A Grief Observed: The Mind and Body

I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
I would be pure, for there are those who care;
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

(Howard Arnold Walter)

Remember this post? I wasn't kidding when I said that that Grief and Stress can greatly affect the body.

In October, I learned of some health issues that I was experiencing that were likely brought on by the overwhelming stress caused by multiple and major Life Changes last year. So I began treatments and started to simplify my life. I thought I had everything under control.

And then November hit.

One evening, I was sitting in bed, going over the digital files for our Christmas Card before we sent them to print. I remember looking over the content with David, shaking my head that this was REALLY our card this year. I couldn't bring myself to sign our individual names and not include Bennett and so I opted for signing our surname. Who would have thought these little things would be so hard?

Awhile later, the kids were tucked in their beds, long asleep, and David had drifted off into Dreamland. I had just switched off my lamp and laid my head on the pillow when the world began to cave in on me. I started choking, I couldn't breathe, my entire body was shaking, my heart was going crazy and I felt like I was going to black out.

In short, I felt like I was dying.

In fear of passing away in my sleep without David knowing, I shook him and muttered that we needed to get to the hospital. Fast. I was dying. I could feel it. I looked at the clock. It was 1 am. I picked up the phone and called my parents. I awoke them (of course) and begged them to come and watch our kids while David took me to the emergency room.

To be honest, I didn't know if I'd be coming back. I felt Life slipping from me. I have never been so scared in my Life.

Actually, I take that back. January 22nd takes the cake.

Now, a little clarification here. I am not afraid of Death. Quite the contrary. In a healthy way, I quite look forward to the Next Life. But right now, my family is in a vulnerable position. My kids need their Mommy and my Honey needs his Sweetheart. I knew that. And so - for their sake - I knew that it couldn't be my time to go. It just couldn't.

As my parents spoke to me on the phone, David pulled out the lap top. We started typing my symptoms into google. The results were not promising. A heart attack, Aneurysm, or Acute Anxiety Attack. The symptoms were hauntingly the same.

Ugh. Options, not good.

My Mom and Dad told me to get in the bathtub and see if if the symptoms subsided. If it was an anxiety attack, they would gradually diminish. If not, I probably should get to the hospital. Stat.

So I did.

Over the next hour, the symptoms DID subside. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep in my husband's arms, promising that I would get to the doctor sometime that week.

Well, that was #1 out of 4 attacks that occurred in the next 7 days. Each episode happened at different times, triggered by the unknown. Nothing overly emotional, upsetting or troubling preceding each one. They arrived unannounced, paralyzing me without a moment's notice. It. Was. Hell.

By the end of the week, I knew I had to see a Doctor. And fast. I made an appointment for that morning and was soon sitting knee to knee with our family practioner. As I discussed my symptoms, he asked me a series of questions surrounding my current Life Situation. When I gave him the Readers Digest version of this year's happenings, I thought he was going to fall off his chair. He just stared at me wide eyed.

And then we began to discuss options.

Side Note - At Bennett's viewing/funeral, I had multiple people recommend that we get on medication to help "numb the pain." I thought that was crazy. I felt it important that - as a family - we all be on the same page in our Grief. If we were going to walk this path, we were going to walk it together. That was my opinion.

That is, until the attacks began.

So my Doctor told me that a few things were necessary.

1 - I had to simplify. Everything. And I. Mean. EVERYTHING. That calling that I had just accepted to Chair our Congregation's Christmas Party? It was a no go. Wow. For Little Miss "Sign me up for it", this was going to be hard.

2 - I had to learn how to relax my mind, body and spirit. My Doctor suggested Meditation. I prefer prayer. I needed to find a way to take my mind to a Peaceful Place when I could feel Anxiety coming on. Hmmm . . . this was going to take practice.

3 - Medication WAS necessary. This would take care of itself in time but - until then - I had to be functioning. For Myself, for my Children and for my Sweetheart.

And so it goes. I've been on anxiety meds for two months now and I am happy to say that I am fully functioning and coherent. I am not numb and I completely feel the ups and downs of Life and Grief along with my family. The difference? I am not paralyzed with Anxiety and Fear. We have had to make changes and I have had to develop skills. Skills that I will use for the rest of my life. I don't know what triggered the attacks 10 months into our experience. It was probably more of "the straw that broke the camel's back" scenerio. But it is what it is. And we're dealing with it. Together.

Is my battle with Anxiety over? Hardly. I know I will deal with anxiety - to one extent or another - for the rest of my life. Especially when I have another babe. But I am not willing to let Fear get in the way of the greatest Joys in life. I will not. I will choose to Love. I will choose to have Hope. I will choose to keep Believing. And I will continue to Live.

The moral of the story? There are many things in life that you have no control over. And - at times - that sucks. But what you CAN control is the way that you deal with it. And taking care of yourself is the LEAST selfish thing you can do.

That's what I know for sure.

Real

So, I've been out awhile. The cause? A combination of things. The health issues of a child, an upcoming move and simply the fact that I didn't feel like writing.

So, I didn't.

So where am I at?

I am sad.

I am grateful.

I am nervous.

And I am hopeful.

In a few weeks, we'll be moving. Again. And with that move will come a wave of emotions. I'll be unpacking items that I haven't seen in over a year. A crib, a carseat, bins of clothing, bedding and items that were oh-so-special to a precious little blonde, blue-eyed boy. And - in all honesty - I'm scared.

I'm scared of going back to a really raw place. I'm scared that I may not be ready to deal with some very real feelings. I'm scared that I won't want to use the crib my son died in. And yet, I'm scared to get rid of it. And I'm scared of moving on to this new chapter without my son.

I'm grateful for new begginings. I'm grateful for a home that is customized to fit the needs, lifestyle and tastes of our family (particularly me ;0). I'm grateful for a fantastic new neighborhood, congregation and friends that have already blessed my life. And I'm grateful to God who is the Great Giver of all these Gifts.

I am nervous for what's ahead. I am nervous that I will deal with infertility again. I am nervous about the anxiety I will feel when having another baby. I am nervous about my baby sleeping . . . period. I am nervous about what the core of another child's health concerns are. I am nervous about my ability to adapt to even more change. And I am nervous that my children will grow up with a worry wort mother.

But I am hopeful for our future. God loves me - He tells me daily - and has a plan for our family. He has led us this far, guiding us every step of the way, and will not leave us comfortless. We don't have all the answers but we are closely connected with The One who does. Will hard times come? You can count on it. But are there good things ahead? You. Bet. And we'll celebrate it all. The Good AND the Growing.

