A Living Sacrifice
I SHIFTED MY WEIGHT on the pew and sighed as the sacrament meeting speaker stood to begin his talk. Seven months pregnant, I was swollen and sore, big-bellied, and exhausted from the constant demands of my five young children who were crawling on and off my nearly nonexistent lap, whispering (or not) in my ear, and requesting backrubs and water breaks. I wasn’t sure I could last the remaining fifteen minutes of the meeting, let alone the final months of the pregnancy.
I nearly let out an audible groan when the speaker launched into his topic: pioneers. The last thing I wanted to hear was heroic tales of handcarts and amputations; of babies born in wagons, then buried trailside days later; of mothers who kept walking resolutely to Zion no matter what they had to leave behind. I could barely drag myself from my living room to my kitchen.
I closed my eyes and drifted into half sleep as the speaker droned on, only to be jolted upright by my toddler’s stray elbow jamming into my abdomen. The baby inside began to kick in response, pummeling my bladder and ribs as he somersaulted in his watery nest. I bit my lip trying not to cry or scream, as waves of frustration broke over me. It’s too much, I thought. All these kids. Whining and poking and pushing and wanting and needing, their words and hands and feet chipping away at me from without and within. I can’t stand this one more day, one more hour.
It’s horribly cliché to claim that at that very moment, the speaker said the very words I needed to hear. But that’s exactly what happened. He was reading the story of the Sweetwater crossing, the day that grown men and women sat down and cried on the banks of the half-frozen river because their strength was utterly spent, the day that three young men carried dozens of people through the chunks of ice and onto the continuing path west that waited on the opposite bank. And as those words penetrated the hazy fatigue that enveloped me, the Spirit spoke. Not with words, but with a deep impression that I roughly translate here: “Your sacrifice is like unto theirs.” And I sensed within myself the chasm that separates the premortal spirit world from the earth, and how there were spirits waiting on that bank needing to cross to the other side. And how I was carrying them, one at a time, to the opposite bank, so that they could continue along the path to Zion.
Paul’s words sprang to my mind, words that had burned into me years before at the start of my fourth pregnancy, when I was wondering how I would ever manage another baby.
“I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service” (Romans 12:1).
Present your body as a living sacrifice. Sacrifice: the word comes from the Latin sancire, meaning “to makesacred.” That’s exactly what I was doing: offering my very flesh and blood to God, to meet His purposes, to fulfill the desires for children He had planted within me. All the pain and discomfort and difficulty, I suddenly understood, was having a sanctifying effect. It sure doesn’t seem that way, I thought as I shifted my ample weight on the pew and rearranged the various limbs of my children. I didn’t feel sacred; I felt bloated, achy, irritable—even desperate. And this little burst of revelation did nothing to ease my physical and emotional distress. But even so, I knew it was true: as a result of my bodily sacrifice, I was becoming more holy.
In the months and weeks that followed, I returned to this thought again and again, each time gaining deeper awareness of the significance of my labors. By using my body’s capabilities to build up the kingdom of God, I was consecrating myself, my time and energy and desire, in the most tangible, intimate way imaginable. The awareness didn’t take away the sciatic pain or the killer heartburn or the bone-deep fatigue. But when the baby was born, I was keenly aware that I had ushered him across the gulf that only a woman could navigate. My husband quipped, just as he had at the end of each of my childbirths, that he was glad he wasn’t a woman. But I was glad—so glad.
And then, a year later, I had a miscarriage.
It was my first. Amazingly, I had completed six pregnancies without such incident, but my number was finally up. I was only six weeks along when the spotting began, followed by heavy bleeding, and finally, the passing of the tiny forming body. Afterward I grappled with many difficult feelings—grief, anger, longing. Sure, I had only been pregnant for a few weeks, but I had already invested great physical, emotional, and spiritual energy in this new life. And for what? Some women receive revelation that the life lost will be resurrected, that the forming child will be part of her eternal family. But I had received no such reassurance. I felt like the whole experience was a bitter waste.
A few weeks later, I spoke with a close friend of mine who had just suffered her second miscarriage. I confided my sense of emptiness and futility. But as I continued to speak, I heard surprising words coming from my mouth. “It wasn’t a waste,” I said. “It wasn’t a waste.” I wasn’t quite sure what I meant. I did not feel any more certain than I had before that the partially formed body I had passed would someday live again. Nor was I referring to the personal gain of knowledge and experience that comes from our trials. Rather, I knew that somehow, my loss counted. God knew what had happened, and He grieved with me. And in some inexplicable way, my loss would contribute to His work and His glory, as well as my personal holiness.
