A Story I Didn't Write

I'm so busy these days that I rarely have time to read or write. I listen to a lot of audiobooks. But once in a while something comes into my heart that I cannot push aside until it has been written down. This is where most of my poetry comes from. Yesterday, as I was driving in my car trying to ponder on a lesson I was preparing for Relief Society, I got distracted thinking about some other things going on in my life. Good things. This story planted itself and I knew I needed to put it on paper. It's rather silly, but it is important to me, today. And maybe someday when I'm going through one of parenting's ubiquitous struggles, this will be a reminder I need to hear.

A Story I Didn't Write

It’s difficult to describe to anyone currently walking a telestial world what my life was like. Incivility, cruelty, depression, these were foreign concepts. I was constantly surrounded by my family. I suppose we were a family much like any other, if somewhat larger than you’re used to. We were a symphony of a million different instruments, each with its own character and sound. The cacophony was beautiful and each tone harmonized. Some were loud and some were soft. Some were staccato and others melted into the music like velvety chocolate. But our world wasn’t like yours. The music we made was never angry. Somehow, it always worked.

Perhaps it was our common goal. In a telestial world people are pushing a million different directions because they think they want a million different things. It’s as if every single instrument is playing a different melody and there really isn’t any musical quality to it at all. But in my world, we all wanted the same thing, and so our symphony, though diverse, rang up to heaven with a oneness that sang of cooperation, of family, of hope, of joy.

What you need to understand is that oneness is not sameness. I think most people have felt that the loneliest of places is often surrounded by people.  We yearn for connection and understanding, to find someone who laughs, weeps, and ignites when we do. In that sense, it really doesn’t matter how good and kind everyone around us is, to be kindred is something entirely different. And so my world was not so different from yours. Although everyone in my family sang the same tune as me, and I loved every single one of them for their own unique sparkle, I still found myself in a constant search for the ones whose hearts beat the same cadence as mine.

I found them.

Perhaps they found me. Maybe we were drawn together like drops of water on the same flower petal. Maybe we had always been together, pieces of a whole whose connection reached back farther than memory. Perhaps there was no finding involved, just a recognition from one soul to another. Whatever the case, if my home could be called heaven, it wasn’t because it was flawlessly beautiful, devoid of want and fear, or even peopled with those who honestly seek to help and serve everyone around them. It was because of my friends.

I don’t know how long our connection lasted. It must have been forever in a place where time was meaningless. We learned together, grew together, laughed together. They stretched my intellect and challenged all my capacities. They knew how to make me smile and could sense when I was afraid. Every step of progress we made was a team effort. We climbed on each other’s backs in a human pyramid to make it from one level to the next, and then those on top would reach down, lifting each dear friend until we all landed on a higher plane of understanding and existence.

No one was excluded from this group; it didn’t work like that in my world. There weren’t cliques or any sort of stratification of people. We just each found those around us who seemed to be pieces of the same whole, and while we loved everyone, not every cog fit together as perfectly as I did with my friends.

When the announcement that we had all been waiting for finally came, my friends and I added our voices to the deafening shouts of joy. We were finally ready. We’d reached the point in our eternal progression where we simply could go no further in the world we inhabited. We would fall to the telestial world. That might sound like a step backward from your perspective, but we knew it for what it was: a chance to become something more, something better. To someone observing a caterpillar, the quiet, dark solitude of a cocoon has to seem like a step backward from the warm sunlight, but the caterpillar builds his own prison, knowing he will emerge from it something much better than what he was when he entered.

Despite being constantly in the company of love and encouragement, the wait for our turn to fall seemed interminable. We discussed every possible trial and imagined what it would be like when we finally passed through the veil. In all this discussion, serious and full of levity, we never once worried about being apart. It didn’t matter that we would be potentially spread across an endless world, each drowning in a sea of people struggling to find their way. We didn’t know how or when we had found each other before, but we were certain that we could do it again. It would be a natural process, and we would learn it in a similar manner as we would breathing or walking. We had discussed every single possible trial in our eternity together, but never that. The concept was too foreign, too unthinkable, like being told you will wake up tomorrow and have forgotten how to blink.

Just when I had told myself, for the hundredth time, to stop listening for my call, it finally came. The voice spoke softly that it was time to go, igniting flutters of nerves and fires of anticipation uncomfortably inside my soul. Immediately I turned to my friends and shouted, “It’s time for us to go!”

But the voice came again, softly but firmly, “Not them, just yet. I’m sending you first.”

