The other day, I went walking with a friend. I love exercising with other women. You find out the most interesting stuff about them that way.
This woman and I began talking about kids (because that’s what moms like to talk about), and we got on the topic of miscarriage. This woman opened up and shared some painful moments in her life that had to do with pregnancies lost, and although it wasn’t a tearful conversation, I was still moved.
She said, “I feel like I can tell you this, because you understand.”
And I did. She and I have had different experiences, of course, but I did understand. It wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t hard to talk to her about, because I knew where she had been. I had been there, too.
When I had my first miscarriage, I was struck not only with my own grief, but with the idea that thousands of women have felt exactly the same way I did at that moment. It made me cry even harder, which makes no sense at all. Grieving for women I had never met? And yet, I did. Craziness, I know. But only half of that craziness could be chaulked up to hormones. The rest of it was the beginning of something I had only scratched the surface of, the beginnings of what it feels like to know true compassion.
After my third miscarrage, I started a book group. The events were unrelated. I didn’t start it because I had miscarried, I started it because I like to read, and I handpicked women I greatly admired to join me at our first meeting. We quickly bonded, as book group attendees often do, but it soon became apparent that we had something besides reading in common. We got to the point where we called ourselves “The Packet Club”, because almost every single one of us had talked to LDS Services about getting a packet for adoption. All of us had trouble having the families that we wanted. Even the single member, a woman in her 30s who loved children and desperately wanted a family, knew what it felt like to be denied.
I don’t think it was a coincidence. I think this group of women bonded together because we could feel each other’s grief, and we could offer each other true compassion. And that compassion that we shared became a blessing to us all.
I don’t like trials. They are not my favorite thing. To quote a friend of mine, who lost her daughter in a tragic car accident, I want God to be able to teach me things in the least painful way possible. That may make me a wuss. I freely claim that title. I don’t like it when people quote the scripture about all things being for my good, even if it’s true. I cringed when, after my 4th miscarriage, a ward member said, “But aren’t you so glad this is making you a better person?” Would a better person not have felt the need to smack that woman? Possibly. Me, it was all I could not to haul off and pop her one right in the kisser.
But I am touched by compassion, both by the compassion that I feel for people who have gone through what I have, and for the compassion shown to me by others who have gone through far more. I think compassion is one unforeseen blessing of difficult trials. And I think it is truly what makes us Saints.
Do you feel drawn to people that have experienced similar trials? Do you feel that your own trials have blessed you to be more compassionate towards others? Do you feel more comfortable sharing trials with somebody who has had her own fair share?
And if you’re ever in my neighborhood sometime, stop by with your walking shoes. I’m sure we’d have lots to talk about.
Interesting that I should be reading this post while simultaneously discussing continuing fertility testing on IM with my husband.
Trials are a funny thing… there’s always someone worse off than we are. Sometimes I feel guilty for having a hard time not being able to get pregnant because I already have one child, a beautiful, healthy little boy. There are so many women out there who can’t even have one, do I have the right to get sad every month when I find out I’m not pregnant with #2? It is nice to find someone who understands your sorrows. We’ve all got ‘em.
[...] Come and see. [...]
The “I don’t like trials” paragraph was awesome. AMEN!
Yep - we have the right to experience our trials our way. I think that’s related to why we have our particular ones… sharing our trials appropriately helps strengthen both us and those we share them with. It’s eternally brilliant, but SOOOOO painful in the process…
And you *are* a better person for not smacking that woman, LOL… I think my temper would’ve gotten the better of me that time!
Great post, Heather. I always feel drawn to diabetics, although I’ve only had the gestational kind, because I have seen what my mother-in-law suffered. I think it’s possible to have a degree of empathy, even when it’s not your own trial, when you share a trial with someone you are close to. If you pray for and cry with someone through their pain, you own a small piece of it too, even if you haven’t experienced it firsthand.
I am definitely drawn to those with similar trials. Definitely. I also feel that going through some major trials has made me want to be more tuned into others’ trials. When I ask, “How are you?” I really try to listen, because I know how it feels to not be fine, to answer the ritualistic fine anyway, and to actually have someone see past that. (We ought to make it easier for each other to read our minds, imo!)
I once heard a definition of charity: the attitude of an educated heart. In my mind, that comes best through experience.
And I think it’s part of being and becoming Christlike. He bore our griefs, carried our sorrows. Why? “[T]hat his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to csuccor his people according to their infirmities.” (Al. 7:11-12, one of my fave scriptures of all time)
Loved the post, btw. Thanks.
After going through a stillbirth 4 years ago, I am a much more compassionate person. And I felt similar feelings of grief for the millions of others who had endured the same thing as me. Many of whom had to do it without the light of the gospel and eternal families. I can relate to so much of what you have said here.
