I barely made it to the store in time. It was my usual late-night Saturday (read: pre-Sunday) run. (Where I live, lots of us Mormons do that so as to avoid shopping on Sunday. Why we wait until Saturday night (why not Friday? or Saturday afternoon?) is a humorous rhetorical question. It makes for a fun neighborhood gathering, anyway. But, alas, I digress.)

Nearly running, I made my way from one end of the store to the other so I could get to the checkout stand by closing time. There were two lines open; I chose one and unloaded my cart.

The woman in front of me pulled a manager over and whispered something in her ear. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but it was definitely slowing down the process.

I don’t know anyone who isn’t the type to look for the shortest line and then bemoan it when Murphy’s law = your line ends up being the slowest. Oddly enough, though, for whatever reason (I’m can think of no other explanation than “it was grace”), I wasn’t feeling antsy. I had made it to the checkout before closing, but besides that, I really wasn’t in a hurry. And besides that, my items were already on the belt, so….

It soon became clear that the woman in front of me was trying to find a way to pay for the groceries of a woman who had come before her. The manager was trying to figure out how/if that could be done, and this woman was running back to get gift cards (she knew the woman in need and was coordinating with the manager to have this all work as a secret).

This Christlike woman kept apologizing, but my heart was about to burst. The clerk, the manager, and I were all fighting tears.

It was a sacred moment, one I thanked the woman for giving us.

I feel like God is trying to teach me something.

I have a new goal to not eat standing up. That may sound silly, but I’m always rushing about, shoving this food or that into my mouth while I’m running to the next thing. Or I put off eating all together. Not only is this not good for my body; it’t not good for my spirit. I’m not yet to the point of not multi-tasking while I eat, but my goal is to only read from real books (not a screen) while I slow down, sit, and eat.

So last night, while I was eating a snack, I sat and savored a chapter in Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts. The title of the chapter? Timely to be sure: “a sanctuary of time.”

The chapter is about slowing down and cherishing the moment. She quotes a pastor who shares his greatest regret:

“Being in a hurry,” he says.

Getting to the next thing without fully entering the thing in front of me. I cannot think of a single advantage I’ve ever gained from being in a hurry. But a thousand broken and missed things, tens of thousands, lie in the wake of all the rushing…. Through all that haste, I thought I was making up time. It turns out I was throwing it away. [found on p. 65-66 of Voskamp’s book; originally found in Mark Buchanan, The Rest of God: Restoring Your Soul by Restoring Your Sabbath, p. 45; emphasis added by Voskamp]

Voskamp adds:

Whatever the pace, time will keep it and there’s no outrunning it, only speeding it up and pounding the feet harder; the minutes pound faster too. Race for more and you’ll snag on time and leak empty. The longer I keep running, the longer the gash, and I drain, bleed away.

Hurry always empties a soul (p. 67).

And yet our souls crave the exact things that hurry cannot give us: God. Stillness. Peace.

I think we all hear and know that “being present” matters somehow, but it’s so very hard to actually slow down enough to do that. My mind is always thinking about the next thing I need to do or the thing I need to work on or the thing I am afraid of or the thing that got my goat…or…or….

I’m grateful that God took the time this weekend to help me, teach me, invite me to slow down, to be willing to wait — if even just in a grocery line — and to watch and see that He is there, everywhere, ever-ready to show His face. All I need to do is release my chaotic clutch on time a little, and instead let life move at His pace a little more.

When the veil which encloses us is no more, time will also be no more (D&C 84:100). Even now, time is clearly not our natural dimension. Thus it is that we are never really at home in time. Alternately, we find ourselves impatiently wishing to hasten the passage of time or to hold back the dawn. We can do neither, of course. Whereas the bird is at home in the air, we are clearly not at home in time—because we belong to eternity. Time, as much as any one thing, whispers to us that we are strangers here. ~Neal A. Maxwell

And yet while in this sphere bound by time, God need not be a stranger to us.

