Spiritual Wounds

"Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly . . ."

Just looking at this old World War I picture, while contemplating the spiritual battlefield we are in (Ephesians 6:12) stirs memories of the times when my heart has been so wounded I literally could NOT pick myself up, but when I could go no further on my own, angel friends and family have been there to carry me to a place of comfort, help and healing.

My dear friend Darla Isackson has written another wonderful article in Meridian Magazine, titled "Clay Feet and Childhood Wounds"

In that article she said, "Wounds we received five minutes ago, as well in the distant past can cause us problems. Our society is full of prickly possibilities for spiritual wounding. Pres. Henry B. Eyring said in a recent address, 'Our comrades are being wounded in the spiritual conflict around us . . . Spiritual wounds are not easily visible, except with inspired eyes.' ("Man Down!” April 4, 2009, General Conference). I remember an additional message urging us to treat others with gentleness and kindness. The main idea was that if we treat everyone as if they are wounded, most of the time we’d be right. How true!

So many people “put on a happy face,” and never let the pain show. Others may put on a grouchy face, partly to keep people at a distance to make sure their woundedness is not found out. We know so little of what goes on in the minds and hearts of those around us—and things are so seldom as they seem. The most successful, seemingly altogether people may be hiding serious emotional wounds. The women of the “Five Browns” comes to mind. How many have envied them? Who would have guessed? No wonder the Lord has told us not to judge. He is the only One who knows each person’s heart. In 1 Samuel 16:7 we read, 'The Lord seeth not as a man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.'"

Stacks of Doilies

I was driving by a cemetery today while a funeral was taking place. The tent. The friends and family. All dressed in black, milling around, and I felt sad to see them. Then I saw the pallbearers carrying the casket toward them. The wave of pain hit me harder than it has in a very long time!

I had to come home and crochet furiously. That is how I got through the grief of Robert, and the pain of open-heart surgery for years. It's ridiculous, the stacks of doilies I have.

Darla Isackson

Almost a year ago I read an article in Meridian Magazine by Darla Isackson, in which she mentioned that she had lost her son to suicide. I have often read articles by Darla and I am always moved buy her depth of love for the Lord, her desire to improve her life, and her deep desire to share her knowledge with the rest of us. This article moved me to email her and thank her.

She graciously wrote back, and we began an extensive correspondence that blossomed into a great friendship. Darla expressed her promptings to write a book about her experiences since the death of her son, and she began sending chapters for my input and impressions. Her words of wisdom and comfort have touched and helped me more than I can say during my own ongoing process of grief since my son's death eleven years ago.

Darla has also been so kind about my blog. She continues to tell me it's beautiful and that I am a good writer. (She even ordered my out of print book, "Joy Outweighs The Sorrow" from Amazon and told me how much she enjoyed it.) I haven't even been able to think of myself as a writer for the last decade. It stunned me in fact when Darla said, "you are a writer, and writer's need to write." I didn't write anything, except emails to my children, for eight years after Robert's death.

I must say that in the beginning of our correspondence I was at first intimidated, then amazed, and then gratified by her encouragement, since "Darla has been on the Continuing Education speaker's circuit for BYU. . . In 1988 she pioneered the book division for Covenant Communications and was their Managing Editor for four years. She later served as Managing Editor for Aspen Books. Darla has edited well over two hundred uplifting books in her interesting career--shepherding them successfully from manuscript to bookstore shelves. She has presented at writer’s workshops in three states. Since 1998 she has free-lanced at home, editing and ghost-writing many books and caring for her elderly mother until she passed away. She has written a bi-monthly column for Meridian Magazine online since 2002." (Quoted from her website)

Two weeks ago Darla invited myself and three other women, who also helped with feedback on her book, to her home for lunch where she presented us each with a copy of her book. She included comments from each of us on the back cover of her book, and quoted us in various places in the book. (What an honor!) I found her to be just as warm and loving as she is while expressing her testimony in all of her writings. She has become a "bosom friend" to quote Anne of Green Gables!

Please check out Darla's website, where you may order this wonderful book if you know of someone that could use the wisdom and comfort she gives to those who are faced with this terrible tragedy in their life.

