For This Child I Prayed

I don't usually teach Gospel Doctrine, so when I have to substitute for my brother's class, I tend to over-prepare. I'll be the first to admit I'm a little intimidated by the breadth of material covered by these Old Testament lessons, and heaven forbid I should disprove my know-it-all reputation by failing to cross-reference every footnote in the reading material.

I began preparing for a lesson on the later chapters of 1 Samuel by reading Hannah's story at the beginning of the book. It had been a rough day with the boys, especially G-Dog. Though he is a twin, he is still consistently dominant and takes on the role of oldest child. He tends to amplify the intensity of any situation, good or bad: when things are going well, he thrives on the praise he receives for his good choices, but when we're at odds, he has a tendency to keep pushing until one or both of us spirals out of control. I am the adult. I should not lose it, but the reality is that sometimes I lose my cool and it's almost always over something G-Dog has done, or won't do, or won't stop doing. I am not proud of this.

I have always felt a certain kinship with the many infertile women of the Old Testament, and found a certain solace in the use of barrenness as a metaphor, but I had never taken notice of Hannah before. After enduring years of childlessness, she pleads for a son, vowing to give him to the Lord. The Lord opens her womb, and after her Samuel is weaned, she delivers him to Eli at the temple so that he might be trained in the ways of the Priesthood.

She says: "For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him: Therefore also I have lent him to the Lord; as long as he liveth he shall be lent to the Lord. And he worshipped the Lord there." (See 1 Samuel 1:27-28)

I got hung up on that first verse: "For this child I prayed: and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him."

And I could not help thinking of G-Dog. For this child, I prayed. For this child, I begged, pleaded, bargained, wept, despaired. For this child, I endured needles, probes, surgeries, heartache, frustration, desolation, drugs, pain, and indignities. And the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him.

And then I heard a voice. "He is mine," it said. "He is mine." I knew then that this child, who is my toughest, who is a challenge harder to handle than the seven years of infertility we endured before he was born, is loved, watched, cradled, cherished by the Lord.

I am now exactly where I wanted to be: my babies all slumbering in the next rooms, husband asleep at my side, life full of people I love and time occupied by worthy projects. And yet. Time and again those things are not enough to motivate me to choose better. To be better.

This child -- all of these children -- lent to me but for a short space, are my teachers more than I am theirs. I wonder that their noble spirits were given to me, a most unworthy mother, and pray that this petition, too, will be heard by the Lord: that I will be equal to the challenge. That I will not damage them with my lack of patience. That I will be humbled -- finally, by strong-willed children who can teach me to rely on the Lord more than I have ever had to. That we may all grow together. That I can be like Hannah, and recognize in my little ones the spark of divine.

On being judgmental, from all directions

I have the opposite of writer's block: there are so many things I want to write about that I can't nail one down enough to focus on it. Obviously, the best course of action here is to ignore all of those ideas that have been demanding front row cerebral space for the past three months and go with something brand new. So that's where we are.

Many of you know I have a sister. MommyJ is my dearest friend. In a perfect world, we would live next door to one another, our homes only separated by a gigantic shared walk-in closet. (Except for the blue jeans. Those, we don't share.) We were not close growing up -- I'm 4+ years older, and we were both bratty in very different ways. Our interests were vastly different, as were our approaches to life in general. I think, then, we looked at each other through carnival mirrors, each convinced the other was the one with the skewed perspective of reality. And the cuter figure. (We may have both been right, on both points.) We grew into a friendship that has ended up being the key to my sanity on my worst days, and a great source of joy and delight on all the other ones.

Over the past couple of days, MommyJ has engaged in an exchange of sorts with an acquaintance and MommyJ has been unfairly judged. This woman has made assumptions about MommyJ's life that imply the only reason it's so good is because she hasn't come up against any real trials -- yet. And she seems to watch MommyJ's little family just waiting for life to smack my baby sister in the face. What would you wish for, my friend? Do you actually hope for sickness, disease, disability? Are you waiting for her kids to hit puberty and fall off the deep end? How about job loss, or the death of a loved one? Legal troubles? A secret drug habit, or infidelity?

I do not understand why we all feel so strongly the need to measure our trials against another's. How can we assume that we all must endure exactly the same experiences in order to learn the same lessons? Surely the Lord does not mean for us to live our lives waiting for the other shoe to drop. There is no joy in that!

Here's the thing: we try so hard not to judge people who are going through difficult experiences. Sometimes, those challenging circumstances are the direct result of poor choices made by those involved. But sometimes, bad things just happen. This doctrine of not judging is preached a lot these days. But if it is true, the opposite must also be true: sometimes really great circumstances are the direct result of good choices made by those involved. And sometimes, good things just happen. But the good circumstances are not finite, handed out to others with none left for some at the end of the day. 

Sometimes, we endure trials very publicly. I think of so many of you out there who have children born with serious disabilities. Those trials are hard, in part, because they are out there for the world to see, and how you deal with them becomes a very public thing. Other times, we overcome private, painful trials one on one with the Lord, and these may be the hardest lessons of all.

