For the Journal

It seems like just yesterday we loaded up two babies into our car and drove home as carefully as we could. We took the scenic route not to admire the landscape but to avoid any bump or gravel that might disturb our little sleeping beauties. If only we had thought to spend the previous year stocking up on sleep, as the events that were to follow did not allow for any. While Ryan worked full-time and renovated our entire house on the side, I moved in with my parents to work on the other task at large. Though the thought had occurred to me it would take nothing short of superwoman to take care of twins, what I didn't realize was that superwoman would have to come in the form of four adults, working around the clock to preserve the sanity of one another. What I also hadn't predicted was that my babies, both babies, would suffer from acid refux. Day in, day out, morning, nightfall and dusk, I could not get my babies to stop crying. The days were aggravating, the nights were long, and my sanity was slowly leaking. My mom, my blessed mother, would help me every morning starting at four a.m, then she would go to work until evening, and then come home and give me a little afternoon night's sleep.
When I woke up from one such nap, here is the story I was told.


My brother A.J. and his friends had just started their senior year in high school. As seventeen year olds go, these boys seemed to migrate from one house to the next, draining each of its food reserves. Today was no different. But in the midst of their usual activities, playing guitar and eating, out of the crib next to them arose a little peep. A little one had woken up from her slumber. "Should I pick her up?" one of the boys asked. My mom proceeded to instruct this group of loud, enormous, awkward, adolescent boys how to pick the baby up, making sure to hold her head and be careful of her neck. This group of giants took on a softer tone that day; each step a tiptoe, each voice soft and comforting. They walked my impossible babies up and down the hallway, smooth and soothing, a little view from a very tall, very careful perch. It brings tears to my eyes thinking about it.
My brother and his friends are now serving missions all over the world. One of the mothers in this great group of missionaries sends out a monthly newsletter to track each friends' progress. Some of the details are funny: how much weight they have gained, an embarrassing language slip-up, or the classic near-death experience. As time marches on I am beginning to sense the softer side I witnessed two autumns ago with my newborns, it is the awe and the wonder of watching lives change as they bring their brothers and sisters closer to God. This last month A.J. wrote to us about his first baptism in Bulgaria, which took place in the black sea. For him it was a life changing experience, worth waiting an entire year in the field for. I savor the details of this young man's conversion, and of my brother's. Even though I have recently made it to the 'least letters received from' spot, which sadly is one step below the family dog, I think of you often, Elder, and of this story. I hope you remember it too.