She’s A Butterfly

I heard this song by Martina Mcbride on my sister’s blog, and it touched my heart in a way that few ever have. Though I thought I had a handle on it, it seems that April is still my month of mourning, but this year it has been for the loss of parents I never had. I guess you never get over that need. A lot of my friends are at the point in their lives where they are losing and mourning their parents, but they have the wonderful memories and voices of affirmation in their heads of their love and they have ties that will forever bind them to their beloved parents. I only met my father on three occasions in my adult life. The first time his face was of a complete stranger to me, and yet—he wasn’t. I still carried a memory somewhere in my little two-year old heart I guess. He took my brother and I out to dinner, and that night he gave me something I’d never had before, and never had since. It was so elusive I don’t have words for it, but it seemed that he was pleased with me, and with my life, in a way that no one else can be. I’ve never thought of it this way before but could it be akin to the look in Ron’s eyes when he talks with his darling daughters?

Do you believe that we can get messages from people on the other side of the veil? I finally downloaded this song, and I cry and cry when I hear it. I keep thinking that this is a message from my dead Daddy. (That’s what his other children call him.) It feels like he feels this way about me, and wants me to believe it! “Oh Lord, help thou my unbelief!” When I listen it seems possible! I’m going to keep listening!

(And then I found this incredible butterfly picture, with hearts! Is that a coincidence?)

Thank you Daddy!

She remembers when she first got her wings
And how she opened up the day she learned to sing
Then the colors came, erased the black and white
And her whole world changed when she realized

She's a butterfly, pretty as the crimson sky
Nothing's ever gonna bring her down

And everywhere she goes, everybody knows
She's so glad to be alive, she's a butterfly

Like the purest light in a darkened world
So much hope inside, such a lovely girl
You should see her fly, it's almost magical
It makes you wanna cry, she's so beautiful

She's a butterfly, pretty as the crimson sky
Nothing's ever gonna bring her down
And everywhere she goes, everybody knows
She's so glad to be alive, she's a butterfly

God bless the butterfly
Give her the strength to fly
Never let her wings touch the ground
(God bless the butterfly)

God bless the butterfly
Give her the strength to fly
Never let her wings touch the ground

Oh, she's a butterfly, pretty as the crimson sky
Nothing's ever gonna bring her down
And everywhere she goes, everybody knows
She's so glad to be alive, she's a butterfly
She's a butterfly, she's a butterfly

God bless the butterfly
Give her the strength to fly
Never let her wings touch the ground
(God bless the butterfly)

God bless the butterfly
Give her the strength to fly
Never let her wings touch the ground

Mother

I found out last night that my mother is dying and I am grieving, but not because I will miss her, but because I never had her. I haven't lived with her since I was ten years old—fifty years ago. It is hard to be the pariah of her family, but I cannot change what is. I can only be grateful that she gave me life, and through her troubled family I was exposed to the gospel! I am so grateful to have my wonderful Ron! He is my constant—the one who loves me! And, I’m grateful for my beautiful children!

I am hopeful that in the next life she will be able to see more clearly, to find a tiny piece of love for me, and to find peace and rest to her soul and to know that I forgive her. When I was little I called her Mamma. She had dark cholocate eyes, and thick beautiful dark brown hair with a hint of auburn when It caught the sun. I always wanted to have her hair instead of my golden locks and freckles. She was my sun and my moon and my stars. May God now bless and keep my Mamma!

Is It Finally Spring?

I remember the morning, in the year 2000, when I looked out my window and was startled to see snow! How could this be? Where had spring, which I love best, and early summer and golden autumn gone? And, I remember feeling astonished to realize those seasons had slipped by in that dark time of illness and grief. I remember for several years how I could not tolerate the scent of even one single flower, when before I had loved flowers of every kind and hue! I’d loved their tender beauty, their soft petals and their fragrance—how I’d always loved them until that month I found my house filled with gorgeous hothouse blooms wafting the cloying scent of funeral. I remember when spring came again that year, how painful my beautiful season of hope and joy had become. So every year for ten years, as soon as the first crocus would begin to push out of the cold earth, I’d begin to mourn. And, gradually over the last few years, by the time April came, Robert’s April—Robert’s month of birth—and death, there were no tears or sorrow by then because I had cried them out in February and March.

Eventually, I could not resist my former love—their soft petals and sweet fragrance wooed me again and I knew I STILL love flowers! And then spring—oh glorious spring, it came again to my heart, after February and March wrenched it so. And, then this year—this year as the crocus peeked through the earth, I was startled again. I smiled it a welcome! This is the season of renewal, the season of hope, the season of the Lord’s resurrection and redemption! And, the season that I have finally started to remember! To remember my firstborn baby boy—the boy I loved—the boy I still love with a mother’s heart. And so I started the “Remembering Robert” blog. It’s February and I’m not crying, I’m looking at his sweet baby pictures and reveling in memories—good memories! Though I know it’s hard, please, please share your good memories too—even the little scraps that might not seem like much are precious to me! And each story and memory is bringing a smile to my face this year instead, of a tear!

