 Hello, wherever in the world it is that you are. We're grateful to gather virtually with you here today, particularly on September 11th, as has already been mentioned, and this tender day when America pauses to once again reflect on the great price of freedom that has been paid in this generation, which of course reminds us of the price of freedom that has been paid for many generations. Like Brother Clausen mentioned, I am Jenny Taylor. My husband and I have seven children. We met on a blind date in college and proceeded to chase our dreams to follow what we thought life would hold for us. And just like most of you, I'm sure, have found in your own life, life very rarely holds what you think it has in store for you. And there have been twists, and there have been turns, there have been ups, and there have been downs. But through it all, we've been able to rely on our faith and our Savior, Jesus Christ, and also our commitment to this great country, to the cause of freedom everywhere, not just here in America, but around the world. It's what motivated my husband and his service, and it's what continues to motivate me after his loss. So today I've been asked to speak a little bit about ministering to those who have lost a loved one. I plan to do so by sharing a little of my own story, story of my family, and also drawing on some of the experiences I have had in the last couple of years as I feel the Holy Ghost has been guiding me to know how to not only give, but receive help in times of need. It all began on the Provo campus of Brigham Young University. We hardly had much of anything at all in common, except for the fact that we were all incoming freshmen at BYU, and we were all on the waiting list for on-campus housing. You could easily claim that it was only by mere circumstance that we ended up being roommates. But 22 years later, I promise you that all five of us would tell you it was anything but a coincidence that brought us together. We all made it through all four years of the university. We all graduated with our bachelor's degrees. Some of us went on to get master's degrees. Some of us went on to serve full-time church missions. Each of us got married. And between us, we have a dozen and a half children. In fact, these roommates of mine were instrumental in helping me meet my husband on that blind date when we were college students. The five of us have stayed in touch throughout the years. Even though life has taken us in different directions, we've helped each other face those ups and downs when life hasn't gone the way we thought it would. And so it seemed only fitting for us to plan a reunion when we reached 20 years after that freshman year of 1998 that first brought us all together. So here we were, the fall of 2018, trying to find a date and a time that would work for us to leave our 16 combined children, drive from our homes, and meet together to get caught up and reminisce about the good old days at the Y. I had seven children. My baby wasn't even one. My oldest was not even a teenager. There was a lot of work to do at home in our garden. I was always behind on housework. And it really just felt like more work than it was worth to try to leave overnight. But my mom and my mother-in-law could see how I needed a break. And so they offered to watch the children and really encouraged me to go to this reunion with my college roommates. It was Friday, November 2, 2018. I hurriedly cleaned the house all day long, then attended my eighth grade daughter's debate competition at her junior high. I got all the kids home and settled with grandma. And then I caught a public transportation train from near my home in North Ogden, Utah to near BYU's campus down in Provo. I had about an hour and a half's ride. And I spent that time writing in my journal and reflecting. 2018 had been a really difficult year. A lot of things had gone wrong, a lot of things had been very hard, and the world for me felt upside down. I feel like a lot of people now feel the same way in 2020 as we battle the coronavirus and the pandemic and how everything seems to be on its head. But maybe I got a little bit of a head start because that's how I already felt two years ago. It had been an exhausting 10 months of that fourth deployment my husband was on. And so I enjoyed a little peace and quiet on that train ride. I had my journal, I had my pen, I had my thoughts. And I was really looking forward to having a few hours with my girlfriends. I met up with my roommates too late for dinner, but just in time for dessert. After we finished our ice cream, we headed to the rental condo we had secured for the night. One of my roommates had even brought balloons and BYU blew donuts to celebrate. We stayed up talking way too late. And I actually went to bed feeling a little bit guilty because anytime it had my turn to talk as we got caught up, I kind of only complained. I talked about how hard it was to have my husband deployed, how tired I was, however well I felt. Our home had had a plumbing problem that had completely gutted the house. We had to find temporary housing for seven months and I just couldn't keep my head above water. The young baby was still nursing in all the demands of a newborn, but I also had the 246-810-12 year olds to take care of as well. I just kept telling my roommates how grateful I was. This deployment was almost over. It was almost over. It was November. The holidays always go very quickly. January was around the corner and we'd reached the end