“Wherever you are, be all there.”
(Elisabeth Elliot, Through Gates of Splendor, p. 20; quoted on p. 69 and 77 of Voskamp’s book)

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It’s been a challenging month for me in many ways, and Thursday I had one of those nights when I just sort of gave up inside. (Ever have those kinds of days? Nights are the worst for me; I suffer from a serious sleep disorder and nights can be so difficult, so lonely.) Fortunately, I have people I know I can reach out to at such times, and fortunately, I know that I need to reach out at those times.

Friday, I woke up feeling a little better, but still in quite an emotional daze. I got some work done, got my hair cut, and ended up having a heart-to-heart with a dear friend.

At one point, I was waiting for her outside of a restaurant where music was playing. I was only sitting for enough time to hear pieces of two songs, but I knew God was speaking to me through them. I almost couldn’t believe it when I heard the following words:

“I won’t worry my life away”

from one song, and then

“Carry on”

from another.

I smiled and looked heavenward. (I love how He will use so many ways to reach out to me with His personal messages…even using pop songs in a short few minutes of time to hit two important messages home.)

Friday night, I had the thought to reach out to a friend who recently moved from our area, to see how they were doing in the transition time in their lives. Early the next morning, there was a message with a brief update.

And the message ended with these two words:

“Carry on!”

Yesterday was fast and testimony meeting. (Every first Sunday of the month, members of the Church fast and donate money that would have been used for meals (and often much more) as a fast offering to help those in need. In this monthly meeting, there no assigned speakers, just time for those who feel prompted to share testimony of Jesus Christ and His gospel.)

I had a vague sense that perhaps I should stand and share some thoughts, but I didn’t know what to say. So I assumed I’d just be listening…

…Until I looked up at the front of the room where the hymn numbers are posted. My heart started to beat faster when I saw the hymn number for the closing song. Could it be?

I opened my hymnbook to confirm the hymn’s title:

“Carry On.”

As soon as the person who was speaking finished sharing, I stood and walked to the front of the congregation to share what had happened. I found out later in the meeting that this was the hymn chosen for the ward’s trek this week.

God’s grace and tender mercies are real. As Elder Bednar said in this talk (which for me was life-changing), often it’s the timing that lets us know when God is at work (credit payton). That talk gave me the confidence to just trust that when things seem like too much of a coincidence, they simply aren’t. When patterns like this show up, I pay attention.

I am so grateful to know that God pays attention to me and my little life. My life and my world matter to Him! He moves the world around for me, and He does the same for you, for all of us. He loves us each so much.

I know what it’s like to feel sometimes like the heavens are silent, to feel pushed beyond your limits, to wonder how you will find the strength to carry on. I  know what it feels like to wonder if prayers are heard when things don’t work out as you want or think they should.

My invitation from my own difficult days are to keep your eyes open for God’s tender mercies. They are there, even when we can’t see them.

And sometimes, He makes things really clear so they are hard to miss.

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~by Michelle

It took a few minutes for my subconscious, sleep-seeking self to realize that my body was saying it was time to look at my clock. Time to see what God was going to do today with my Sabbath schedule.

God and I have an interesting deal when my ward meets in the morning hours — an arrangement I am sheepish to share because I don’t like being the exception to the rule. I’d always been a diligent, three-meetings-no-matter-what and no-matter-what-time kind of Mormon church-goer. So when the impression came about two years ago to not set an alarm on Sundays, I was nervous. But I also knew that the stress of trying to decide what the “right” thing to do each Sunday was reaching a breaking point. To try to balance my serious sleep disorder + my chronic-fatiguey-thing, while also trying to be obedient about attending my meetings and partaking of the sacrament, was too difficult for me and my weary body and mind. I needed God to carry this one. And He nudged me to let Him do it.

I am still amazed to say that I only missed the sacrament once that year (and I think that was a day when my body really did need sleep). My testimony of this sacred ordinance increased in unspeakable ways as I could feel how much God cares about me receiving the blessings and power of the ordinance — power that, as the scriptures say, can only be found in ordinances of the gospel.