Because that's who we are. And that is who we will continue to be.

Dear Me

Dear January 2011 Me,

Something is about to happen. You don't know what and - quite frankly - it's best you don't.

Right now, you are just getting the kids back to school, trying to keep the house tidy enough to show at a moment's notice (p.s. it WILL sell) and starting to get into a practice routine for Emma on the harp. So many new beginnings. Though not perfect, Life seems charmed. And you know it.

But soon, something will happen that will shake you to your core. It will make you redefine what Life is about and will make you reevaluate who you are and where you are going.

Because of this, I want to tell you a few things.

First of all, I want you to know that you WILL survive. No. Matter. What. Just keep taking one breath after another and trust that the Lord will provide the next. Believe it or not, there will come a time where you won't have to think about breathing. It will become automatic once more. But - for now - just take it one moment at a time. That's all.

Second, know that there are Angels in Heaven and on Earth that will hold you up. You are about to experience a wave of Love, Compassion and Charity unlike you have ever encountered. People will come out of the woodwork to serve you, weep with you and offer their prayers and support in your family's behalf. And - more importantly - the Heavens will open and encircle you with a Love, Peace and Comfort that is more powerful than you have known. Know from whom these Angels come. You are not alone.

Next, it is entirely up to you what you Become. Period. So much in Life is out of your control. But you CAN control how you act and react. This is your opportunity to show Yourself, your Family and your God who you are and whose you are. That is the real test. Don't forget it.

And lastly, in the depth of your Grief, you will be prompted to do something. Something that you would never consider on your own. When that impression comes, follow it. No matter how scary it may seem. As you follow that impression, you will be blessed beyond your wildest imagination. You will widen your circle of friends, you will find a support system that stretches around the world and - in sharing your story - you will find Healing. In the end, it will save you.

In closing, I just want to wrap my arms around you. I want to encircle you with all the Love, Peace and Perspective you will need to get through the next twelve months. It will be the roughest of your Life, to be sure. But - with the strength of the Lord - you can do ALL things. Even the Thing that may break your heart.

Remember this.

Bless you, Mother Heart -

Love,

The Woman You Will Become

Of People, Pinwheels and Promises

I am feeling sad today. Maybe tomorrow I will write of the Peace, Joy and Comfort we felt on our first Christmas without Bennett. But today, I just feel sad.

And that's okay.

This afternoon, after leaving a family activity early with a melting down Ashton, I buckled my boy in and just drove. My car (that is in great need of a post-holiday detail) drove all over the city. Passed our framed new home, through our new neighborhood, passed the home that we shared with Bennett and on to his grave. It seemed that my car knew the direction that it needed to go. I just sat behind the wheel and took it in.

The tour concluded as we pulled into the hollowed ground of the cemetery. As I pulled to a stop near the curb, bright colors that contrasted against the black granite of Bennett's memorial caught my eye. I parked the car and walked over to his grave. Sprinkled around My Boy's memorial was a handful of handmade pinwheels. A note was left from a dear friend and her family sharing that they had come on Christmas Eve to remember our sweet son who reminded them of the precious Christ Child. I fell to my knees on the wet grass, bowed my head and just wept.

I wept for sweet friends, both near and abroad. I wept at their sacrifice, charity and thoughtfulness to share such a tender evening remembering our Angel and our family. I wept for the son that I'd prefer to be chasing around the house instead of memorializing in granite. And I wept out of gratitude for that Precious Mother and her tiny Babe.

And then I wept for the Pinwheels.

Pinwheels? you might ask. Why pinwheels?

Well, there is a story there.

A few months after Bennett's death, I realized that I needed to do something healing with Bennett's clothes. It was just too excruciating to see them laying unused in his drawers and Rubbermaid bins. I didn't want to give them away and see them on another child. I didn't want to store them in the closet. And I didn't know if I'd want to have a future sibling wear them. I wanted to find a way to turn them into something that symbolized comfort, love and healing.

And so we decided to make a blanket.

Better said, two dear friends volunteered to make Bennett Blankets FOR us.

One of our sweet friends - a gifted quilter herself - asked what we wanted her to create. I shared with her the image of a Pinwheel Quilt that another Angel Mother had shared with me. It seemed perfect. Cheery, Hopeful, Child-like and packed with meaning. Some have asked if I still think of Bennett every day. "Only on the days that I breathe," I respond. And so this pinwheel represents the movement of my lungs. Whether that movement takes me forward or backward is up to me. But there WILL BE movement, nonetheless.

So pinwheels have come to symbolize our journey. The Joy, Faith, Hope and Movement. Some days it may be 2 steps forward, 3 steps back. But every day we move. Because we must.

Did this sweet friend know of our Precious Pinwheels? Who knows? But I know One who did. And that simple gift was such a tender mercy to me. A reminder that I am not alone. That in moments good and growing, I have One that is watching over me, weeping alongside me and - if needed - carrying me through these harrowing moments. What will the future hold? I know not. But I know where I will be. Moving forward. Will there be fear? Yes. Will there be adjustment? Yes. Will there be loss? Surely. But I'm not doing it alone. That, He has promised. And a Tender Father in Heaven will put in my path all that I need to succeed. Be it Precious People or Pinwheels.

That is His Promise.

And I'll hold Him to it.

The Spirit of Giving

'Tis the season of sharing. I have been so blessed by this blog this year that I have decided to give back. Each week of December, I am going to share with you a treasure. Something that is very close to my heart. And I hope that you recognise each gift as such.

The first is something few of you have seen. I posted it on my blog for a day awhile back and - after some derogatory comments found online - I removed it. It was too sacred to me to be cast before swine. But time has past and I think my readership has changed as well. No longer is it a blog someone found via a large or popular blog. But - more often - my readers come via word of mouth. They or someone they love have experienced a loss. A poignant loss. And they come to share, to grieve and to understand. In that way, I am so fortunate. I have the best blog readers in the world.

So here is my first gift to you. I hold it sacred. This video documents some of our final moments with Bennett. Moments that - as you know - I now ache for. Longingly.

But this also documents the Hope, Faith and Gratitude our family feels. Our relationship with a Kind and Loving God has made ALL the difference in the world. Is it still tough? HECK YEAH! I wouldn't recommend this experience to anyone. But sometimes I wonder if I could learn the lessons I'm learning without experiencing the heartbreak I feel. Heaven only knows.

