Lemonade Stories

I've been thinking about lemonade and grandmas lately. Somehow they seem to go together, even better than kids and lemonade stands do.

My paternal grandmother has been on my mind. She had bipolar disorder, and unfortunately, hers remained untreated for most of her life. Whenever people talk of her, it usually includes a comical yet tragic story, like the time she purchased all of the worn out dolls at the thrift store because she felt bad for them. Or the time she nearly paved her yard so it wouldn't require mowing. I will say, that one's tempting! Or the time she decided playing her harmonica dressed in a clown costume downtown was a good business plan. Or the time she shaved her head and wore a wig strictly out of convenience. Memories are not often separated from her mental illness.

In most families, stories get passed along for a few generations, sometimes over a glass of fresh lemonade. I've noticed that the further apart the generations, the fewer and foggier the stories. It makes me wonder which stories of me will be passed down to my great-grandchildren.

Maybe they'll talk about how much I love Mexican food. Or maybe they'll talk about the dozens of hours I spent making coordinating Halloween costumes for our family each year. Perhaps they'll joke about the huge variety of crafts I dabbled in from felting to quilling to zendoodle. Of course they're not the typical ones! I'm sure they'll remember my mental illness. And if the only thing they remember is my bipolar disorder, this is what I want them to know.

When I was diagnosed, it was nine months after the birth of our first daughter who'd been conceived with the help of fertility treatments. The last year or so had been a roller coaster of feeling betrayed by and impressed by the capabilities of my body. I remember sitting alone in my hospital room in the psychiatric unit feeling betrayed once again.

My faith pulled me through when I found a quote I had tucked into my scriptures years earlier.

“Everything, no matter how dire, becomes a victory to the Lord. Joseph [of Egypt] although a slave and wholly undeserving of this fate, nevertheless remained faithful to the Lord and continued to live the commandments and made something very good of his degrading circumstances.”

The next morning I was thinking about how the hospital therapist, Jane, told me that it was okay to feel sad about my diagnosis because in some ways it is a loss. As I was getting out of the hospital shower, and considering Elder Rector’s quote, I said to myself, “No, this is going to be a gain.” And the pity party phrase of why me, became my battle cry—in the sense of, “Why me? Why am I going through this—and what good can the Lord do with this?”

With those thoughts, I stepped forward to attempt to make something very good of a terribly unexpected circumstance. That is what I want those who come after me to remember about my story. That I was a lemonade maker. That I took some sour lemons of life, and with the sugar of perspective and the water of learning, I offered goodness back to the world.

Three and a half years ago, I stopped sharing my lemonade. I suppose I thought people were no longer interested in my recipe. At times I felt like I had more lemons than I could handle, and needed to wait until I could find some sugar and water. And then I started thinking about my grandma and others who have survived sourer lemons than I have. And those who haven't survived them.

I realized their stories weren't just for them.

One of my first memories of my grandma is from the later years of her stability. She gave our family a piano when I was eight so I could take piano lessons. When I was fourteen, I played a song I had arranged at her funeral. I had played it for her a few weeks prior when she'd visited for Thanksgiving and tears of joy had streamed down her face. She was so proud.

I like to think of my Grandma's life as a similar gift. My heart aches, thinking of her unmedicated daily anguish for so much of her life. However, if her life had not been the way it was, I wouldn't be able to learn from her experiences. I think of her now, free from her mortal condition, and I imagine we would all be in awe of her compassion and creativity.

And I think she is in grateful awe that her story was not just for her, no matter how poorly or well she dealt with it. It was for me too.

And so I'll write again, sharing my lemonade with anyone who wants to read.

After all, it's not just for me. Lemonade is meant to be shared.

Miracles

As I awoke, the story of the daughter of Jairus came to my mind.  I contemplated the events and emotions of the last four weeks.

I thought of the absolute elation I felt. I thought of how I’d experienced the deepest gratitude I can remember. I thought of the humility that permeated my soul.

And then I thought of the intense heartbreak and confusion that currently chiseled away at me.

