Category Archives: Optimism

And It Came to Pass

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I have been thinking of this phrase. We had a speaker at Stake Conference a few months ago that used this phrase as a basis for his talk. It is the regular phrase of The Book of Mormon, the first words my son pretended to read when it was his turn at age 2.

I see it in terms of motherhood. A year ago in January, I had a miscarriage after a year of trying to conceive. I thought maybe I’d never have another child! And then, it came to pass, that I did get pregnant and almost four months ago it came to pass that I did have a baby. Those six extra months don’t seem like a big deal any more.

I see it in terms of happiness and priorities. I struggle with depression, and I have for just about two decades. And it came to pass that I look back now and see so many wonderful times and happy days. I don’t see the rotten, spend-the-day-crying days.

I see it in terms of learning and growing. Sometimes I wonder if I’m any closer to my Heavenly Father than I was as a missionary a decade ago. And it came to pass that I am at peace with my relationship with Heavenly Father. I see growth, especially as I revisit old journals.

And it came to pass that I got older.

It kind of saddens me if I think about this for too long, simply because I know that before I know it, I’ll be 80 years old and close to the end of my earthly life. And it will come to pass that I will look back and say to myself, “how did all these things come to pass so quickly?”

Right now the difficult days don’t always seem quick. But it surely will when I sit and look back and say, “Wow, all these wonderful things came to pass!”

I really want to treasure these days of young motherhood. They are passing so rapidly!

Labor, Naturally

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I had not been feeling well in general last weekend. Paul went to Grandma’s house until last Monday night so I kept saying to Ryan, “This would be an ideal time to have a baby!”

Sunday afternoon, partially in jest and partially with the hope that they would work, I made a batch of what I found online called “Jump Start Your Labor” Molasses Spice Cookies and ate quite a few of them. Monday, since I was without Paul, I ran some errands and, when I had extra time, I found myself walking around stores looking at baby things and hoping I would not be pregnant for another three weeks! I walked around for about an hour and a half.

Tuesday morning meant taking Paul to preschool and going to the doctor for my 39 week check up. I’d progressed a little since the previous week, and the baby was low and engaged. “We could induce you, if you’d like,” Dr. M offered.

I declined with a sigh. Much as I wanted to not be pregnant any more, I knew I wanted nature to take it’s course. Dr. M ordered an ultrasound to make sure baby was alright: I was measuring small, and at this point it’s important to make sure there is enough fluid for the baby.

By the time the ultrasound was finished, I had to pick up Paul from preschool. We had lunch, I got the blood test the doctor ordered, and then we went to a friend’s house for a play date. Around this time, Ryan called to ask if I’d mind if he joined the youth group at the temple for baptisms. I wasn’t crazy about him being gone, but I said sure, because really, it wasn’t like I was in labor or anything.

By the time the play date was over, I’d called Ryan back and told him to please not go to the temple. I just felt so off. We were nearly home when Paul reminded me that I need to stop and get milk. I cried at the thought of going back out to the store, but we did it. I bought a number of freezer meals, because let’s face it: if I felt that miserable already, how would I get through another week of pregnancy?

That night, I took a long warm bath. By ten p.m., I was noticing some light contractions but they were irregularly spaced. Ryan went to sleep by about 9. “If it happens tonight, ” he said, “I’d like to be rested.” I dozed off about 10:30.

At 12:15, I awoke to contractions again, this time about four minutes apart. They didn’t get strong, but they were consistent for more than an hour, so we called the sitter for Paul and headed out about 1:30 a.m. or so. Paul was groggy in the car to our friend’s house, but he still was awake enough to say, “It’s time?”

The ride to the hospital was about 20 minutes after we dropped off Paul. The contractions got closer together and I worried we’d make it! And then the real contractions started — a bit farther apart than the weaker ones had been — and I realized those close together ones I’d been feeling were just the beginning, and they were nothing compared to the real thing. I have a bad memory.

At any rate, I labored in the hospital for three hours with regular painful contractions. Ryan was a saint, much as he was last time. He just kept me going through each contraction. “One at a time,” he said. Each one was bad, but then there would be a respite before the next. I was going to make it! This time, I did manage to walk the room a little, to bounce on a labor ball, and otherwise not remain on the bed as I had when I was laboring with Paul.