of this one year deployment. The last thing I said to my roommates before I went to bed that night was that I was so grateful my husband was almost coming home because there was absolutely no way I could do another day without him. I woke up early the next morning, which is kind of irritating when you're a mom of seven kids and away for the night. The last thing you want to do is wake up early. I lay there in that rented bed thinking, oh, I could have slept in. I had a choice to make and I realized it in the moment. I could roll back over and fitfully try to fall back asleep. Or I could take advantage of the peace and quiet, get out of my bed, pull my scriptures and journal back out and once again try to clear my head and gear myself up for these last few months of this deployment. So I got up. I rolled out of that bed. I fell to my knees and said my prayers and then got out my scriptures and my journal. I felt a lot of clarity, clarity I hadn't felt in that whole first 10 months of running through that deployment. Peace and stillness. I felt the spirit of the Lord with me and guiding me and preparing me that we can do this. We can get through these next few weeks and months. And my phone rang. I looked at the phone and it was my mom calling, which made absolutely no sense. My mom was the one who had insisted I leave the kids and go get away for a minute. She knew I needed a break. She promised me she'd take care of everything. Oh, don't worry about it. She said with an exasperated sigh, I wondered which of my boys had broken their arm or who might have caught the kitchen on fire back at home. Because why else would my mom be calling first thing in the morning? Nothing could have prepared me for the words she said next. Jenny, she said, wherever you are, you'd better drop to your knees. There's two army officers here and they say they need to talk to you about something. My knees and my stomach simultaneously hit the floor as my body began to go into shock. Of course the officers wouldn't and couldn't say anything over the phone. And so we agreed that they would begin traveling south from my home and I would begin traveling north from Provo so that we could meet somewhere in the middle. We decided upon the headquarters building of the Utah National Guard. I hung up the phone, found the one roommate who was also awake and said to her quite bluntly, Brent might be dead, I need a ride. And with that, my college roommate of 20 years and I loaded up in her minivan for the beginning of what can quite reasonably be described as the most unexpected journey of my life. That was almost two years ago. Almost two years ago that I received the official army notification team and the news that my husband, Major Brent Russell Taylor, had been killed in action while on a ruck march in Afghanistan. This man had survived four deployments to the Middle East and they killed him on a hike on a Saturday morning. The journey of the survivor is an ongoing one. There is absolutely no one-size-fits-all approach and people are never done grieving. Words like closure and moving on have no proper place in discussions about losing a loved one and asking, how are you? With just the right amount of sugar in your voice and tilt in your head, isn't likely to yield very honest results. I'm not a professional counselor or grief specialist and I certainly don't claim to speak for everyone who's ever lost anyone. But today I have been asked to share with you a little of my own grief journey and what has been done or said by those who have genuinely sought to minister to me and my family during our time of loss. Let's talk about what happened, what helped and what didn't help. Maybe on another occasion we'll have the opportunity to talk about the many lessons I've learned about receiving help. Let's look for a moment at what took place in the first two hours, two days, two weeks, two months that have somehow now brought me to be on the cusp of finishing the first two years without my husband by my side. By the end of that first two hours I had sat down with that notification team. We had received word that my husband's parents' notification team had found and notified them. We were trying to track down his siblings including five brothers who are also members of the National Guard in different states. We made plans for what we needed to do next. I think I signed some papers and all I really remember was pacing a room and suddenly realizing I hadn't eaten anything that morning. My strength began to fail and I asked for something to eat or at least some juice to drink. A number of soldiers in that National Guard building scrambled around trying to find something to give me and they brought me a juice box. The kind with a little straw on the back that you poke through the hole. I remember drinking it almost desperately knowing my body needed some kind of sugar to at least stay on my feet and the irony hit me as I was sipping through that straw while simultaneously drinking from a fire hose. By the end of that first two hours I was back in a car that was not my own back on the road with that notification team to go tell my seven young children that their father would never be coming home. By the end of the first two days I was on my way to Dover Air Base where I would receive the remains of my husband back onto American soil and the country he loved so dearly. We were on the ground less than 36 hours and the sun never shone once while we were there. We arrived when it was dark. We