Shame on me.

I am going to be following this post up with some other more fun ones, so hopefully this one will be overlooked for the most part. This is just me again, taking the opportunity to write down my feelings while they are still raw and fresh. This is something I don't want to forget. It is something that I never want to experience again. I am sorry for anyone who chooses to read this and realizes that my blog has turned into a forum where I have chosen to keep record of the things I don't want to forget, where I can come back to review the lessons I have learned in an effort to somehow make a better person out of the mess that I am.

I know what the Holy Ghost feels like. I, for the most part, can recognize an impression when it comes. Still, occasionally, my logical mortal self will disregard divine impressions as my own thoughts or feelings. Today I did just that. I made a mistake three hours ago that has still left me with a sick stomach.

After a wonderful stake conference, Josh took me to the hospital for my second day of my second round of IV steroid treatment. When we got there, what appeared to be brother and a sister were standing just out side the ER doors obviously upset. As we pulled up, they walked through the automatic doors. I immediately felt like I should talk to them.

As I walked through the door, I saw them huddled together in the corner crying. Again, a strong and overwhelming feeling came to me that I should kneel down and talk to them. As I took a few steps towards them, the girl turned her head away from me and the logical, miserable, corruptible, mortal me thought about how I was a stranger to them and that I would probably make their situation worse. Why would they want to talk to me, someone that they didn't even know? For all they knew I was some crazy lady with florescent green dinosaur coban tape wrapped around my wrist.

I awkwardly turned and took a few steps down the hall and then stopped as I felt again that I needed to turn around, kneel down, and talk to them. My previous thoughts about being a crazy lady were enough that I all too easily put one foot in front of the other and continued down the hall to make my way to the med/surg area where I would receive my outpatient treatment.

As I sat in the chair and the nurse hooked me up to my solu-medrol,  I flipped through channels looking for my oh-so-favorite and oh-so-missed Food Network. I fought the lump in my throat and pit in my stomach as I thought of the two aching hearts I had left behind. I immediately felt an overwhelming guilt come over me as I thought of a letter I had just barely written for my mom's talk at a Relief Society activity themed, "Angels Among Us" In that letter I confessed that I for years have prayed that I might be an instrument in the Lord's hands to reach out and help someone who may need it. I included how our family in the last year has been the recipients of the work by angels here on earth. (I may or may not include that letter at the end of this post, depending on how much I want to expose my hypocrisy).

My thoughts then turned to the song written by Tari VanTassell (the same talented woman who wrote The Healer in this post). The song is called Praying for a Better Day and the lyrics in the chorus boldly and bravely declare:

"Don't give up the courage to take a stand. Don't ignore the neighbor who needs a hand. It's your place, your duty to show the way to that someone who's been praying for a better day!"

I sat determined to find that brother and sister as soon as I was finished. As soon as I was done, I quickly stood with my new, not-so-crazy flesh colored coban and hurried down the halls. My heart sank when I didn't see them watching out the same window. I looked for them in a few different areas before Josh pulled up to the door to take me home. I choked back the tears as I told him about my poor choice in judgement. He told me he would take me back to look for the kids. Although I was sure that they had probably been picked up by a friend or family member, I welcomed the small chance to right my wrong.

I hurried through the doors and swallowed my pride as I asked the people in the ER waiting room if they had seen a young brother and sister and what I thought their approximate ages would be. I am sure I sounded like a crazy person as all of their eyes were on me while I proceeded to describe the clothes they were wearing and at what time I had first saw them. They all kinda looked around the room at each other and some shrugged their shoulders. Two young teenage kids laughed and said they hadn't seen them and pointed out that it was an hour and a half later from the time I saw them.

My heart sunk. They were absolutely right. I deserved their ridicule because I had passed up the opportunity to reach out and maybe help someone who was aching. I had the impression to do it. The strong impression. I ignored it. I walked away. I turned my back on those poor aching children.

I am no better than the priest and the Levite who chose to walk by on the other side of the road and left the robbed and beaten man to die. (See the parable of The Good Samaritan in Luke 10: 25-37)  Here's praying that the Good Samaritan did come by to do what I did not.

"But a certain Samaritan... had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds,... and sat him on his own beast and brought him to an inn, and took care of him."           Luke 10:33-34

I am praying for forgiveness and the remembrance to never make the same mistake. I pray for the chance to make it right. I pray for the young boy and the young girl, wherever they are, that someone else is able to lift their hanging hands and to strengthen their feeble knees. (D&C 81:5)

Ugh... this post has been long enough, that I am sure not many will be reading it anyway. I will go ahead and paste the letter I sent for my mom for her talk. If for no other reason than to keep it as a record of the feelings I had today. Here goes nothing.

Dear Sisters:

My mom asked me to write down how we have had angels among us throughout the last year. I would like to start by sharing a scripture that became one of my favorites during college and has now taken on a new and deeper meaning:
 

“Wherefore, be faithful; stand in the office which I have appointed unto you; succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees.”  D&C 81:5

In college, this visual aspect of this image came immediately to mind. I pictured someone so troubled and burdened by mortal challenges that their hands hang heavily. Helplessly. Hopelessly. Shoulders slumped over by the weight bearing upon them and knees feeble from a long and tiresome journey.

I wanted to be the one to wrap my arm around that twisted waist. I wanted to be able to lend some of my strength and to be there when someone needed me. I would pray for it. I would ask the Lord to let me be an instrument in His hands and that I might be aware of those hands hanging down.

Little did I know that part of the Lord’s plan for us would take a turn that we couldn’t foresee. Ours became the hanging hands as our vision of a long and happily-ever-after life together was disrupted with a terminal cancer diagnosis.

Hearts and hands rallied all around us. We recognized the generous outpouring of love to be from those angels living among us: they are our family, our friends, our ward members and our neighbors. Amongst the many angels we know and love and are acquainted with, there were those whom we had never met. Those who’d heard of our plight and reached out a loving steadfast hand to ours that hung.

Our backyard was completely landscaped in a matter of two weeks. The amount of men that showed up to lay sod was so overwhelming. They literally had our entire yard from dirt to grass in minutes. That may seem trivial, but when you consider that I have three little boys who had been confined to our house all winter, you can start to imagine what a blessing it is to have grass for them to play.

Numerous fund-raisers on various scales humbled us to the core. We were touched by the work that went into organizing each one. We were grateful for the way that the generosity of others helped provide a way for us to pay for Josh’s treatment that otherwise may have had us drowning financially.

We received cards and letters reminding us that we were in thoughts and prayers. I received a few letters in particular that came from one angel who will never know how much her words comforted and inspired me. She will never know how I was able to read and re-read her letters while I was feeling weak and afraid and then felt strengthened and faithful.

I could continue going on and on, and part of me feels like I am not adequately expressing my gratitude by going over our experiences with angels so quickly, but I feel it might be more pertinent to point out that each of us at some point in our lives experience the tender mercies that come from the angels all around us. Each of us know, on some level, how it feels to have our hearts healed, our hanging hands lifted and our feeble knees strengthened.

If there is anything I have learned through our experiences it is that sometimes the hands of these angels facilitate the enabling power of the atonement to start its work in our hearts. Sometimes it is through each of you faithful, loyal, dear angels that the Lord accomplishes His work.

Sincerely,
Kristen