I was losing my miracle pregnancy. The one that came as the best surprise of my life. The one that came without fertility treatments. The one that expressed to me the tender love of my Heavenly Father.

When Jesus raised the only daughter of Jairus from the dead, I’m sure it came as the best surprise of the family’s life, and expressed to them the tender love of their Heavenly Father. It was a miracle.

But then I realized that the daughter of Jairus eventually died again—and was not risen. When that happened, did it invalidate the miracle of her rising that had occurred when she was twelve? Absolutely not. And because of Christ, she will be risen again one day in the miracle of the Resurrection.

Likewise, my loss does not rescind my miracle. And it doesn’t cancel the tender love of my Heavenly Father—I am encircled about eternally in the arms of His love. And because of Christ, my heavy heart will rise again one day through the miracle of the Atonement.

Be of Good Cheer

My heart heavy with disappointment, I bowed my head. Don’t You know how much good I could do if I were a millionaire?...Don’t You know that I would be the most amazing mother to seven children if I didn’t have infertility?...Don’t You know how I could change the world without bipolar?...Don’t You know how much time and energy I’d have if I didn’t have to deal with diabetes?...Don’t You know how much I need an answer to my prayer now? I pleaded.

…                            

I know how much good you can do without money…I know that you’re an amazing mother to one of my daughters who needs all of your focus right now…I know you can change the world even with bipolar…I know that you’ll have more time and energy because you’ll focus on your health…I know how much you need an answer, and I know how much more it will mean to you if you work and wait for it…And I love you. Be of good cheer. He responded gently, while forgiving my childish attitude.

Sometimes it’s just so hard to feel God’s love—especially when I’m feeling disappointed. And then I realize that when my sweet daughter is disappointed is when I want her to feel my love most, but she’s so distracted by her own pity party that she often can’t hear what I’m saying—like the time last month when we decided to go on a picnic 45 minutes away. She had excitedly packed her toys, but she forgot to bring them. And she realized it when we were halfway there. She was so disappointed. My heart broke for her. My husband told her she could get a new toy at the nearby dollar store. But she was so distraught she couldn’t hear his kind offer.

When I’m in the depths of disappointment like her, the last thing I want to hear is “be of good cheer,” like I can just flip a switch. But then I realized that in the scriptures, it’s often during very difficult times that the command to “be of good cheer” is given--it’s not when things are all good. For example, it was given when the apostles were sailing on a windy night and seeing something they didn’t recognize out on the water, they were troubled and cried out in fear (Matt. 14:27). Cried out! Be of good cheer isn’t derision, it’s compassion! It’s like the Lord’s way of saying, Chin up. I’m here, and I love you. Trust me.

And then, when we trust Him, miracles happen. In the very next verse, Peter walked on the water.

I’m sure Peter felt utter disappointment when he began to sink, but “immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him.”

Oh the love Peter must have felt! When sinking into disappointment, I’ve found myself crying out to my Heavenly Father, Prove it! Won’t You just prove to me that You love me?

But if I could just “be still and know that [he is] God” (Psalms 46:10) I would remember that He has already have proven His love and stretched forth His hands to save me—just like Peter.

Jesus stretched forth His hands to save me--on Calvary’s hill.

My heart brimming with gratitude, I bowed my head once more.

Seeking Silver Linings

Last Sunday night I felt like cutting.  It’s not something I’ve ever done before. But I had this strong sensation. Like an itch that needs to be scratched, my wrists needed to be slit. A cloud was settling in after a year and a half of stability and sunshine. I reached out to my amazing husband and also to my dad, an amazing therapist, and they helped me find the strength and coping strategies to resist the urge. Monday was okay, Tuesday was fine, and then Wednesday morning I awoke to the darkness of that cloud.  It was so deep and so dark, appearing unexpectedly.  I felt like the world would be better without me.

My husband stayed home all day caring for me and our daughter while I did everything I could to fight for my life.  Tears streamed down my face as I ran on the treadmill, attempting to find a physical release. I listened to music both invigorating and soothing to no avail.  I showered, did some work, called my dad, and used my sun lamp, trying so hard to simply have a normal day—but the deep dark cloud hovered, threatening to swallow me up.