Santa Comes Early to Grandparents!

We figured Santa would be busy enough visiting our twelve wonderful grandchildren tonight, so he came to our home this evening! As I write this post on Christmas Eve at five minutes to twelve, I'm wearing my soft baby blue p.j.s my husband gave me, and I'm tickled about the gift card—I'm rich! Well, certainly rich in blessings!!!! Ron plugged in his new Norelco so he can have a good shave in the morning too! We waited to open some of our children's gifts so they can share the fun. I also took Ron to the movies this afternoon after he took me to the temple this morning! We saw “The Blindside.” I'm glad I had a pocket full of Kleenex for my cold, 'cause I cried like a baby nearly the whole movie! Everyone needs to see this movie. We definitely want to buy this one. If you've seen this movie then you might understand my sadness in my last post for people caught in poverty. REAL POVERTY—and why a toy for a tot at Christmas is a drop in the bucket of the needs of people in deep poverty. The movie is beautiful and ends on such a high! And, it's based on a very true story!

Then tonight I read a review in Meridian Magazine (I love this online magazine) about Dickens "A Christmas Carol." This amazing story opened the eyes of the people of his time to the cruelty and poverty of Dickens world, and probably gave birth to the idea of giving to the poor at Christmas time. Society has come such a long, long way in caring for the poor, but watching this movie today illustrates that there is still such a long way to go. When all the poor are cared for the way "Big Mike" was, then we will have Zion! It made me realize why I just can't participate in Sub for Santa's—the need is SO MUCH BIGGER than that, and I can't do what Sandra Bullock did for Big Mike. I feel too small for the enormity of the problem and terrified that I might do more harm than good by a pittance at Christmas time!

If that wasn't enough (I've never had such time on my hands on Christmas Eve before) tonight, I decided to read through a few old journal entries. I haven't been a great journal keeper — not a consistent one for sure — but I ran into this one from

January 26, 1998: "Well, I haven’t written in my journal for a very long time. Becky is in Florida with Kristi and Ron and I are alone. Just on an impulse I stopped by to look at an Ivory home again. It was lovely and upstairs was a magnificent master suite, with three other bedrooms. A nursery, a little boys room, and a little girls room. As I slowly passed through them I felt waves of nostalgia— I will never need a home like this again in this life. My children are nearly raised. The future stretches out before me, and the same question my children are asking becomes mine, “What shall I do when I grow up?” I may only be half-finished with my life! (Of course I could die tomorrow—one never knows.) But, if I live, forty-seven more years is a long time. Ron asked (I think almost sincerely) if we should adopt more children. But, I don’t think that is what the Lord would have me do now. I don’t think I could go through all that again. I know I have learned many, many things—but . . .I’m more inclined to think I’d better just pass them on to the good of my grandchildren! Anyway, I think I would like to write! Really write! Write such gripping and well told stories, that they hook people, and then bear a powerful witness of the Savior and His plan! Just knock the reader over! And then lift him to heaven! Make people go away from a book of mine feeling good—really, really good about life, with a resolve to live better, serve better, trust the Lord more completely, and most of all to turn to Him for their consolation! That’s what my desire is—to bring souls unto Christ!—with the power of the written word. I prayed that the Lord would give me this gift so that I might serve Him. Now I feel that I must write something everyday—practice if you will, before He would ever grant such a gift to me. So begins the day!"

Little did I know that just one year later my son would have chosen to end his life, and my heart would literally be broken in every way, and then only two months later I would have open heart surgery for a hole in my heart that had been causing mini-strokes for the last several years. It took a long, long time to heal physically, especially since I had the surgery AGAIN the next year. Compared to my grief, it was easy to heal a broken heart physically. It's been ten years! For most of them I didn't even so much as write a letter until my daughter encouraged me to start this blog. Did I really ever feel that way about writing? Such passion! Now, it really doesn't matter. I just want to do what the Lord would have me do — whatever that is — WHATEVER that is! Whatever shall I do with my life when/if I grow up? What?

Morning Poem

When I die, no "in lieu of" for me
Give me FLOWERS, in all their variety!

Bonnie H

Sealed To Live

I believe in Christ; he is my King!
With all my heart to him I’ll sing;
I’ll raise my voice in praise and joy,
In grand amens my tongue employ.