left when it was dark. The fog was thick and heavy when my husband's body arrived in the middle of the night. By the end of the first two weeks we had made it through the viewing and the funeral service for my husband. I sat at his graveside and watched my mother-in-law and all seven of my children received a folded American flag shortly after I received the one that had been folded from being on top of my husband's casket. By the end of the first two months we had faced our first round of firsts the first holidays, the first birthdays, the first memories, the first moments that all come with such a heavy weight after losing someone. In our first two months we hit Thanksgiving and Christmas and also the first birthday of our youngest baby girl. Now somehow we're still standing and we've made it to the point of almost exactly two years. The kids are all two years older and two years taller. Sometimes when it seems like time has stood still and my husband died just yesterday I look at these beautiful little faces and realizing time has not actually stopped. We're all two years closer to that sweet eternal reunion to which we all look forward. I'm often asked how are we doing? How are the kids, how's life treating us and what does grief really look like? Sometimes it looks like me and a bunch of kids at the cemetery with flowers and balloons. We write notes on the side and launch them into the sky saying hi to daddy. Sometimes it's a bunch of silly kids overwhelming me just wishing dad could be there another day to hear their laughs and see those cute faces. Sometimes it looks like the end of a really hectic day of trying to get the kids to school, trying to get the kids to brush their teeth, do their homework, stop fighting, practice the piano and sit down to the dinner table even if dinner is just hot dogs and mac and cheese. Sometimes it looks like a group of kids with their cousins attending their first Memorial Day event where their father is in one of those boots being memorialized. Sometimes it looks like all of the memories in my mind, all of the sweet precious moments that time can never erase but also time can never repeat. And sometimes it looks like this. Sheer and utter devastation. Loss, heartache, despondency. And a reminder that every dream I ever had seemed to die the day my husband was killed. Most of us don't know what to do when we're faced with grief and we really don't know what to do when someone we love is faced with grief. And so sometimes we do nothing. We're worried we might say the wrong thing or do the right thing or do the wrong thing or make it harder or maybe offer an offense which we didn't mean to. We're all eager to help and yet we don't know how. We get paralyzed in our fear that we might inadvertently actually make it harder and so we kind of dance around it and go about our day. One day several months ago I was trying to figure out what to say, what to do, unsure myself of what message I might be able to share. I don't remember the details surrounding the time and the place of what it was I was saying but I remember finding a scripture passage that spoke directly to my heart and I feel it's very applicable here. In Mosiah 18 verse 20 we read the words of Alma the Elder as he has been teaching the gospel, baptizing hundreds and organizing people into separate bodies or groups. He tells those he has called to minister to those people that they should preach nothing, save it were repentance and faith on the Lord who had redeemed his people. Repentance and faith on the Savior who redeems us. We all know that grief is a process more than an episode but have you ever considered how the grieving process can be strikingly similar to the repentance process? In the Bible dictionary we learn that the root word of the word repentance as used in the New Testament takes us to a word that actually means a change of mind and a fresh view about God, oneself and the world. It's not that exactly what the grieving process entails to have our minds changed, expanded, enlightened, to exercise our faith so that we can have a fresh view about God, about ourselves and our uncertain future and about the very world around us that feels so foreign in the middle of that grief. I'd like to take a few minutes and share with you a few fresh views that the spirit of the Lord has led me to see. I pray that the same spirit will be with you and with me as we consider how these fresh views can help us in our efforts to minister to those in extremists. First, let's take a look at the well-known story of the New Testament sisters, Mary and Martha. Everybody knows the story of Mary and Martha. Women particularly know the story of Mary and Martha and sometimes Martha gets a bad rap because while Mary was faithfully sitting at the feet of Jesus, Martha was covered about, worried about dinner, worried about cleaning up and really worried why no one else was helping her. And we all know that Jesus lovingly reminded Martha to choose the better part and we all know that sitting at the feet of Jesus is the better part. But we've gotta back up a little bit and pay attention to what I call the Martha matters, the temporal affairs, the things that really do need to be done because we do live in this world, even if we know our spirits and our eternal beings and of another world. I am mortal. The weight of grief is physically exhausting. If you ask anyone who's lost a loved one, they will likely tell you how surprising it is, how physically tiring it is to