When I called my dad he put positive thoughts into my head, speaking in first person, hoping something would stick. He distracted me by telling me all about a book he was reading. He tried to help me find simple things to look forward to—like my sweet little girl’s soccer game that night.

It had been a stormy day, both literally and figuratively, and I wondered if the game would even go on.  But the sun peeked around the clouds outside creating silver linings, and I went to cheer on my darling Purple Unicorn in her red jersey, wishing I could see the silver linings around my billowing darkness.

I’ve come to realize that sometimes when you can’t control something, all you can do is seek the silver linings. And when you can’t see them—you seek the Source of the light.

And so I prayed.

                                                  ~*~

The next day I saw my psychiatrist, desperate for answers and reasons.  She said it could have been one or more of many things including the smoke that had lingered in the air for so long, a lack of sleep, or just the plain and simple fact that I have bipolar disorder. She adjusted my medication slightly, gave me a sleeping pill to ensure that I get my rest, and gave me orders to spend more time with my husband, have someone watch my daughter one day a week, spend more time with friends, create things to look forward to, see a therapist monthly, take up a hobby, have more fun, and update her in ten days.

I was so frustrated that there wasn’t one clear reason or trigger that I could do something about. I had worked so hard to be stable for the past year and a half, and it felt like it all just came crashing down for no reason.  And still being relatively new to this illness, it’s something I’m trying to get used to.

Now, as the cloud disperses, I find myself asking Why me?

This question is often seen as downhearted, but I’ve learned that it can be quite the contrary.

Let me explain.

We all have our unique challenges and struggles, and want them to be good for something—we’re all seeking silver linings. The question of why me? nudges us toward those silver linings by prompting other questions like:

·        How can I use this experience in my life?

·        How can I now empathize with others in a way I couldn’t before?

·        What do I need to learn that I can’t learn in any other way?

·        How can I use my struggle to improve the lives of others in ways that no one else can?

·        How is my struggle making me more like my Savior, who chose to learn by His own experience how to support and comfort me?

·        How am I becoming acquainted with God?

Why me? is a plea to discover the purpose of our pains. 

So I continue to ask it with a heart willing and ready to respond to that purpose as I seek the Source of all Light who can create silver linings from any situation.

Dear Rachel

Dear Rachel,

I’ve been pondering your story in the Bible.  You’re at a time in your life where you feel absolutely certain that God has forgotten you.  You feel less blessed than all those around you, and you probably feel like God loves them more.  I wish you could feel God’s immense love for you.  But I know what it’s like to forget that love.

I certainly felt less blessed several weeks ago as I wept over the cost of what it would take for me to have a safe pregnancy and postpartum experience.  Besides the cost of medical bills and fertility treatments, I felt overwhelmed at all of the things required to quite literally preserve my sanity—weekly psychiatric and therapy visits, more expensive pregnancy-safe medication, and a nanny.  What? None of that was ever in my plan for my life. 

I felt forgotten—but the truth is I had simply forgotten His love.

Several days later, it struck me softly and suddenly. God loves me.  I had been trying to heal my broken heart with the testimony that God is perfect, so His plan for me must be, too.  But in a gentle and powerful moment, I came to understand that more than the perfect plan for me, He’s prepared the most loving plan for me.  He loves me no matter how small my family is.  He loves me no matter how blessed I am.  And then as I began to look for my blessings, I realized how many there truly are.

But here’s the thing—God doesn’t give people more blessings because He loves them more, or fewer blessings because He loves them less.  It’s easy to get caught up on the idea that perhaps He gives more to those He loves more, but it simply isn’t true because he doesn’t love some of us more.  Like an apostle of Jesus Christ has said, “No one of us is less treasured or cherished of God than another.”  It simply does not matter if others have more or fewer blessings than you.  His love for you is the same.  But that doesn’t diminish His love.  As another apostle has said, “Think of the purest, most all-consuming love you can imagine. Now multiply that love by an infinite amount—that is the measure of God’s love for you.”  Believe it.