These words, from a hymn text written by Elder Bruce R. McConkie of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, are a powerful reminder to the Latter-day Saints of the testimony of this special witness of the Lord Jesus Christ. On Friday, 19 April 1985, Elder McConkie, 69, died of cancer in Salt Lake Citv. Less than two weeks earlier, he had risen from his sickbed to bear his final testimony of the Savior in general conference: “I am one of his witnesses, and in a coming day I shall feel the nail marks in his hands and in his feet and shall wet his feet with my tears. But I shall not know any better then than I know now that he is God’s Almighty Son.”

We had our Stake Conference last Sunday. A former Stake President of ours related a story about Elder Bruce R. McConkie. Fifteen years after his death his wife told this story in a sacrament meeting. Elder McConkie did not want to die and he had done everything he could to live. He was so ill for conference that his doctor said to his wife that she had a dying man here and could not let him go, that he would surely pass out at the podium on national television in front of tens of thousands of people. He told his wife that he felt he must go to bear witness again of Jesus Christ, and so he did. Those of us old enough to remember will never forget his amazing testimony. It is still one of the most poignant memories I have of general conference. Even to almost the very last he would get dressed every day and try to function. Just before his death he asked Elder Packer to give him a blessing. Elder Packer blessed him (and I am paraphrasing) to stop fighting the will of the Lord. After he left Elder McConkie asked his wife if she knew what had just happened. She said that yes, he has just sealed you to death. Elder McConkie then immediately went into his bedroom, folded the bedspread as he always did, put on his pajamas, and there he stayed until he died. In that act he had completely yielded his will to that of his Heavenly Father.

As many of you know, ten years ago just two months after my son died, I had open heart surgery for a large hole in my heart. Many of the doctors and nurses asked if I’d had children and were amazed that I had five healthy deliveries. They said I could have had a heart attack or stroke each time I gave birth. The first wife of an older gentleman in our ward died from a stroke at the age of forty because of a hole in her heart, which doctors could not repair at the time. When she gave birth to their only son she did have a heart attack and the baby’s oxygen was cut off. Though the baby lived he had severe brain damage---yet I lived, and my babies were healthy.
I have had so many instances of small strokes or T.I.A.’s. Some were so frightening that I knew, I really knew, that something was terribly wrong with my body. From the most severe of these episodes I could literally feel myself slipping, being pulled away and I wondered if this way my time to die, yet I lived. And during this talk I asked the question, “Why did I live?” The thought immediately came that for now I was “sealed to live” that the Lord wants me to LIVE!

I don’t get up very early in the morning. I haven’t found a really good reason to these past ten years. As I listened to this story I had the thought that if the Lord wants me to live, then I should show the same faith as Elder McConkie. Instead of remaining in my pajamas till late in the morning, that I should dress right away for the day because the Lord wants me to live! I don’t know why. I live a very ordinary life. But I do live! And I have the thought that maybe---just maybe if I get dressed and I’m ready, the Lord might have some good I can do each day. So this is my resolution, and I’m telling all of you so that you will encourage me to get ready for each day early and listen for the whisperings of the spirit that I might be directed to do some small good.

Well, I did it this morning! Yes, I was dressed before I published this and all morning I have been singing “Have I Done Any Good In The World Today.”

Love You Forever

As I write this tears are streaming down my face. I have already tried to sleep, but my sleeping pill hasn't kicked in and I couldn't be more tired. I finally went back to the temple today. It was wonderful and soooo tiring, so I am plenty tired, but as I lay in bed thinking about all the mistakes I have made as a mother---all of the disapointments my children have suffered at my hands, I felt blue. I miss Robert today. I have missed him almost EVERY hour of every day of the last ten years, but sometimes it's worse, like tonight. So, unable to sleep, I was just dinking around on the internet traying to get as sleepy as I am tired and I typed into google: "Robert where are you?" When to my amazement a 34 page list of books came up, (I didn't search for books) and the very top book was "Love You Forever" by Robert N. Munsh. Who knew that a Robert had written it?

Kristi gave me that book for Christmas signed by all of my children while Brian was on his mission. (I later had him sign it.) The amazing thing about the book was that the day after Robert died I found myself alone in the living room, and cried out loud, "Robert do you love me?" My eyes immediately went to that little tiny blue book on the bookshelf. I have a lot of books on that shelf, and I did not know where that particular book was at the time. I certainly didn't know where anything I owned was on that horrible day, but my eyes immediately landed on it and I took it off the shelf and read it, then read all the signatures of my children including Roberts!

Can this even be a coincidence---of all the books written by men named Robert and this one came up first? Surely someone is trying to comfort me. Could it be Robert? Can he possibly love me?