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How Great Thou Art

This is a re-post from several years ago. The original is here.

Six weeks ago, we found out I was pregnant. We were thrilled, you see, because we had been planning on a baby for some time now.  As a matter of fact, last August, I had decided to make some changes in my life and really prepare myself for this baby.  I have had trouble with bad hips in past pregnancies and so I decided to make a real effort to exercise regularly to try and strengthen myself. I wanted to be ready to have another little one.  I exercised faithfully, six days a week from that time on, rarely missing.  This pregnancy was going to be different. I was feeling so good, and had made so much progress, that I decided to run a 5k- pregnant or not. I signed up for one that same week we found out we were expecting.  I was ready.

For some reason, though, during the next couple weeks, I began to doubt. I didn’t understand it, but I was unable to pray for our baby and its safe arrival in our family.  I began to bleed a little here and a little there, and resigned myself to the probability that we would miscarry and lose the baby.  And so in anticipation of the miscarriage, I decided to lie low for a couple weeks. I had one miserable day of cramping and headed to the doctor.  It was soon confirmed by an ultrasound- there was no baby in the uterus.  It was only a matter of time before I would lose the baby and bleed everything else out. 

I mourned.  I was upset to say the least, but understood that it was all part of the plan for us. I had experienced this before.  My prayers were now that my body would be able to take care of what it needed to take care of, so that we could try again.  And so I waited.

February 26th I began to cramp again. Only this time the pain was so intense that I could not get rid of it.  I talked with Matt and we just didn’t know what to do. Finally, I called Mom.  She thought things sounded suspicious and recommended that if I had any question, just to go in to the ER.  And so within the hour Matt and I made the decision, and we were on our way.   We went through a series of tests and another ultrasound.  Within a short time I had another IV placed and monitors placed on my heart and lungs. By this time, I knew something was seriously wrong.  We were told that I was being prepared for surgery for a ruptured ectopic pregnancy.  At that time I had no idea what that exactly meant. My greatest fear was that it meant I was never going to have another child.  I was terrified and could only ask Matt to call our families and ask them to pray for me.  I was too shocked, and it hurt too much to cry.  Matt gave me a quick blessing and I was whisked away.

Upon waking from surgery, I learned that I had lost 1 ½ liters of blood into my abdomen from a ruptured pregnancy in my left Fallopian tube.   In order to save me, they had to remove my Fallopian tube.  But my life was spared. 

It is hard to describe what has happened in my mind and heart the last three weeks.  The mourning process has been much more difficult than I thought it would be.  For weeks, I could not even really cry because of the pain.  In the moments when I was alone, or when just Matt was there, my thoughts would turn to everything I had lost, and my heart broke. But I just kept telling myself to be tough, just hang in there, and I’d be OK.  Mom and Sam, and Rachel and Dorian were so helpful the first week of recovery.  I felt so much strength from the prayers of the family, even though some were so far away.  Recovery was slow, but it was coming.  When I was finally able to have a good cry, I felt so much an increase of the love of my Father in Heaven.   Little by little I began to see with new eyes. I am healing a little at a time, and the spirit is strengthening my heart.  

I still feel like I lost so much that day.  I lost my health and strength that I had worked so very hard to gain over the last six months, I lost a baby, and I lost part of myself.  I still have moments when I think about it and weep. My heart still breaks.  But I was given LIFE that day.  I was spared.  I now cry in gratitude.

This week we decided on a change of scenery and took a trip to Southern California to stay with Matt’s brother.  I sang my babies to sleep one night, and as I was going through a whole bunch of our favorite primary songs and hymns my very favorite came to mind- “How Great Thou Art”.  I have sung this to my children and my sisters more times than I can count.  (My sisters lovingly call it the “fall off the mountain song”)  It always reminds me of my loving Great-grandma Evans.  

But as I sung this to my little ones this week, I felt like everything came into focus.  As I looked at my precious children, I had an overwhelming love and understanding wash over me.  I was reminded once again that HE, our Heavenly Father is in charge.  He knows exactly what we need to pass through.  He loves us more than we can understand.  His greatest “Art” is us– who we are becoming.  He gave me a second chance at life.  Life, that is so full of so much joy.   Life that is full of sticky fingers, slobbery kisses, noisy dinner tables, and sweet bedtime prayers. Life that is full of families that love each other enough to pray, fast, and spend time together.  Life is his greatest art and so I hope that I can proclaim “How Great Thou Art” for the rest of my days and bring honor to HIM who has given me everything.

-Heather

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Chores… Jobs… Chores

Several years ago, my family had a blog. My oldest siblings were all fairly close in age which resulted in many of them having similar experiences at the same time, many of which were written about on the blog. They were young parents together with all the challenges that come with the “first ones”. I am on the latter end of the children and have the blessing of watching and learning from them! This is a post written several years ago, but I found it again today and felt like it was just what I needed to read! I love the different ideas on getting help around the house. I am hoping y’all can enjoy it as well! -Kiana

Growing up, we always called our responsibilities “jobs” instead of chores. I’m not sure why, but it seemed that calling them “jobs” made them less horrible.  While our friends had to go home and do “chores”, we just had to do our jobs.

The first jobs I remember doing were ironing Dad’s handkerchiefs (with a very cool iron), folding washcloths and towels, and washing and drying dishes.  Scrubbing our little kitchen floor on hands and knees was a fun one too. I couldn’t have been than five years old when mom included me.  She must have known it would take so long to teach me responsibility!

To me, one of the most memorable attempts Mom used to get us to help around the house was a simple poster board. She had drawn a picture of a house on it, and each window was a little envelope with our pictures on them. When we came home from school, we were in charge of the jobs in our envelope. As I got older, the poster board ideas weren’t so cool, and Mom just simplified things. Every afternoon we came home to a jobs list. She wrote our names and our responsibilities down and we could check them off.

Mom was always creative. We’d turn the timer on the stove on and try to beat it. We’d have partners to work with. If we were really luck she’d put in a little surprise, like “eat a cookie” or “get a drink”. This way we never knew what we were going to get.

Now I have begun the task of teaching my own children to work. Our most successful attempt thus far, is the Saturday morning “JOB JAR”. I put little jobs on pieces of paper in a quart jar and they love drawing them out one at a time. We always work as a team because it makes things go quicker and I can keep tabs on what is happening.  Any little bit of encouragement can go a long way.

If there is anything I’ve learned from Mom, it is “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try (and try, try, try) again.”  Something will work. Not for very long, but it will sink in eventually.  Then you’ll try the same tricks with your own kids all over again