Darkness and Light

Today we went to see the Carl Bloch exhibit at the BYU Museum of Art.

Incidentally, the whole experience of seeing the exhibit was yet another confirmation that I am turning into my mother, as I started crying pretty much the second we walked in. Luckily, my mother is awesome so I'm good to go. (Note to my mother: Mom, I'm sorry for all those times when I teased you about your crying. Please come watch Tangled with me sometime and I give you full leave to laugh at me as I bawl my way through three-quarters of that movie. Seriously. It happens every. Single. Time.)

The Spirit hit me as we walked around the corner to see the giant picture of The Doubting Thomas (see the first picture in this article) and it only got stronger as we went through the exhibit. Of course Christ Healing the Sick at Bethesda is a favorite and a common sight in nearly any LDS meetinghouse around the world, and I loved Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane (one wonders who the angel was).

But then I saw The Daughter of Jairus.

You can see a more detailed version here.

I wish the placard text for this picture was available so I could give it to you exactly, but it went something like this:

Instead of focusing on the moment of healing when Christ raises the daughter of Jairus from the dead, the artist instead shows the moment of deepest despair. The grieving mother has sat with her daughter all night, mourning for her death, until the light of dawn is creeping into the sky through the open door. With that light comes life. Christ is seen in the doorway and the moment of the miracle approaches.

So much of life and infertility is filled with those moments of deepest despair. I have wept many nights. I have spent sleepless nights knowing that the small hope growing inside me has gone. I have grieved for my missing daughters and sons.

But with light comes life.

Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.

This painting brought back to me full force the remembrance that Christ knows our every suffering and every pain, and has taken them all upon Himself. In this painting, He is coming to take them away from this mother and bring her joy again.

I was reading a recent blog post about The Days Before—those days before the Big Days that change our lives ("Tomorrow, when our lives changed," the author says). The post specifically mentioned some happy days before bad or difficult news came, but this painting also reminded me that there are the other Days Before. The last dark days before the light comes. I remember the last few days and months before each of my positive pregnancy tests. I remember the terrifying day before my first ultrasound with the Little Guy, when I was certain that it would all come crashing down around us again. And I treasure those days now, because they are made precious by what came after.

Because I lived through the dark, I was able to drink in the light more deeply, with more wonder and thankfulness.

With light came life.

The ultrasound proved that the Little Guy was there and healthy and we saw that amazing, beautiful heartbeat for the first time.

Christ has brought joy into my life in countless ways, not the least of which are my husband and son, and I thank Him every day for it. But I also am learning to thank Him for the darkness that comes before the dawn. Because of that darkness, I look at this painting and see not only the affirmation that Christ is the light, but that he is in ALL things, and that our knowledge cannot be made perfect until after the trial of our faith.

With light comes life, but it is the darkness before that lets us know the light best.

Broken

Since starting this blog, I have had the opportunity to talk to many amazing women who have or know someone who has some experiences with infertility or miscarriage. Each one's story is as different as each individual, but there are some common threads and themes running throughout. The discouragement and tears, the hopes and prayers, the struggle between supporting your child-bearing friends and family and grieving for your empty arms, the frustration with the instability of your emotions and how they make you suddenly and irrationally angry and resentful of the first random pregnant woman to pass by.

But overwhelmingly, the thing these women most often express is the feeling that they are somehow broken. I remember sitting in the exam room at the OB/GYN's office after we found out the first time that our dreams had just popped like a balloon, and the first thing I was able to whisper through the tears was, "I'm broken." He, of course, immediately and without hesitation reassured me that it wasn't true, admonishing me in the same breath not to say that again.

This, again, is the standard response of the husbands of these women. They love us no matter what our bodies can or cannot do. And that means the world to us, guys, it really does; but at the same time they don't quite understand. It's hard to shake the sensation that you're broken if one of the things that makes you essentially female just isn't working. That you and your body have, somehow, fundamentally failed. (I can just hear the pens of uber-feminists furiously scribbling over my choice of words at this point. All I can say is, if you've never had the overwhelming desire to do something you know you should be capable of naturally and consistently failed despite all you can do, you're more lucky than you know.)

