[just sit with me]

I had an interesting realization on Sunday.

I was at a ward conference. 2 of my dear friends were sitting in front of me. Both have experienced a profound loss. One buried her husband. And one buried her son. Another dear friend was sitting behind me. She also has experienced profound loss with the recent burial of her son.

After the closing hymn, I watched as the friends in front of me wrapped their arms around each other in a warm hug with tears streaming down their cheeks. As I touched their shoulders, they both turned and we were able to share that moment - heart to heart - no words spoken.

As I was leaving the chapel, I stopped to visit with my other friend, and as we clasped hands and spoke of eternity, there was a strong spirit of kinship and love.

I thought about the 4 of us. Grief runs deep in our veins and occasionally spills out through our eyes. Anyone who knows us also knows the loss we've experienced. Because they know that, they are more lenient with random tears and the sadness that lingers just under the surface, bubbling up now and again and affecting us in different ways.

It was comforting to know that the 4 of us could just sit together in our grief. No words needed. No discomfort at our tears or our sadness. There is something so incredibly profound about having someone just sit with you in your grief. It's healing. And wonderful.

And then I looked around. And I saw others in the congregation with tears in their eyes. I don't know their stories. I don't know their heartache. I don't know what grief runs deep in their veins. I don't know if anyone just sits with them in their grief, or if, because their grief is less known or visible than ours, that they carry that burden alone.

"In the quiet heart is hidden sorrows that the eye can't see."

The other day, through a comment made on Facebook, I inadvertently hurt one of my friends. A newly grieving momma that I should have been more aware of, more encouraging to. Even after apologizing, my heart still carries that prick of guilt for hurting her. I wish I would have chosen, instead, to just sit with her. To just love her. I think this is something that I need to work on.

"I will learn the healer's art. To the wounded and the weary I will show a gentle heart. I will be my brother's keeper. Lord, I will follow thee."

[Phases]

A couple of mornings ago, I stepped outside at still dark-thirty to take Sparky potty. It was that time of morning that is super black, just before dawn. I looked up at the sky and noticed a tiny sliver of the moon shining brightly in perfect alignment with Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn. Because the night was so dark, the moon and stars seemed extra bright.

I kept thinking how pretty that little crescent moon was. How brightly it shined. I'm not an astronomer, so I don't know the reason, but the moon felt extra close too. I could see the "dark" part of the full moon and I noticed that it also seemed to be shining. Dimly for sure, but there was still light there.

And I got to thinking...no one looks at that pretty little crescent moon and decides that because the full moon isn't shining that the moon has no value. No one tells the moon that because it isn't fully illuminated that it's not worthy or valuable or important. In fact, even when the moon is almost completely dark, no one questions its place or its importance. We all simply know that sooner rather than later, the moon will shine again. We accept that. And we honor all of the phases of the moon.

So...why is it different with people?

Why is it when someone is in a crescent moon phase, we think something is wrong with them? Or that we need to fix them somehow? Why can't we just accept that for a minute they're going to need to shine at crescent moon capacity? Why can't we celebrate that they are still shining? And maybe align ourselves with them like Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn?

Why can't we see that even the parts of our friend that have gone dark for a bit are still shining? And why can't we encourage and defend and honor those moments? Even the parts that, momentarily, may have gone dark?

That same day, when I went out to get the mail, there was a card addressed to me from a friend that I have not seen in person since the fall of 2013. Inside that card was the sweetest note and a gift card to my favorite soda shop. And for a few minutes, I felt like that little crescent moon - being seen, loved, and celebrated, even though for most of January, parts of me had gone dark. I thought about the previous week when my friends aligned themselves with me to hold me in place as my heart broke again and I went dark for a time.

As I move out of my crescent moon phase, I look around and see that my friends didn't leave. They didn't question. They didn't try to fix me. They simply let me be sad, and celebrated the fact that I was still shining. Still standing.

I want to be like my friends. I want to be an aligner. A celebrator. A defender.

Perhaps, maybe, especially when someone enters a crescent moon phase, we could all be a little more gentle with each other.
A little more understanding. A little more willing to honor.

And perhaps, maybe, we can all be a lot more willing to celebrate those who shine even when they seem to have gone dark...