love. And the desire to walk in His light and follow His way will grow with every step of faith you take."

I really enjoyed our stake conference today--the first time I've really enjoyed a church meeting in a long time. I think it was because I'm finally receptive to feeling the Spirit. It's been a long time that I just haven't wanted to feel anything--to open myself up to feeling God's love--even though it's what I've needed...and known that I've needed. I just haven't wanted it enough to open myself up. But I think I am ready now. 

"You may be afraid, angry, grieving, or tortured by doubt. But just as the Good Shepherd finds His lost sheep, if you will only lift up your heart to the Savior of the world, He will find you.

"He will rescue you.

"He will lift you up and place you on His shoulders.

"He will carry you home.

"...we can have confidence and trust that our loving Heavenly Father can and will rebuild us. His plan is to build us into something far greater than what we were--far greater than what we can ever imagine."

Well, here I go...turning to the Savior and trusting--hoping--his promises are sure. 

Easter Sunday

This morning I woke up crying. Thinking about what Christ's resurrection means to me brought on a barrage of emotions that I wasn't prepared for. Because He lives, I can be with my family forever--a thought which brings great happiness and peace to me. But that thought also reminds me that I am not with all of those that I love right now. And that thought brings me a sorrow that, even while I have hope and faith, makes the tears flow.

All morning long I debated whether or not I would go to church--I couldn't decide which would be worse, staying at home with too much time to think or hearing people's testimonies of how we can be together in eternity because of Christ's Atonement (because I'd just cry the whole time). As I walked down to take care of the chickens I had the thought that it would be just fine to stay home--there was no shame in taking time for myself.

So I sent everyone except Ruthie off to church, and decided that even though I'm sad, I'm still going to take care of myself--not just lounge around in my pjs all morning. Ruth was happily pushing a stool around the house, so I decided to sneak in a quick shower. No sooner than I got in than Ruth crawled into the bathroom, sat outside the shower and cried like her heart was breaking. For the whole. Shower.

It got me thinking--all that was separating us was a shower curtain. But Ruthie couldn't see me or be with me, and that was all she wanted. She wanted me. Not the knowledge that I was so close. Not hearing my disembodied voice. She just wanted me--my physical presence, my hugs, my comfort.

Sad Ruthie!

I guess that's what I want today, too. My pain isn't overwhelming or incapacitating, but it is real and it is there. So I'm going to let myself feel it and embrace it today. And then I'll come out of it again--because of my hope and faith in my Savior. Because through Him I know I'll be with Mom again. I still hurt, but I also have hope.

Griefburst

For the last 8 weeks I've been attending a Hospice group for the bereaved. It has been absolutely wonderful for me. There are about 13 of us with 5 co-facilitators, and we have grown pretty close over the weeks. At first there were lots and lots of tears, and I kept my head down most of the time, but over the weeks of mourning together we have started laughing more--it has been a transformational experience for me.

Anyhow, we use a book called, "Understanding Your Grief: Ten Touchstones For Finding Hope and Healing Your Heart" by Alan Wolfelt. In it, the author talks about "griefbursts"--times when an uncontrollable sense of grief overcomes you, often out of the blue. Well, I had one today. What triggered it? My wonderful 13-year-old daughter acting like a 13-year-old. (Imagine that!)

Last night Elise went to a ballet performance and didn't get home until 10 p.m. At 10:30 I went down to check on everybody, and her light was still on. She had dance this morning beginning at 8:30, and when Elise doesn't get enough sleep she is (like her mother) grumpy. Sure enough, this afternoon while cleaning the house (our Thursday afternoon activity) she was tired and grumpy. And I was annoyed. Why hadn't she figured out (I've certainly reminder her enough times!) that she needs to get more sleep or she's ornery?!?

At that moment I remembered when I used to spend the night at Apryl's house and, inevitably, would be grumpy the next day. Mom would threaten no more sleep-overs if I couldn't be nice the day after, and I would think how unfair she was and that I certainly wasn't being grumpy, and why was everyone acting so awfully towards me?

And then the tears started. I just wanted to call Mom and tell her about Elise and ask for her advice. She'd laugh and laugh, and soon I'd be laughing, too, a little abashed that that is exactly how I used to act, but anxious for Mom to remind me how wonderful daughters are, even when they are 13 (or 35) and tired and grumpy and completely irrational.