grieve. I don't have the energy I used to have. There's days when it feels hard to do the simple tasks. That's why we end up with hot dogs and mac and cheese for dinner because sometimes I'm not sure I even remember how to cook. The little things, the day-to-day things, the things that you might say don't really matter in the long run and yet they sustain us in the short run. Kind of like that juice box I needed shortly after finding out my husband had been killed. Juice boxes don't really matter in the eternal scheme of things, but my mortal body needed nourishment. And so if you really want to help someone who is grieving, whether it's a loss, a loss of a job, a loss of a dream, going through a struggle with an illness, other things that we all face in life, one of the best things you can do is maybe make a list of all the Martha matters, all the things, all the to-dos, all the mortal tasks that we need to do because I know the most important thing is to sit at the feet of my savior. I know the most important thing is to love my children, to nourish them, to care for them, to listen to them as they cry because their father's not here, to referee their arguments when their grief turns into anger. But I don't have a lot of energy left to sit at the feet of the savior if I've got to try to cook and clean and mow the lawn and fix the sprinklers and figure out carpool and pay the bills and try to discover my husband's password so I can get into some of the online accounts that I know nothing about. So when we look to serve and to minister, I think our default is to minister spiritually because we're choosing the better part and we know that spiritual ministering really is very important, the most important, eternally important. But if you find someone who's struggling and you can take some of those Martha matters off of their back, if you can take the weight of all of those to-dos, if you can take those temporal tasks out of their hands, you've now freed them up so that their energy can choose the better part. I don't want someone else being the one that comforts my children, though I appreciate the support. I don't want to exhaust myself in the tasks of the day and have nothing left for them. Some things are hard to delegate in a home, especially a grief-stricken home. But somebody else could mow the lawn. Somebody else could take out the trash cans. Somebody else could bring in dinner so maybe it's not hot dogs and mac and cheese again. There are ways that we can help minister by freeing up the spiritual energy of those who are grieving. Now let's look at the Good Samaritan, another famous biblical story. We know that many people passed by the injured man. They were too busy, too much of a hurry, or maybe just too ideologically or politically separated from him to be bothered with helping. And then comes the Good Samaritan. He stops, he takes the time, he physically lifts the burden, he puts the man into his cart and he takes him to get further care. He tends first to the immediate need and then he lets the innkeeper take it from there. I think there's a lot to learn from that Good Samaritan that obviously we can't pass by when we see someone suffering. We can't just look the other way when we know there's pain and heartache. But we also don't need to feel like we need to do it alone. That Good Samaritan picked that man up and then he knew he had other tasks to attend to. We don't know what they are, but whatever it was, the Good Samaritan then recruited the help of the innkeeper and said he would make sure that the expenses were covered. We can recruit the help of those around us. As a chaplain or a bishop or a Relief Society president or grandma, you can't carry everyone's burdens alone, but you can become a connecting point to those who want to help because people do want to help. Something in our human soul wants to help another human soul who hurts. And perhaps you can be the Good Samaritan that not only offers what you can, but helps direct traffic when others say, I wish I knew what to do. We truly mourn with those that mourn. Now that we have a biblical basis, I want to share a few actual phrases that have been said to me and my family. Phrases, they're pretty common in times of grief. Phrases that I know mean well, but maybe we can have ears to hear and have a fresh view, a fresh view about what we say and how we say it. A fresh view about how we help because I know we want to help. Our hearts are in the right place and a time of grief is not at all a time to take offense or to worry that someone did or said the wrong thing. And so we can trust the Holy Ghost to be our greatest translator from the desire in our heart to help and the needs on the ground to actually meet that help. Grit with grace, you've all heard it. I picture grit with grace as being this really strong woman who's also beautiful and elegant. And that's really not at all what it is. Grit, grit is hard work. Grief is hard work. Morning is hard work. Repenting and trying to come up with a new view about what God might have in store for my life. A view that is so different from the view I had for the first 39 years of my life. And so we need that strength, we need that grit. Looking at another root of another word we commonly see in the scriptures comfort, comfort isn't just a console. Comfort means cone forties with strength. We comfort each other by strengthening each other. Maybe we strengthen each other physically first. We make sure there's food on the table. We