Nevermind the wonder of seeing God work miracles each week. Last year, our ward had the 1:00 slot, but this year, I’m back to not setting an alarm. Every Sunday really is its own adventure in gratefully witnessing what God does.

For example, a week ago last night, I went to bed so entirely exhausted that I actually suggested to Heavenly Father that perhaps this Sunday, it might be a good Sunday to just let me sleep. But I fell asleep with my heart open to see what Father would do.

I finally rolled out of my sleepy state at 1:05. Even as I was certain I wouldn’t make it to the building in time to take the sacrament, I felt I should still at least try…at least do my part of the deal to get out of bed and to the building. (This is because I’ve experienced too many perfect-timing miracles to not try!) I got ready in a little over five minutes and ran out the door. Driving toward the stake center and a ward I know more personally, I felt impressed to go to the other building, which is a little closer; I knew seconds could matter at this point.

But maybe there was more to the impression than that.

When I arrived at the building, I could tell by the silence that the sacrament was already underway. I asked a brother in the foyer if they had already received the bread. They had. Through the (usually-closed) door to the overflow, I could see a young deacon (12-13 year old young man) standing at the end of a row. I don’t even know if what I did was okay (after all, I had missed the hymn and the prayer, so in the full spirit of the ordinance, I was too late) — but in my yearning to take both the bread and the water, I stepped inside the door and reached out to tap the deacon on the shoulder.

I missed him by only inches.

A dear friend of mine was sitting on the end of his row. As he realized what was happening, he walked briskly behind the deacon (who by this time was up to the front of the chapel). The deacon came back to where I was and held out the tray. A little embarrassed, but so, so grateful, I reached out for that piece of bread, retreated back to the foyer, and wept in gratitude — both for the timing of yet another sacrament miracle, but also for the kindness of my friend and the service of that young deacon.

It seemed not coincidental that a member of our stake presidency ended that sacrament meeting speaking about how the sacrament is one way we can touch the hem of the Savior’s garment. This New Testament story holds special meaning for me for various reasons — not the least of which is that I have dealt with my health issues for over a decade now, and have spent thousands of dollars, countless hours, and a collective torrent of tears on doctor’s visits, surgeries, and medications. Physical healing has yet to take place, and may not take place in this life, but I testify that I have felt the Savior’s healing power through my weekly sacrament miracles.

I am grateful for the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and grateful to those who hold the priesthood (both those carrying and blessing the bread and water and those willing to flag down the boys who do) who enable this sacred moment to take place for me every week.

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I have been pondering how holy places can come in the most unexpected ways and spaces. Last night, for example, I was panicking about the leak that was dripping, again (the leak I thought was dried up and so had moved down on my priorities list). I wondered how I’d missed its drip. I’d even checked the space earlier, but felt prompted to check again.

And then I saw the cup — simply part of my clutter that I “should have” cleaned up a long time ago –<i>right under the drip</i>. To my astonishment, there was only 1/2 inch between the level of the water in the cup and the rim. (It was a big cup.)

Upon further investigation (inspiration?) I think I was able to find the leak’s source. If I’m right, it’s a pretty significant problem. We’ve got some work and expense ahead of us. But I feel strengthened to face what lies ahead because of that sacred space moment.

My cup runneth o’er to know that Heavenly Father knows of the details and the worries of my life.

The post Standing in Holy Places: My Cup is Full appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.

Editor’s note: Yesterday, in Relief Society class (Relief Society is the women’s organization in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints), the presidency of the local congregation’s (ward) Relief Society group gave a beautiful Christmas lesson. They each shared a personal Christmas experience and shared messages of testimony and faith about our Savior. I loved so much of what was said, some of which reflected and resonated with very personal spiritual impressions and experiences that have been a part of my individual Christmas celebration and focus this month.

There is so much for us to receive from God in the message of the Christmas story, so much truth about His love and reality and plan for us. So many miracles to reflect on. We spend time giving gifts to each other during this season, but there is so much that our Heavenly Father and Savior have given us. I appreciated the reflections on these gifts.

