It’s a given that childbirth is painful. Even with the pain relief measures I’ve accepted each time, it has still hurt. A lot. But Thomas’s birth was in a whole different category of pain. He is my seventh child, born ten weeks early after two weeks of hospitalized bed rest. And his delivery brought me to the lowest point I’ve experienced in this mortal body.

It was precipitated by a combination of factors—the physical and emotional stress that had built up for two weeks beforehand, the uncertainty and fear that likely accompanies every premature delivery, and the out-of-my-element feeling that resulted from having this round be so unlike my other childbirth experiences. I didn’t know my own body, I didn’t know what would happen, I didn’t know anything. Every expectation I had about what my labor and delivery would be like was turned on its head. The baby, while appropriately turned on his head, must have been facing the wrong way, which meant that he wasn’t moving along the way he should have been. The anaesthesia failed. And the Pitocin-fueled contractions were enough to push me right over the edge of composure.

Now logically, everything was just fine in that birthing room. The atmosphere was tense because of the increased risk of problems with the baby’s health, and while all possible preparations were in place to temper a full-blown medical emergency, we never had one.

But I had a little emergency of my own.

It came right at that apex when the pain is intense enough to make me wish for a hasty exit from earth, or at least the freedom to curl up into a tight ball and preserve all my strength for weathering the pain. That’s the exact moment when I’m expected to assume a very un-curled-up position and somehow channel all my strength elsewhere. Of course it’s hard. But what I felt went way beyond hard. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I was walloped with a feeling of hopelessness I’ve never felt before during childbirth.

This was new and unthinkable territory. The determination that had kept me engaged thus far—I have to get through this, for the baby’s sake—began to slip. My concern for self was eclipsing concern for other—and not just any other, but the most innocent and vulnerable and dependent and deserving other imaginable.

“Push!” the nurse barked.

“I can’t!” I wailed. “Please get it out. Please.”

The doctor spoke in that calm voice reserved for hysterical patients. “The baby is too small to use forceps safely, Kathryn.” And I didn’t care. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be free from the burning despair that filled my skin, the helplessness of being required to do the impossible.

Despair, for a mother, may be defined as this: being in so much pain and desperation that you consider abandoning your child in order to bring yourself relief.

***

In young adulthood, when I was first awakening to Christianity, I found it difficult to fully sympathize with Jesus. I didn’t doubt that what he endured was awful, much more awful than anything that man has endured. But after all, he wasn’t a regular guy. Didn’t being a demi-god give him just a wee bit of an edge?

But as my understanding began to mature, I realized that Jesus’ super-capacity did not work in his favor, so to speak. Actually, the opposite was true. Yes, he was stronger—much stronger—than any of us. But that just meant he was able to bear far more. It didn’t make it easier. It just made the depths much, much deeper. And that’s just the beginning. Not only did the depths exceed any place within our ability to grasp, but he also had the capacity to free himself from those depths at any given time.

This realization impressed me afresh every time I read scripture and commentary regarding the atonement. But it wasn’t until Thomas’s birth that I developed true awe for this stunning center truth of Christianity: Christ not only voluntarily suffered beyond our puny mortal comprehension, to free us puny mortals, but also sustained his suffering through his own power. As he made his atonement for us, he didn’t merely submit to pain, he enabled it. The circuit could remain open only through his own unflagging will.

I still cry every time I think about Thomas’s delivery. I’m frightened by the memory of pain so keen, despair so thick. And I’m ashamed of my weakness, ashamed that I had, even for a fleeting time, looked for an out.

But the Lord is wise enough to not offer us outs in times of creative, redemptive extremity. No, that’s a torment he reserved only for himself, in Gethsemane and on Calvary, as he labored in sweat and blood to deliver children of God.

Related posts:

1. A Dream and Three Ultrasounds
2. Posts of Christmas Past
3. As A Woman?

To subscribe, please visit our SUBSCRIPTION PAGE.