I was 5 or 6 cm at 5 a.m., and I couldn’t stand the thought that I’d be there for so many more hours to get this baby out! That next hour had some of the most horrible contractions but it was worth it, I suppose, because by 6 a.m. I was complete! Nearly there. We had no idea.

The nurse called my doctor (Dr. C was on call, not Dr. M) and said “come quickly.” Almost immediately, at about 6:05, my water broke (finally!) and I knew it was time to push a baby out. The nurses kept asking me to not push, to wait for my doctor, and I would have none of that.

I have, apparently, false memories of this part: I recall totally losing it. I was yelling at everyone to get the baby out and I didn’t care who took the baby out just do it! I was screaming that I couldn’t move, that I couldn’t stop pushing, that the people there were not listening to me. I don’t remember what I said, I just remember knowing that I couldn’t stop the inevitable! Ryan says I wasn’t that bad in my yelling, and that I seemed fully in control. I remember feeling completely out of control.

At any rate, my doctor got there about 6:15 and by 6:25, I had delivered a newborn baby. I can’t say I felt like dancing out of the room as I recall feeling about delivering Paul: I was pretty sore and I also was rather groggy from being up all night long. But I still felt that rush of accomplishment in knowing I’d made it through naturally again. Of course, labor was half as long as it had been with Paul. I suppose that helps. But I did leave the delivery room thinking “That wasn’t so bad.”  And really, it wasn’t!

Dr. M stopped by on his morning rounds at about 8:30 when I was still in the delivery room. He said, “Well, you were right: you wanted nature to take it’s course!” It seemed quite strange to me to think that less than 24 hours earlier, I’d been in the office dreading the thought of being pregnant another three weeks!

 

 

“Why Is the Flag Coming Down?”

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Paul asked me this as we passed a flag on our way to church this morning. I told him that ten years ago today some bad men stole an airplane and killed a lot of people. We fly the flag half way up to remember that lots of people died.

“Who were the people that died?” he responded. “Tell me their names.”

I didn’t have any names for him. I didn’t, in fact, know any of the 3,000 people who died that day. I didn’t even see the television coverage until after I returned home from campus a few hours after the fact. I found out about the towers as I walked in to my economics class at 9 a.m. Mountain Time, just 20 minutes after I’d finished reading the New York Times and heading out for class.

It struck me, though, that his first reaction is to connect with the people who died. He could have said, “Why would bad men do that?” but no, he knows that some people are bad in the world. He just wanted to remember along with me and all the others that put our flag at half mast. I had just told him that we lower the flag to remember. He was remembering through me.

(Ten years is, he informed me a few days ago, the definition of “old.” One is not “old” until they are ten. Then they are old. He is still not old. Apparently, the attacks in NYC are now “old.”)

It was somewhat reassuring that this year I didn’t have to have a discussion with him about the bad people. “Terrorist” is still not in his vocabulary. But “remember” is. We can all do that each September 11. Let’s focus on the good. Let’s remember.

 

Peace and Quiet

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“If there are to be constant and bitter recriminations over the state of the house, better, for the man’s sake, the children’s sake and the woman’s sake, a dingy room where peace and quiet are than a spotless abode where no love is.”

Chapter 2, Round about a Pound a Week by Maude Pember Reeves, 1914.

This book is a report on 42 working-class families in 1910 Lambeth (England) who pay rent, eat, and stay clothed on one pound a week and with up to 10 children in the early 1910s. (That’s about $120 US in 2010 equivalent, or about $6200 a year). Book available at Internet Archive.

Read it and you’ll never feed your son a banana or have a glass of milk without remembering it. You are rich as a queen, my friends!

“And She Ministered Unto Them”: Thoughts on Work and Life

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Peter’s wife’s mother was sick with a fever. The Savior came in and healed her, “and she arose, and ministered unto them.” (Matthew 8:14-15).

The Sunday school class last week was discussing the miracle of raising her from her sick bed. I was thinking about how she didn’t even get a break. One minute she’s sick in bed, and the next minute she’s making supper. She was probably the Relief Society president, poor lady.

