On a pier in Copenhagen, Denmark, is a bronze statue of a young woman named Kristina. Kristina stands looking out towards the sea, her goal fixed inside her, to join the Saints in Zion. It is said that the winds are blowing against her fiercely, but she does not look back. She stands steadfast and immovable in her determination to press forward doing that which is most difficult.
Tonight I'd like to share just how I came upon the story of Kristina. Though keep in mind, words are often a poor and scanty source of communication. Tonight I pray the spirit will deliver the details of my musings and enrich what is expressed here between the lines.
The other night I was struggling to finish some material I was learning in a religious online class I am taking at BYU_Idaho. I should probably set the stage by telling you a little bit about how my week had been going. First of all, the classes I am taking should produce about three hours of work for every single credit hour I am enrolled in. This amount of recommended time is far from how much actual time I was now spending trying to accomplish the work! For the entire week, I had been doing nothing but worrying and struggling several hours each day to learn how to navigate the technical site. That doesn't even begin to count the drawn out time I was spending once I actually found the work I was suppose to respond to. Talk about a hurdle I could barely get my big toe over. The next thing that was eating up hour after hour was reading, re-reading and fighting to remember what I was reading and re-reading. Does that sound repetitive and redundant to you? Yes. Exactly my point.
Most people don't understand death followed by serious grief and what that grief does to the mind. So let me explain plainly. In short, it powerfully robs the mind of it's ability to remember. This is a very real thing! It isn't something people just conjure up when they lose a loved one. And it's frustrating because when you tell people, "I can't remember," they just look at you like, "Uh huh." I am constantly reminded it is something few people grasp or actually believe. People just don't get it. Add my age to this debilitating factor of grief, and my genes, and you have a scenario for struggle and disaster!
Now here I was in my study. I was remembering how I struggled to gain my memory back after my son, Corbin died. And now here I sat, going through all the tortures of grief, with it's mind robbing power, all over again. I had Glade to soften the blow when Corbin died. Now I had neither Corbin or Glade! Can I just state that the pain of it all felt a thousand times worse, a thousand times heavier? Yes, a thousand, maybe a million. It is impossible to measure pain.
Not being able to remember anything I was reading was beating me down to the ground. Think for a moment of any finish line you've ever crossed, and what it took to get there. I have done a few half marathons in my life and I can well remember the finish line. I remember the effort, the sweat, the blood, and the tears I spent to cross and step over those finish lines. Now imagine this is you, imagine someone is standing there at the end of your race, your finish line, with a finger raised pointing to you. And the directive he gives you is this, "Sorry, you have to go back to the start and do it all over again. This time however, do it without your legs." Death has produced in me a, "Go back and do it again" mentality but this time with a brokenness that can't be described. I don't know about you, but I cannot run with broken legs, I cannot run with broken anything.
I can't count the finish lines I've crossed. And Glade was there for all of them. Here I am without him and it feels like I'm starting every race all over again, with every part of me broken. Run a marathon without legs? Why in the world did I think I could go back to school without my mind? It's a comparative thought. Here I am in the most stressful portion of my life I've ever been in, I have never been under more stress than now, so why in the world did I do something so stupid as to sign up for more stress? I sat there in my chair, in my study, without a single solitary soul there to comfort me, and I knew I had made a gross error. Suddenly I had neither the will nor the stamina to go on.
I looked at the clock now and it was well after midnight. I had been there for hours. I felt the emotion rise up and take over. It didn't take long and I was a certified mess. Nights are the hardest without Glade, and as I sat at my desk alone in the quiet of my study, I realized along with everything else, the principles of faith I had been trying to read, remember, and study, were releasing some deep hidden emotions in me. I am a very passionate person. I am a deeply emotional person. So imagine my dismay at the feelings of being defeated. I am in a religious class. I am not feeling religious and reading to try and gain the spirit was not working. I felt whipped and beaten.
I can't go on with this post, without first relating to all who read here, that Glade has been gone now, 534 days. I know because I count each and every long drawn out one. I count them as they drip by slower than molasses. I lay awake at night and watch as one day changes to the next. On February 3rd, it will be eighteen months; eighteen of the longest, loneliest, and most hell ridden months of my entire life, and with no end in sight.
In order for you to grasp this post, I must relate with disappointment, that I have not felt spiritual since Glade died. No, on the contrary, Glade dying has produced in me something foreignly different. I have never been this way in my life. My core has always been spiritual in nature. It is one thing to believe in the principles of faith my entire life and quite another to have them tested beyond my human comprehension. As I visit Glade's grave daily, I stand before it in utter shock and disbelief, and I stand there in complete sorrow, yes still after 534 days. I look down at the earth below my feet and think, "I can't believe I buried my joy and my life in the ground." Those are my thoughts as I stand there in my complete disbelief. I often look out at the mountains that rise in the distance just beyond his grave. I stare at them and ponder, where has my faith gone, and how in the world can I go on without it. Something in me cannot let go of the pain. I can't let go. It's the last part of him I have to hold on to.
I don't think I am doing a very good job at metaphorically pulling my handcart across the barren plains. Glade's death has produced inside my heart an overwhelming temptation to let go of it and give up. I have felt completely beaten. My frame of mind feels much like the barren plains my ancestors crossed over. Now here I sat in my study trying to navigate uncharted territory in an online class I feared I could very well fail. I don't think I'm smart anymore. I don't think I'm anything anymore.
