Mercy
Mercy
By Jennie Byers
My youngest kiddo, Child #7 attempted suicide last month. The same week I went back to work after a seven month break — those two things together created a flood of mother guilt. I’m not new to mother guilt, oh no, I’ve been swimming in it for nearly 30 years. It reminded me of when this #7 child was a toddler and I wrote the following snapshot of a day that opened my eyes to God’s mercy.
Thirteen years ago…
I stand on my yoga mat, eyes closed, soaking in the luscious warmth of the early morning sun on my back and listening to the soothing sounds of ocean and piano and flute wafting lightly from my Ipod speakers. I hold the warrior pose and feel calm, content -- until a cold spray of water from the hose douses the fire of my inner peace. Child #7, the two year-old fireman/assassin has found me and targeted me for a soaking. I turn off the hose, retake my position on the wet mat and close my eyes, intent on finding my inner nirvana once again. Who am I kidding? Child #7 is now screaming and crying at my knees, taking my name in vain over and over. “Mommy, Mommy!” I ignore him. I will have this time for me. The alarm on my cell phone goes off – time to pick up Child #5. I open my eyes. Child #6 has now been soaked by the two year-old and has stripped down to his underwear. Child #7 is in his usual uniform: Huggies--size five.
I turn off the ocean, piano and flute. No time to dress the kids, I throw the Littles in the car in their sundry states of undress. We pick up kid #5, 10 minutes late, again. Back home I stumble past one, two, three baskets of laundry on my way in through the laundry room. Just in time I remember, “Don’t inhale or you’ll smell the load of darks that’s been washed three times and is still mildewing in the washer.” I try to make a mental note to reboot the abandoned wash and transfer it, but my mental notepad has run out and I don’t where to find a replacement.
I head to my bedroom and trip on the Monopoly game whose contents are now cavorting with toy kitchen utensils and a hundred children’s videos at the top of the stairs. They’ve been waiting patiently to be taken down and put away, but have finally rebelled and thrown themselves at my feet hoping to get my attention.
In the car I made the mistake of telling #7 that later we’d be going to Wal-mart to get Otter Pops. Of course I meant after I change out of my yoga clothes, get dressed, brush my teeth, throw my hair in a ponytail and find clothes for everyone else. Discovering we are NOT at Wal-mart he follows me into my room, on the verge of losing his mind again. He is mindlessly crying, “Pop, pop, pop” until I want to scream. I’m trying to get dressed before he loses it, but he can’t seem to understand that my getting dressed is the only obstacle to his Otter Pop ecstasy. If he would just let me do it quickly he would get his pop sooner.
So I stop. I kneel down. I talk gently to him, hug him, hold him for a minute trying to explain, but when I put him down it starts all over again. I will lose it soon, I know it. My brain is frazzled and I can’t think. Will my life consist of carrying Child #7 around every day from Sesame Street to Letterman to keep him from having another terrible two year-old tantrum? I can’t even imagine a life that allows me to clean, cook, do laundry, home school, teach 15 year-old girls at church, read books, write papers, study the scriptures, be a loving wife, take care of the garden and do yoga in the sun by the pool all with this cherubic barnacle on my hip. Two years of this has left my bucket empty.
I don’t want to feel empty, I want to forget myself. My neighbor is sick and I want to do something sweet to let her know I’m thinking of her, but I don’t. I see others needs but I can’t get past my own. I do pray for them. I pray a lot, long and hard. It is my comfort and my one sense of power. Time to pray again.
I’m finally dressed and as I walk through the kitchen I stop and see the wildflowers on my table. Last week a friend brought them by for no reason. Some of them droop sadly over the crumb-covered cloth, but the petite spray of purple somethings still stand perkily in the vase to remind me of her thoughtfulness.
I turn and notice the two, sunny yellow lemons in my untidy fruit bowl. These were delivered by the neighbor who heard I was sick and brought me lemons and a box of herbal tea. Then out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a Chinese take-out box dressed up in pink brocade and silver, sitting askew on top of my fridge. The contents: bubble bath, a candle and chocolate. The sender: another loving lady from church. She left these with my husband yesterday accompanied by a note that said she had been thinking about me.
Apparently someone is sending a message out to the universe. Is it me? I thought I was doing well at keeping my secrets. Is it the Lord? More likely. I’m pricked with guilt. I have done nothing to deserve these tender acts of mercy but oh, how they have touched my soul.
A leader in my church, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland once said, “…surely the thing God enjoys most about being God is the thrill of being merciful, especially to those who don’t expect it and often feel they don’t deserve it.” I guess that’s true of his disciples as well.
I am blessed. Today it is my turn to take. Someday I will give.
Present Day…
I am still blessed and apparently still (and forever) in need of God’s mercy.
That dark day that #7 tried to take her life, we went to her equine therapy appointment and tried to figure out what to do. I prayed with all of my might and soul that angels would be with us and the spirit of Christ would be there, because this child doesn’t believe in God any more and has very little light in her life. As we stood in the corral at the end of a difficult session, the sun was setting, and all of the sudden everything got still. The therapist noted it, “Do you notice what’s happening here?" We had three beautiful majestic horses standing sentinel around us. The two dogs sat alert but very quiet in a grassy field a little ways off. The llamas and chickens and sheep in the surrounding neighborhood were utterly silent. The whole scene was bathed in the golden pink light of the setting sun. It was markedly serene to be sure, but I don’t know if the others felt what I felt. I felt heavenly peace. Then I heard a voice in my head that said, "They that be with you are more than they that be with them.” The spirit, the animals, and even the still, golden light bore testimony that heavenly help was there.
God’s mercy comes in the darkest of times, it’s golden light filling the shadows and warming my soul.