That observation about the women in the New Testament times has been with me as I’ve gone about my week, because it’s not just New Testament times. Women simply don’t get a break from life: there is no running away. I think of when I’ve been sick and Paul hit me with his toys all day long. I think of when I’m in a cranky mood. I can’t just stomp, because I have to remember that Paul has needs. Even when I’m away at book club, I’m still thinking “I wonder if Paul’s in bed yet, otherwise he’ll be cranky tomorrow,” etc. Mothers never get time off. It’s the way it is. “Women should be women and not babies who need petting and correction all the time.”

The Relief Society Visiting teaching thoughts reminded me of the role I have, as a Relief Society sister, in this age:

“Just as the Savior invited Mary and Martha of New Testament times to participate in His work, women of this dispensation have an official commission to participate in the Lord’s work. … The organization of Relief Society in 1842 mobilized the collective power of the women and their specific assignments to build the Lord’s kingdom.” (Sister Beck)

Then, this afternoon, Ryan asked me about the cup of syrup spilled on the bottom of the fridge. I was a bit annoyed, angry, and upset. Yes, far too much. I didn’t want to clean that up. I want nothing to do with cleaning up that sticky mess. Grr! I didn’t knock it over! Yuck! What a pain! I just cleaned the fridge last week!

Less than ten minutes later, Ryan and I had a conversation about when I almost died, almost ten years ago now.

One minute I was eating a slice of meat in a café in Bolivia, not thinking much about life, and the next minute I was turning blue, literally choking from want of air. There was panic initially, but then an overwhelming feeling of sadness came over me. Mostly, I was sad to be leaving the world. I thought of all the wonderful things I’d experienced. Even more, I thought of all I had hoped to happen in my life: falling in love, becoming a mother, and seeing my parents and siblings again, telling them I love them. I wanted one more chance to do something wonderful. I didn’t want my physical body to be dead.

Why was I so incredibly sad? After all, life continues after this one. Why should I be sad when I knew I’d have chances, at some point after this life, to marry, to raise children, and to otherwise continue to progress? Why be sad at the fact that I was done with this life when I’d be soon rejoining the Maker in an even more glorious world? The life after this one is glorious, and this life is rather hard.

But when I got that precious little breath of air once more, about 3½ minutes later, and I realized that I wasn’t going die, that I was okay, that I would make it home again! That I might still fall in love! Be a mother! LIVE! I was so grateful.

So I should not complain so much now. I shouldn’t be so annoyed at the spilled syrup. (All. Over. The. Fridge.) I should be grateful I’m still alive, that I’ve lived to have a husband, and a son, and a home, and a fridge, and maple syrup to clean up.

That, I think, is why Peter’s mother-in-law was so grateful to get right back up and serve the Lord. And that is why we, as women, should likewise rejoice in service. These relationships and opportunities are just what we are here on earth to do.

Today’s Relief Society lesson was also about the glorious principle of work: why should we as home-working women, resent the housework so much?

I need to remember that memorable bite more often. Life is so glorious!

P.S. The photo above is from the horseback ride we went on shortly after my experience. I didn’t take the picture, since my camera had been stolen; one of my friends took this picture.

P.P.S. The Heimlich Maneuver works, if you wanted to know. Please learn it!

Mental Illness and the Gospel

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I have written a number of posts in my head in the past month, but none of them have made it to this webpage yet. Before I get to those, however, there is something that I’d really like to write.

The subject in sacrament meeting yesterday was hope and joy in the gospel, or something along those lines.

(To preface this post, I admit I only heard about half of the talk because I was in and out with Paul, who hit his head right in the middle of the meeting and was rather touchy. This is a reflection on the part of the talk that I did hear.)

The second speaker began by telling about seven different people he knew in his life that had committed suicide. (Yes, seven. That seems rather high to me.) Then he said (and I paraphrase), “On the other hand, I don’t know of anyone in the church that has committed suicide. That’s because the gospel brings so much joy…. If anyone here has those thoughts of suicide, I urge you to pray them away.”

Then he went on to talk about how the gospel makes everything all better when things are hard. Because it brings us joy.

I was in shock. I could not believe he said “pray them away” from the pulpit! He revealed not just his own ignorance of mental illness but also the gospel.

Mental illnesses, such as depression, are not prayed away.

Sure, prayer can help you when you are depressed or sad. But, while I’m not a mental health expert, I do know that real mental illness in the form of severe, suicidal depression is not solved completely by prayer. It’s like telling someone with cancer to “pray it away.” Talk about setting yourself up for failure!

