Blessings for Idiots

It has been my experience in life that I will not learn something until I have taken the long, arduous journey of "The Hard Way." "The Hard Way" is the path of most resistance. It generally is the path less trod, just because normal people can see an avalanche coming and take a few quick steps to the side to avoid being tumbled into a state of frozen cement where any kind of moving takes supreme effort. Breathing is labored, supplies are minimal, and any kind of progress forward requires the help of at least a second party, usually a third, fourth, and fifth. Generally, I'm stuck in that frozen tundra with my dear husband, which is a great consolation, except that being stuck together doesn't actually create the opportunity for one of us to help the other out. C'est la vie. 

We have just come out of months of climbing uphill through "The Hard Way," and are finally seeing the sunlight. As our faces begin to thaw, and the feeling returns to our fingers, there are residual issues to face. We might lose some toes in the process of putting our lives back together, and we're probably a little worse for wear. And oh, please, please bless that we're not going to have another avalanche for awhile. Or that we can see the next one coming and head for warmer weather. Since "comparison is the thief of joy," it is my never-ending quest to not look at others with their avanche-free lives and think, "Where in the world did I go wrong?" So I will work not to do that. I will work so hard. 

The blessing of always taking "The Hard Way," is that I get to learn so many life lessons in the process. So. Many. Always pay your bills on time. Always take opportunities that come your way. Always fold the laundry, even though it's the worst thing in the world. Always make a better choice than a cookie for breakfast. Always make your bed. Always talk to God, even when you couldn't be more furious with Him. Always make time for your husband. Always take time to be grateful, even when it seems like that list of blessings is a little thin. Always send a thank-you note. Always scream into a pillow when there's no one around with a face to punch. Always dip your toes in the water, even when it's freezing cold. Always go to the beach when nothing else is going on. Always cry in the shower; not because no one can hear you, but because there's less cleanup, and you'll feel better no matter what. Always drink more water. Always get more sleep when you can. Always make church a priority. Always take time for yourself; an intelligent person knows how important self-care is in creating a happy life. Always read your scriptures. Always say yes to Disneyland. Always be in the picture, even when you're having an ugly day. Always have patience with yourself; you're not perfect. Always have patience with others; they're not perfect either. 

I could keep going. The list is truly infinite as the lessons are also continuous. I would like to believe the time will come when I know absolutely every life lesson, but I can still see myself getting stuck in avalanches because Geriatric Becky refuses to take any way but "The Hard Way." I would also like to think that maybe we could stop stepping into the avalanches ourselves, and instead, only endure the ones the Lord decides we need. Those ones are hard enough. I feel like there are a few people who are still out of that loop of our lives, and since it's been long enough, I'm okay with getting you all up to speed. The last frozen cement situation that we were not expecting, nor did we create, happened this past August. 

I had just returned from a two-week trip up north with my parents in Idaho. It had been a fantastic trip, and I can still look back on it and be so glad that I went. It was a time of transition for us. While I was in Idaho, enjoying a camping trip reminiscent of my childhood, my sweet husband was moving us out of his parents' house and into our townhome. I hadn't even seen it in real life yet, but I knew it was amazing, and I was so excited to come home and have it be all ready for us. (As a sidenote, he has done this numerous times; almost every time we've moved, I haven't had to lift a finger.) I was especially appreciative this time because I was 14 weeks pregnant. 

Seeing as how I haven't been posting 'bump' pictures or having baby showers, or spending money we don't have on adorable baby clothes, you can probably guess the outcome. That day after I returned home from Boise, I went in to the doctor for what I assumed was a normal checkup. I was excited to see my baby. That's how it goes every time. And I did. I did see my baby. There wasn't any movement though. There wasn't a heartbeat. The US tech said my baby was measuring a perfect 14 weeks, so this lack of life was a very recent development. No one could give me any answers as to why. Just one of those things. I couldn't believe it. This was my second miscarriage in 3 years. Because that's how long it took for me to get pregnant again. 3 years after the first. 

When we found out I was pregnant the second time, I worked so hard to not get my hopes up. I couldn't go through that again. The wishing and hoping and dreaming. The planning and imagining. The only problem is that it's impossible to keep yourself from doing those things. And so I was hit just as hard the second time, despite my best efforts. 

I could tell you all about the pain, the anger, the betrayal, the grief, the stark reminders, the ignorant words of lucky mothers, the disbelief... but it would take forever. It still happens. I'd rather talk about learning to hope. 

Learning that even though your dreams had to change that day, it's not the end. New dreams are good, and they promote that hope that seems so hard to hold onto. Learning that wounds heal enough to leave scars, but they do heal. You're changed forever, but you don't forever hurt. You learn to let the past be the past. Let it stay there. Let it be, and then start looking to the future. Live in the beauty that is this day, and let yourself get excited for tomorrow. Be someone others who are going through similar trials can look to. You can be that person who tells them, "Oh yes. It is so dark right now. You are so broken. You are so shattered. You feel so much anguish. It will last a long time, and you will feel it forever in some form. The scar will come that will hurt less than the wound. The world moves on when you feel like everyone should stop everything and hurt with you. But the sun will continue to rise and set. You will continue to breathe. Time will still pass. And with that passing will come knowledge. With those hours, days, and months, and sometime, the years, you will learn about the Atonement and what that really means. And then, slowly, you start to function again. You gain light, and the shadows start to stay away for longer. I'm here to tell you that the time will come when you are brave enough to hope again. And that is a beautiful thing." 

Life is a heavy conglomeration of all things. The good and the bad together, and there is never a time of all good and all bad. It is a messy knot with all experiences combined. The day comes that a person decides to be alright with the mix, instead of being upset about the good being less than expected. I'm hoping to be alright more often.