I also love how the Christmas story is a testimony that we worship a God of miracles. Following are the reflections that the Relief Society president, Corinne, shared about Christmas miracles. It made me want to ponder my own Christmas miracles happening in my life, and to ponder the tender mercies of God that can be evident every day as I seek to have eyes to see.

The following song was sung as part of the lesson. It’s a beautiful song often shared at Easter, but I think it’s also a wonderful Christmas song. I pray during this holiday time that we can ponder how God is working in our lives, even through hard times we might be experiencing (or seeing others experience, such as those in Connecticut who recently lost loved ones). Heavenly Father is there. His miracles are real. The greatest miracle of all is that through His Son, Jesus Christ, we can find peace in this life and know that eternal blessings also await us.

– – – –

Christmas Miracles, by Corinne

In the gospel sense, miracles can be defined as “those occurrences wrought by the power of God which are wholly beyond the power of man to perform.”

The Christmas story itself it comprised of one miracle after another. Here are just a few I have thought of:

1) It’s a miracle that Mary’s cousin, Elisabeth, became pregnant in her old age, after being barren all her life. The angel Gabriel appeared to her husband, Zacharius, and told him his wife would bare a son whom they should name John, and that he would prepare the way for Jesus Christ. Because Zacharius could not believe they would have a child in their old age, he was told he would be unable to speak until his baby was born. Later, when the baby was delivered, relatives questioned him what the child’s name would be. He wrote on a tablet, “His name is John,” and at this point, his tongue was loosed, and he spoke, praising God. All a coincidence? No.

2) It’s a miracle that the sign which Samuel the Lamanite had prophesied (that of a day and a night and a day with no darkness), came to pass when it did. Wicked unbelievers had created a deadline of when the sign had to occur, or they would put to death all the believers of Samuel’s prophesy. The sign occurred the very night before the deadline. Just a coincidence? No.

3) It’s a miracle that a very faithful man named Simeon had it revealed to him through the Holy Ghost that he would not die before he had seen the Christ. Simeon was led by the Spirit to the temple, where Mary and Joseph had brought their baby, Jesus, to present and dedicate him to the Lord. Mary and Joseph made no announcement that their child was the Christ; Simeon knew who He was when he saw him. He picked up the child in his arms and praised God saying “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace…For mine eyes have seen thy salvation; A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel.” A mini-miracle granted to Simeon for his faithfulness.

4) It’s a miracle that Mary was also visited by the angel Gabriel and told that she would conceive a Son, who should be named Jesus, and would be the Son of God. It’s a miracle that Joseph, the man to whom she was espoused, married her, since in Jewish culture at this time, an unmarried woman found to be expecting a child was subject to being stoned to death. When Joseph found out Mary was expecting a child, he chose to be merciful to her and “put her away privily.” It was after he made the decision to be merciful that he was visited in a dream by an angel and told not to be afraid to marry her- that the child she was carrying was conceived of the Holy Ghost, and was the promised Messiah.

5) It was a miracle that humble shepherds were notified of the Savior’s birth in such an amazing way- by an angel of the Lord, announcing that Jesus had been born in Bethlehem, followed by a heavenly host singing praises.

6) It was a miracle that Wise Men followed a star in the east “to come and worship the King of the Jews.” No doubt, these were probably inspired men of God; perhaps prophets. It was a miracle that after they found & worshiped Jesus, they were warned of God in a dream that they should not return to Herod (Herod had requested they bring him word of where the child was so he could destroy him). An angel of the Lord also appeared to Joseph in a dream telling him to flee with his family into Egypt in order to protect Jesus from Herod. All miracles in my eyes.

– – – –

What miracles do you see in your life?