And I think It does.

So as you watch this short documentary of my heart, please remember this Mother. Remember my story and my faith. And remember that - with the strength of the Lord - YOU can do ALL things.



*If you are interested in having this gifted photographer document your most precious life moments, you can contact her here.

A Mother's Love

I am home from church with the Little Guy today. We both have been having some health issues of late that have prevented us from going to church the day of the Primary Program. Blast.

I have been thinking about my last days with Bennett this morning. As in, my last days with his body. We were blessed to have a lot of time with him after his passing. That was a gift. Simply a gift.

After we learned that Bennett had passed away hours before we found him, we were told that the medical examiner would be arriving shortly and that we would have 15 minutes to spend with our boy before he was taken away for an autopsy.

That was simply not okay with me.

I immediately pulled our Investigator aside and told him that though I knew I couldn't do anything to bring my son back, I knew that I HAD to handle this in the a way that would promote healing for my family.

And so, I asked for Time.

Time to hold him, time to caress him, time to bring his siblings in and tell them what had happened. And time for David to give him a final Father's blessing. The investigator heard this Mother's plea and kindly relented.

What happened in the next four hours was heartbreaking, harrowing and nothing short of sacred. I wrapped him in the blankie I had made for him before he was born. I held his body close to mine. I kissed his sweet little cheeks. I ran my fingers through his hair. I gently pushed back his eyelids to once again see his lovely baby blues. And I told his brother and sisters that Bennett was called Home. That is, to his Heavenly Home. And that - though at times we would feel him close - he wouldn't be living in our house anymore. That is one of the hardest things I have ever done. E V E R. No mother should ever have to have that conversation with her children.

After four beautiful hours together, the medical examiner arrived and I was told it was time to take Bennett away. I refused to put him in a body bag so instead I opted to wrap him in a beautiful white blanket and personally "tuck him in" the car. Fastening him on the gurney was one of the most surreal moments of my life. I experienced firsthand what it feels like to have your heart break. Literally. Break. As they closed the door, I stood outside the vehicle with my mother. My nose pressied against the glass as I took one last look at my boy. I couldn't get enough. I just needed more. More time, more kisses, more cuddles, more giggles. More bedtime stories, more holidays, more birthdays, more memories. Just. More.

I received a call from the mortuary Monday night notifying me that Bennett's body had been received. They needed time to prepare him to be seen. I don't know if I was prepared for the trauma of an autopsy. Even though I could feel no life in my child, no mother wants to see their child in that condition. That said, the Spirit fell on us and we were able to see him as our son. We held him, touched him, kissed him, dressed him and whispered sweet sentiments in his ear. I knew he heard every word because I knew he was with us. There is no where else he'd rather be.

In the next few days, we spent every moment possible at the mortuary. In fact, it was on the couch holding Bennett that David and I penned our joint funeral address. Our children LOVE story time - Bennett included - and so we decided to share our thoughts in the format of a story. I'm sure it was Bennett's idea. ;0)

During one of our visits at the mortuary, our tender mortician asked us if we would like Bennett to spend his last evening before burial in our home. We tearfully replied yes. We thought it would be a perfect opportunity for our little family to say our final "see you laters."

After our first viewing Thursday night (that was five hours long . . .), we retreated to our home and Bennett followed us shortly. With tender love, the funeral directors carried his little casket in our home and asked us where we wanted him to be. The Family Room, of course. For the next hour, we held him, caressed him, did our family cheer, had a family prayer and sang some of Bennett's favorite songs. While we did so, a gifted photographer that kindly offered her services to us captured every moment. During our time, Ashton (who had been quite reluctant to see his brother's body) took his car and kept driving it up and down Bennett's chest. "Wake up, Bennett! Wake up! Let's play cahs!" he kept saying. My heart smiled and broke all at once.

As time quickly passed, we soon realized that we had to get at least a few hours of sleep before the viewing and funeral the following day. And so we sang Bennett's song (a tradition every night before he went to bed), tucked him in, and even left a light on in the hallway for him. Just because. And I couldn't help but steal an extra kiss or two from my boy. Time was short. I knew it. And I had to take advantage of each moment.

I awoke hours later, unable to sleep. I snuck downstairs and picked up my boy, trying to take in every moment in the quiet hours of the morning. With the dawn would come new realities. Like burying my boy. While each moment spent with him confirmed that he was not with us, each second was a treasured gift. My heart took a picture. I knew it would not last forever. And I knew that I would look back on these moments for years to come, trying to remember every. little. detail.

How right I was.

Awhile later, David stumbled downstairs. He too wanted to share some quiet moments with our son. Within minutes, the girls joined us, each wanting to cuddle, hold and create "a moment" with their little brother. Their ease and affection amazed me. They loved him in death as they did in life. It was such a lesson to me. How blessed I am to be their Mother.

Around 7 or 8, the funeral directors arrived. When they walked in the home, we both knew that my time with Bennett's body was nearing an end. Though I could touch and caress him in his casket at his viewing, I knew my moments to hold him in my arms were over. I held him close one last time, cupped his fingers in my hand, kissed his sweet little face and whispered tender reassurances in his ear. And then I tucked him in and they took him away.

The viewing that morning was far different than the one the night before. The previous evening, I had our time with Bennett at home to look forward to. We were strong, we were comforted and we wanted to share our peace with others. But the morning of his burial, all I could feel was loss intermingled with heavy doses of God's love and peace. A chapter in our family book was closing. One that's story had just begun. And one I was not ready to finish.

After emotionally greeting many loved ones at the viewing, family and close friends gathered as the doors to the room closed. My Father offered a beautiful blessing on Bennett and on our family that gave me the strength I needed to do what was ahead. When his prayer was over, one by one, family members approached his casket to say their final goodbyes. Many members of my family had written love notes to Bennett that would surround him with love until we were reunited. I loved that.

And then it was our turn.

As I approached the casket, I longed to hold my baby again. In hindsight, I wish I had. That perhaps is my only regret. But instead, I caressed his hair, I covered his face with my tears and kisses and I even took off his socks to kiss his sweet "toesies" (something he loved) once more. David joined me and did the same. Together we stood, learning over the body of our son, holding each other up. We would make it through. We would tread this path together. And - with the Lord - we would do whatever was required to be together again. THAT was for certain.

And then, we closed the casket.