Related posts:

1. You know you want a free issue.
2. Jackpot!
3. Subscribe To Segullah!

Winner: Out of My Hands by Brandy Tingey

Honorable Mention: Irreverence by Margaret Everton

***

SEGULLAH POETRY CONTEST

Winner: Cousins Taking Chances by Dawn Baker Brimley

Three Miles with Ghandi by Sarah Dunster

Daughter of Joseph by Michaela Stephens

A mother of two very small children remembers her song for the stork by Dayna Patterson

***

Winner: Back North by Sarah Dunster

Segullah has been our peculiar treasure for five years, and we are proud to announce that our fifth anniversary issue, “Inside and Outside Marriage,” has been added to our online archive. In this issue, our authors explore the many facets of marriage — its challenges, trials, and rewards — both from within and without.  This special double-length edition features a collection of personal essays, poetry, feature articles, and, for the first time, short fiction. It’s one of the best issues we’ve ever published. We hope those of you who don’t yet have a print subscription will enjoy reading it.

Enjoy this peculiar treasure for yourself, or share it with someone you love. Gift subscriptions and international mailing are available here.

Related posts:

1. Segullah’s 5th Anniversary Issue
2. Announcing Segullah’s New Short Short Fiction Contest
3. Sound the trumpets!

This isn’t a formal book review—more like a brief and somewhat elusive personal response. Writing a thorough review right now would be tricky, given my shortage of minutes and brain cells in the face of looming holiday chaos. More importantly, I’m not much inclined to intellectually analyze books that mean so much to me. Not everyone will appreciate Harrell’s writing style and philosophical approach, and even those who do might find the collection satisfying yet unremarkable, but for me, this book is special.

I’m not sure I can adequately express why. Maybe because Harrell so skillfully reveals and explores the essential dualities of life without trying to resolve them. Maybe because many of these dualities — the blurry boundaries of good and evil, the vulnerability in human love, the mingled hope and despair of mortality — have long been particular issues of mine, and finding them in Harrell’s sixteen stories was like meeting old friends in a new place. Maybe because this year I’ve grappled with these issues in ways I never expected, and can’t help but love a book that acts as both mirror and window to my experience.

Personal significance aside, this anthology is a gift to readers who enjoy probing the intersection of natural and supernatural, and who strengthen their faith in part by overturning assumptions about how it works. In Harrell’s view, the divine order found on earth is largely inscrutable. Truth is found in contradiction; God’s benevolent hand brings complications. And our tainted mortal desires have frightening power, especially when we try to understand what cannot be understood. As Robert Bird notes in the introduction, “Meaning acquired through metaphysical testing may not be as valuable as the human relationships it might destroy.”

It’s not a flawless book. Some stories feel underdeveloped (and not just because of length), some images are overused (the night sky, the Idaho wind), and some unpredictable elements soon become predictable (the morally ambiguous stranger, for one). And there’s a kind of awkwardness to the collection—the ties between stories are strong enough to suggest interconnection, yet not strong enough to make them parts of a comfortable whole. As the stories gathered in my mind I wanted them to more cleanly fit together or stand alone. Yet such tension only underscores one of the book’s central themes: God doesn’t work in tidy boxes.

My further thoughts are too convoluted to be useful and perhaps too personal to share. This only strengthens my recommendation. But I don’t want to conclude without offering a summation of sorts, so here’s one, from my recent email to the author:

Jack, just finished reading. God is amazing. Life is amazing. Truth is amazing.

Well done, sir.

Want to hear more? Read the publisher’s blurb, a newspaper review and a story excerpt.

Related posts:

1. Bragging
2. You know you want a free issue.
3. Perfect for Mother’s Day: The Mother in Me

It may seem suspect to draw a connection between blogging and Zion. Blogging is often maligned–and sometimes rightfully so–as navel gazing, and in Mormon culture those bare midriffs can seem awfully immodest. To be sure, self-absorption is the antithesis of the Zion we seek as a people. But while Mormon bloggers have their fair share of narcissism, I believe most are motivated by a worthy desire to understand and be understood. And I believe such understanding is a powerful catalyst for building Zion, that longed-for state of spiritual unity where the saints are of one heart and one mind, and have no poor among them.

