On Things of Mortality

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.