This Friday was the beginning of the end of a long week. For a variety of reasons, I have felt at a low ebb, sort of just slodging through my days, not really sure what I’m doing.
On this particular Friday morning, my daughters and I went down to the church building to a playgroup we have each week with a few other mothers and their children. Amid the chaos of children running around and playing with one another, the grown-ups talk and enjoy the association of adults for an hour or two.
Usually the children get along fairly well. There are, of course, squabbles and accidents and such, but rarely anything to write home about. This day, however, it felt like every time I took a breath, someone was pulling someone’s hair, not sharing, knocking someone over, or just plain complaining. Because my children accounted for approximately a third of the people there, they were involved in at least a third of the incidents.
And then it hit me. This was what I was going to be doing the rest of the day—listening to squabbles, putting out emotional fires. And then Brice would come home from a hard day and we would both be stressed out of our minds and with little end in sight.
Have you ever wished you were a three-year-old again and you could lie on the floor, kick your legs, and cry? Yes, me too.
I could not imagine surviving the day, and so in desperation I started thinking about finding a babysitter for maybe just an hour or two. As I thought, I kept feeling like I should ask the moms there if they knew any babysitters who could watch kids on short notice. As in, tonight. And beautiful, sweet Leslie, an amazing woman with four children ranging from four years to five months, informed me that her family’s plans for the evening had changed and she was available. I wasn’t sure whether to cry with relief or just really fall at her feet in adoration.
So that evening, Brice and I had a couple of beautiful hours of eating together, interrupted only by our server (who never once requested that we give him a treat or take him to the potty), trying on hats, and just talking about the books we were reading. Nothing stressful, nothing terribly serious, just the pure enjoyment of date night.
Then on Saturday, other friends watched our daughters so that we could drive (safely) through the rain to attend the Washington, D.C., Temple and perform work for the dead there. I am always grateful for the opportunity to do this particular work because it reminds me of blessings and promises I have received. I am reminded that God means for us to be powerful and that He has great things in store for us—and has given us the tools we need to accomplish His plans.
Upon returning home, I started finishing up our Halloween costumes. This required that I head up to the attic, where I discovered that our roof has sprung a leak. A leak that had not been dropping on our multitudinous cardboard file boxes, but which instead had been dropping onto my huge plastic tubs of yarn, the few items in our attic that were fully protected from water. That also meant that the floor of the attic (and thus our ceiling) had not received much water at all. And now we know about the leak—if we hadn’t needed to go up on Saturday, there’s no telling exactly how long it would have been before we discovered it.
Also this week I was released from my previous calling as Primary secretary and sustained as the second counselor in the Primary presidency. Not a big change, and barely worth mentioning except for one thing: I miss Sunday School. I miss Relief Society. I miss adults. A tiny part of me was hoping that I’d get to go back. I couldn’t help wondering why I of all people—someone with very little skill in associating with children—was still being asked to serve in the Primary. And it occurred to me that I really needed to know that this calling came from God, not just from some misguided (though loving) individual in my ward. So I knelt, and I asked for a witness that this was what I was supposed to be doing. And a thought entered my mind: your witness will come as you do your work to the best of your ability. And knowing that was enough.
All of these moments bring me to the point:
On Friday, while writing notes to some women in my ward, I was guided to look up a statement that President Dieter F. Uchtdorf made in the Church’s most recent conference:
“Sisters, wherever you are, whatever your circumstances may be, you are not forgotten. No matter how dark your days may seem, no matter how insignificant you may feel, no matter how overshadowed you think you may be, your Heavenly Father has not forgotten you. In fact, He loves you with an infinite love….
God loves you because you are His child. He loves you even though at times you may feel lonely or make mistakes.
The love of God and the power of the restored gospel are redemptive and saving. If you will only allow His divine love into your life, it can dress any wound, heal any hurt, and soften any sorrow.
…You are closer to heaven than you suppose. You are destined for more than you can possibly imagine.”*
Each of these little moments of grace, these brief respites from struggle or tiny gifts of guidance over the past few days—they have borne witness to me of this truth. God knows me, He remembers me. There is power and strength in those words:
You are not forgotten.
I am not forgotten.
I love you! Thanks for this (and all the other wonderful things you do!)
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