make sure there's nourishment in the body. We make sure there's rest for the weary. And then we remember that the real grace isn't elegance or beauty, but it's the grace of God. I can have grit with grace because the Holy Ghost will comfort me. God will make me stronger than I am. Christ can lift me up and with his love and his care I can be ministered to by angels who might just be my next door neighbor or friend. We often comfort someone who's lost someone by reminding them that they're in a better place. I know my husband's in a better place. It's a beautiful place, I think of it often. Sometimes I get kinda mad that he's there and I'm stuck here because I gotta do the laundry and pay the bills and I'm gonna grow old. My body will probably give out. Maybe there'll be all kinds of things wrong and with modern technology I'll probably live till about 110 and that makes me really tired. I know my husband's in a better place. I still wish he were here. We need to be careful when we talk about how great it is on the other side because it makes it feel like happiness is only available there. The scriptures teach us that men are that they might have joy. We use the phrase often time and eternity. We can live happily ever after and here and now. I know my husband's in a better place but he's also part of me every day. The day after he died I was given a blessing by a former bishop, a bishop who had known Brent, who had loved and served our family for years. And in that blessing he said something that changed my life. He helped me repent of my heartache. Not that heartache is a sin but I mean repent as in heal and come to see a fresh view. In that blessing he taught me that my husband's purpose had not changed. Sure he's in a different place but his intent is still here. His influence is still here. His purpose as a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a bearer of the holy priesthood of God did not change in the moment he died. And neither did my purpose as his wife, as the mother of our children, as a sister, as a friend and as a beloved daughter of God. I know he's in a better place. I know I can also be happy in this place and I long for the day when once again we will get to be in the same place. But your best days are ahead. My stake president is a wonderful man. He's counseled me several times, given me countless priesthood blessings and I know for a fact that he is the mouthpiece of the Lord for me at this time in my life. Right after my husband died he kept reassuring me that my best days are ahead. Happiness is ahead. That happiness I just spoke of that I just said we are to have joy, your best days are ahead. The only problem with that is I don't like thinking that my best days are ahead without my husband. I don't like thinking that the path guide might guide me on isn't the path I always thought he was guiding me on. Now that doesn't mean that I can't learn and I can't grow. But in the moment it's sometimes very overwhelming in grief to think of the future. And a day, a week, a month, a year, a decade can feel very scary and frightening. So I have a good friend, one of those college roommates who reminds me that I just need to focus on today. My best days can be ahead and behind. God doesn't work in linear time. I can move forward with my husband. He's right there with me in every step I take. But I can also let future Jenny worry about the problems of the decades to come. That's what my roommate has taught me, that future Jenny can take care of that problem. Because hope of course is looking forward to things. But sometimes in grief it's hard to look forward because looking forward feels very scary and very alone, very uncertain and unsure. So we can have the promise that our best days are ahead, but we don't ever have to leave behind the days behind us. We can take one minute, one hour, one day at a time, and the spirit of the Lord will be there. Heaven must have needed a hero. God's calling home the best of us because he's organizing armies to get ready for the millennium. These are all true statements and can even be backed up in the Doctrine and Covenants. I know that in that better place my husband's doing great work. I know his best days are ahead of him as well, and that the Lord's not letting him twiddle his thumbs while he waits for me to reach 105. But I don't believe for a second that God intentionally took my husband home because he was shorthanded on the other side. He's got George Washington. He's got Moses. He's got Noah and Marona. He's got every single Nephi that ever lived. I think he could have left Brent here. My kids need a hero. It's easy to argue that those seven children are a little more shorthanded. And so we need to be careful when we try to encourage and I see the intent, but it's almost as if we're trying to erase the grief or we're trying to make it better. We're trying to put a band-aid on it. We're trying to make it go away. I know heaven has a lot of work to do. I know I still have a lot of work to do here. But it's okay to feel like I wish you were here. And it's okay to repent and to learn that God knows what he's doing. It's okay to trust that God doesn't cause all the problems in our life, but sometimes he lets mortality unfold. He lets those trials come. He doesn't necessarily make everything happen for a reason, but God can make reason of everything that happens. Let me know if you need anything. Give me a call. You got my number, right? We sometimes say that and we mean it. We