There is no escaping the fact that my little dishcloth is also a reminder of tremendous heartache--and the lessons we learn from it.
You see, my aunt, who spun and wove all these wonderful little creations, was murdered nearly 3 years ago by my cousin (her only child). That alone would be enough, but adding insult to injury, it was a grisly murder--for no apparent reason or motivation, a well-loved and cared for young man took his own mother's life in a brutal fashion. The grieving process for such a loss is a little different than a traditional grieving period. The denial lasts longer, because you simply can't fathom that something like this could happen in your family; the anger is deeper and hotter, because there is very much someone to blame; and there's a doubt and uncertainty that tends to linger even after the worst of the pain has begun to dull a bit. The problem that occurs is this: you read stories like this in the paper, or see them online or what have you and you think to yourself, "How horrifying" or "how bizarre", but its never quite real, because nothing like that could ever happen to anyone you know or love. But then it does. And suddenly, every heart-wrenching, terrifying thing you've ever read or had any kind of passing thought about is suddenly very realistically possible in your mind. You think, "If something like this could happen to my family, anything could." So you spend a lot of time waiting for the other shoe to drop--trying to imagine and thus prepare yourself what could come next.
A little over 10 months after my aunt's untimely death, I had finally started to move past that feeling. I had finally stopped having nightmares about men in black ski masks taking my children off in the night or about state troopers showing up at my door to tell me about a fiery car wreck. I had finally started to believe that I needn't worry about some horrid, unforeseen heartbreak just around the corner. I began to trust again that life could go back to normal--that just because something tragic and unfathomable had happened didn't mean that another tragedy was going to happen. And then a Friday afternoon phone call sunk my heart down into the pit of my stomach as my sister-in-law told me that her little boy had drowned.
For months afterward, I went through a rather dark time. I tried to keep it to myself, knowing I was needed by several people in my life (and being needed does indeed help me to focus and keep my spirits up), but these two painful events happening so close together was almost more than my mind could process, let alone my heart. A part of me became very doubting and cynical, often thinking to myself, "What next?" The nightmares came back. In quiet moments alone, tears sometimes came almost out of nowhere.
My dad's other sister (who, growing up with five brothers, had lost her only sister), had sent each member of the family one of my aunt's little creations--dishclothes, hats, mittens, etc--so that we would each have something to look at, to hold onto, to remember. Several months after Conner died, as the weather turned colder and Christmas started approaching, the world around me started focusing on the birth of a little boy who brought the world hope, and I came across my dishcloth while doing some sorting one day. The enormity of everything that had happened the last year and a half overcame me and my vision blurred. In a rush of warmth I had not known in months, I was filled with hope and comfort.
Life is messy, painful, brutal and it doesn't always make a lot of sense. That's how its supposed to be. We are expected, in this terribly brief testing phase, to improve and grow and learn enough to be well on our way to creating worlds of our own. How could we ever learn the many lessons we will need, the strength and fortitude we will need, if we drifted through life as upon a calm spring lake?
All at once, everything good and beautiful in the world came rushing to my mind. There were the big things, like my eternal family, forgiveness and redemption. And all the little things: the peacefulness of a cold, quiet December evening; the remembered beauty of wildflowers in April; the taste of a warm bowl of stew melting away the damp of the chilly fog outside. In less than a year's time we had lost two family members unexpectedly, and yet had we not also seen three loved ones sealed for time and all eternity to their spouses? We had welcomed babies into our families. We had known more love from more friends than at any time since we'd been married.
Life is ugly sometimes, and it is easy to focus on that. But when I look at my little dishcloth I am reminded that there is also much to hope for. The Lord offers us an eternal Atonement--He knows that no matter how faithful we are, there are things we can't possibly understand now, in a mortal state. He knows there are pains that can never fully be healed in this life. Laura and Conner are gone; that is something we can never forget, something that will always tug at our hearts. When we look to the Savior, however, we know that there is hope. Laura has been sealed to her mother and sister and the two brothers who passed on before her. Conner is well-remembered by an extensive family who will not let him be forgotten. The pains we suffer here will be assuaged, even if not entirely when we are in this life. Restitution will be made for our losses.
We can live our lives in fear and cynicism, waiting for the next tragedy or trial (for they surely will come), or we can fully engage in the present and look with hope to the future, knowing that for all its drudgery and heart-break, the world is still a beautiful place--still a beautiful gift from a loving Father--full of blessings too numerous to count. My favorite scripture has long been, and long will be, D&C 6:34, 36: "Therefore, fear not, little flock; do good; let earth and hell combine against you, for if ye are built upon my rock, they cannot prevail. . .Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not."