There is no one quite like a mother. No one who knows your ins and outs and sadness and triumphs (because it's never bragging when you tell your mother!) and even when she doesn't agree with you, loves and trusts you.

Mom's passing and today

My mom died on January 7, 2015, after fighting an aggressive ampulary cancer since February 2013. She tried diet change, chemo, alternative treatments. We all prayed and fasted and plead with the Lord. In fact, she said that if she was to die from the cancer it must be God's will, because there were too many faithful people praying for a miracle for her. And she believed in a God of miracles.

The last two years were filled with hope and then despair and then hope again. I call what I experienced anticipatory grieving, but tried to be hopeful and believe in miracles throughout. Sometimes I miserably failed, and it was hard to be optimistic like Mom was.

I talked with her the Saturday before she died. It was the last time she was coherent. She said she was just so tired, and ready to go. She didn't want any more pain and any more waiting. She was ready. She'd said her goodbyes and didn't want to keep saying them.

The next day she stopped talking, and Brett and Dad moved her to the hospital bed they'd set up in the office, by the window so that she could look out over the filberts. Brett said that they could tell she didn't want to be there, but they insisted it was time.

The kids and I skyped with her a couple of times on Monday; Trevor was there with her and joking around. Sometimes she would squeeze his hand and he'd tell us she liked what we were doing. She'd fall asleep while we were singing or talking, so Trev would call us back when she woke up. I called again on Tuesday, but by that point she was completely out of it.

She died about 2 a.m. Wednesday morning. Ruth was born at 12:47 a.m. two weeks later, another Wednesday. I think Mom was there with me the last little while, when I was pretty sure I couldn't have that baby.

I talked with Aunt Lisa (Mom's sister) in July, and learned some details I hadn't known before. Aunt Lisa had planned to come visit the weekend following Mom's passing, but moved up the date when Aunt Lori (another sister) told her it was probably now or never. Aunt Lisa said that was one of the best decisions she's ever made. She and Lori took turns sitting with Mom when Dad was resting, and they were both with her when she passed.

Aunt Lisa said it was so peaceful and reverent. One second she was there, the next she was gone. She just quietly slipped away.

I like to think that there were hundreds or maybe thousands of people waiting to greet her--from her mom, my beloved grandma, to her grandparents and great-grandparents to the myriads of people she discovered through family history and temple work. She served so many! I'll bet they were so happy and excited to meet her--I know she was excited to meet them!

I mourn for me. I mourn for my kids, who will never know their Grammy like I knew my grandma. I mourn the times we would have spent together, the babies I never got to see her meet. I mourn the time I thought we would have. I mourn no more phone calls and encouraging words. I mourn her laughing at my stories and getting me to see the humor in the situations. I mourn no more emails or visits. No more baby quilts or garage sale-ing. No more walks and talks. No more bouncing ideas off of her...

Dad gave me her scriptures and journals. I tried to open the journals a month or so ago, but just couldn't do it. I've managed to use her scriptures a few times--I hear her voice when I read her notes in the margins, and know she would be so excited for my calling of Gospel Doctrine teacher.

All the family was together at Thanksgiving, where Mom gave us each a copy of some things she'd put together--her testimony, things she wanted us to know and stories from her journals. I tried to read them then, honestly I did, but I wasn't able to until months after her passing.

After she passed I had an overwhelming show of love extended to me. Mom's friends and Stephen's family sent me cards and flowers. My pseudo-sister Mel drew a beautiful picture of Mom holding Ruth. I still haven't read the cards, and even though Elise put the picture on our mantel, I still can't look at it.

I met with a grief counselor at Hospice this last week. She gave me some ideas on how to take baby steps to help me through grief--there is no way around it. It was so good to talk to someone who actually understood me and my pain and my grief. She listened and validated my feelings and gave me gentle suggestions so that I can keep moving forward and not get stuck in my anguish.

Last Wednesday I had scary thoughts like I just wanted to be with Mom and not be here anymore. My practical side knew that was wrong--too many people need me here--but my soul was ripping apart with pain and sadness.