genuinely do, but that is a really overwhelming statement if you're me with seven kids and my husband just died. Because I need some of everything and I can't think of a single thing right now. If you ask me what do I need? We're good. I don't know. It might be better for those of you who are counseling those who are grieving to maybe keep out a notepad, a little list somewhere. When you think of something you need or something that could be helpful, an errand run or a task done, maybe jot it down. So then when someone asks, hey, do you need anything? You actually have something to say. But perhaps the better way to ask that question would be for you, the helper, to think of some things you think that person might need and then offer a couple choices. Hey, would it be more helpful if I ran to the grocery store for you or picked up the kids from soccer? Somebody who brought us dinner a couple of times, each time before she brought it, she would ask, do the kids feel more like ham and potatoes or do they want chicken and rice? And instead of me having to come up with what I think we want or think we need or feel like I'm imposing by being picky, she gave me choices, simple choices. Let me know what you need is overwhelming. Would A or B be more helpful is a simple way to do that. Finding closure and moving on. Who in the world wants closure for an eternal family relationship? Whether it's a marriage, sibling, a parent or a child, I'm not looking to close that door. I know there are doors I need to continue to walk through, but I certainly have no intentions of moving on without my husband. I plan to move forward with him. Everything I am today has been affected by the 15 years we were married and lived together and served together and were separated by deployments and brought children into the world and figured out the broken sprinklers and what's gonna be for dinner. We don't need to move on as if we're closing that door. We often use the phrase a new chapter in our story. We can turn that page, but you don't start mid-chapter. All of those early chapters build up to the chapter you're on. And so when you move forward onto the next chapter, you're helping to see everything behind you is still with you, and there are great things ahead of you. Holidays can be really hard. Days on a calendar have such a weight to them when you've lost someone, and I have no idea why. My husband died on November 3rd, 2018, and so the entire last week of October in 2019 was a disaster. We were emotionally anticipating hitting that milestone of one year, remembering every last October what we were doing before we found out what happened. Those days can be so heavy. If it's a military death, days like 4th of July and Memorial Day can feel especially heavy. Birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, Easter, family traditions, those moments that used to be so happy and fun and full of life, just remind you that your loved one is not here anymore. But this is one of the easiest ways you can minister. These are one of the easiest things you can do because there's actually something you can do. A holiday, a birthday, an anniversary is the perfect day to make a little phone call. Maybe send a text message, drop off a treat on the door. If you're not sure what kind of treats they like or what kind of things they enjoy, probably social media will give you a clue into their lives. Maybe you can find a post somewhere about the person before they passed away, maybe a place the family used to enjoy eating or a place they would go to recreate or a movie they liked or a pastime they had. Maybe there's a special game they played. And you can take that to them with a little note, a little card, because what that does is lets that person know you're mourning with them. I really dreaded Memorial Day after losing my husband because not only am I mourning the loss of my own husband, but I'm mourning the loss of hundreds of thousands of brave men and women who have given their lives for my freedom, and that feels very heavy. But this past Memorial Day, I feel the Lord helped me find a fresh view. And instead of feeling the weight of so much loss, I felt the support of so much shared mourning. Everybody remembers the fallen soldier on Memorial Day. People who have moved on and gotten busy with their regular life know that Brent died on November 3rd. Maybe they'll remember in one of our children's birthday and say, I bet this is hard for those kids. And so instead of feeling alone and forgotten and sad, those days are nowadays, I know other people will remember with us. And again, that shared grief becomes grief that's more easy to bear. I don't know why we use the phrase an elephant in the room. I don't know why we talk about eating an elephant one bite at a time. Who in the world wants to eat an elephant? But when someone we love dies, there is an elephant in the room. We don't know what to do. We don't know what to say. Maybe you run into me at the store. And of course, you know that my husband's died, but you don't wanna say anything because it might make me sad or maybe it'll be uncomfortable. And so maybe you just pass by and don't say a word. But the truth of the matter is, whether you say anything to me or not, I remember my husband died. And whether you bring him up in conversation or not, I'm probably thinking of him in the back of my mind. And even if I cry a little if we talk about him, it's okay because as you talk to me about him, I know that means you love