I felt better after that, even though it still took more time to recover, both physically and emotionally. But it was easier to accept my loss with the assurance that it hadn’t been in vain. I became convinced that when women offer their bodies as vehicles for new life, they are consecrating themselves to God’s purposes, and God honors this offering, whether or not it results in live birth. I sensed that this is especially true when we offer ourselves consciously, purposefully, to God. And I began to think about how this is true for women in a variety of circumstances: women who try and try, but are unable to conceive; women who subject themselves to the rigors of adopting a child; women who remain single in this lifetime, who must forego maternity as well as intimacy on a number of levels.
I came to this conclusion: Every faithful Latter-day Saint woman consecrates her body as a living sacrifice. Whether our particular burden is fullness or emptiness, each of us is pushing forward against the river current of the world with our eyes on the kingdom of God.
Hoping to increase awareness of these sacrifices, I asked readers of Segullah’s blog to comment on the challenges and blessings of body-centered consecration in a variety of situations. I thank each participant for sharing her insight and experience.
Childbirth and Breastfeeding
Birth was the most physically demanding experience I had yet felt. But immediately following the delivery, my body was still needed! I couldn’t turn away from the tiny mouth whose lips pursed, smacked, and reached in search of my breast—a tiny mouth who had such a strong suck that she wore away all the skin on my nipples over the next few weeks. Just when my body didn’t want to and seemed to not be able to give one more ounce of anything, the most demanding job in the world stepped up and took even more.
It has been an amazing thing for me to reflect on nursing and the demands it makes on a mother. I feel like I’ve really started to pay more attention to the Savior and His physical, mortal consecration. I have also learned, through the new marks and changes my body has, that consecration brings a new, fuller type of love and joy that I could not have felt otherwise. I look at my daughter and understand that as much as I love her, which to me seems to fill the universe, it is probably only a tiny portion of what God has felt for us, given what He has consecrated for us.
—Kristen
Today at breakfast we ran out of orange juice. I gave what we had left to the rest of the family, and I shorted myself. Women everywhere make similar small sacrifices every day, without even really thinking about them. We short ourselves sleep, food, personal time, and material items. We sacrifice emotionally as we give our hearts in love and service. There is a cost in the cumulative effect of years of sacrifice that might not seem apparent after a single sleepless night or the first sandwich made from the heel of the loaf of bread. I started to feel that cost after carrying and birthing and nursing five children. I felt empty. I wondered what else I possibly had to give. But I am beginning to see this season of emptiness as a tremendous blessing, because I have had to turn totally to the power of the Atonement. This is where my own efforts at sacrifice and service intersect the sanctifying power of Christ and gain real meaning and power.
—Angie
Living Single
I have learned to negotiate being single and finding fulfillment and contentment, and I can fill my hours with very important activity and success. I cling to testimony and the Atonement and the companionship of the Holy Ghost, and I’m immeasurably grateful for dear, close friends. I’ve learned to stretch my body in yoga and running, and I enjoy the physical sensation of blood racing through my veins and muscles flexing to their utmost. But I sense a great need for intimacy. I yearn for the connection, the human tie, the sharing of existence. I’m learning to love my body, to take good care of it, to water and feed and rest it and to use it well, rather than to question and worry and fear it. I need to also remember to reach out and touch others, to hug and pat and remind.
—Jenny
I find that I must go month after month without touch of any kind, except perhaps a single handshake once in three or four weeks. I accepted a calling not long ago, not because I particularly believed that the calling was appropriate, but because I knew I would be set apart and I could feel someone’s hands on my head for a few moments. I miss my mother, who has been gone seven years this month. The last time I had a hug, it was from her. I wonder sometimes if I will ever get another hug in all the rest of my years.
The problem isn’t that people avoid touching me, or that I pull away from touch. It’s just that there is no opportunity for touch—it just doesn’t come up, ever. Without my cat, I wouldn’t have any regular opportunity for touching a living creature. I would lose my mind without that little animal.
—Evelyn
Pregnancy Loss
When I hear of someone suffering with pregnancy loss at any stage, something inside me wails for them. When I know someone who has a premature baby, I pray and actually plead for their baby to come out healthy.
I have three children. Before they were born, I lost three babies. With two of these babies, I was between four and five months along in the pregnancies and one of the babies lived for five minutes. I buried two sons in the cemetery before I had any children at home. I also experienced an early miscarriage around nine weeks between those first baby boys born too early to survive.
I felt incompetent as a mother, as a woman, and as a daughter of Eve. The term “incompetent cervix” thatlabeled one of the causes for my miscarriages was no help in this matter. I was reclusive and depressed. I became absolutely determined to have babies no matter what. Babies that survived. The journey was hard and required more than doctors thought possible. But I did it. And I recognize the complete miracle of it all.