It took us a year and a half between going off birth control and finally getting that first ill-fated plus sign. At first we thought it was just the after-effects of being on the pill for a couple of years, but it soon became painfully obvious that, no, I was not pregnant, and therefore the only explanation was that I was not ovulating, either. And oh, did I feel broken.

And then, one Sunday, the Relief Society lesson was about this talk. I sat in my little corner behind the piano (I was the permanent substitute pianist for the Relief Society the entire year we were living in that ward) and felt grateful, first, for waterproof mascara since the tears were freely flowing down my face and making puddles on my shirt, and second, for the inspiration of this talk:

The first words Jesus spoke in His majestic Sermon on the Mount were to the troubled, the discouraged and downhearted. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” He said, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Whether you are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints or among the tens of thousands listening this morning who are not of our faith, I speak to those who are facing personal trials and family struggles, those who endure conflicts fought in the lonely foxholes of the heart, those trying to hold back floodwaters of despair that sometimes wash over us like a tsunami of the soul. I wish to speak particularly to you who feel your lives are broken, seemingly beyond repair.

To all such I offer the surest and sweetest remedy that I know. It is found in the clarion call the Savior of the world Himself gave. He said it in the beginning of His ministry, and He said it in the end. He said it to believers, and He said it to those who were not so sure. He said to everyone, whatever their personal problems might be:

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls."

It said exactly what I needed to hear that day, and I still can't read it without crying.

"If you feel you are broken, please know you can be mended."


"Broken Things to Mend," Elder Jeffrey R. Holland.

Reasons Why

My reasons for writing this blog are, first, that I think it a right thing for every person in such circumstances (like myself) to set an example; secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly -- which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.

Er, wait. Sorry. Wrong reasons speech there.

First off, I'm not writing this blog just because I want everyone to sympathize with me. Okay, well, maybe there is a little bit of that going on, but not much. (Although I do sincerely thank all of you who have expressed your sympathies. It means a lot to both Shallow Man and myself.) I'm writing this for catharsis, both personal and general.

One of the things I've noticed the most as we've been going through the process of infertility and also miscarriage is that nobody talks about it. Ever. Or at least that's what it feels like. Part of this is obviously the fact that people don't like talking about their health problems (at least before age 50 or so) and that in LDS culture we also don't talk much about sex in general, so anything related to it also isn't talked about as much.

But it's also because it feels, to me at least, embarrassing and almost shameful in a way. You wouldn't want to admit that you couldn't read or write or tie your shoes. You wouldn't want everyone at your workplace to know that you couldn't perform the basic functions of your job. Not being able to have children can feel the same way, like you're broken or inferior. I don't for a minute actually believe that infertility means anything of the sort, but when you're in the thick of it it's a lot harder not to listen to those kinds of ideas.

I think there's also an element of the Job syndrome. You worry that someone will think it's your own fault; that you're being punished or are unworthy in some way, because of course God will bless his righteous and obedient children with children of their own. This, of course, is nonsense, because God's purpose is not to give us everything we WANT, but to give us what we NEED.

Now, I'm not saying that I see exactly what the burning need for two miscarriages and struggles with infertility was in my life. And I probably don't specifically need these events. But I do need to grow, and Heavenly Father in His wisdom knows how to give me the experiences and opportunities I need to achieve that growth.

Of course I still struggle with accepting that. I think everyone who goes through trials does. And I have to admit that unfortunately I do go through days where I question and wonder why and am not at all content and lack faith and really wrestle with accepting and learning from my experiences. I would rather not have to grow in this particular way, thank you very much.

But then I have what I guess you might call more lucid periods, where I can step back and say, "Okay, this stinks, but what can I do about it? What can I learn from this?" And it's harder to know what to do if you don't know what anyone else is doing, or if it feels like you're the only one who's going through things like this.

So I guess that's the long way of saying that one of the main reasons I'm doing this is to increase awareness and start a dialogue. If we can talk about these things like they're as normal as they are (I've been surprised to find out just how many people I know are dealing with one or both of these issues) then none of us will feel as isolated, as broken, or as "unworthy" as I sometimes have felt. Then maybe we can get a better, more eternal perspective.

"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 9:2-3)