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Last week, as we were preparing for the Brigham City temple dedication (the first time all of our children would be able to attend), we talked about the word “Hosanna” and its significance in the process of a temple dedication. The Spirit was really strong, and the experience left me reflecting often over the next several days on the plea embedded in the word “Hosanna,” — how, when we wave our white handkerchiefs during the Hosanna Shout, we are literally crying out “Please save us!” to our Father and our Savior.

This was the word that the Jews cried out during Jesus’ triumphal entry.

It was the word that the Nephites declared as they fell at the Savior’s feet when He appeared to them after His resurrection, as recorded in the Book of Mormon.

It’s the word that is taking on more personal meaning as I’m passing through one of “those” times in my life…when I realize how desperately I need divine help. In beautiful ways, God is letting me know — as He always has, in one way or another — that He is there.

One of the ways I’ve felt heaven’s awareness of me recently was to bring to remembrance this talk by Richard Cracroft.

Brother Cracroft died last week. I was sad to hear of his passing. I didn’t know him and had never met him, but felt as though he was a friend. Actually, he felt more like an angel in my life.

His name was emblazoned on my mind when he gave that BYU devotional talk in the summer of 1993; it was clearly a message from heaven for me then. The story of Ingrid Olsen, in particular, moved me.

Imagine my surprise and wonder when a few years ago, at another one of “those” times, Ingrid Olsen’s story from Brother Cracroft’s talk just “happened” to be shared in my Sunday School class. I knew, again, that the story had been shared for me. (How did I know? Elder David A. Bednar has given the key to recognizing such divine interventions: “Some may count this experience as simply a nice coincidence, but I testify that the tender mercies of the Lord are real and that they do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Often, the Lord’s timing of His tender mercies helps us to both discern and acknowledge them.” The timing and the personal connection I had with that story let me know that my Father was there, reaching out, urging me gently onward.)

And so, this weekend, as I listened yet again to Ingrid’s story (and Brother Cracroft’s impassioned delivery of his talk), I was delighted and amazed to remember that he used the word “Hosanna” plentifully throughout. He described moments like those I have experienced with this talk as “Hosanna Moments,”

those transcendent moments in our lives when, without warning, we are overwhelmed by a close encounter with eternity, a surprise of the spirit—those moments when, while engaged in the temporal rhythms of our daily and earth- encrusted lives, comfortably duped by familiar routines, we are suddenly brought face-to-face with the holy, swept by the Spirit of God into a transcendent reality, overwhelmed by undeniable evidence of a literal Father in Heaven who knows you and knows me and is somehow interested and involved in our lives.

Thank you, Brother Cracroft, for being an instrument of such Hosanna Moments for me. With you, I testify that such Hosanna Moments are real, that our God and our Savior are real and oh, so very aware of us and involved in our lives.

I pray that God will bless your family and others who loved you with such moments as they mourn your loss.

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~by Sue

The older I get, the more I realize that God not only has plans for each one of us, but that those plans can be rather intricately organized. In ways we can’t even begin to imagine, our lives and their various trajectories are interwoven, creating pathways that bend and loop and cross one another’s in ways that may seem coincidental but are most often what the scriptures call “tender mercies.” Where an agnostic might refer to these things as “meaningful coincidence,” I frequently experience them as answers to prayer or reminders that the Lord is watching over us, caring for us on a very personal level.

Read more here: Time and Tender Mercies

The post God’s Tender Mercies are Real, Personal, Intricately Organized appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.

~by Michelle

On this Easter Sunday, I’m reminded of an Easter experience a couple of years ago. I came to our church meetings feeling weary and worn from the struggles of chronic illness. In addition, our congregation boundaries had just changed, and so I was missing the association of people who knew about my health, who would have known how much I needed a hug and a smile that day.

In short, I was feeling alone, and not feeling much of the spirit of Easter.

As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we often talk of “tender mercies” — evidences in our lives of God’s love and awareness of us. Elder David A. Bednar, one of the Twelve Apostles in the Church, told us that the timing of such experiences are one of the ways we can recognize these blessings in our lives. There is no question in my mind that the string of events I describe in this essay below were such tender mercies. I still marvel at the way God helped me feel and know of His love on a day when I needed it so desperately.

