I’ve been thinking a lot about the chaos in the world, how it was building up and then Covid-19 came and upended anything left that felt remotely “normal.” 

There is greater awareness now of what our public officials are doing, of climate change, of systemic racism, of the dark parts of our country’s history, of the inequality between sexes at home and in the workplace….

All of this was known by some but Covid has seemingly flung open pandora’s box and let out all that we were trying to escape and ignore and push through.

I’ve been studying about when Christ was on the earth and His repeated remarks about a new way of living. He kept telling the people that the Law of Moses was no longer necessary. This measured, calculated way of living that was SO normal wasn’t living in His fullness. He had a better way, a way that cast off what was normal and stretched people to look inward, to change their hearts.

He flung open the box and pointed out the inequality, oppression, and pain that existed all around with people ignoring it or just simply trying to push through it because there seemed to be no solution. 

Christ came to teach us a new way, to shake off the old traditions of normal and adopt a life centered on love and outreach and growth. There are no steps to count, no boxes to check, just a continual self-reflection to refocus on living in His love and generosity and extending that out to others. 

To see the pain and the heartache. To see the oppression and inequality. To dispose of what was normal and adopt a new way of living. 

I think American particularly has struggled in this pandemic in casting off our need for what was normal. We have tossed aside the opinions of scientist and doctors in favor of opinions that fulfill our deep desire to “get back to normal.” But the reality is that Covid-19 is real and over 200,000 people have died. Real people. Grandparents, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, children, friends….

Their lives will NEVER go back to normal. They have been cast into an alternate reality where a person they love no longer exists beside them to enjoy sunsets and fall leaves and the deep joy that can be found in the simplest of things.

I fear that our desire for “normal” has pushed us to ignore the pain and heartache, to reject a new way of seeing the world in hopes to hold onto whatever we can from “before.” 

But as a Christian I have learned that being reborn in Christ is a continual process. A process where in all the chaos we can turn to Him to center, refocus and see with His eyes.

I have been cast into that alternate reality of loss. Losing James forced me into living a life that was quite different from the one I had thought would come to fruition. It shook me in deep ways and caused me to reflect on what really mattered.

At the core, it forced me to notice that I was not the only one mourning. The whole world around me was mourning in unique ways and I decided I would always do my best to hear their cries, to read and listen to their stories, to look past my own life experience and attempt to walk in their shoes. It was an entirely new way of living for me but one I knew that I could never cast off. Once your body wails and shakes at noon, seemingly surrounded by darkness though the sun shines brightly outside…you are physically changed.

You don’t have to experience loss to live a new way and you don’t have to abandon your personal needs. Living a new way requires pausing and reflecting, reading and praying for your heart to be open, to understand, to see. This is a new way in which we listen to stories of discrimination and oppression and instead of pushing it aside, reflect inward and ask how can I let this change me? A way of life in which we live deliberately, intentionally, imperfectly all with the faith that He will help us. Christ in His infinite love and goodness will guide our spirits, our hearts, our very beings to stretch and be sanctified.

Tomorrow will be 6 years since the day I delivered James. His birthday, his death day.

As each year passes, life slows down in the week approaching. Well, life doesn’t slow down as much as my mental speed does. The grief always rises and emotions hit me like thrashing waves; taking enormous mental strength to process basic things.

But this week has been interesting, amidst the present grief, there has been so much to celebrate. A text from a dear friend that after 7 years of trying to grow their family (via infertility treatments and failed adoptions), was chosen one morning to be parent to a precious baby girl, a friend secretly getting married, another engaged, one successfully undergoing a scary surgery, another starting labor. I can’t help but just be overjoyed at the goodness of life and celebrations around me, despite the approaching anniversary of my son’s death.

I suppose this is the passage of time, it’s not that I don’t think about him constantly or that it is any easier to talk about having dead child, but that as each year passes, his impact on my life is deepening my life experience and the joy I feel for others.

This year has been hard. Suddenly taking in a teenage girl and learning how to co-parent with her parents and then undergoing a home renovation that wasn’t planned for and unending threw me back into the waves of grief. I was thrown into a life I hadn’t planned for or imagined. I yearned for simplicity and was given immense complexity.

This past winter, I decided to get a pedicure in an attempt at self-care. However, in an attempt to steal some more time for myself to go thrifting, I rushed the process and slipped on my flats after what I felt was enough time drying the polish. Once I got in my car to head home, I check the polish and saw that it was all basically ruined. I groaned, but in my resourcefulness decided to just stop at Walgreens and buy a matching polish and fix it at home. At home, I pulled out the applicator brush and realized out of ALL the bottles, I had chosen one that had lost it brush. It was just a stick of plastic.

I lost it.

I crumpled to the floor, gasping for air between heavy sobs. The difficulty of life just got to me. Everything was hard, nothing came easy. There were so many little fires to put out each day and I felt completely incapable of handling it anymore.

In a moment of heavenly clarity, I remember that I had promised myself that one day I would go to therapy to process James’ death. At that moment, I knew I needed it.

You see, often when someone goes through trauma of any sort, a common phrase extended to that person is, “You are so strong.” It’s true, they are. But the reality is that it can become a crutch, something to lean on when days and weeks get hard. They muscle through trials because they know they can. They strive to maintain the image of perseverance and strength.