Why am I writing about this now? Because my arms have been aching - ACHING - to hold my little man this week. And though it would be ideal to hold him in life, I would even settle for holding him in death. Though not the same, it was so precious to be with him. To hold him, caress him and shower him with all the love and adoration we have for him. He was adored. And he knew it. And I pray that after looking down on how we continued to care for him after his passing, he knows that more than ever.

So for now, I reach my arms heavenward. Whenever they are feeling extra empty, I ask God to fill them with Love - His Love - for me. Sometimes that comes in holding one of Bennett's siblings. Sometimes that comes in holding another little child. And often it occurs in the form of putting my arms around another who is in need of peace, love and comfort.

Because as I help other's feel God's love and grace, I feel a little bit of Heaven in my home. In other words, I feel my Bennett. And I'm one step closer to being with him again.

And heaven knows there's no where else I'd rather be.

No. Dang. Way.

I would like to dedicate my blogging absence to my lousy internet provider who made it possible for me to not have service for the last 8 days. It's amazing how underwhelming crappy service can be.

But I'm over it.

(Obviously.)

Anyhoo, this news more than makes up for that less-than-inspiring comment.

Guess what my dear friend shared with me this morning? These pictures. Aren't they absolutely amazing? For those that know me and one of my favorite books, this picture of a little boy with a dandelion is more than perfect. It is divine. Divine because every time I see a dandelion now, I think of my Sunshine Boy. I think of all the wonderful things we shared together and all the things I have to look forward to. And I consider who might be babysitting him while his Mommy and Daddy finish their business on Earth. And somehow, I wouldn't be surprised if a scene like this is happening. Even at this very minute.

So this is what I'm saving for. When we move into our new home in the waning moments of winter, I am going to survey the scene and find the perfect place for these pictures. And - when I find it - I'll buy the perfectly sized pictures for the space and every time I look at them, I'll remember God's eternal promises to Me, My Family and our Sweet Little Boy. Priceless.

And - for those who want to join in the celebration - I must mention . . . we will be digging the hole for our home soon. Like, in days. HELLO!!! Miracles never cease. (now just pray that we survive the winter in our "cave" without killing each other . . . AHHHHH!!!!)

Today I am grateful for Internet service (glory, glory hallelujah!), a little girl that didn't break her arm . . . again (loooong story), for house construction, and for tender mercies that come in the form of messages from friends and perfectly illustrated pictures that whisper of eternal truths.

God is good. And all Goodness comes from God.

How I love Him.

The Flower Bush

So, our extended weekend away was really quite wonderful. Just what the doctor ordered.

Here's a summary of our favorite things:

• The girls pampered ourselves with an afternoon of mani/pedis.
• We laughed as we splashed and played at the Aquatic Center.
• We cuddled up on a FABULOUSLY comfy sectional for family naps everyday.
• We thoroughly enjoyed Tuacahn's production of "Little Mermaid" (seriously love it).
• We made many memories at Snow Canyon hiking and playing trucks in the "big dirts" (aka Sand Dunes).
• And we savored creamy frozen frozen custard at one of our favorite shops. Delish.

All in all, the rest, relaxation, and recreation refueled and refreshed our souls. It. Was. Divine.

While playing in the "dirts" Saturday afternoon, I was taught a lesson by The Great Teacher. As I watched my children play in the sand with their adoring Daddy, my heart ached. I just. felt. empty. We weren't complete! Someone was missing! Ashton wasn't supposed to be playing cars by himself. Granted David and I were by his side but - let's face it - a parent is just NOT a brother. Period.

Anyhoo, as my kids were building sandcastles and I circled around snapping pictures, I literally stumbled upon this Flower Bush. Small, tender and budding yellow, it was quite the surprise juxaposed against the red desert sand. Where did it come from? How did it get there? How did it sustain life? It was quite the mystery.

And yet there it was, standing tall, acting as reminder of Life amid the toughest conditions. As beautiful as the red rocky landscape was, the contrast of the yellow made it all the more breathtaking.

Curious.

I thought about our Sunshine Boy. I remembered all the bright, sweet, joyful times that we shared. I remembered all the laughs, giggles, snuggles and songs.

And then I thought about the last 9 months. The Desert of our lives.

We have been nourished by the rain. We have learned to build sandcastles in the most arid conditions. And - through it all - our Little Flower Bush has stood by, looking all the more beautiful against the harshness of the conditions. How grateful we are for his immortality.

And so I will remember. I will rememeber all the "fun things" but - above all - I will remember the dramatic beauty of the desert. I will remember playing in the sand. And I will remember the sweet, unexpected Flower Bush that brought so much meaning on a tender afternoon.

Tender Mercies. Tender mercies.

Fruits

"Who you are speaks so loudly I can't hear what you are saying." (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

I heard that quote a few years ago and its truth reverberates in my soul. It reminds me that we can teach in three ways: example, example, example. Such an important thing to remember.

In recent days, my faith of choice has been blasted by a naive few in the media. While I do not wish to start a dialogue of political banter, I DO wish to clarify a few misconceptions.

• As a Mormon, I AM a Christian. Jesus Christ is central to my faith. If you have read this blog for more than two seconds, I hope you know that.
• I believe that no matter how hard I try, I am - in the end - saved by God's Grace after all I can do. If I truly believe, my Life should act as a testimony to that commitment. After all, "by their fruits ye shall know them." (Mathew 7:20)
• Those that are true Christians spend their time serving, teaching and building. They do not engage in bigoted, destructive commentary on another's faith. Christ was a builder, not a wrecker. The same should be said of his followers.
• And - last but not least - if you want to find out about a subject, go to the source. In college, I wanted to learn more about the Jewish and Islamic faiths. So I went to the capital of all religions . . . Jerusalem. For a semester, I studied not only the Life of Christ but also the history and beliefs of our Jewish and Muslim brothers and sisters from THEIR leaders. It. Was. Fascinating. I saw their faith differently when I was able to engage in personal dialogue with them and hear about their familial traditions and convictions. The take away? If you want to find out about a Mormon, ask a Mormon. Do not ask a Moron. (sorry. I usually don't condone labeling but - hey - if the shoe fits . . . )

In closing, a quote by an inspiring Christian himself, C.S. Lewis:

Once we allow people to start spiritualizing and refining, or as they might say 'deepening' the sense of the word Christian . . . it will become a useless word . . . It's not for us to say who, in the deepest sense, is or is not close to the spirit of Christ. We do not see into men's hearts. We cannot judge . . . It would be wicked arrogance for us to say that any man is, or is not, a Christian.