and miss him too. And it doesn't have to be a doctrinal sermon. It doesn't have to be the big strong moments of how we influenced your life. I wanna hear your memories. If you know someone who has passed away, tell their family your memories. There's people who went to high school with my husband. I didn't know him at that age. There's people who grew up with him in scouts. I was never there. I never went to Iraq or Afghanistan with him. I love hearing stories about him. Don't hoard the memories you have of someone else's loved one. Don't hesitate to talk about that person. Don't be frightened by emotion that might come up. It's healthy, it's healing, and it's an expression of love. Don't worry about the elephant in the room. Just embrace it. So what about the kids? How do you help those sweet, beautiful kids? I kinda feel like I'm on a Ferris wheel and each of the children is one of the cars. Sometimes they're going up and doing well and sometimes they're coming down and hitting rock bottom. And yet it seems to go in a cycle. And so I become the center spoke that's doing cartwheels all day trying to keep up, trying to pay attention to the needs, trying to read the personalities, knowing that children will grieve differently and at different times. My oldest daughter, who was in eighth grade when my husband died, is now a seminary student in school. They had a great lesson about prayer. She came home and she said, yeah, but mom, I prayed every day. I prayed every day that dad would be safe. And that didn't work out. Or Ellie, my little seven-year-old who was five at the time. The other day at dinner I just said, hmm, I wish dad were still alive. And my cute little Jonathan, who's four, but was two when we lost my husband, is really excited about the resurrection because he knows daddy's gonna come back. We talk about it, daddy will come back. Jesus will bring daddy back. And so the other day he asked me, hey mom, when dad comes back with Jesus, do you think daddy will push me in the swing? Yeah, buddy, daddy will push you in the swing. Kids have different levels of comprehension and all they really crave is normalcy, something that feels normal. My oldest daughter opted not to go to Dover with us to get my husband's body. She just wanted to go back to school. She just wanted to be with her friends. She just wanted to be somewhere that felt safe and predictable, and that's okay. I don't force my kids to talk about their dad. I don't force them to grieve or tell me the depths of their soul. But when they talk, I listen. When they bring things up, I validate it. I talk with my daughter about how yeah, sometimes prayers don't get answered the way we think they will. We know there's miracles. We hear all the time of someone's in an accident and they're cured of their paralysis or the bullet just missed him or the car stopped just in time, and sometimes not. And again, we talk about how it's not necessarily that God makes everything happen for a reason, but trusting God to make reason out of everything that happens. Letting those kids grieve, letting those kids mourn, and understanding that those kids also have to face their own repentance process. They also have to come to understand a fresh view about themselves, about God and the world. As parents, we want nothing more than to shield our children from anything hard or hurtful or sad. But that's not our job. President Nelson, in our recent conference address, I remember the video in Sister John's talk. He was asked, is it hard to be the prophet? Do you remember his response? Of course it is. I'm not sure that's what I expected him to say. Is it hard to be a widow with seven kids? Of course it is. Is it hard to be a child whose father died and more? Of course it is. Is it hard to be a sister that lost a brother, a mother that buried a child, a spouse struggling with cancer, financial insecurity, job loss, a global pandemic? Is it hard? Of course it is. But President Nelson continued, of course it's hard. Everything that helps us become more like our savior of Jesus Christ is hard. Because we come here as mortals, and we're learning to become eternal. We're learning to become perfect. We'll be learning to come even as he is. Of course it's hard, but the Lord loves effort. And so when you're helping children who are grieving, try to give them a little bit of normalcy. Again, if you know what their favorite treat or can be or activity is, that's an easy way to help a child let some of those walls down. Maybe while you're playing soccer, they might open up and talk to you. Because probably if you sit them at the counter and try to force them to, you're not gonna get anywhere. Normal family interactions. It's tempting when a child is suffering to spoil that child. To give that child everything, to buy that child everything, to take that child everywhere fun. And that can have its place. We've spent a lot of time trying to create good memories. Again, our best days are ahead. But really what kids need is just normal opportunities to interact with families. What's really been helpful for us is when my children who were old enough to go play with friends or hang out at their friends' houses, when those friends have called and said, hey, can Megan come with us to this movie? Can Lincoln come eat dinner and play Monopoly with our family? Nothing big, nothing grand, but a chance for those children to interact with another family. One thing that's tricky for widows is it seems that once you're a