Peace

“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” John 14:7

There is so much I should be doing tonight. The kids are all in bed, Evan is at work, and the house is tornado messy. But I can't seem to do the things I need to. So here I am thinking and reading and messing around on the computer. And you will probably will just have to bear with me, because my ramblings can get lengthy.

My sister-in-law, Renae, and her sweet baby have been on extended stay at the hospital (darn those complications due to open-heart-surgery) and she is starting to feel the difficulty of being away from the rest of your family, living in RMH, spending your days at a children's hospital, and trying to get by amidst all that suffering. She emailed me and asked me this:

It's weird sometimes, Somer, how much of a bubble it is here. People, as nice and as well meaning as they are, don't have a real understanding of how it is to be here, day after day, not that it's all bad, but it's just different. It's up and down, no privacy, great stories of strength and miracles, dealing with good and not-so-good staff. You have written on your blog how your experience has changed you. How do you think you are different?

So I wrote her back and that has me thinking tonight about tragedy and life and what all that means to me.

How am I different? A lot of ways. I wouldn't say I am depressed because I am not. I still tend to have a Pollyanna-ish perspective, it's just that I seem to dwell more on the sad. I have a tendency to look for sad things. Sad stories, sad people, sad happenings. I think it is because I don't want to feel numb. I need to feel the pain and suffering that is life. I need to understand that everyone suffers and I need to think that one person, one smile, one instance makes a difference.

I hear a helicopter and my heart sinks. I see a child not buckled up and my heart sinks. Someone forgets a helmet, my heart sinks. It all adds up to the know too much about what can happen syndrome, in a hospital the what-if's are all around you. And what-if has become some one's reality.

I cry every day. Not always sad crying, and again I'm not depressed, I just need a little cry. Sometimes I cry for the person who lost or the person who gained. Sometimes I cry because of a past experience or a story I've heard. Maybe its a commercial or a kind word. Sometimes it is because I see something so miraculous, like a child being born healthy. Or learning to walk on their own.

I have realized that mourning is not just about grief over death. We mourn a lot of things. Lost experiences, hopes, dreams. Sometimes we just mourn the loss of what could have been. And that is okay. No one should ever feel bad for their grief. The problem is when we dwell in it too long. Grieving is a process and you have to move through it. Sometimes I see someone driving down the street and they look so sad, I wonder what they have lost.

Which leads to: I am more patient with others. Sometimes I play a little game of pretend (without the tiara.) I pretend that the person on the freeway that cut me off is just in hurry because their son broke his leg at soccer practice and they need to get to the hospital. Or the lady who was rude at the store just found out that her husband lost his job and she is worried about their financial situation. We are all going through things and how difficult it is for us is relative to what we know and have experienced. The parents waiting for their child who is getting ear tubes are scared too.

But I also learned that I am so strong. Those same parents could not do what you are doing right now. They haven't been through enough yet to handle it. You have been through enough, little by little, you have climbed a mountain and you aren't to the top yet. Right now you can't even see the top. But you have company along the way. Most of them can't go with you all the way, but they will walk beside you for a little while. They want to be along side you even if they don't understand the full journey. When you live amongst sadness everyday you feel so much. Take it in and let it go, don't let it overcome you, remember the miracles. Hold Avery close and know that she is why you are doing this. Have a little prayer in your heart. And know that we love you and want to be there for you. You are not alone, ever.

A very wonderful man, President Thomas S. Monson highlighted four everlasting gifts in a Christmas talk he gave years ago, and they are four gifts I am always grateful for.

First, the gift of birth. My kids mean so much to me. Their birth and the joy they each have brought to our family is immense. I don't think I will ever get over the amazement of knowing that I was able to be a part of that miracle.

Second, the gift of peace. Evan gives me so much peace. I tend to get a little heavy with thoughts and feelings and emotions. Evan and my faith are two things that keep me a little more level headed.

Third, the gift of love. How lucky am I that my first two gifts come wrapped in the third. I hope I can share that love. I hope I teach my children that love.

A bell is no bell till you ring it,
A song is no song till you sing it,
And love in your heart wasn’t put there to stay—
Love isn’t love till you give it away.

And fourth, the gift of life eternal. I was never more aware of how much this meant to me than when I faced the possibility of losing a child. “Life is God’s gift to man. What we do with our life is our gift to God.” Being a parent has been a gift, it is my life. The other stuff is just icing. Now I have to remember what it is I am to do with this gift of life.