And that's all I have to say on the subject.

The Wagon Sprint

Today, a story was shared in church that penetrated my heart to the core. I've been thinking about it all day and I want to document it so that - years from now - my children can read it during their "wagon sprinting moments." The story is as follows.

During the Mormon Migration, many companies of Pioneers made the long and arduous trek from the Midwest to Utah. Many of those Saints started the journey after leaving everything they owned in foreign lands and making the long and expensive journey to the United States. The end result? Too many started the journey destitute and had to travel in "less than desirable" conditions. Many of those immigrants came by handcart.

One of the handcart companies was the Willie and Martin Handcart company. Quite recently, their story was beautifully depicted in the movie "17 Miracles." Many stories could be told of their faith, testimony, heartache and sacrifice but - for this post - this one will have to suffice.

After surviving starvation, exhaustion, bone chilling conditions and being overshadowed by the Spirit of Death, a young girl found herself among the survivors when the rescuers came from the Salt Lake Valley. Her hopes, however, were soon squelched when it was announced that the younger folk would still be asked to walk the remainder of the trek to allow for room in the wagons for the older and more feeble Saints. After hearing this, the girl and a friend made the decision to try and keep up with the wagons just in case there became room available onboard. They did so and - sure enough - they were soon asked by a man if they wanted to get on the wagon.

So, at this point, can you imagine what they were feeling? Relief, Gratitude, Hope that this nightmare would all be over. Right? That's what one would rightfully assume. Well . . .

As the Driver reached down for the girls, he asked them to hold on to the wagon. At that same moment, he signaled to his horses to speed up. Soon, the girls found themselves sprinting alongside the wagon, trying to run fast enough to not get trampled. In that instant, the girl thought to herself, "This is CERTAINLY the meanest man in the world! How COULD he do this to us after all we've been through!"

And then the teaching moment.

When she thought she couldn't go a step more, the gentleman stopped the wagon, pulled the girls onboard and continued on to the Salt Lake Valley. The Method to his Madness? The girls were nearly frozen to death and he knew that - in order to survive the voyage onboard - they would need to warm up their bodies through a brisk run. In essence, what appeared to be torture was the very thing that saved their lives.

How many of us have experienced this? We find ourselves in difficult circumstances that demand us to run faster than we have strength. We are exhausted, heartbroken, and wonder if a God in Heaven is even aware of our plight.

And then the wagon speeds up.

We start sprinting and taking deeper strides than we thought we were capable. Our lungs are burning, feeling ready to burst, and hot tears are spilling down our cheeks as we feel our bodies begin to shut down.

And then the wagon slows.

We are hypothetically pulled into the Lord's wagon. Is the voyage over? No. But a Loving Father in Heaven knows we have reached our breaking point. There IS relief. And He is our Driver.

This story sums up the last 9 months of our life. You know of the loss of our Bennett. But what I have not publicly chronicled are all of the peripheral events that have pushed us to the breaking point. At times, we have wondered if we could take any more. We have been, in essence, sprinting along the wagon. But - one by one - miracles have occurred that have testified to us that a Tender and Loving Father in Heaven IS aware. And He loves us more than we can even imagine.

When time, experience and perspective give us the hindsight that only God can give, we believe that it will be moments such as this that WILL in fact save us. For it is IN these moments that we have learned the strength we can have through God. That with Him, nothing IS impossible and that our faith can in fact withstand even the darkest of times.

And that - in the end - we are saved by the Wagon Sprint.

A Day of Contrasts

Ten years ago today, America experienced a tragedy that took too many of its own.
Ten years ago today, I married my best friend.

Ten years ago, the world stood around televisions, staring wide-eyed, not believing the tragedy that was unfolding before them while I waiting in the Bride's room in the Salt Lake Temple, waiting to hear if they would keep the Temple open for our wedding.

Ten years ago, nearly 3,000 lives tragically ended.
Ten years ago, our family's life had just begun.

When we were married, the clergy that married us (called a "Sealer" in our faith) referred to the day as "a day of contrasts." He reminded us that - in the future - when we experience turmoil, loss, stress or tragedy, we could should return to the promises made that day and remember where we can turn to receive true peace.

And, oh, have we experienced those kinds of days.

But this year I feel the loss differently. I ache in a whole different way with these families because I too have experienced a bone-chilling loss. I HAVE become "well acquainted with grief" and I know what it's like to have your life change in an instant. To have the wind literally knocked out of you and have to literally labor through every breath.

The good news? There is Hope. There is Goodness. There is Light. And there is Joy. Though there will be moments of Darkness and - at times - they can feel suffocating. But the Morning will come. It will. The Sun will continue to rise and it will continue to warm, nourish and feed your soul. Will things ever be "normal"? No. But that can be a good thing. You are changed forever. Heaven is in your Home because part of your Home is in Heaven. And that is a very lovely thing.

In a 1864 letter to a Mrs. Bixby, a Mother who lost 5 of her sons in the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln penned these words:

"I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom."

May I add my prayers to that of that wonderful, inspired man. May our prayers penetrate the Heavens in behalf of all the heartbroken and those looking for hope.

It will come. It will come.

Remember

Thank you for all the comments you left on my last post. I can't express how much they mean to me. The love, hope and prayers that are offered in our behalf are truly life-giving and give us the courage and strength to go on.

The other day, I received a tender email from a reader. She too lost a little boy close to Bennett's age. On his Angel Day (anniversary of his death), they released balloons at his grave. To give added meaning to their journey, they decided to write the names of other children who have passed away whose families they have met along the path. Bennett was included in their release. They included this picture of his balloon.

I don't know if this sweet friend has any idea how much this means to me. Actually, she probably does.

I can't tell you how much joy it brings me when someone talks about my son. When they share a memory, say his name, mention him in a casual conversation, send their love to him in a prayer or leave a note at his grave. He owns a chunk of real estate in my heart. And - until we are reunited - part of me will never feel whole. My arms will always ache for him. But each time some one else remembers what is SO much a part of our family story, it reassures me that Bennett's memory will live on. That others won't forget his meaningful (though short) life on this earth. And that somehow, we will all learn the lessons we are meant to learn from this heartache.

So thank you, Saville Family. Thank you for remembering our Sweet Bennett and including our family on such a delicate day. I'm sure it was tender. I'm sure there were even some really tough moments. But I also pray that you were able to celebrate your sweet Gabriel. What a gift he was and IS.