When MommyJ became pregnant with Jordan, her first, CPod and I were three years into a seven year dose of infertility. I was happy, because she was happy, but her happiness was a little clouded. Every time someone who knew both of us found out she was expecting, they qualified their happiness for her by saying, "This must just be so hard for your sister." Even our mom was a little afraid of how I might react. But MommyJ didn't take a baby away from me. She gave me a nephew! To this day, I thank the Lord that I was able to share in MommyJ's joy and separate it from my own personal heartache. I would have been without a valuable source of support and love through some of my darkest days had I counted her blessings as black marks against my own.

Here's my long-winded point: please don't compare your trials to those of anyone else. The comparison does nothing for you but drive a wedge between you and somebody who might actually be able to help you through it.Please don't try to qualify the spiritual merit of another's experience based on the outward appearance of their current circumstances. You have no way of knowing what private struggles they may face, or what demons may have already been overcome. Do not discredit another person's methods because your experience yielded a different result. Remember that when all is said and done, you will only be judged against your own potential, so to compare yourself to others in the here and now is fruitless and counterproductive -- and a really quick trip down the path of self-condemned inadequacy.

(And please don't hold this post against me. It's not exactly my most organized and thorough composition.)

Reason.

Have you ever heard anyone say, in explanation for some plight that had befallen them, "Everything happens for a reason"? I have. They are always right, because everything does happen for a reason . . . sometimes the reason is that you're stupid. And sometimes the reason is beyond control and comprehension and, well, reason.

I once knew someone who slept through class and flunked out of school. He shook his head, dumbfounded at his terrible "luck", and said, "Everything happens for a reason." The implication was clear: he was not responsible for the failure and he expected God to show him the right path to success since studying and paying attention in very expensive graduate school were obviously not part of the plan.

It goes both ways. It took us seven years to have children, and even then, at the very moment of conception, there were six other people in the room. In vitro fertilization is like that. I remember well-meaning individuals who, learning of our "plight", would pat me on the arm and spout the same empty platitude: Everything happens for a reason. The implication here is less clear. Please explain. Does that mean I have brought this on myself, and the reason my body has failed to be fertile is because I haven't been righteous enough? Or does it mean that I am simply not in on the joke, and in time, I will learn what I should have done in the first place to avoid the problem altogether?

The story of our infertility had a happy ending: after three cancelled cycles of IVF and a lovely surgery called ovarian drilling, we (in a true group effort) conceived the twins. They were born healthy, strong and huge at 37 weeks -- 6lb 7oz and 7lb 1oz. (Yes, I was huge -- although not as big as someone I know and love who also had twins but shall remain nameless.)

I was warned about the possibility of heightened fertility after the twins were born, but I felt wrong about preventing something that we had wanted for so long -- especially if there was any possibility that it might happen the old-fashioned way, and thus, cost a whole lot less than the expensive procedures we endured the first time around.

Imagine my shock/surprise/outright horror (let's be honest) when shortly after the twins' first birthday, I found out I was pregnant. I was in such denial at the possibility that I was nearly 10 weeks along before I finally took a test (at MommyJ's urging) that would have come up positive even if all I did was breathe on it.

I know I'm long-winded here, so I'll get to the point.

Everything does happen for a reason. Sometimes the reason already happened: illness, genetic disorders with no remedy, bad choices. Sometimes the reason is beyond our understanding and only becomes clear in retrospect: had things happened when we wanted them to in the first place, we would be in a very different place right now. And sometimes it's a combination of both: biology and destiny team up to create a sense of timing that seems like a bad joke.

Now, when I look back on the course of our lives, I wouldn't change the timing of our family by even a day. In the midst of it, I wouldn't have wished it on my worst enemy. I still wouldn't. It is a particular and exquisitely unique pain to want something with every fiber of your being, to yearn for something on every level: spiritual, physical, biological, emotional, social. And to feel betrayed by yourself, the very essence and expression of you in the physical world: your body.

Long before we had children, I came to terms with the likelihood that we would never have any. I didn't like it, but it was reality, just as it's reality that we probably won't have any more kids. I stopped being angry at God, and hating my body for failing to function as it was intended. I decided that what's most important is that no matter what, I maintain my relationship with my Savior and continue in the things that bring me closer to God. I learned that the baby game is not based on merit. I developed a relationship with my Heavenly Father that is not based on the barometer of happy events in my life. And I learned applications of Gospel principles that I have since found essential in coping with other trials. I would not trade these lessons for all the money in the world.

There are many whose stories have not resolved as mine did. They are still experiencing the disappointment and desertion that are such a difficult part of dealing with infertility, or miscarriage, or loss or whatever they are going through that feels bigger than they can handle. I pray that their hurt may be healed through the Savior as mine was, regardless of the outcome, and that they may find hope in the possibilities of what may come.

P.S. Talk about stream of consciousness. I started this post writing about my happy discovery in the shower this morning: should I ever lose the use of my left hand, I will still be able to shave under my right arm. Yes, I am that flexible.