The necessary inconvenience of bed rest and surgery and other restrictions that my pregnancies require doesn’t even come close to comparing to the absolute emotional hell of burying a child. During pregnancy, my body becomes something different. It becomes a house, creating someone else. It is something I willingly give.
—Rynell
Out of ten pregnancies, four have been miscarriages. Two of those were before I’d had any live births, so they were especially traumatic because I feared that perhaps I’d never be able to carry a child to term. That experience has given me much empathy for those who struggle with infertility, the sorrow and bewilderment of a promise unkept. I watched friends and family struggle with what to say to me, but determined that any offense was more than swallowed up in the knowledge that I knew they loved me.
I’ve found that people assume that my prolific fertility and healthy children mean that I haven’t experienced loss or pain with regards to childbearing. I suppose I could consider it consecration that my experience with miscarriage compels me to seek out and offer sympathy to those who have suffered it, to be a listening ear and a validator of their mourning and loss.
—Nichole
Infertility
My husband and I were married for five years before we were able to conceive via IVF/ICSI. Our baby girl is a literal/tangible miracle and I would love to give her a brother or sister, but I know this is most likely impossible (we’ve tried IVF and three frozen transfers since her birth to no avail).
The perspective infertility has given me is this: hold your babies tight. It’s difficult for me to hear parents complain about their children, or to see them take them (or getting pregnant) for granted. It’s especially hard for me to see women who have no desire to have more children keep having them, or to see all the children who are abused or in foster care. Sometimes that makes me wonder about Heavenly Father’s plan, because here we are, two temple-worthy parents who are desperate for more children and we can’t have them. But then again, I just need to have faith and know that the Lord has a perfect plan for all of His children and He loves us completely, and we are given trials to give us experience.
—Tina
I experienced secondary infertility. My first two children came so easy that I took the blessing of procreation completely for granted. My third child came after five years of trying, two miscarriages, eight or nine artificial inseminations, two IVFs, dozens of fertility drugs, including shots for months on end.
My biggest struggle with infertility was what it did to my self-esteem. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t get pregnant? Was it my diet, my weight, my lifestyle, my testimony, my ability to live the covenants I made? Was I worthy enough, thin enough, drinking too much Diet Coke? My infertility was “unexplained” and therefore completely out of my control. It was so difficult for me to finally acknowledge that I wasn’t in charge–that I could do everything I knew, seek every treatment, see several specialists, and I still could not control my ability to get pregnant. Turning the whole matter over to the Lord was extremely difficult for me and a true test of my faith.
—Jill
Adoption
We have tried adopting, and have had three failed adoptions (two failed and one fraud, actually). The fraud has left us hesitant to jump on the adoption bandwagon again, so we are now regrouping to see what to do next. Somebody once told me that trying to adopt has the same emotional upheavals as pregnancy does. I have also heard that a failed adoption feels like a miscarriage. If these are true, it means I’ve felt pregnant for five years and have had the emotional equivalent of three miscarriages!
I wish I could say this trial has made me a stronger person. I do not feel stronger for it yet. I think that will come—is coming—as I turn to the Lord with greater consistency. I think I have become more patient with people, more able to recognize others’ good intentions and, in turn, curb my own emotional responses. I hope I am learning to count my blessings and live in the moment, rather than pining away after the one big blessing I long for. With the future still feeling a bit unknown, I am grateful to be feeling an increase of trust in the Lord’s timing lately—a “tender mercy” for certain. Fairly recently I have begun to see on a deeper level how completely and utterly dependent I am on the Lord for strength, support, courage, perspective, etc., and how I truly cannot afford to neglect my relationship with Deity. I see more than ever that I really CAN’T do this without His help. I suspect this is the most important lesson of all.
—Wendy
There is nothing easy about adoption or birthing a child you intend to parent. However, consider this: you carried the physical burdens of a child for nine months. I would gladly endure nine months of anything to make my children and myself feel and know the permanence and “ease” of being raised by biological parents. That will stay with us all for a lifetime.
—Fredericka
We adopted our daughter, Hong Mei, on Mother’s Day of 2007 in the People’s Republic of China. We are the proud parents of four biological children and one adopted daughter. Having had biological children and now an adopted child I can witness that I had the same feelings while “paper pregnant” for my adopted daughter as for my biological children.
I can honestly say that toddler adoption is not for wimps. We had a difficult first month. In the three months since our “Gotcha Day” we cannot believe the progress she has made. She is happy, loving, bright, energetic, funny, and a wonderful daughter and sister. She has blessed the lives of our other children. My other kids are well aware of the great blessing of family. They understand that not all children have parents, food to eat, or warm beds to sleep in. For them they know that they are truly blessed. She is loved by her family, and she tells us that she loves us as well. We are so thankful to God for giving us the miracle of this child.
—JA Benson
