Our friends buried their three year-old daughter today. The sky was so blue. I could barely breathe.
Our bishop sobbed at the pulpit on Sunday and explained the accident. And there I was, quiet in my chair, thinking no matter how awkward I feel in a crowd, these people are an extension of my family.
I have thought a thousand times this week how unfair this is; how heavy and impossible and wrong. And how surreal it is to be fine; to be pouring cereal for my boys, making their beds, bathing them, lying on the grass in the evening sun, hearing them swoosh and wrestle and laugh. If I don't know why God allows things to happen and prevents others from not, or why he answers some prayers and seemingly doesn't hear others, I know that the love I have for my family is unwavering. If I question if we go elsewhere beyond the grave, it's this love that tells me otherwise. It's fierce and it physically burns in my chest. I lean into it. I rely on it. It holds me up and exhausts me. It gives me purpose. And so, I believe.
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