In my five years of blogging I’ve seen an abundance of meaningful connections forged between fellow saints that would be unlikely or impossible in other contexts, given the geographical limitations, cultural baggage, and social restraints that separate Church members from each other. These valuable connections frequently surface in forthright conversations about the bittersweet lot of being Mormon and being human. On the blogs I’ve seen empathy shared on the most tender of topics, from eating disorders to pornography addiction to crises of identity and faith. Disclosure of personal struggles has traditionally been lacking in Mormon culture, and many among us prefer it that way, yet there is a direct relationship between our level of candor and our level of caring. Of course we must guard against gratuitous emotional exhibitionism, but before we can carry one another’s burdens, we must first share them. As my friend and fellow blogger Tresa Edmunds says, “The first step toward becoming a Zion people is being honest.”

I’m not suggesting that the blogosphere is some kind of Mormon utopia. I’ve made more friends than enemies as a blogger (I think), but the diversity of perspectives online inevitably yields conflict, and that same anonymity which opens space for beneficial sharing also opens space for stark confrontation. When it comes to matters of religious orthodoxy, our behavior on the blogs often mirrors our behavior on the freeways, where we’re tempted to yell at those who drive slower or faster than our own singularly appropriate speed. Even on blogs well-suited to my comfort zones, I find my maturity and goodwill tested on a regular basis—and those are tests I often fail. But the challenges of blogging with charity, or at least with basic human decency, are what make it a valuable tool for spiritual refinement. For me, one reward of blogging is an expanded mind from butting heads with people I’d like to write off as just plain stupid, but who (I begrudgingly admit) actually have a point. Another is an expanded heart from realizing the legitimacy of differing points of view and the basic human respect deserved by all individuals, including that one woman who called me apostate (and that other woman I called apostate). It’s humbling to face opponents on the blogs–and that’s why opponents can be the greatest allies for fallen mortals who desire to be saints.

I could tell myriad stories about how blogging has enriched my life, strengthened my faith, and made me glad to be Mormon, but in the interest of time I’ll share just one. Earlier this year on a popular group blog I moderated a series of posts about Mormons living with clinical depression. In a roundtable discussion posted in several segments, eight bloggers (including myself) shared elements of their personal struggle with mental illness, hoping to offer companionship to fellow sufferers and perspective to other readers. For many participants the ensuing discussions were life-changing—and for a few, perhaps even life-saving. One woman, a former Latter-day Saint, left an unforgettable comment that said, in part:

Thank you to you brave souls who have spoken straight. I have never said anything like this before and I’m frankly afraid to say it, but I felt genuine love for those of you who went through the dark, lonely “hour” that I did. And more than that, you have the integrity to admit it. This post today changed something in me.

Likewise, her comment changed something in me, and convinced me that blogging, while sometimes a frivolous pursuit, can also be a sacred one.

To conclude, I remind us all that the curse of mortality is separation from God, from our true selves, and from each other, and as a result each of us suffer from poverty of heart and spirit. At the same time, our collective wealth of experience and knowledge and compassion as a people is enormous, and the world wide web provides unprecedented means of distributing this wealth. In spite of and because of its challenges, blogging can increase our jointly owned riches of spiritual unity as Latter-day Saints. A virtual church community cannot replace one in real time and space, but it can fortify and hasten our mutual journey toward that Zion where we shall be of one heart and one mind, with no poor among us.

Related posts:

1. Are you bored with blogs?
2. Is Human Art Merely Relying Upon the Arm of Flesh?
3. Segullah, My Mentor

I’ll be participating in two panel discussions at the Mormon Media Studies Symposium on Thursday, November 11 at 10 am and 1 pm. Abstracts for my gigs are below.  Check out other awesome possibilities in the symposium schedule.  See you there!

Panel: “Mormon Media Studies: Across Web Time, Cyberspace, and Blogging Disciplines”

Panel Moderator: Emily W.Jensen: MormonTimes.com Bloggernacle columnist

Abstract: Mormon bloggers will discuss why blogging is a valuable media outlet and illustrate how it promotes conversation. Discussion topics include sharing Church resources, breaking global boundaries, balancing life as blogger/mother, tracking a 25-year-online journey, and encouraging literary talent.