Sitting there in my lonely leather chair, I was filled with questions, "Why am I here? What am I doing? Why am I doing it? Where am I going? What will ever become of me?" Those questions produced a down pour of tears. As I read more about the principles of faith, something dawned on me, and it dawned on me hard. I realized something quite discouraging, I don't lack faith in God, I lack faith in me. I have never doubted what God can do. I know God can do anything. I know He has the power to do all things. I don't think I'm worth it anymore. It isn't God I lack faith in, it's me. Some how my worth is gone. Death has destroyed it along with any confidence or faith I had in myself. I am empty. I am the barren plains.
As the clock ticked on, I was in a lowly state. One thing led to another and it was then and there that I made up my mind to withdraw and quit the course. This is doing me no good I thought. I was tired, I was upset, I was struggling to navigate this new path, struggling with everything, so I made up my mind to quit. I got up to leave my study. I was feeling sore, I've never been a quitter, I thought, Crows are not quitters. I was crying hard now and feeling totally hopeless, when something told me to sit back down in my chair and open up the lesson links I had been given and watch the small video segments that were provided in the lesson topic I was studying. The links were entitled, "Digging Deeper." I was tired and I didn't want to sit back down, but surprisingly I felt my body drop back into my worn seat. Next to my astonishment, I felt my hand reach for the mouse and I directed it to the first link in the wheel. I remember thinking, "It's one in the morning, you should go to bed." I did not follow that thought, something wouldn't let me.
The first link I summoned was a talk by Elder David Bednar. I clicked on the link and his voice began, "We should not overlook or underestimate the power of the Lord's tender mercies." He spoke of how sweet they are, how simple they are, and how they will fortify us and protect us in troubled times. That small segment of video stopped me and gathered my complete focus. I finished that segment and felt the spirit strong. I decided to click on the next link, which ironically happened to be on murmuring, by Neil A. Maxwell. He told of how murmuring is a half suppressed resentment. I thought of my resentments and how they were now afflicting me.
The next talk I clicked on was that of Elaine S. Daltons. Which brings me to my post here. As I opened the link I saw the statue of Kristina, her hair blowing in the fierce wind. And then I heard the voice of Sister Dalton begin telling the story. I was completely drawn in when I heard the words, Copenhagen Denmark. Suddenly I felt Glade's spirit there behind me. I felt him, I knew he was there behind my chair, I knew he was with me and I could feel his sorrowed heart reaching out to me. A tremendous love filled the room. I felt a warmth drench over me. It penetrated every part of my being. I felt my Father in Heaven's tender mercy unfold before me. It was real, it was encompassing, it was divinely personal.
My wonderful husband served his LDS mission in Copenhagen, Denmark. I thought of that returned missionary I fell madly in love with. He spoke fluent Danish when he returned home from his mission. I sat in his mission homecoming and laughed at how he couldn't find the words he needed to speak in English. He loved that sea baring land as much as his own. Now I could feel his tender healing soul there with me. I continued on. I listened to the rest of that clip and went on to listen to each addition clip with various speakers. Every talk was healing and every talk spoke to a specific need I had, every talk spoke to my broken heart and my broken soul.
As I finished listening to all eight segments, I realized that each one was consecutive in nature. What I mean to say is, they were all laid out before me in the exact order I needed them in. I was so overwhelmed with an immense feeling of love... love from my Savior, love from my Father in Heaven, and most of all, the sweet healing love from my angel husband. I cannot tell you how that felt. I cannot put words to it. Some experiences are to sacred for words. I can't express the reprieve I felt for an instance from the intense winds that have been whipping me for the last 18 months. I sat pondering on how the Lord was tenderly caring to my broken shattered lack of faith. I could hear Glade speaking wisdom to my mind. I felt the healing balm of Gilead being poured over me. My soul was shattered and aching and my Heavenly Father, my Savior, the Holy Spirit, and my husband, all of them together were tending to it. I felt it. I knew it. It was overwhelming. It was powerful.
I sat there for so long, my sorrowing soul soaking it up. It was nearly 3 AM now. I hesitated to raise myself up and turn off the light, but somehow I did. I stood there in the immense dark and prayed a silent prayer of gratitude in my heart. I was so grateful for the tenderness of the Lord. I know the gospel of Jesus Christ is true. Even in my broken state, I know it's principles are true. I also know that faith is a principle that needs action, even when we feel we haven't the strength to act. I also knew at that very moment, as I buried my swollen face in my hands, and tear after tear poured through, it was okay. I knew the Lord was keenly aware of me and He lovingly understood my plight, I also knew He understood, even if I didn't.
I turned of the light and closed the door to my study and made my way slowly to my room. It was dark, I was alone. I climbed in my bed and pondered on my state of mind. I thought about Kristina. I thought about me. We are not so different she and I. She stood steadfast and immovable in her determination to press forward doing that which was most difficult and like her, so must I. I must not waiver in the wind. I must not waiver in my faith, neither towards God or myself. I must look toward my Zion on high that is yet to come. I must keep my gaze fixed. I look forward to the day I will be reunited with Glade. There is no doubt in my mind of that reunion. I know with the most complete certainty our loved ones that pass on, live on. I know they work beside us everyday, helping in anyway they can. What a day that will be, when I see Glade standing before me, when I take his hand once again. It is a grip I will never release! I know we will cry and shout for joy! I know it will be a celebration like no other. I must remain firm in my stance like Kristina, facing forward, not looking back. I pray God will see me safely through the storm, most importantly I pray he will guide me, sustain me, and deliver me up on that day when I can safely say. No, I never gave up, not in what mattered most!