Susan, the grief counselor, told me that hard days are normal, but the goal is that they decrease in intensity and frequency. That has been happening, so that's good. Baby steps forward, a few back, but overall the goal is forward motion.

For me that means re-establishing connections that I have let slide. With my Dad, with my brothers, with my aunts. I'd like to start talking with them again, but am apprehensive about how to start up again. Susan said to give myself time, and have a Plan B in case I can't handle something once we start talking. That not being able to handle things is okay, but not to let myself get stuck there. Days where I feel like doing nothing are okay, but they should be decreasing in frequency.

I need to let myself run the gamut of my emotions, and be honest with myself and those around me. I think I'm actually pretty good about that in my immediate family, and there are some close friends with whom I can also be perfectly honest.

In fact, last week, on my hard day, I texted Sandy (who lost a baby about 10 years ago). I asked her if she ever just wanted to join Aryn and not be here any more. She said yes. I felt so much better knowing I'm not alone in my feelings. Though that is kind of selfish, because it means someone else feels terrible, and I really don't want that.

Writing all of this was part of what I decided to do to help me--one of the thoughts I had while talking with Susan. I think Mom would approve.

Missing Mom

Some days I just really, really miss my mom. Yesterday was one of those days. It started off innocently enough--Stephen finished a "honey-do" item that has been on the list for a year or so. The project was replacing our passenger-side mirror that got pretty beat up when Mom was backing out of the garage. As in, being held on with duct tape. When Mom got home she sent a check so we could get it fixed...probably not thinking it would be over a year later...

Anyhow, when Stephen finished it he walked in the house and proclaimed, "Karin, wherever you are, we finally replaced that mirror!" And I started crying.

I continued to cry--seeing her coat hanging in the closet...watching Ruthie playing on the last quilt she made...pulling out Elise's camp quilt that Mom made--we tied it together when I visited last April when she was in chemo...thinking of how the 4th of July just won't seem the same without her at the farm party...seeing her star quilt and remembering the picture at Mormor's funeral of she and Mom wrapped in it together, smiling...cutting apple slices, like she always did, for my kids during a movie...playing songs she loved on the piano...so many happy memories, without the hope of making more in the future.

I think I'm a little extra emotional lately anyhow, what with the upcoming move, leaving friends, and having my two oldest kids off on adventures. Sometimes I try to numb myself to the ache by watching dumb shows on Netflix or staying really busy, but then all the pushing away catches up to me, and I just cry. I like to think of myself as having the "gift of weeping", to quote Marvin J. Ashton.

I had a...I don't know what word to use--wonderful? sad? happy?--talk with my mom's sister, my Aunt Lisa, last Sunday. It really was all of those words. We laughed, we cried, we talked about dogs and kids and travel and thank-you notes and my mom. She was there when my mom passed, so I got to hear how that all happened--I had never known. There is a peace in knowing how death came to her, quietly and peacefully, with those she loved so nearby.

Aunt Lisa lost her mom, my beloved grandma, 4 years ago. She told me that while the ache never quite goes away, the acute pain does subside. She said that now she and my other aunts and uncles can sit around and talk about grandma without bursting into tears--they can remember the fun and laughter without so much heartache.

I love you, Mom. I wish I could see you with me--so I could share stories and experiences and watch you watch my kids (and me) grow up. I wish my kids could know you like I knew Grandma.

'Til we meet again.

 (pictures from May 2014)

My mom

I have started this post so many times, but rarely get past the first few sentences. How do I write that my mom is dying? Because putting it in cold, hard words makes it real. And yet, it doesn't change the facts: it's looking like she has less than 2 weeks left on this earth.

That is hard. Impossibly difficult. Soul wrenching.

I burst into tears at times I least expect it. Little Trevor runs for his blanky every time, rushing to bring it back to me and wipe my tears and do a silly dance to make me smile. When we told the kids the news on Saturday there were a lot of tears, and Trevor gave his blanky to Elise to wipe hers. Along with shedding their own tears, my kids comfort me with hugs and prayers.

I said my goodbyes to Mom on Saturday night. She is ready to move on. In fact, my dad said "She just wishes that the next time she wakes up she would be free from this vale of tears." That's essentially what she told me on the phone - this last stage of dying is really just dragging on. She feels like she is done here - ready for the next stage in her eternal life.