But I do really think that the Lord teaches us our lessons in the least painful way he can. I felt that impression so very strongly many times as I went through the grieving process. That He was sorry I had to endure the pain, but it was purposeful and it was the least amount of pain and hardship He could give me without losing any of the lessons and growth. I don’t know if that came out right, but the Lord doesn’t want us to hurt, but knows it is unnavoidable if we are to be like him.
And I do feel drawn to people who have experienced the loss of a child, especially a baby, or any loss of pregnancy. It is the club that noone wants to be a part of or asks to join. But fellow members KNOW what I have gone through and have walked the same path, so I do feel a kinship to them.
I want to add that now, four years later, those lessons of compassion and growth have been worth the pain. While I never want to repeat the experience, and sometimes I feel like there is someone missing in our family, I am not sorry I went through it and I like my life the way it is.
Great post Heather. I find I am drawn toward people who are more open about their lives and their struggles. It somehow makes them more real to me. I can almost physically feel my heart opening toward them. Maybe that comes naturally to some people, but I feel like my experiences–especially the hard ones–have helped me do that more.
The best feeling for me comes when I have what seems like a spiritual confirmation that I have been put in someone’s path (or they in mine) because God wants me to love and help them through something I have been through as well.
What a wonderful post. Thank you.
There is a highly intelligent, incredibly humble man in our ward who said something profound in High Priests Group a while ago. He had lost his adult daughter to a freak surgery accident, and she left behind a husband and young daughter. We were talking about things we had learned in life, and he said, very softly with his head bowed:
“I have learned that we draw closest to God in our deepest trials. I just wish I had not had to learn that in the way I learned it.”
Also, I believe we connect with others who share our warts. I believe all of us share warts in some way or another, and I wish we didn’t spend so much time applying the makeup necessary to hide them. If anyone is interested:
http://thingsofmysoul.blogspot.com/2007/10/wonder-of-warts.html
I really love this post, Heather.
Yes, definitely important to share our trials. Thank goodness we are all here. My husband and I are in the middle of our own “trying to start our own family” trial right now and it’s amazing the difference that extra support can make.
I’m a Packet Person! Can I join the club?
I’m a Packet Person too. Only I’ve actually filled out the packet and gotten a child in return, twice.
And I’m filling it out again, hoping for another.
I do feel drawn to people experiencing similar trials. Only I find it hard to know how to go about reaching out when I suspect they’re experiencing infertility, but I don’t know for sure. I remember how much I wanted people to talk to but didn’t know how to open myself up, and I want to reach out to people like that. But it’s hard being on the other end, not knowing for sure if they are having that trial or do want to talk. It reminds that we can’t be helped until we learn to ask for help.
I do feel that my trials have helped me become more compassionate, but unfortunately not the the extent that I’d like. I think I will feel I’ve arrived when I can feel compassion toward people whose trials are the exact opposite of mine. I think that’s true charity, feeling compassion and reaching out to people who are struggling with the very thing you can’t have. I haven’t gotten to that point yet.
I do think we limit ourselves when we focus too much on being reaching out to people like ourselves, because often there are people around us who aren’t like us who need us to reach out too. We might miss those people if we are too focused on compassion within our own circle of experience.
I think I will feel I’ve arrived when I can feel compassion toward people whose trials are the exact opposite of mine.
Good thought. Thanks.
Years ago, In a blessing I received as we just barely scratched the surface of my problems conceiving, I was told that the things I would go through would enable me to reach out to others who experience the same things and lift them. I clung to that in the hard times and have seen it come to fruition. While my issues were realitively minor by comparison, many of my closest friends have had fertility problems- and each time one of us seems to be struggling, there’s always someone else with the right answer, amidst all the insensitivity. What a blessing to find friends with common trials.
I am fairly open about our struggle with infertility, and have been blessed from this openness to meet others struggling with the same problems. I definitely think that this has at times saved my sanity. You can only listen to to someone say, “You just need to relax, then it will happen” or “Just adopt, then you will get pregnant” for so long before you need someone to vent to who understands.
I hope that this is experience is serving to make me more compassionate. Mostly it has made me more aware that people have private hurts and personal heartaches, and even if we can’t see them or even know what they are, we should treat people with compassion. I guess that also means you give the benefit of the doubt to people who make insensitive comments
Mostly they are trying to help the best way they know how.
I will try to remember that.
My husband tenderly drove me to the Shakespearean Festival only three weeks after my brain surgery. There was another woman without any hair their. She and I were the two people there wearing headscarves. We were instantly drawn to each other, and we spent some good time that weekend visiting together.
It’s strange how the events of our lives draw us to ever differing people. I do believe it’s for a purpose. All these things we go through give us a new level of understanding for a new segment of the world. We are given ever more understanding and compassion for increasingly different and varied people. It’s wonderful! (well, and terribly painful, too).