It is okay to have real feelings. The gospel brings joy, but it does not erase real struggles and disease. Sometimes prayer is not enough. Saying that does not mean I don’t have faith. Accepting that does not mean that you don’t have enough faith. It means you accept the reality of (1) mental illness and (2) the gospel plan of Heavenly Father. Prayer might help ease depression, but it might not. If you are seriously feeling suicidal, get help!

Further, the gospel is not a “cure all” to real disease and real struggle. Members of the church get depressed just as non-members get depressed. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mormon women (particularly stay-at-home Mormon mothers) struggle with more depression than non-Mormon women, simply because they feel the urge to be “perfect” and they think every wrong choice their children make is a reflection on them. (Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6) Or because Relief Society seems to be full of apparently “perfect” mothers with five children when they are obviously struggling with their two children. Or because their husband is in the bishopric (or working many many hours a day or traveling a lot, etc.) and they are raising the child(ren) essentially alone. Or because they have financial problems and tithing is really really hard to pay this month….and so forth.

The reasons Mormon women feel depressed are just as valid as the reasons non-Mormon women feel depressed. Being a member of the true church of Jesus Christ on the earth does not give you a “Get Out of Depression Free” card. You have to face things that come, just as everyone else on earth does.

In case you don’t believe me, here’s Alexander B. Morrison:

It is important to understand, however, that happiness does not imply the absence of adversity. Every individual experiences temptation, opposition, and trials that test faith and endurance: “For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things” (2 Ne. 2:11).

This is what I wished the Bishop said at the end of the meeting  (This what I would have liked to have said, at least.):

I want to add my testimony that the gospel adds joy. The good news of the gospel is that because of Jesus Christ, we all can have hope. We know we can all be forgiven when we do wrong. We can all be strengthened when we have discouragement.

Besides that, I know that the gospel also provides a wonderful support system. Sometimes our struggles seem to get the best of us. Turn to your home teachers or visiting teachers if you need help. If you don’t feel comfortable turning to them, turn to me [your bishop]. Prayer can help us find joy in our life, but sometimes we need a lifeline too. The church can help you. I want to reiterate what Brother ____ said. If you are feeling depressed and having thoughts of suicide, certainly pray, but also come talk to me [your bishop] or a mental health professional. We can work through depression together.

LDS-approved articles about depression and mental illness from the last four years: (Note: None of these say “pray it away” as the main tool.)

I realize that the brother who spoke is imperfect, just as I am. His sacrament meeting talk is imperfect, just as my talk will be imperfect. This gospel is a gospel of self-improvement, and thanks to the wonderful Atonement of Christ, one of hope and progression. But when he said what he said, I realized that this ignorance to mental illness is something I’d like to fight against. My blog seems like a perfect place for doing so. Thanks for listening.

Not Alone

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True response to Sunday Scribblings prompt: Guide

I grasped the robe. The volunteer secured the blindfold and nudged me forward.

I stepped tentatively in the dark. Then I heard the voice.

“Let go of the rope!”

I knew the voice: a teenager a few years older than me. He was supposed to make this harder. Another voice joined his.

“Come here! What’re you doing? Where do you think you’re going?”

I’d known they’d try to distract me, and yet I felt disoriented hearing them while blindfolded.

“Let go of the rope and come here!”

“This is where you want to be!”

I held on and stepped forward, ducking beneath a branch and nearly stumbling on a log.

Then I heard another voice: “Rose.”

Rose, my middle name. Only one person called me Rose: my bishop. My heart calmed.

“There’s another log; step more to the left.”

I felt it and stepped around it. The other voices still called, but I didn’t hear them.

“Don’t let go of the rope.”

I held on and walked forward. Then the rope led to two new ropes: one going one way, one the other.

“Choose the rope on the right.”

I followed the rope on the right.

Soon it was over. Taking off the blindfold, I turned to where the voice had been, but my bishop had gone to help the next person.

As my bishop was my guide on the obstacle course, so God provides me a guide on my daily course: His Holy Ghost, a quiet but sturdy, familiar voice amidst the chaos.

When I first heard the prompt “Guide” I tried to think of something more “secular,” but this experience and sentiment kept returning. It reinforces what I said in the About page to this website: my religion is an incredibly important part of my life, and as such, I can’t separate it from my writing.