Week after week, especially these hormonally-imbalanced postpartum ones, I try to put on a happy face and pretend that everything is peachy keen.  And perhaps that is truly the best course of action. Perhaps that’s what I’m supposed to do. Maybe that’s my role at this stage and in this season of life.

And yet, there’s a dark corner of my soul that yearns to be heard . . . to whisper the truth:

 . . . . Sundays are really hard for me . . . . 

WHEW!  There, I said it. Perhaps a bolt of lightening will strike me dead when I walk outside later today, but for now, I feel an eensy weensy bit better.

Don’t get me wrong.  I live an absolutely charmed life.  I have an amazing husband who, above all, truly strives to do the right thing ALWAYS.  I have healthy children who bless my life in ways that I never could have imagined.

But the ugly reality is that Sundays are lonely, exhausting days for me.  And I’m probably the only person in the whole church to feel like that, which makes me feel even worse.

And even as I type, portions of a recent email from my dad flicker across my mind and sting my conscience:

“God bless you to continually rejoice in the blessing of children, of a husband who knows how to work and how to worthily serve in The Kingdom.  In your moments of wishing Bryan didn’t have to be away for this or that, think of Sister Monson or remember Sister Hinckey, or Emma.  You are in wonderful company when you stand alongside of them.  God will continue to make you equal to every challenge.”

“… I have learned, in whatsoever state I am , therewith to be content.” (Philipplians 4:11)
 
“…And having food and raiment let us therewith be content.”  (1 Timothy 6:8)
 
“…be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”  (Hebrews 13:5)

And so, I pull the pity party hat from my mop of matted, two-tone hair and garner the courage to climb the stairs and get myself & the bambinos ready for church.  Even though there are many Sundays that it means just going through the motions,  I hope and pray that my meager offerings of child-like faith and simple obedience are enough, because that’s all I have to give at the moment.

A sweet email message from my Dad–Birthday gifts just don’t get any sweeter than this.

Dear Lori,
 

I have not forgotten the feelings of my heart when I first saw you and cuddled you in my arms– and walked you around University Village on a cold fall day– and  watched you walk from the car up the sidewalk to your first day of school— and watched as you drove with the DMB officer out of the parking lot— nor have I forgotten your faithfulness through those difficult high school and college years; your heartaches have been my heartaches; your successes my successes. 

    
I am so very proud of you, your accomplishments, your steady course towards a fulness of the Father’s blessings in company with Bryan and your children. Be assured, all the trials and tribulations, the joys and sorrows through which you have passed or may be called upon to pass are but a preparation for the glories of a Celestial life, for it is written, “eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath preared for them that love him.”

 
Hold on to that great hope; keep that ideal always in your heart. 
 
And so to you, my firstborn in the wilderness, I send all my love on your 38th birthday.
 
Dad

I seem to have lost my right arm, and I want it back!  It’s the appendage that helps Vivi brush her teeth, that comforts baby Tad as I try to make dinner, and that gives me hugs of unconditional love at the end of a long day.

I’m amazed at how much I miss my little 8-year-old when she is away, spending a few days with her UT Dad. Yes, I miss her help.  But, I especially miss the sweet spirit that she brings to our home.

Hurry home, Ariana!  WE LOVE YOU & WE NEED YOU!