She said, “I feel like I can tell you this, because you understand.”–I have made more than one good friend after reaching out to them after they have miscarried; we are bonded by compassion now. I think the writing and the spirit of the post are beautiful, and I think the larger spirit of the post suggests that our own painful moments help us to be there, to listen, to reach out, and to understand, even when the circumstances differ. I know that my own medically frightening moments, my acquaintance with grief, and the uncertainty that often accompanies have helped me “be there” for a sister going through much worse than I. I am so grateful for that.
This has been touched on a bit already, how do you share your trials? Does that seem silly to ask? Just open up your mouth and share! It’s not that easy.
So you’re having a nice conversation with your VT or HT about the great casserole you made the other day then they casually ask, “How’s it going? Anything we can do for you?” Then you say, “I might have a life threatening illness but the doctors can’t conclusively diagnose it. Meanwhile I’m in pain on a daily basis. Also we hate living here and being closer to family would be wonderful during my illness but in this economy selling a house and moving isn’t an option.” (Sorry to dump- my own personal experiences are the best example I could come up with)
So when having a conversation like this I usually change the subject. Most of the time people want to talk about themselves and I’m happy to listen. There are two reasons I hesitate to share my problems 1-There is nothing the other person can do to help, it just burdens them unnecessarily. 2- I’m worried it will just sound like whining and an endless litany of medical jargon.
jendoop, I find myself in much the same situation, and I agree that’s it’s not exactly easy to bring up in polite conversation. And I’ve found most people really don’t want to know, even if they ask. I usually just keep quiet. My husband teases me for being a martyr, but it’s just easier to say that I’m fine than it is to go into all the details of my strange body.
So, now that I’m not bald anymore, I don’t know how to connect with people who have been through my own personal experiences. I just can’t talk about except to my very closest friends.
I am drawn to moms who have had a child undergo treatment for something life threatening. When Fiona was diagnosed and we were dealing with her two years of chemo, it was amazing how little people actually understood what we were dealing with. I had a RS pres tell me we couldn’t have any service because of all of the moms who were having babies in the ward. Unless she had gone through this, she had no idea. We moved, in the middle of chemo, to a ward that was amazing. We didn’t need anything, but when I warned the compassionate service leader, she said, oh that will be no big deal. This ward has dealt with so much and it practically made me cry knowing they at least understood.
There is something innate in women that we want to feel connected in our lives. In trials as well. The challenge for some is to not quantify another’s trials. If it feels hard for them, it is. Even if it isn’t as bad as anything you’ve been through or not. Stress is stress and the worst kind is the kind you CAN’T talk about. The kind they are not going to have a ward fast for or the kind you feel you need to keep personal for another’s privacy or your own.
Let’s face it…it sucks to be in need! Chronic trials can be the worst because you simply get so weary. Yet this life was designed for that purpose. Often our weaknesses and trials are the way Heavenly Father is helping another of His children to grow or even answering their prayers. Some of my deepest friendships have been formed through my trials and when I very reluctantly let someone in on them.
The kind they are not going to have a ward fast for or the kind you feel you need to keep personal for another’s privacy or your own.
I once asked my bishop to please consider an “In the quiet heart is hidden sorrow that the eye can’t see” fast. He actually responded, and we did it. I plan to do it again. I said that it’s awesome that we can fast for those with visible trials, but there are many, many whose trials are private, and they need our support, prayers and love, too!
But I’m reading other comments and still wondering why we don’t share more. I know it’s normal not to. Is it because we don’t take the time to really listen to each other enough? Because we are afraid of not knowing what to say? Or because people sometimes really are insensitive? Are we afraid of being let down if we do open up (that is something I have felt). I’m working on that, though.
After nearly six years of chronic illness, I have decided I don’t want to do it alone. I don’t want to pretend I’m ok, because sometimes I am really not. And even with other stuff that goes on, sometimes I open up, because I just can’t do it alone. And while I don’t want to swing to the other extreme of being a whiner, I really feel there is value in people being REAL rather than pretending that all is well when it isn’t. I’m not talking being an empty well…just being able to say, “hey, no, I’m not ok, so hey, can I have a hug?” or “This is how ________ has helped me.”
So, for example, I actually make an effort to not just small talk with my VTs. I tell them that it’s hard having illness. It’s hard not being able to go to my ward right now because it’s too early for me. It’s hard to feel different.
I figure that they are there to help, and yet, they need me to help them help me. That doesn’t mean they always rise to the occasion, but at least the door has been opened to be able to TALK about my life, in real terms, not just about the weather and casseroles, or even about the gospel in the abstract.
I mean, if we can’t talk about out trials — let others know when we are mourning and in need of comfort — isn’t that in way just keeping the gospel in the abstract?