Thank heaven (and we do daily) that families are forever. It doesn't take away the heartache or change our situations, but it gives us Hope. And that Hope helps us put one foot in front of another.

We will remember. We will never forget.

To Be A Pioneer

July 24th marks a very important day in our faith and in the state in which we live. On July 24, 1847, the Mormon Pioneers entered the Salt Lake Valley. While pulling handcarts and covered wagons over the barren Midwestern plains, many men, women and children lost their lives. Some suffered frostbite, starvation and sickness while others had to bury their loved ones in shallow graves along the rough, dirt trails. They sought a peaceful place where they could worship "according to the dictates of [their] own conscience" but were only met with persecution and hardship. And yet they moved forward, following a Prophet of God, believing that a Loving Heavenly Father had prepared a place for them.

My ancestors were some of those Mormon Pioneers. Each came to America from their perspective countries (England, Scotland, Denmark), following their faith and leaving everything they owned to come to a new country to join others of their faith. They were strong, moral, God-fearing people who loved their families and who longed for a better life for their children.

Now - over a century later - I benefit from the sacrifices made because they decided to do a "hard thing." I have grown up hearing stories of my forebearers. In fact, our oldest is named for a baby - referred to in family journals as "Angel Emma" - that passed away while her family was crossing the plains en route to their "Promised Land." After our recent loss, I can't imagine burying my child along a dirt road in a shallow grave in the bitter winter cold. Never would they visit that sweet grave site again. Never would they be able to physically memorialize that child's life. Never would they be able to take flowers on birthdays, holidays and anniversaries in celebration of what that babe meant to them. Just the thought breaks my heart. I don't know how they did it.

In our faith, the children are taught a song from a very young age:

You don't have to push a handcart

Leave your family dear,

Or walk a thousand miles or more

To be a Pioneer.

You do need to have great courage

Faith to conquer fear,

And work with might for a cause that's right

To be a Pioneer.

My ancestors were Pioneers. Their children were pioneers. And now I am a Pioneer. In my entire extended family, I am the first person to lose a living child. This is a path that is unfamiliar to me and those that I love. I am walking it for the first time. And - while doing so - I have been made aware that others are watching.

Unfortunately, in my large and extensive family (on one side I have more than 50 first cousins), I will probably not be the only one to have an Angel Child. There will come a time when others may experience the heartache we feel. The circumstances may be different, but the feelings of disbelief, shock and heartache will be the same.

And we will be there.

We will be there with a shoulder to cry on. We will be there to hear ALL feelings. We will be there when they may need someone to talk to and we will be there after they need some space. We will be there to listen to their memories after everyone else seems to move on and we will visit their loved one's grave just because we know how much it means to their family. And lastly, we will be there to testify of a Tender and Loving God that can heal ALL wounds, who offers a Peace that surpasses ALL understanding and a Gospel that gives Hope when it seems that there is none to be had.

Because WE are Pioneers.

Ode to Sunset View Drive

It was May 2008. David had just graduated from Purdue and our family was getting ready to relocate after one of the most trying years of our life. Grace (our then 4 year old) had been fighting a rare form of pneumonia that nearly took her life. After a month in the Children's Hospital (most of the time spent in the ICU) and after 6 months of quarantine and treatments at home, we were ready for a change of scenery. And nothing says change like a move!

We arrived at our "dream home" worn out, exhausted yet full of hope and promise. It had been a tough year. A year we didn't want to relive. But we had made it. The best was yet to come.

With a new babe in arms, we started to put down roots in our new home, neighborhood and congregation with our three little ones. This was it. We were here for the long haul.

Four months later, we learned we were expecting. A shock, to say the least. Ashton was just 7 months old and we were still leery of our daughter's health condition. But a baby was on its way. And - after we wrapped our minds around the unexpected gift - we were thrilled.

Months later, we learned it was a Boy. Two girls and two boys! YAY! We were thrilled. What a gift to have a little brother and playmate for Ashton. As Mary Poppins says, this was going to be "practically perfect in every way."

And so it was. Our little boy joined our family May 31, 2009 and was named Bennett. From the moment he was put in our arms, everything felt so right. Our combined love for him filled our home with joy. Everyone LOVED Bennett.

During the next 20 months, many milestones took place on Sunset View Drive. Bennett's first smile, his first giggle, his first crawl, his first traverse down the staircase, his first steps, his first words (debated if it was Mama or Dada), his first true love (my sister Katie), his favorite discovered hobby (sweeping the floor), his favorite game (hide and go seek), his favorite song (HIS song), his favorite cheer (YOU ROCK!), his favorite bath time and bedtime rituals and his first best friend (his brother Ashton). So many sweet things happened in those short 20 months. So. Many. Things.

And then came the morning of January 22, 2011. Those same walls that had reverberated with giggles and song seemed to be suffocating and stifling with the tragic events of the day. Where we had gently tucked him in the night before, caressed by Mommy's kisses and lullabies, we found him lifeless. Taken to his Heavenly Home by Angels hours before. It was too much to take in. Just. Too. Much.

And yet, the edifice stood. The Home held its ground and bore the weight of the Grief we were heaving. It seemed to feel the extremities we were facing and even seemed to breath in and out with us. It was a place of Grief, a place of Healing, a place of Safety, a place of Love and a place of Peace.

What a Gift.

In the coming weeks, we discussed whether we should continue to sell our Sunset View Drive home (it had been on the market since late fall). After much contemplation, discussion and prayer, we decided that the reasons for selling our home last fall still existed and that it would be in the best interest of our family to continue our quest to move.

Since then, some - not knowing the needs of our family - have questioned our decision to sell. A few have thought we were running away from our grief and that ours was a rash decision. To that I reply, there is no where that far. Our reality is our reality no matter where we go. We are not running from our memories, we are going with them. Our love, our loss, our gratitude and our grief will follow us no matter where we go. They are a part of us and we are a part of them. And that's the way it should be.

That said, the last few months have been grueling. Going through cupboards and drawers and moving furniture unearthed a lot of triggers. A sock of Bennett's there, a tiny shoe found underneath the couch, his Tow Mater truck found in a drawer (where he surely was playing) and - the biggest - a previously undiscovered crayon drawing of his in back of the giant armoire (his favorite hiding place). All of these findings echoed that he lived and that he was. There's not enough of those reminders in our world, let me tell ya.