In my moment of grief over something as trivial as nail polish, I knew that I did not have the right tools and thought processes to handle the trials that were before me. I had worked so hard to escape the darkness and grief of James’ death, yet here I was and my own strength wasn’t enough.

So I started going to therapy. I found a safe place to talk and realize that I was physically keeping myself from feeling emotions, sabotaging my own efforts to heal. I was powering through the heartache, but these trials weren’t ending. There wasn’t a solid, single date to them, they were constantly flaring up and causing frustration. In therapy I have been learning to let myself feel, to cry; to hold both grief and understanding at the same time.

This week, as I was feeling so much joy during such a heavy time, I realized perhaps the true power of our trials is not in our muscling through to gain strength and wisdom, but rather in the deepening of our life experience. My joy has depth and nuance because of the inherent brokenness of my heart. My sorrow works likewise. That is the inherent beauty I see in my life now, that is my true strength.

With that said, each year for James’ anniversary I like to ask family and friends to do an act of service in his name. I call it The James Effect. It has brought so much light to this day, as acts of kindness bring life to his name. This year, however, I have a little twist. My hope is that this year, for your service, you consider reaching out to a friend or family member who has been going through a hard time. Send them a message or invite them over to chat. Create space for them to feel safe, to breathe and feel. Ask them, “How are you coping?”, “What is helping?”, “How is your heart?”. Make room for vulnerability and let them know that they have a village of love and support. Don’t try to fix things, just let them be seen and heard.

Lastly for tomorrow, I hope you do something to fill your own cup, something that brings you joy. Whether it is going on a sunset walk, eating chocolate cake, or having a dance party with your kids, seek out those experiences that are sure to bring a smile to your face.

Fill your cup to overflowing, because when it overflows, that’s when you can share it.

I have been walking my oldest son, Max, to school in the mornings. It is something I look forward too despite all of the necessary bundling up that comes with the crispy, morning air.

Sometimes we chat and sometimes space between us is filled with the sounds of the world turning. A car driving past, the crunch of golden leaves on the ground, the distant shout of friends meeting before the final bell rings.

It takes me back to my childhood.

I walked to school every day from 1st-5th grade. I knew exactly when to leave, seasons passed not in days but in moments of the earth changing. Hot air turning crisp, leaves under foot, chestnuts falling and breaking open from their spiky green shells; shiny, smooth treasures to carry like a worry stone in your pocket, wind picking up, snow falling on bare trees, carving a path with my feet that I would march on again and again until all that pressure turned to ice. Then the earth would melt and the sun would reflect with such intensity that I would shield my eyes, the earth would gradually return to green and the sun’s intensity would transform into a stiff heat that made the trudge up the hill towards home, seem unbearable.

Each morning now is a blast to my childhood, a transportation through nostalgia to my former self.

As a child we can have such a confidence in our identity. Our sense of self is so assured and obvious and then suddenly we reach a point in our lives where it isn’t. We gain awareness and with that comes questioning everything that self was built upon. We grow and change and some of that growth and change is so good and some of it is vicious.

I came that realization two weeks ago in the middle of a Hanson concert (yes, that Hanson). I was euphoric, singing and dancing and just letting myself be transported and I remembered how much I love to dance without caring what anyone thought. How I love to sing even though I tend to be a little too loud. My senses were on complete alert as I settled into memories of laughing and dancing in my room and with friends. Recollections of natural happiness that comes with a strong sense of being yourself.

After I lost James, my grief took its greatest toll out on my self-esteem. Some of my first thoughts in the aftermath were wondering what I had done that was to blame.

I thought of my missteps as a friend, the fact that when I am really excited I tend to talk over people, how my opinions are sometimes so strong I can’t imagine anything else being right, how I sometimes hurt people by not speaking or standing up for them, the many ways I fail at following Christ, how I divulge too much information without thinking, how I make things too complicated and have trouble adapting.

Months and years have passed as shame has brought to light all of my shortcomings, all my failings to humankind. In response, I slowly hid bits of myself away. The parts that were too excited, too exuberant, too loud. So much concentrated awareness had me shrinking into myself, scared to live in case I might cause hurt.

It doesn’t take grief alone to send us hiding. There are so many reasons that can trigger our response to listen to shame. However it happens though, living a life focusing on our short-comings is a half-life. It is a life where we hide the unique and special parts of ourselves, the parts that help us feel free.

The root of the word nostalgia is literally “the pain of returning home” or homesickness. I found this fascinating. If you can look beyond the memory itself, you can recognize a sense of being at home with yourself. You can remember who you are.

The Savior wants us to find ourselves and offers up this promise,  “For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it” (Matthew 16:25). If we focus too much on ourselves, we will always feel lost. That constant inward contemplation can be destructive because it so often consumes us with shame. But in a paradox, losing our lives for His sake will bring us home. We must lose ourselves in all that is good (“for good cometh of none save it be of me”); in simple moments with our children, in uplifting music, in inspiring books, in service, in connection with the world around us.

Let go of the grip of self-consciousness. Know and remember that you are loved simply for being you. All of those quirks, all of what feels like imperfection, that is part of your divine identity. Stand firm in the knowledge that as you grow and lose yourself in living a joy-filled life, all of those rough parts will be softened, but your uniqueness will remain.

Remember the big and small delights that bring that true sense of joy. Remember the freedom of confidence, the ease of being unguarded. In recognizing and remembering the root of ourselves, we can return home and simply be.