I realize our culture isn’t fully there yet. But I think it takes both those who are willing to really listen and those who are willing to really share for that to change. We all have to be willing to risk — both in sharing and being vulnerable, and in trying to reach out, even though we realize we will probably goof along the way as we try to learn to be more sensitive.
(Sorry. I’m in one of those modes where I just don’t want to be alone with my hard stuff, and don’t want to be alone in asking for help!!!)
Holy cow. That was long. Ugh. Sorry. I guess I am using y’all as my shoulder tonite.
My German background tells me it’s important to be real (don’t ask an old German lady “Wie geht’s?” unless you REALLY want to know) I have found that sometimes you can’t share your burden, or at least have to be very careful who you share it with. Sometimes sharing your burden does more damage to those around you than it helps you cope. In times such as these, there is only one person you can rely on, and that is the Savior. Without a deep friendship with Him, there truly is no where to go.
Also, as one who is overly emotional, I always run the risk of overpowering the people who want to help me. Again, I don’t think there is a real way to share that.
What I have found, though, is that suffering my own trials opens me not only to understanding others with my specific problem, but to the entire panoply of human suffering. Knowing that my particular trials would be no trial to others gives me the ability to understand the emotion of things I otherwise would not understand. In this way, it is truly a blessing.
I hope that wasn’t too unintelligible. Too few nights with sleep, I’m afraid.
I very much seek out others who have traveled similar paths as I. There is a comfort in it.
This was a great, read.
Thank you.
Thank you all for the great responses to my question.
In the end it seems the best way to share is with those you already have a strong relationship with. That way you know there will be respect and love on both sides. And after you share to hold off on any expectation of help. It might sound pessimistic but if you expect nothing whatever you do get will be a bonus.
Silver Rain, I really appreciate the sentiment of always relying on our relationship with the Savior but there are days that I’m just angry at God for the whole situation. I don’t feel his love and concern, I feel abandoned. Those are the days it would be helpful to open up and have someone lovingly respond and remind me that He does care. I need someone else to hold my hand until I can reach out to him.
Silver Rain, I really appreciate the sentiment of always relying on our relationship with the Savior
And sometimes you just need a mortal, tangible hug and actual words that you can hear with mortal ears.
I don’t disagree that ultimately we have to rely on the Savior, but even He told us to reach out to each other; it’s part of the covenants we make.
I have observed that many times your bond with people has much to do with your reactions to your trials/ situations.
For various reasons we chose to pursue adoption rather than assisted reproduction. I don’t have personal experience dealing with IVF etc. which oftentimes leaves me on the outside of the “infertility group” because of misconceptions that I “can’t possibly understand the loss” or “didn’t want to be a mother badly enough to try to have one of ‘my own’”. While I am at peace with my choices, many cannot comprehend them.
Conversely, I often speak with a woman in my community that has adopted several children who have ended up with severe behavioral/emotional problems (as does one of my children). It is simply refreshing for us to reassure ourselves that although most of the world doesn’t have a clue, there is one person out there that understands and is not being judgmental of our parenting and can understand the vast love it takes to send a child away for treatment and not be judgmental about the shear relief that comes from it.
I think that many times people do not voice their trials because they don’t want to be seen as murmurers. We all hear of those who have experienced the greatest trials and have never complained, so we feel that when we speak up, we are weak. There are also many burdens and trials that are not visible. For instance, my child is an angel in public/church, but no one sees the forged checks, stolen jewelry, or the knife left blade side up in my coat sleeve.
I admit that because of the load I am currently carrying, I am not always as open as I could be. I often greet people with “pleasure to meet/see you” rather than “how are you?”. I’m still in the baby step stages of losing myself in others to find myself. Sometimes all I have to offer is a sincere prayer.
I am most often a lurker here. This is a very insightful post, including the comments.
I am learning not to expect others to be able to read my mind. If I need help or need to talk through problems to clear my perspective, I need to be willing to open up to others. It helps if I know they understand to some degree what I’m going through. However, it doesn’t have to be the exact same challenge or burden - as patience, faith, and endurance are learned through a variety of experiences. These attributes and experiences help us find understanding and compassion for others.
I also no longer respond with “fine” unless I really am fine! My usual response is “I’ve been better - but I’ve also been worse.” If someone is only looking for the courtesy “fine” response, we can joke about “isn’t that the truth” and move on. But others will stop and ask questions, talk and take time to find out whether I’m on the “better or worse” end of that sentiment.
I have discovered there are an awful lot of people out there who have been better and worse, but just need a chance to know someone cares enough to listen to them as they deal with the struggle to continue to endure well enough for now.
Thanks, Heather and commenters, for the opportunity to consider whether I have become a bit too nonchalant and complacent in my compassion, and in listening to and noticing the needs of others.