My heart fell, gripped by terror at a thought I’d never considered. Of course we would go together. We needed each other. How could we pass the test to come without the guidance, advice and encouragement we had always shared between us.

“No!” I shouted, choking back tears, “I just can’t do it alone. I’ll wander the Earth searching for them.”

The voice stayed silent and I felt his calm as he breathed out comfort and strength.

Then without warning, I started to fade. My mind went groggy and quiet.

But in desperation I tried one more time. I thought, “You taught us that we're interconnected. I’ve never been on my own.”

As all went black, I heard one more thought, “They’re coming, my daughter, but you must go first. You will be their mother."

What if the reason we feel instantly connected to a new child isn't because of biology, but because we recognize a soul we already knew and loved.

Nightly Scripture Study

I was asked to say a few words about the “JOY” of teaching my children the gospel.

Here goes…

We decided that the key to successful scripture study is consistency. We agreed to gather the family every night at 7:30 and read one chapter in the Book of Mormon. Through trial and error, we learned a few absolute truths. One: The kids will always fight over who gets to read the last verse. Two: The children must always be bribed and/or threatened in order to listen. In order to avoid potential nightly disasters, we set up a system. My kids always read the verse that corresponds to their age. Ryan is twelve, he reads verses 2, 12, 22 etc. Chloe is nine. She reads 9, 19, 29. Mom and dad read the verses the kids don’t and they only get to read last when their number is last. To avoid the other dilemma, I bought an industrial sized box of sour patch kids. These are known at our house as “scripture treat.” If a child behaves during scriptures, they get a treat. It’s a lot like dog training, if less effective. 

Using these two simple steps, our family scripture study works out fairly well. Here’s how it usually goes…I call the kids to scriptures and hear a collective “NOOOOOO.” Sean shouts out that he is coming, but he has to beat an alien on the computer first. Quentin comes in and sits on top of me. He then announces that the rest of the family isn’t coming. Chloe sits on top of the lid to the opening in the love seat where we keep our books of Mormon. This way, when each of the other kids dramatically enters the room, stretching and yawning, as if they’re on the brink of collapse from exhaustion, they can completely ruin their chances of winning an Oscar by breaking character to shout, “Get off the scriptures, Chloe.” In response to which, Chloe lifts her butt into a crab walk pose so they can slip their hands in under her. 

It takes about 2.5 hours of arguing about which chapter we’re on before I start reading the first verse to try and move the process along. Sean, who is currently eleven, mutters the beginning of the first verse as quickly as he can until he catches up to where I am at. He then begins to shout the text, sometimes in a British accent, so I will know that it’s his turn. Ryan reads second, but no one can hear him because he is either hiding behind the couch or halfway down the stairs that descend from the room where we’re reading. I suspect that he does this so he can flip back and forth between the scriptures and whatever else he’s reading on his kindle without anyone noticing. I tell him to come join the family to which he shrilly replies, ‘I am! I’m right here.” 

Quentin then interrupts to tell me that the babies are in the other room still. I am, of course, aware of this, but think that we will all get more out of scriptures if they come late. In the interest of teaching a lesson about the importance of family scripture study, however, I call them to come in before continuing on with the verses. 

When it gets to be Chloe’s turn, she reads with every other word punctuated. I realize that she’d doing this because Rhianna has squeezed herself behind her sister and is kicking her in the back rhythmically and giggling. This causes me to take inventory of the other children. Quentin has gone boneless on my lap and is, seemingly, counting the rotations of the ceiling fan.  Evie has her arms looped around Sean’s neck and is swinging back and forth on the balls of her feet.  He’s trying his best to ignore her, but chocking noises occasionally escape from his mouth. Ryan is missing again, probably behind the couch. I tell Evie her butt is glued to the floor and if she unsticks it from where I put her she won’t get scripture treat. This causes her to scream in agony and shrilly declare, ‘I WANT SCRIPTURE TREAT.” 

I push Quentin off my lap and pick up Ana, so she’ll leave Chloe alone. Ana also starts screaming. Chloe is still reading, which is very upsetting to Sean because she likes to try to read verse ten after she is done with nine and Sean HATES that. By this time, the noise level is such that the neighbors are calling the cops, and that’s amazing considering that the neighbors are half a mile away. I scream at everyone to be quiet and tell Sean that if it upsets him when she reads ten, he should just read it with her, choral style, instead of disrupting scriptures. I also announce that if anyone else says another word out of turn, I’m going to smite the Earth with a curse for their sakes. 