I know help and answers don’t always come so quickly and repeatedly, so experiences like this are anchors to me during times when heaven may seem far away.

If you are facing a dark or difficult time in your life right now, I hope you can reflect on times when you have felt God’s love and Spirit, and also take comfort in the truth of Easter: “Sunday Will Come.” (Essay below the video.)

– – – – – – –

This Cup

“And they taste the bitter, that they may know to prize the good” (Moses 6:55).

I feel a sense of anticipation as the deacon approaches our pew. My son passes the tray to me, and I slowly bring a piece of bread to my lips. The Savior knows what it’s like to have a broken body, I reflect. He understands what it’s like for me to feel broken.

I chew on that truth as I swallow the bread.

He felt fatigue. He somehow bore the pain of the dizziness, headaches, insomnia, and other random, disconnected symptoms that plague my body. He knows that physical pain can bring with it emotional, mental, and spiritual anguish. He comprehends fear and frustration, discouragement and despair. He understands feeling alone. In every way, He has tasted of the brokenness that mortality can bring.

I realize how much chronic illness has helped me appreciate the Atonement. These emblems of His sacrifice have gained greater depth and meaning for me.

As I wait for the cup, I reflect with gratitude on how I have repeatedly seen and felt God’s love and awareness during these past six years. Fresh on my mind are the miracles of the previous week, when a sacrament meeting became sacred space for me.

* * *

My eyes scanned the pastel-clad congregation as I walked toward the choir seats. So many people I don’t know; so many people who don’t know me. The new building, the new faces—everything felt so foreign. I knew in my heart that I would come to love these people. But today I craved the familiar, familial comfort of worshiping with those who could look into my eyes and just know. It was one of those days.

I took a seat behind the organ. Attempting to distract myself from the discouragement and hopelessness I felt, I focused my attention on my husband, Matt, while he played the prelude music. This was his first day as ward organist and, surprisingly, I’d never had the opportunity before now to watch him play.

Matt’s footwork fascinated me. He used both heel and toe, in carefully organized combination, to bring the rich bass notes to life. His lips had that familiar curl I had seen so often when he played the piano with passion. My feelings were tender as I watched his face, pinched with concentration; the music, and his role in the meeting, clearly mattered to him.

As close as I was, I could sense his tension; my own stomach clenched in nervous knots. When Elder Dallin H. Oaks took his seat on the stand, those knots intensified. So did the prayers in my heart. Please help Matt play well, to bring the Spirit to the meeting as he desires to do.

I wasn’t prepared for the flood of feelings that came as we began the opening hymn.

Christ the Lord is ris’n today, Alleluia!

Music has always had a significant role in my spiritual life, but I had never experienced it quite like this before. Watching Matt had left me invested in the music, connected to it through sight, thoughts, emotion, and prayer. Now, sandwiched between organ and congregation, I felt the hymn’s power. From behind, each note’s vibrations resonated through my body. Coming at me, to me, was the full force and volume of the unified voices of the congregation. These physical sensations of sound amplified the music’s impact on my spirit.

Choked with emotion, I attempted to continue the hymn. My heart filled in where my vocal chords failed.

Love’s redeeming work is done . . . Fought the fight, the vict’ry won . . . Jesus’ agony is o’er . . . Darkness veils the earth no more . . . Where, O death is now thy sting? . . . Where thy victory, O grave?

Even as I felt the power of the Spirit as we sang, the chasm between what I should have been feeling on this Easter Sunday (Joy! Celebration! Triumph!) and what I was feeling (discouragement, weariness, hopelessness) left me with a deep ache, a mixture of sorrow and shame. All-too-familiar questions trickled into my mind. Why? How long? What more is there to learn? When will it be enough? Am I passing my test? Will this cup ever pass?

Like Martha of old, I knew someday the resurrection would come. My body would be raised, healed of all its ailments. It would be filled with lasting life. But just as Martha had yearned to have her pain prevented in the present, recognition of the resurrection was not enough at this moment to assuage the current sting of my struggles.

