Reoccurring Trials

reoccurring trials

Sometimes in life we have a trial that doesn’t go away.  We learn to live, but occasionally we get that sting back.  We remember it and at certain times it simply reoccurs.   These are what I call Reoccurring Trials.

reoccurring trials

I love this picture because it reminds me of my mother.  I remember starting piano lessons at age 6 and she was so proud of me.  It didn’t matter if I messed up, she loved that I was willing to learn. She loved me, and that’s why this is one of my reoccurring trials.

I love this picture because it reminds me of my mother.  I remember starting piano lessons at age 6 and she was so proud of me.  It didn’t matter if I messed up, she loved that I was willing to learn.  She loved me, and that’s why this is one of my reoccurring trials.

My mom knew I was fascinated with the piano at an early age.  I remember banging away at the keys and my mom telling me not to bang on the piano.  I would pretend to make up songs, even though it didn’t sound anywhere near good!  But I was interested in this beautiful instrument and was just…drawn to it.  It filled me with delight to just imagine how good I could become.

My mother was a strong one, very wonderful, full of light and love.  Everyone loved her.  There wasn’t a person she met that she couldn’t hold a conversation with.  She could cook, sew, paint, and basically do anything she put her mind to.  And most of all…she was giving.  She always gave to others and her charity and love reached out to anyone who met her.  Just ask, they will tell you and the stories go on and on of her service and love.  So I share this next story with a broken heart….I share with you one of my reoccurring trials.

I wrote this story in high school for a project my English teacher gave me.  It was hard to write then, and it is hard to rewrite now, but I feel like I should share….

“I didn’t realize how sick my mother was until she was put in a hospital bed.  She was always so strong and brave that she didn’t let me know how much she was really hurting.  When they brought the bed in, I knew it wouldn’t be much longer before she would pass on.

It was her second bout with cancer.  She was sick of fighting.  The chemotherapy from her first fight took her immune system to a dangerously low level.  She didn’t want to have to wear a wig again; she didn’t want to go through the pain.  I think she was sick of pretending.  She fought to live with all she had, but in the end, the cancer got the best of her.  There is only so much a soul can take and once the body gets too weary, only a small percent of people can go on.

She lay there day after day, telling me to come to her so she could still talk to me and tell me stories.  She slept most of the time, her body slowly dying, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.  She still fixed my hair in the morning and asked me how school was.  Her friends were over constantly taking care of her, but there was a different feeling in the house as soon as that bed came in.

One night while I was about to say my nightly prayers my dad came into my room.  He usually knelt by my side, and I would say my prayer out loud so that he could hear it.  Before I started to pray my dad had this look in his eyes.  A sad look, like he knew something that he didn’t want to come right out and say.  He asked me to pray for my mother to be out of pain, no longer to just get better.  He explained to me that we should ask God what we really want, but in the end let it be His will.  Although I was only seven years old, I knew what that meant.  It meant that I was supposed to pray for a chance that she could die and I was supposed to accept it.  I was to leave it in the hands of The Lord, and let Him take her if it be His desire.

That prayer was the hardest prayer to say, yet somehow I had this calming feeling.  I thought at first that the calming feeling meant that she would get better and I would live my life with my mother there cheering me on all the way.  I was so determined that my mother would live to see my graduation.  As a seven year old, I had a lot that I needed her there for.

I kept praying every night that God would take her pain away, and one night, He did.  She had been in the most pain than she ever had before and people kept pumping morphine into her.  When I came by she seemed calm, and when it was time for me to go to bed she didn’t want me to leave.  My dad tried to get me to go to bed but I just wanted to stay by her side.  I could sense something.  She said it was okay and tried to get my dad to let me stay up just a little longer, but my dad reassured us that I would see her the next morning.  When I woke up the next morning, the medics were taking away her hospital bed.  My dad came up to me, gave me a hug and said that mom passed away.  From that point on, I felt numb.”

I believe I wrote this a few weeks before I graduated high school, so graduation was fresh on my mind.  There are many things that my mom has not been able to be there physically for.  My baptism when I was eight.  When I became a Beehive, then Mia Maid, then Laurel.  My graduation from High School, College, and Massage Therapy School. My wedding.  With each child I have given birth to, each pregnancy, she hasn’t physically been there.  And she wan’t there physically when my husband left me either.  So with heavy heart at each event I face this reoccurring trial.  Because oh how I want her there!  How my heart yearns for her!  The one thing I want most in life…a mother…is denied me over and over again.  Who do I call when I have a baby?  Who do I go to when I have a problem?  Who would understand?  I ask myself these things every time.

But…she IS here.  If not physically, I am constantly reminded that she IS here.

People wonder how I do the things that I do.  How I am so creative.  One dear aunt keeps telling me how wonderful I am.  But I like to think, it isn’t me.  It is my mom that is truly wonderful.  With every project, every challenge I feel like she helps me along the way.  She watches over me in ways that I don’t think about until each reoccurring trial is over.  Sometimes a thought comes into my mind as to what to do next, or maybe, just maybe, she is watching me make something and she whispers in my ear.  She used to play the piano, even if only a little, so my connection with the piano became great.  I sometimes would only play for her.

So this picture is a reminder of my wonderful mother, who started my passion by placing a piano in our home.  If the piano hadn’t been there to play on when I was small, I probably would have never had the desire nor ever started piano lessons.  I wouldn’t have played at any recitals, been on a piano team, or won any of the competitions that I did.  I would have never been a music major and I wouldn’t be able to play in church on occasion to share my testimony.  So you see…my mother has been with me my whole life…because I had a piano.