With much sniffles, someone starts reading for about twenty seconds before Ryan says, rather timidly, “Mom.” I snap back, “Be quiet and listen.” He interrupts with, “Yes, but, Addie is naked.” Sure enough, she’s standing in the kitchen unloading a cupboard and her clothes are lying beside her. I leave Nate in charge and take the baby to bed. I am ashamed to admit that sometimes the process of putting her in bed takes a little extra time because I am less than anxious to reenter my position as goalie of scripture time. By the time I get upstairs the children are raiding the scripture treat jar, all except for Evie, who is screaming that daddy forgot to let her read.

It was after one of these nights, that also included the extended scripture experience that is family night, that I found myself laying my head on my husband’s shoulder and declaring, “It isn’t supposed to be like this!” 

He said, “Like what?” I said insane and unhappy and with everyone fighting. He stared at me for a minute looking perplexed be for saying, “Amy, every family night I ever had growing up was exactly like this.” Nate is the oldest of six brothers and one sister. 

So I think the real point here is understanding the difference between happiness and Joy. I was asked to share a testimony of how teaching my children the gospel brings Joy into my home. When Nikki called me, I laughed and laughed and laughed. I told her she had definitely picked the wrong sister to share this concept. But, as I thought about it, I realized that this is a testimony I can bear as strongly as anyone. 

The day after telling my husband that everything was working out wrong, my Quentin came home with a packet of school assignments. I glanced through them and came across one with the question, “Where do I like to go in my town?” In his unpracticed hand, my little boy had carefully written, “I like home.” Suddenly the frustration seemed silly. It is clear to me that the Spirit of God and the love of family must be in our home, even though I can’t always feel it.

Angels and Humility

“I testify of angels, both the heavenly and the mortal kind. In doing so I am testifying that God never leaves us alone, never leaves us unaided in the challenges that we face. ‘[N]or will he, so long as time shall last, or the earth shall stand, or there shall be one man [or woman or child] upon the face thereof to be saved.’”

Jeffrey R. Holland

I told myself the best thing to do was wait to write this experience until I have two working hands. I can’t. We’re supposed to be keeping a daily journal for Relief Society of the ways we know that God loves us. I have a lot to write today. I guess I’ll two finger it, because, honestly, I want to remember every detail.

This story might just start a few weeks ago when, during an honest self-evaluation, I concluded that I needed to pray for humility. I don’t think for one minute that this a good thing to pray for. I had weighed my options here. I don’t want humbling experiences. But I am prideful and I want to be a better person. So, knowing full well that it was an idiotic thing to do, I asked Heavenly Father to help me be humble. More specifically I told him, “I don’t want to go through trials, but I’m asking you to do whatever it takes to help me become the person I could be.” Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. I would have said no such thing if I had known it would involve other people’s children.

Yesterday was one of those super busy days where everything overlapped. I was going to have to pick up Adelaide from preschool early so I could get Rhianna to school on time before running to Addie’s speech therapy appointment. After that, I had to get the younger kids off the school bus, and run into town to pick up Chloe. If she took the bus, she’d be late for her very last activity days. She was so excited about it. I knew that my friend, Brenda, would be willing to take Quentin to his scouts which started a little before that and Katherine would bring Chloe home. Amidst all of that, my three little girls had choir class. After, there would still be mutual for the teenagers.

In a day like that, I needed friends. Everyone always sacrifices so much for my family. The one space I had to pay-it-forward was in the morning. Since preschool was at the completely opposite side of town, I could easily pick up the other kids on my way. I had texted the other moms and three responded. I was a little worried that the others were not answering because they thought they were out of the way for me, but, in hindsight, it may have been because I'm a terrible driver. I sent one more text to be certain. This might seem like an act of benevolence. It isn’t. It has to do with the obsessive desire to give more than I take. It’s a side effect of the aforementioned pride. It’s a constant rat race to keep the score close to even because I am surrounded by such incredible, Christ-like people.

In the end, I was supposed it pick up four kiddos and haul three of my own. Oh, how I loved my twelve-passenger van! The temperature was going to get all the way up to 38 degrees yesterday and I was excited about it. I am not someone who is super sad when the winter is too warm. At nine in the morning, we were already hovering about freezing and it was raining outside. The roads were slick. I slid several times, but always quickly regained control. I picked up the first three kids and headed toward the last one. I knew I’d be going off the paved road, briefly. Where the road ended and the dirt road tilted to the right, there is a small turnaround with two trees in the middle. I was going slower than usual because of the ice, but still braked as I approached so I could stop and make the right turn. Nothing happened. The car seemed completely unaware that it had brakes. We slid forward at exactly the same velocity as before. We weren’t careening out of control, but it was a horrible feeling to be completely unable to stop or slow the car.

