My arms are full

Her name is Aurelia. Isn't that a pretty name? She goes by Rel. Sometimes I sit a couple of rows behind her in church. On my first Sunday back after the baby was born, I noticed Rel sitting alone. And I didn't make it through the hymn we were singing because I got all weepy.

She just looked so frail.

A month before Lillian was born, Rel's husband, Dick, died of cancer. It came on quickly and took him just as fast. Six weeks, maybe, from diagnosis to his passing. He and Rel had a classic love story. In fact, the picture of them on his funeral program looked like any young couple just starting out in their life together: young and attractive, you can see from the picture how much she loves him.

Rel and Dick were in their 70s when Dick's cancer struck. Ironically, of the two, she's always been the frail one, and Dick has always taken care of her. So, as I saw her, sitting there alone, hands shaking, I couldn't hold back my tears.

I like to think they were tears of empathy. Thankfully, I haven't yet lost anyone close to me in unexpected ways, so it's not that kind of empathy. What I felt was far simpler. I've just sat alone in church before; actually, for more years than I ever imagined I would. Now that Trent's always beside me, I find that I still relish every time he puts his arm around me as we sit together. And in the moments that I watched her while we sang the hymn, I could feel that Rel missed Dick. She needed him there to sit by her, and he was no longer there.

It made me think of the burdens each of us carry, and how there are times in our lives when our burdens are fulness, and other times our burdens are of emptiness.

Sometimes our arms are so full of things that we're carrying that they feel weighed down and burdened. I've watched women at church who have 3, 4, 5, even 7 children, and I wonder, "what time did she wake up this morning to get everyone dressed and out the door for 9 a.m. church?" I've seen the weariness in friends' and family members' eyes as they tell me of walking the floor with a sick baby or how they've had to care for a handicapped sibling or parent. I've seen others whose schedules are packed to over flowing and they long for just a moment to breathe. They're hurried and harried and haggled and heavy...and yet, their arms are full.

Just this morning, as I was getting ready with Lillian, and she freaked out when I put her in the car seat...freaked out so much that I had to stop everything and listen to that mother voice, the one that says, "stop. Slow down. Hold that baby close to you." I took her out of her car seat, I fed her, I changed her, I cleaned up the spit up on my shoulder, I put her back in the car seat and we made it to church 30 minutes late. It was stressful and hard, but it was a burden of fullness. It wasn't too bad.

I remember too well the times in my life when my arms have been empty that the weight--or lack thereof--feels so much greater. I think of the times when I want to serve but haven't been able to find the opportunity, or when I've wanted to love but haven't had the outlet, or when I've sought to share, only to find that my contribution wasn't needed...just yet. My faith is most sorely tested when my arms ache with emptiness and the heavens have whispered that it's my turn to wait...just a little longer.

One of my dearest friends in all the world just finished her third round of fertility treatments. It was a no go. She's got three boys already, but her heart aches for just one more. One more baby--maybe this time a girl--that she could hold in her arms, just one more time. It's difficult to compare burdens, I know, but we both fought the urge to shake our fists at the heavens when another friend of ours got pregnant--with twins--her 7th and 8th child. She said to us, "you know, I just prayed and Heavenly Father told me there was room in my heart for one more child, and now we're getting two more!" My friend couldn't help but wonder why, since there's also room in her heart for one more child, her prayer was answered differently.

That's just one example. There's countless others. People who want children, but cannot; those who want to be married, but are not; those whose tendencies and life difficulties have left them feeling alone and overwhelmed. Arms that are empty, aching to be filled, sometimes carry the heaviest burdens of all.

Why do these things happen? Once again, I don't have answers to these difficult dilemmas. It seems that life cycles in patterns of emptiness and fulness. It is the fate for us all, the inevitable result of life. As for me, I hope I have a greater empathy because of the life experience I've been blessed to have. In any case, it's given me the absolute assurance that God is there, and aware, whether our burdens are of fulness or emptiness, and in some moments His comfort is the only means of lifting the weight or filling the ache.

I hugged Rel today. I told her about Lillian's latest adventures. We chatted about the lunch group that meets on Tuesdays. She said they have a lovely time together.

And on we go.