I thought I might be able to sing the sacrament hymn with more success. I was wrong. As we prepared for the ordinance through song, I was sobered by the reminder that the Savior didn’t murmur in His moments of agony as I often do. But then I was tenderly taught.

“Father, from me, remove this cup. Yet, if thou wilt, I’ll drink it up.”

No, He didn’t murmur. But He did ask if His cup could pass. I felt the Spirit start to penetrate the darkness in my soul, to lighten my burden. Feelings of guilt and self-reproach began to dissipate. It is not sinful to desire my cup to pass. Hope and strength started to replace the almost-paralyzing despair and weariness I had felt.

Still unable to sing, I focused on trying to drink in the Spirit’s peace as we concluded the sacrament hymn. As I partook of the symbols of the Savior’s sacrifice, I pondered on the heaven-sent impressions that had come. I resolved to accept the Savior’s empathy and follow His example of willing submission more fully.

But the Lord was not done sending strength to my spirit. A woman I didn’t know poignantly spoke of the recent loss of her sweetheart, and of other trials that had tested her faith. She quoted a talk by Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin that sent the Spirit’s power rippling through my soul.

“Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces. We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again. We will all have our Fridays.

“But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.

“No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, in this life or the next, Sunday will come.” (1)

By this point, I was chiding myself for forgetting, yet again, to tuck tissues into my scripture case. My efforts to sniffle subtly were embarrassingly inadequate. The only option I had was to bow my head and take comfort in the fact that the organ hid me from the sea of strangers sitting in front of me.

I did look up long enough to catch the glance of my dear friend, Lisa—one of the few people I could see, and one of the people I did know. Her love-filled smile and gentle nod communicated that she understood what I was feeling. Through her, I sensed God’s love and awareness of me. He knows.

By the time I stood to sing with the choir, the tears that streamed down my face were not tears of sorrow, weariness, and shame, but of gratitude, and of faith rekindled.

Even Elder Oaks’s presence was a gift (2), reminding me of important truth he had taught, one that has been an anchor for me as I have ached to have this cup removed. Healing doesn’t always come from having our burdens taken away. Sometimes it comes by being given what we need to carry our burdens.

* * *

As the tray of water comes toward me, many thoughts course through my mind. I remember the Savior’s blood and life, freely shed. I reflect on the bitterness of Gethsemane, and on the reality that shrinking is not sin if couple with submissiveness.

I consider another Easter impression, one that came as I pondered the many miracles of the day. The little cup of the sacrament can represent my small portion of mortal pain and experience—my own bitter cups—of which I need to willingly partake.

My son passes me the tray. I drink the water with deliberateness. For, above all, this cup represents the Savior’s living water. I am filled with gratitude for the sweet gifts of love, peace, strength, and healing available to me through His Spirit.

– – – – – –

Notes (1) Joseph B. Wirthlin, “Sunday Will Come,” Ensign, Nov. 2006, 28–30.

(2) It’s very rare for a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to walk into one’s local sacrament meeting. One of Elder Oaks’ family members is in my ward congregation, so he was spending the holiday with family, which included worshiping with them.

This essay originally appeared in the Segullah journal, a literary journal for LDS women.

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Not long ago I emailed my father with a question having to do with a project I was attempting at my house.  The next morning he was at my door to help get it fixed in spite of the two hour drive to and from. It was a strong reminder to me that my father loves me and is waiting for me to ask for what I need so he can be of service to me.

It was also a powerful metaphor for the Father in Heaven we all share; He who wants nothing more than to bless us with His love, His guidance, His forgiveness and all the tender mercies He has in store for us–if we but ask.  There have been many times in my life when my Heavenly Father has blessed me with what I needed and often times, what I have wanted.  These events are particularly close to my heart because they were blessings that showed me how much my Heavenly Father is aware of me as His daughter, of my particular joys and sorrows, and how much He loves me, as He does each one of us.

