Making Up The Loss
I have an “Internet Friend” whom I have never met personally,
though we have had conversations over the years. He is a much more prolific writer
than I will ever be and has drawn the ire of many because of his on-line
efforts to defend the doctrines of our common faith. Many are offended by the
direct methods he uses to help others understand what members of The Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints really believe. He has my admiration for
his dedication and unwavering support of the leaders and doctrines of our faith.
His willingness to accept the ‘sticks and stones” thrown by so many who have
become disaffected from the faith and have chosen to become detractors is a witness
of the depth of his testimony of the Savior and His work.
In addition to defending the faith we share, he also “waxes
poetic” on many subjects concerning life and the world we live in. He is a bit
of a ‘world traveler’ and is not afraid to let readers participate in the adventures
he is blessed to experience. But he is also a very sensitive soul (much to
the chagrin of his critics) and willingly expresses himself in
ways to help all of his readers see the mercies of God in this life.
A few years ago his son and daughter-in-law lost a baby
daughter (his first grandchild) and he was heartbroken, as any grandparent
would be. Never having lost any children or grandchildren, I had not even
considered how it might feel to have that experience. After reading the expressions
of love my friend wrote, I was, in a small way, able to get a little taste of
what such a tragedy might entail.
I know this is not a favorite topic for many, but the “eulogy”
given for this baby girl left a strong impression in my heart. Despite the
sorrow he felt, there was also a sense of comfort in the words he wrote (spoke) and
it seemed appropriate to share with those whom I love and care for.
Dr. Daniel C. Peterson
Some are displeased with The Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints over socio-political disputes, gender
concerns and other perceived grievances. While I seldom if ever share their
specific issues, I don’t discount them. I know they can hurt.
However, compared with ultimate
questions of life and death, they seem thin, even trivial. If the LDS Church’s
claims are true — which I believe — everything else is at most secondary.
I echo the apostle Peter’s declaration,
when some were offended by the Savior’s teaching:
“From that time many of
his disciples went back, and walked no more with him. Then said Jesus unto the
twelve, Will ye also go away? Then Simon Peter answered him, Lord, to whom
shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life. And we believe and are sure
that thou art that Christ, the Son of the living God” (see John 6:66-69).
On a wintry Utah night
decades ago, President Harold B. Lee and a local church leader paused, gazing
through snow and darkness toward the Manti Utah Temple, high on the hill above
them. “That temple,” the local man observed, “lighted as it is, is never more
beautiful than in a storm or when there is a dense fog.” President Lee made the
application: “Never is the gospel of Jesus Christ more important to you,” he
said, “than in a storm or when you are having great difficulty” (see “Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Harold B. Lee”).
Mortality offers
happiness and sweet satisfactions, but also deep disappointments, intimidating
obstacles and — sometimes — almost unbearable sorrows that pierce like a knife.
Among the sharpest such sorrows is the
loss of a child. When excited thoughts of baby clothes, crib, stroller,
anticipated first books and a cheerfully waiting nursery are displaced by
funeral preparations, those things remain — but now, they mock and wound. The
world is suddenly desolate. Joy turns to ashes.
A passage from T. S. Eliot’s “Journey
of the Magi” comes to mind, however misapplied:
“… Were we led all that
way for
Birth or Death? There was
a birth, certainly
We had evidence and no
doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were
different; this birth was
Hard and bitter agony for
us, like death, our death.”
But God be praised: The birth that the
Magi came to honor was the birth that would end death.
“One short sleep past,” said John Donne, “we wake eternally, and death shall be no more; death,
thou shalt die.”
Naturally, we grieve. Even knowing what
he knew and what he would soon do, the Savior himself mourned the death of his
friend Lazarus: “Jesus wept. Then said the
Jews, Behold how he loved him!” (see John 11:35-36).
“But I would not have you
to be ignorant, brethren,” wrote the apostle
Paul, “concerning them which are asleep, that
ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope” (see 1 Thessalonians 4:13).
“Thou shalt live together
in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die, and more
especially for those that have not hope of a glorious resurrection. And it
shall come to pass that those that die in me shall not taste of death, for it
shall be sweet unto them” (Doctrine and Covenants 42:45-46).
Surely death is sweet for tiny infants
who scarcely draw breath in mortality. Surely they will enjoy a glorious
resurrection. “Little children are alive in
Christ,” insisted the prophet
Mormon, “even from the foundation of the
world” (see Moroni 8:12).
Decades ago, a simple
sentence in an LDS Church magazine article deeply impressed me.
Sad at parting from co-workers after intense days together at the Hill Cumorah
Pageant, a volunteer remarked that the pain was less acute because “friends in the gospel never meet for the last time.”
That comment has remained with me ever
since. I believed it then; I believe it now. And yes, I desperately want it to
be true.
“All your losses will be
made up to you in the resurrection,” testified Joseph Smith in a passage
that I’ve needed to cite too often in these columns, “provided you continue faithful. By the vision of the Almighty I have
seen it.”
Lena Alaia, our long hoped-for first
grandchild, was born on June 13 and died on June 16. In Canadian songwriter
Craig Cardiff’s words, “We said hello at the
same time we said goodbye.”
We’ve wrapped her in the blanket that
we brought from Bethlehem for her crib, entrusting her to the Savior who was
born there. He loved little children.
Knowing of our loss and our
heartache, a friend brought Craig Cardiff’s achingly sad song “Smallest
Wingless” to my attention. It’s the source of the quoted line
above: “We said hello at the same time we said goodbye.”
I watched this
music video of “Smallest Wingless” dozens of times over the
next few days. And — I’ve just verified my suspicion experimentally —
even five years later I, who never cry, still can’t listen to thirty seconds of
the song without breaking down.