Monday night, we took our family to the home one last time. We recorded the kids climbing their favorite tree in the backyard, playing four square in the now-bare front room, recalling favorite memories in our kitchen and sharing tender feelings of their little brother in the nursery. It so reflected the spectrum of our experience. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" . . . It was perfect.

So now we go forward. In Life, I have learned many things. But I have learned more in the last six months than my previous thirty four years combined. The tuition has been high, but we have received quite the education. Here is what I have learned on Sunset View Drive.

I have learned that People and not Things are what is truly important.

I have learned that it is not the size of your dwelling but the people you live with that truly make a Home.

I have learned that you can never say "I love you" too many times.

I have learned that blogging is great, but living in the moment is better.

I have learned to never take things for granted.

I have learned to never put off a dream because tomorrow is not a guarantee.

I have learned that God sends angels - both from Heaven and Earth - to bear you up when you feel like you just can't do it anymore.

I have learned that I need to be one of His Angels.

I have learned that the little things make a difference.

I have learned that you never can take too many pictures.

I have learned for myself that Death has no effect on family ties and relationships. They continue beyond the grave. I. Know. That.

I have learned that I have a Heavenly Father who loves me - truly loves me - and is involved with the details of my Life.

And - last of all - I have learned that I may not understand or choose everything that happens in my Life, but I do have absolute control of what I do with those things. And that makes all the difference.

And so goodbye, Sunset View Drive. We won't go far. You will always be just a memory away and will always hold a special place in our hearts.

Hello Again

Remember Me? Remember how I used to blog? Yeah. Well, I'm back.

We closed on our home on Monday and we've been settling into our rental this week. We'll be here for 6-8 months while we build our next (and hopefully FINAL) home and then we'll move. Again.

This has been a BIG change for our little family. We're living in 1/4 of the space we were living in, my girls are registered at a new elementary school, Emma was cleared to skip a grade (hallelujah!) next year and we have started to attend a new congregation who mostly know nothing of our current situation. It is strange and sad to think that they'll know nothing of our Sunshine Boy. That our stories of him will be just stories, that a face will not come to mind when I mention his name and that - to many - he will be just "that new family's boy who died."

They have no idea what they are missing.

But we feel good about this change and we feel that the Lord is guiding and helping us every step of the way. And - for now - we are enjoying the "simple life." No yard work, less space to clean, no home remodeling projects and - above all - no showings. It's a good life, I tell ya. A good life.

Tomorrow, I will pay tribute to our little home on Sunset View Drive. It is the only home we ever shared with Bennett. We lived there for 38 months and he was with us - either in my tummy or in our arms - for the majority of it. Those walls hold so many beautiful memories. It will always hold a special place in our hearts.

So, hello again. Thank you for sharing our journey. It is tender, it is tough, it is sweet and it is gripping. But it is ours. And we are deciding what to make of it.

One step at at time.

My Dream by Emma

Last night, I had a dream. A plane crashed and I came out of the plane and saw Bennett my little brother. He was dressed in white but when I saw his face, I knew it was him. I ran over to him and I hugged him and started crying. I stayed with him for awhile and kept holding him close. After awhile, Bennett went into a stream that was like a gateway and disappeared. He did not drown. He just went away to another place.

After my dream, I felt like Heaven really is real. I miss him more than ever and really want to go back with him.

I love you, Bennett Boy.

Fly Butterfly

Happy Belated Fathers Day to our dearly beloved Daddy. To celebrate Fatherhood, we made him a delicious breakfast of thick cinnamon french toast drizzled with homemade caramel sauce and topped with strawberries, blueberries and freshly whipped cream. And accompanied by crisp bacon, of course. It was divine.

After we attended our church services, we continued to celebrate the day with my parents and my sister over a dinner of French Dip sandwiches on crusty baguettes, Havarti cheese, a seasonal fruit platter, strawberry spinach salad and cheesecake topped with mixed berries. It was comforting to spend this first father's day since Bennett's death talking about the tender things of the heart with those that we love. We laughed, we cried, we joked and we expressed feelings of faith and gratitude. It was as good as it could have been without Bennett here.

After dessert, we gathered a bouquet of flowers from our yard (we inherited a serious rose garden when purchasing the house) and headed up to the cemetery to leave flowers for Bennett and send some butterflies to heaven. For her birthday in May, Gracelyn received a butterfly garden from her paternal grandparents. For the last 3 weeks, she has been watching the caterpillars grow, form chrysalises, and grow into beautiful butterflies. When we discussed what we wanted to do with them when they were ready to be set free, Gracelyn decided she wanted to let them go at Bennett's grave. It felt perfect. Bennett would have liked that.

In the process of the butterflies growth process, we lost a few. I thought it might be devastating to my girls (who checked on their status multiple times a day) but when they found the deceased creatures, their response was telling. Emma: "Mom, I am glad we had some butterflies die because that means they are with Bennett and that Bennett can have a butterfly garden too!" How precious is that!?!

So last night as we tenderly encouraged the butterflies out of their cage and observed their flight to freedom, I thought of our Little Butterfly. Taken long before his natural and expected Life's length but - nonetheless - celebrated, loved and cherished while he was here. It was a blessing to experience his beautiful spirit here on earth and it was an honor to be able to witness him learn, grow and - indeed - fly.

Fly high, Little Butterfly. Fly high.

Meltdown

Tonight was an interesting night. The evening was spent taking a family excursion to Costco to purchase David's Father's Day presents. Then home to put away the loot and enjoy one of Daddy's surprises (Vitamix 5200 Blender . . . LOVE IT.). Fresh orange sorbet . . . it. was. divine.

So, after putting away groceries and finishing our refreshing treat, we headed up to bed. All was going well until Gracelyn came into our room, suddenly breaking into a torrent of tears.

"Mom, (sob) I (sob) really miss Bennett (sob) tonight," as she fell onto the bed in my arms.

What? Where did THIS come from?

But I know better. I am learning myself that the reality of it all hits you at moments when you least expect it. So often, you don't even see it coming! Tonight, it was our night time routine that reminded Grace of the gaping hole in our family. After the kids would get in bed, Bennett (if still awake) would make his rounds to each of his siblings, taking turns cuddling with each one of his beloved sisters and brother. They adored him and he knew it. And they could feel his love for them in return. It was a beautiful little tradition they shared and one that made for a tender remembrance tonight.