One example in particular stands out more than the rest.  I had suffered a disappointment that I learned of in a sudden and seemingly unfair manner. I felt heart-broken and I spent much of the day crying. After my husband and children were asleep that night, I was still weeping over my lost opportunity, one that I felt was denied me because of a large and challenging responsibility under which I daily labored. Ironically, the lost opportunity was one I felt would have relieved my burden to a small extent. It seemed particularly unfair that something that might have brought me relief was withheld from me because of that very same burden.

Thoroughly miserable, I got on my knees and expressed to my Father in Heaven all my woes. Feeling I had nothing to lose, I spoke not only of my lost opportunity, but also dared to ask for a blessing I had dared not ask before because I was so afraid the answer would be an unbearable “no”; was there a way for my large and heavy burden to be lessened or relieved in some way?

There are no words to fully describe my joy when the answer came back to me: Yes! It was so loud and clear, it felt almost as if my Heavenly Father was as happy I had asked as I was to be granted my request. My heart was bursting with elation such that I felt as if it would break out of my chest. I also felt an incredible lightness, both in lack of weight and in brightness. It were as if my entire being was filled with a light that threatened to pull me up into the sky like a basket bobbing after a hot air balloon.

The hows and the whys were questions to be addressed as the days progressed. The onerous burden was indeed eased in very specific ways and, some time later, the same lovely opportunity I had so wanted came my way.  Oh, how loved I felt!  And by someone whose love I had felt so strongly, my being could not hold it all.

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(Laura on the left with good friend, Jaymie)

I am the fabulous Laura Stewart. I’m the youngest of 6 kids, and definitely unlike any of the ones before. I was raised in the same house, my parents never moved – they’re still there. I’m finding that the more I experience life, the more I realize that I had a flat out great childhood! I didn’t think so when I was in it though.

I am on my third husband. I married young, at twenty-one, and divorced two months later. I caught him doing cocaine on our kitchen table and I refused to be the woman that thinks things will change with a little love.

On to husband number two. We married in the temple, and did everything the right way. He was perfect. We loved baseball and traveled around in our bee-boppin’ Geo Metro from baseball diamond to baseball diamond. Finally, we got serious after four-and-a-half-years of marriage and had a baby boy. DJ was six months old when his father, my husband, died of cardiac arrest. DJ is now fifteen.

I’ve been married to Sam Stewart for thirteen years. I also got a two-for-one special and had twins that are now twelve years old. All boys.

I now help out in a preschool a couple of hours each day as the tech and they pay me for it! I love it. I do. When a four-year-old tells you your hair is cute, it makes your day! I’ve been doing that for ten years.

For fun, I volunteer somewhere. I spend time with my kids anxiously engaged in a good cause. It’s not the season for me to worry about what I think is fun, maybe that’ll come later, maybe not right now!

I have been the Young Women’s president, the Relief Society president and held various other callings. I LOVE nursery but love Stake Young Women Camp even more. That week away from the world is just good for the soul. It’s also absolutely and completely exhausting. I mean completely. But, it’s good.

One thing I love about the gospel of Jesus Christ is that it has taught me to recognize the tender mercies of the Lord. And when my mind is where it needs to be, I see them all over. When I lost my husband so suddenly, I had it good: I had people right there when I needed them; I had a supportive family. Not everyone has that.

I had my testimony strengthened when I had people close to me judging me and my ability to handle my husband’s passing at a young age, and to feel the Lord gently remind me that He loves me regardless, which has stayed with me forever. To feel my love deepen with Sam when our marriage hit a real rough spot due to my insensitivity, and having to fight for it does something to cement your eternal views and what it’s all about. This relationship goes on for eternity.

I love being a Mormon woman because that title alone brings great responsibilities and joys, and I welcome both. I still don’t understand when righteous Mormon women feel like they don’t measure up. Measure up to what? To who? That whole perfection thing? Nah, for me, it’s as simple as this: What season are you in? And what do you want out of it?

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