***

Panel: “I Am A Mormon Woman: Female Latter-day Saint Identity On The Internet”

Panel Moderator: Catherine Matthews Pavia: Ph.D., Faculty Associate, English Department, Arizona State University

Abstract: The founders of three LDS women’s online destinations will discuss how personal stories and discussion enhance the sense of community among women in the world-wide church, balanced with a celebration of the diversity of personal choices, background, ethnicity, and age. This panel will also discuss how women’s voices online contribute to the management of the church’s image on social networking and new media sites.

Related posts:

1. Blogging in Zion
2. Constructing Our Own Pink Couch: Segullah and Images of LDS Women
3. Are you bored with blogs?

1. Why does stolen candy taste much better than candy lawfully purchased?

2. What’s you’re preferred method of thievery?
a. Carrying your own bag during trick-or-treating and claiming you have a sick kid/sibling/ niece or nephew back home
b. Imposing an imperial candy tax
c. Direct heist from kids’ candy bags when they’re asleep/at school/otherwise occupied

3. What are your top and bottom 3 candies to filch?

Confess your answers below and you will be absolved. Here are mine:

1. Forbidden fruit
2. All of the above
3. Top: Reeses, Twix, Almond Joy
Bottom: Necco wafers, anything akin to black licorice, fake chocolate

Related posts:

1. C(12) H(22) O(11)
2. Great Expectations
3. A confession.

The Book of Mormon is named for the prophet/historian Mormon.

The prophet/historian Mormon was named for the land of Mormon.

The land of Mormon was named by a malevolent king.

The land of Mormon is where one of the king’s wicked priests became a prophet.

The land of Mormon had a forest-fringed fountain of pure water, called the waters of Mormon.

The waters of Mormon is where said prophet secretly baptized hundreds of believers emerging from apostasy.

So, “Mormon” signifies a place of purity surrounded by danger; a place where a fallen people were removed from evil and filled with grace; a place named by a degenerate man and hallowed by a repentant one.

Sounds just about right.

What does “Mormon” mean to you?

Related posts:

1. Water in the Desert
2. Condemn Me Not Because of Mine Imperfections
3. I’m Trying to Be Like. . .

So, he hung out with us for a few hours, charming us with his oh-so-mature views on life. At one point he turned to me and started singing Depeche Mode’s “Somebody,” which was the song to swoon to in those days. Then he said “Can I speak with you alone for a minute?” All my friends looked at me with drooling envy as I floated off by his side. We walked a ways to a candy store, where I bought some Jelly Bellies. He started feeding them to me. Right after a peppermint one, he kissed me. Zing!!!

At the end of the afternoon, right before our group boarded the school buses, he kissed me again, in front of my entire class. For the first time in my life, I was a celebrity.

But it was all downhill after that. He called me (long distance! It was true love!) that afternoon, but he was shy on the phone and hung up after a minute or so. I never heard from him again. A week later my friend and I went back up to the Harbor to try to find him, to no avail. I was devastated.

Years later I bumped into him at a music festival. He was drunk and looked like crap. I smirked and went on my merry way.

Your turn!

Related posts:

1. Remember
2. Tethered
3. BFF

Unwilling to take the time to unwrap the cupcake, I bit the entire top off immediately. It was a mix cake with canned fudge frosting and crunchy technicolored decorative bits. None of this qualifies as real food, but that was hardly the point. As soon as I swallowed the cupcake top I scraped the bottom part of the cupcake out of the wrapper with my teeth. (We were still walking toward the van and I didn’t want to stop for anything logistical.) Then, unwilling to let the remaining chocolaty goodness go to waste, I stuffed the wrapper in my mouth and chewed it all the way home.

By the time we pulled into our garage all edible material was gone, and I spit the papery wad into the trashcan by the back door, feeling immensely satisfied by my thrift, but wishing for another cupcake.

Anything you’d like to confess?

Related posts:

1. Halloween . . . meh
2. Lunacy
3. Posts of Christmas Past