widow, everybody wants to introduce you to every other widow you've ever met. And widows are wonderful people. There's a lot of faith in people who've been through that kind of loss. But as a daughter of God, I still need interaction with families, with couples. My children still need good fatherly figures and preacher leader examples in their lives. For some of those light-hearted things like playing soccer in the backyard, or maybe my children will develop a relationship with an adult that's not me, someone they feel that they can trust and open up to. So when you're watching out for those kids, just spend some time with them. Meet them where they are. Don't force them or push them to where you think they ought to be. And certainly don't worry that it's your job to take away the trial God sees fit for them to face. Which brings me to the fix it versus face it conversation. When you're trying to minister to someone, remember it's not your job to fix it. That's Christ's job. Our job as we minister to each other is simply to help each other face it. You can't fix the fact that my husband died. Even if at some point I remarry, even if I live happily ever after, even if I win the lottery tomorrow, that didn't fix anything. The savior fixes, the savior heals, the savior compensates with blessings, the savior makes us whole. But we can help each other face it. And maybe today what might help me face it is help cleaning the house. Or something to eat when I get so busy that I forget to take care of my body. Maybe a play date for the little kids so I have a peace and quiet moment where I can kind of collect my thoughts. We're here to help each other face it. Let's go back to those sisters, Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus. Think of the grief they must have felt when he died. They called for Jesus. They told him to come. They knew Lazarus needed him. They knew he was dying and yet Jesus didn't come. Think of that grief, think of that weight, think of that heartache. It was enough grief that even Jesus himself wept. But Jesus knew he was going to raise Lazarus from the dead and you and I all know that he raised Lazarus from the dead. We know how the story turns out. So why was Jesus weeping? I believe he was weeping because of the pain of Mary and Martha and those who love Lazarus. He's weeping with us for our mourning even though he knows he really can fix it and heal it and make it whole. He doesn't brush it aside and say, oh, if he just had more faith, he wouldn't cry. He embraces us in our sorrow. He weeps with us and then he comforts or strengthens us to be able to carry on. What if Lazarus never died? For Mary and Martha that would have been a win, right? They would have been so happy to not face that heavy sorrow. But what about you and me? How many of us look to that as one of the greatest miracles of all of Christendom? The raising of Lazarus from the dead. Sometimes our heartache and our tragedy is one of the greatest miracles the Lord uses to lift and teach and give hope to those around us. I remember feeling that way on election day right after my husband died. So many people said, hey, I voted today. I voted, I remembered your husband. Freedom is not free, I'm gonna vote, I'm gonna salute that flag. And I remember in my grief kind of feeling, I'm glad it took his death to get you to do that. And then of course I repent and I'm grateful to know that the Lord can take my trial and help it become a blessing to someone else. Because we know that after Christ proved he could raise Lazarus from the dead, he rose himself from the dead. Easter really is the day that changed everything. Even though November 3rd, 2018, changed everything I look at, all of the details of my life, Easter is the day I cling to. Easter is my holiday of hope. We turn to the savior, we trust in him. We serve him by serving those around us. We help take care of the temporal affairs so that they can focus on the better part and that spiritual need. I think back to that Saturday morning, almost two years ago, the fact that I got to be with my college roommates, ladies who have known and loved me for 20 years. They know my faults, they know my flaws, they know my faith, they know my husband. They love him too. I got to be with them. I got to have a few minutes to gather my own thoughts before having to tell my children. I got to be strengthened by a community that wept with me when their mayor died. And I got to feel the power of the Holy Ghost helping me to change my mind when I think this is such a horrible, awful thing as I learn to have a fresh view about God, about myself, and about the world around me. I'm grateful for my savior, Jesus Christ. I'm grateful that he is able to make reason out of all things that happen. I'm grateful that he is able to use our heartache and our tragedy to lift and heal and provide hope to those around us. And I'm grateful that even though he has all power and all understanding and all wisdom, he lets us minister to each other. When we minister to those who have lost a loved one, we truly are ministering to those in extremis. And when we face extreme loss, extreme heartache, and extreme despair, Christ sends us extreme hope, extreme love, and extreme promises that through his atoning sacrifice, all will be made well. And we truly will live happily ever after, here and now, and with him and our families on into eternity. I leave this testimony with you, with the great love of my savior, Jesus Christ, in his holy name, amen.