Though the magnitude of that event partially escaped me while there, there were a couple of moments during that time that did not.
It was an extremely hot weekend, and there had been very little rain in the days and weeks preceding it. Some rain was in the forecast, and Grandma told us all that if it wasn't raining, that was evidence of our lack of combined faith, because we needed that rain! And finally the rain did come. As we all sat under the tent, visiting and enjoying the cooler temperatures it brought, Grandma stopped as she walked past me to whisper, "Some prayers take longer to be answered than others," and then she continued on. It was all I could do to keep myself from crying.
Gabe and I are fast approaching six years of marriage, six years of hoping and waiting for children to come. Lately, I have become quite comfortable with our life together, just the way it is. Life as a family of two has lasted so long that it now seems strange to think of it otherwise. The hope and desire for children is still there, but with it there is an appreciation for the unique privileges and opportunities we have available to us now. With that newfound appreciation, I thought that the deep longing had mostly subsided. But in an instant it flooded back to the forefront, as Grandma reminded me in such a simple and unexpected way that others are aware of our struggle and hoping and praying with us. Others who love and care for us deeply. Her words struck me, as they told me that she was one of those hoping and praying for me, too. That was a moment that did not pass me by.
The other came Saturday, after the sun had gone down and almost everyone had left for the night. Mindy's husband David was still roasting a pig, and two of his girls had stayed with him. Gabe had been visiting with him, enjoying their conversations about his Tongan heritage, the gospel, and Polynesia. But it was getting late, so we decided to call it a night. With my phone as a flashlight, they put out the fire, and David and his oldest daughter rested the stick with the pig on their shoulders to carry it back to Grandma's house where they were staying. As we separated and walked to our car, David and his two girls were left to walk in the dark. I heard one of them say, "Daddy, I can't see!" And then his simple response, "Then just follow me."
It was such a quiet moment, and yet it's application to life was emphatically impressed upon me at once. How often in life are we the little child, crying out in prayer, "Daddy, I can't see!" And what is His response that He has so lovingly given us, time and time again? "Then just follow me." I thought of the words to the hymn "Lead Kindly Light."
Lead, kindly Light, amid the'encircling gloom;
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene--one step enough for me.
So long as the one step we can see is the step which leads us in His footsteps, we will be okay. No matter how dark the night may be, if we can see Him, or even just His path, we have all the light we need. We just have to keep our focus on Him, and push aside all the daunting and frightening "what if's" that lurk around us in the dark. Ignore the noises, the silhouettes, and the uncertainties - imagined or real - and trust that His is a path of safety, the path back home. That is what David, in his few words, asked of his daughter, and that is what the Savior asks of us.
As small and simple as these little moments were, they fittingly occurred at a time and place meant to celebrate the joy of our family. A family with a matriarch and patriarch at its head who have set a pattern of love and gospel teaching at each gathering and reunion. And at this reunion, I witnessed those patterns not only in the planned and formal moments, but in the private and unexpected as well.