God loves you—not because He is obligated to, but because you are you.  He is your father and His first priority is loving you.  He always has and always will—no matter what.  I’m sure His heart ached with love when you cried out in anguish to your beloved Jacob, “give me children or else I die.” 

There are those today who share your pain, pleading with God for a child, that new job, the ideal marriage, or perfect health.  And like the beautiful words that will come later in your story, And God remembered Rachel, God remembers them.  He remembered you in the sense that you were never forgotten.  I believe God always remembered you—that he retained you in His memory and remained aware of you—granting you tender mercies all along the way.  You were always on His mind, and He was always blessing you—even if at that moment, you didn’t recognize those blessings.  He was constantly shaping and preparing you to become the woman He knows you can become, and the woman He needs to accomplish great things.  Look for His love—and find its abundance. 

God always remembers you, my dear friend. Always remember His love.

Love,

            Caitlin

The Gift of Enough

As my little girl and I were cleaning up toys, she began to sing, “Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere…”  What a little princess, huh?  Singing as she cleans.

“All right.  You’ve done enough,” I said when we finished tidying the room. 

Enough.  I thought about the word for a moment, wishing I could speak those words to myself.  It’s all right.  You’ve done enough…you are enough.  It seems like there’s always more to do or more to be.

And then I remembered these words from the Savior of the world: My grace is sufficient for thee. 

He cannot lie.  He says he makes up the difference—and so he does.

As I wiped down the kitchen counter, it dawned on me that when I said “you’ve done enough” to Abbey, I wasn’t expecting her to do more than she could.  I didn’t expect her to also take care of the dishes, laundry, or mopping.  I just wanted her to simply try to do what she could. And it thrilled me that she did it “cheerfully”.

I didn’t expect her to “run faster than she had strength,” or even do everything all at once.  So why do I expect that of myself?  Even God Himself didn’t create the earth all at once.  It took time.  And then He took time to rest.

Rest.  That’s what the Savior invites us to do.  Rest from worrying about whether or not we’re “enough” because with him, we are.  In what James E. Talmage called “one of the grandest outpourings of spiritual emotion known to man,” our Savior pleads with us:

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matt. 11:28-30)

He promises everyone that if we partner with Him, we will be enough.  No exceptions. No lost causes.  All we have to do is humbly take His yoke upon us—a spiritual yoke, hewn with faith and conversion.  A yoke that combines our efforts with His absolute perfection in a slow and steady, balanced pace.  A yoke that makes extreme and even everyday burdens easier.

He promises.

I am enough because He lives.

Abbey played with her toys—gifts from Christmastime—while I swept the floor, and I found myself so delighted at her delight.

I considered the delight of our Savior when he sees our delight at His gift to us--His gift of enough.

I smiled and joined my little girl in happiness.

Never Undone

“You can do it,” I tell my little girl as she gets dressed.  “One thing at a time,” I say as I hand her pieces of darling clothing someone thoughtfully left on our porch one day.  I’m thinking of everything I have to do today and realizing that oh so much of it is all-too-similar to what I already did yesterday and what I’ll do again tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

I’ll do dishes again and they’ll get undone again.  I’ll do laundry again and it’ll get undone again. Sweep—undone. Pick up stuff a hundred times—undone a hundred times.  Some days, some things never even get done in the first place, and most days, it seems like things will always be this way.  But as wiser women say, one day when there aren’t any toys to pick up, I’ll miss these days because after all, things won’t always be this way.

Except for one thing.  I will always love my daughter. 

Even if I have to change her outfit eight times today, that love will never change.

Even if I pick up her toys more than a million times today, I will still love her for more than a million years.

And even if I need to wash her hands and face two dozen times today, that love will never wash away.

So, chin up to anyone who feels the same sort of daily monotony—

Even if everything else you do today comes completely undone, take heart and just know this:

Some things--the most important ones--can never come undone.