"I wish Heavenly Father would have taken me," Gracelyn whispered as I held her. "Bennett was the best thing that ever happened in my life. My heart hurts so much."

As Gracie lay in my arms sobbing, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck, I quietly said a prayer to my Father, asking Him what I could do to help this little girl's broken heart. It was then that the impression came. Pray for her. Okay. I do that all the time. Pray with her. Well, I can do that, so I asked her if I could offer a prayer. She feebly nodded her head.

There I was, late at night, with my little girl melting down in my arms, praying to the Heavens in my daughter's behalf. I summoned the Spirit to come and comfort her and - if possible - to let Bennett speak peace to his big sister's heart. I asked that she would be able to feel the loving arms of her Heavenly Father enfold her as her heart was hurting and that she would feel that He was aware of her and that He loved her. And then I closed the prayer, thanking the Lord for all our children, both here and in heaven.

I felt peace. I felt comfort. But the sobs continued.

As the tears and the accompanying body convulsions continued to increase, I knew my faith and prayers alone might not be enough, so I called in the "big guns." David - my sweetheart - is a man of purity and virtue and has the faith to move mountains. I believe the Lord pays special attention to his pleas because of the man he is in public and in private. It was time to cash in his brownie points. We needed all the help we could get.

So David took a sabbatical from Ashton's storytelling time to come and share a special prayer with Gracie. In our faith, we refer to it as a Father's Blessing. As I held her, David stood above her, put his hands on her head and began to plead to the Lord in her behalf. He blessed her with peace, comfort and the reassurance that she would see her brother again. He reminded her of the promise of forever families and how those relationships continue beyond death. And then he expressed his love and the love of her Heavenly Father for her. And then he solemnly and humbly closed the prayer.

Something happened after that. It wasn't sudden, but it occurred gradually. Bit by bit, Grace's body began to let go of the tension that accompanies deep emotional pain. The tears slowed, her breathing began to regulate and her grip loosened on my neck. "Can I sleep in your room?" came the request. I consented and we tiptoed into the room to "make her bed."

Now she lays by my side, cuddling my arm, tired, calm and collected. Did she just wear herself out? Maybe. But I think it was also something much greater than that. I believe that tonight - a night that was average in nearly every sense - the Heavens opened and sent us down a blessing that was a tender mercy for Grace and her parents. A Loving Father and Savior made possible a miracle that Mommy could not fix. No band aid or neosporin could take care of this owie. This was not going away (anytime soon, that is). But He knew her heart and knew just what to do to "make it feel better."

And mend it, He did.

Did Bennett come back? Is our heartache gone? Is everything "back to normal"? Hardly. But the Lord is aware of us. He is getting us through it.

One meltdown at a time.

Coping Mechanisms

As a rule of thumb, I try to be open and honest about our Walk with Grief (and what a walk it has been). And so, I will address aspects that I would not choose to disclose otherwise. Like the ways - healthy or not - that we have coped.

Overall, I believe we have made healthy choices in our Grieving. Though many approached me about taking anti-depressants following Bennett's death, I personally made the choice to walk through this heartache unencumbered. I thought it would be unfair to "numb" myself while the rest of my family walked through very difficult and tender feelings unmedicated. Though not a party, I wanted us all to be on the same page of our grieving. It may not be fun but we are in this together.

(While saying this, I do not judge anyone who has made another choice. Everyone does what is best for them and what is "right" for one may not be "right" for another. We just made the choice that felt best for our family. Period.)

So food has become my drug.

Everything has been a trigger for me. The extreme loss of losing Bennett, the anger and frustration of being investigated for his death, the inexplicable experience of packing up my Boy's belongs that he would never use again in this life, the stress of a kitchen remodel two months following his death in preparation for putting our home on the market and the unbelievable strain of showing a home at a moment's notice when I felt barely functional myself. All this on top of dealing with the deep and open wounds each member of my family is dealing with. This has been the most trying period of my life. Hands down.

While I do not binge, I mindlessly eat, grabbing a handful of this there and taking a bite of something there. And at the end of the day, I can't even remember what I consumed. And so - in five months - I have gained nearly 10 pounds. TEN POUNDS. And ten pounds I couldn't afford to gain.

And so it's time to get my rear in gear. It's time to cut back and rev it up. In our adversity, my Spirit has grown and I am learning so much. Grief has excavated a depth in my soul that I just cannot describe. Only the Lord knows fully what is happening within me. I am more compassionate, understanding and tender than I have ever been. And yet my body is tired and weak.

So it is time for my body to reflect my Spirit. I need the strength mindful and nourishing eating provide. I need to move more and sit less. And I need to sleep more ; something that is really hard to do when dealing with anxiety that is triggered during the night. But He has made me a promise. If I treat my body like a temple, I will be given "wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures; And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint."

I will change. I will. And the Lord will help me. Instead of turning to external sources for comfort, I will turn to Him. And He will fill the abyss in my soul that even the best chocolate can't touch.

Inspiration

"The truth is, those who diligently seek to learn of Christ eventually will come to know Him. They will personally receive a divine portrait of the Master, although it most often comes in the form of a puzzle—one piece at a time. Each individual piece may not be easily recognizable by itself; it may not be clear how it relates to the whole. Each piece helps us to see the big picture a little more clearly. Eventually, after enough pieces have been put together, we recognize the grand beauty of it all. Then, looking back on our experience, we see that the Savior had indeed come to be with us—not all at once but quietly, gently, almost unnoticed.

This can be our experience if we move forward with faith and do not wait too long on the road to Damascus.

I testify to you that our Father in Heaven loves His children. He loves us. He loves you. When necessary the Lord will even carry you over obstacles as you seek His peace with a broken heart and a contrite spirit. Often He speaks to us in ways that we can hear only with our heart. To better hear His voice, it would be wise to turn down the volume control of the worldly noise in our lives. If we ignore or block out the promptings of the Spirit for whatever reason, they become less noticeable until we cannot hear them at all. Let us learn to hearken to the promptings of the Spirit and then be eager to heed them."

(Dieter F. Uchtdorf)

My husband shared this quote with me this morning at breakfast and it rang true to my soul. I add my witness to all this statement proclaims. God loves us, we are not alone and it is in - not in spite of - our weakness that we can truly come to know Him. I know that because I have lived it and rely on Him for strength, direction and comfort daily as we cope with the loss of our Sweet Bennett.

I AM receiving a portrait of My Savior. One puzzle piece at a time.