As weird as that was to talk about, I'm glad I know she feels that way. It is comforting that she isn't fearful or dreading the future, but can look forward with perfect faith and confidence and peace.

I don't cry because I don't have faith in temple covenants and the sealing power or in Jesus Christ's power to save. I do have that faith. I'm not worried about where she is going - she gets to be with Grandma and her grandparents and countless other people whose temple work she has done. I believe that.

I cry because I am going to miss her terribly. I'll miss being able to call her up to tell her a funny story about one of the kids, or because I need help with a recipe, or need advice. I'll miss her not being here when my daughter is born, or showing off pictures of her darling grandkids. I cry because I won't be able to be at the funeral.

So when people try to comfort me in my times of extreme sadness, reminding me of the plan of salvation doesn't help. I believe it. Telling me she will soon be free from pain doesn't help. I know that. Neither does the fact that I will see her again or she is in a better place or it is just us who are left behind who mourn. I've got that.

But losing a parent sucks. It just does. No two ways around it. And right now I just need to grieve and cry and be sad and not do my dishes sometimes. I don't know when my weepiness will pass. I'm told it does, and I'm not one to wallow in misery, so I'm sure it will. I don't always cry, but my tears are frequently near the surface, and I never know when they will start.

So please, please be patient with me as I mourn.

How I'm doing

Today was a great day. Yesterday wasn't so hot, but I guess what I'm feeling is normal--the ups and downs and unproductive days mixed in with my normal cheerful productiveness. My kids are so sweet--in perfect sincerity they each asked me sometime today how I was really doing. Mason, when I was tucking him in, asked me, and commented that this morning started off rough, but I seemed to be much happier in the afternoon. I love that they notice things like that, and take the time to check in on me. :) 


I've decided that trying to hide my feelings and why I'm acting so irregularly isn't good for me, and that it is okay for them to see me struggle. Giving myself permission to not be perfect has been very freeing for me since my downs are further down than normal.

I've also started really answering people when they ask how I'm doing or how my mom is doing. Because frankly, I'm sad and scared and worried and I need people to talk to to help me make it through this--but I am okay because I am going to make it through this. 

My mom is still in the hospital (since Monday) due to a doctor's mistake that caused a lung to collapse, but she should be home tomorrow. She'll start chemo in a couple of days and we are all anxious about what that will do to her. 

Saying things like that out loud to people who care is painfully healing. To actually say the words is scary because it makes them more real, but it is wonderful to know that people really truly care and will let me cry when I need to cry. I feel closer to everyone with whom I share my real feelings. 

I've also decided that I'm just going to cry sometimes. The more I try to hold in my tears the more scrunched up my face gets, and I don't want it to get stuck that way. :) So I just let the tears roll. It's wonderful how loving and understanding people are!

Slump

From Dr. Seuss:

Wherever you fly, you'll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don't.
Because, sometimes, you won't.

I'm sorry to say so
but, sadly, it's true
that Bang-ups
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You'll be left in a Lurch.

You'll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you'll be in a Slump.

And when you're in a Slump, 
you're not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.

For the last couple of weeks I have been in a Slump. Nutcracker is over, Gifts of the Heart is over, my mom is sick and I am most assuredly in a Slump. Sleeping in, wasting time on Facebook, reading brain candy books, letting the laundry pile up, staying up late watching shows, saying "sorry I can't do that" too often. Not award-winning behavior, especially for a homeschooling mother. :)

As I was thinking about my Slump today I decided there are a couple of reasons why I'm here. One is simply that I don't have any looming big projects, and I am recovering from my most recent projects. The other is the news about my mom.

I think I am trying to keep myself from thinking. Because if I sit and think about what could happen I start to get all weepy, and I hate being weepy. It's so much easier to not have to use my brain at all, and goodness knows there are plenty of things waiting to waste away my time!

NO! 
That's not for you!

Somehow you'll escape 
all that waiting and staying.
You'll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

On and on you will hike.
And I know you'll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

This week my goal is to do that: to face up to my problems, whatever they are. To give myself permission to think about the worst-case scenario and accept that it might happen. To pull myself out of this Slump and start accomplishing things again. To look beyond myself and see what those around me need.

So...be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray 
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,
you're off to Great Places! Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So...get on your way!