I suppose the world slows down when everything is happening too fast. I remember all kinds of thoughts in the few seconds leading up to the crash. I was worried about trying to steer left or right. What would happen? And believe me, I know this sounds insane, but in the moment, it seemed very logical. I thought, “Just run it into the trees. That will stop you.” As I have run those few moments through my mind again and again, I have pondered on how silly that thought seems. But I don’t think a turn would have avoided the trees entirely. And if I had tried to turn, things would have played out differently, though I don’t know how.

We hit the trees.

The next thing I knew, I was flipped around backward climbing into the back of my van toward the screaming children. Addie was closest. She was trapped under a car seat on the floor. I didn’t process that right away. I counted. They were all there. They were all moving. They were all responding. I got Addie out. And then I asked the kids to calm down. I told them I needed to call for help. I explained that I couldn’t do that if they were screaming. To my utter amazement, every single one of them went quiet. I tried the mom whose house we were headed toward first. She was closest. She didn’t answer, so I called another Mom, my friend, Katherine. She told me she would be there soon.

The kids were holding their noses and the air looked smoky. I looked toward the front of the van to see if something was on fire. I quickly realized it was the airbags. They were both out. I didn’t remember them going off. I needed to get the kids out of the car. I tried the sliding door first. It wouldn’t open. I climbed to the back to see if I could open the rear doors from within. I’d never done that before and if it’s possible, I didn’t know how. So I climbed back up front. Both doors were blocked by the tree, but the passenger looked less so. With the help of a very independent little boy, I managed to get the door pushed open enough to get everyone out. I handed each of the little ones out the door, onto the ground before pushing my own way out.

There we all stood, me and five preschoolers (the baby was still inside in his car seat). I realized I had to call the other moms. I tried. Ridiculously, I could not remember how to make my phone make a call. I put it in my pocket and looked down at the little faces standing there in the rain. Up until now I kind of had a checklist of things I needed to do. I couldn’t think of what was next. I said the words out loud. “We need to…” I didn’t know. I said it again, “We need to…” and this time the words fell from my mouth before I heard them in my head, “say a prayer.” Five little kids gathered in a tight circle. They reacted immediately without a second prompting. They each folded their arms and bowed their heads. They listened silently as I poured out my heart in thanks for the angels that had protected them, while freezing raindrops fell from the sky.

A moment later help arrived. My wonderful friend, who should have rightly been very concerned about her son and angry with me, immediately put her arms around me. I remembered how to use my phone. I spoke with the other moms, but the kids all insisted they didn’t want to go home. They wanted to go to preschool.

Someone asked about my arm. It was bruised, but I hadn’t really noticed, so it couldn’t be that big of a deal. Neighbors showed up to help. There wasn’t really anything to be done. The poor van was wedged almost perfectly between two trees. It would take a professional tow truck to move it. That’s not to say they weren’t any help. One of them laughed and said, “I hit that tree once.” He’ll never know how much better that made me feel.

We all hopped into my friend’s car and took those amazing kids to preschool. Once there, Kelli, the teacher that day, wanted to look at my arm. She’s a paramedic. I almost told her not to worry about it, but decided it might be good for everyone if we all walked into the house together. I’m so glad we did because besides wrapping the injury, she told me to take the ring I was wearing off before my fingers got any more swollen. Otherwise, it would have had to have been cut off later. I wouldn’t have thought of that, but would have been heartbroken to lose that ring, a keepsake from my grandmother. She also took a look at the accident pictures Katherine had taken and declared that, based on the accidents she’s seen, I could not have hit that tree in a better way to minimize the impact to the people in the van. Well, maybe running directly into the tree wasn’t that crazy after all.

The rest of the day belongs to my friends. They watched my kids, took me to the hospital, taxied my kids around, and even bought Nate his favorite soda so he’d feel better when I shared the news of our poor car. (He was, of course, the picture perfect husband, supportive, kind, comforting.) Through it all, a familiar scripture kept popping into my head.

“And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from his birth.

“And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?

“Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.” (John 9:1–3.)

If nothing bad ever happened, how would we ever get to witness a miracle? I saw a lot of them yesterday. But did the experience help me in my hopeless quest for humility? I hope so, because I don’t want another like it.