The Things of My Soul: An Autobiography

     I was born two years and nine months after my brother, Andrew. Hoping to avoid the typical brother/sister relationship of competition and antagonism, my parents introduced me to Andrew as “the queen, and you must always treat her like a queen.” Of course he was too young to really understand that statement, and so I credit my brother’s kindness and gentleness to my dad, because I am sure that is where Andrew learned it. My dad named me Bethany Christine because Bethany is the city where Jesus Christ spent Holy Week before He was killed, and Christine contains the word ‘Christ.’ According to my mom, my dad always handled my little baby self as if I were made of porcelain, whereas he had been rougher with Andrew because he was a boy.

     This deep love and adoration that I received from my dad from day one was and is pivotal in my personal identity. As a little girl, I would earnestly wait for Daddy to come home from work because I knew it meant tickling and laughing and rolling around on the carpet. I loved to sit on his lap at church and tried to keep my head immediately under his chin, not realizing until I was old enough to hold children on my own lap how uncomfortable that is. I loved to play princess and always imagined that my prince looked just like my dad, because how could there be a more handsome or more loving man in the whole world?

     The only other person that compares in devotion to my dad is my mother. It is not always easy for me to write or speak about her, because she is the dearest friend to my heart that I have ever known. No one has ever had a more enthusiastic cheerleader, a kinder teacher, a more patient leader, or a more dedicated advocate, short of Jesus Christ, than my mother. Abraham Lincoln said it best: “All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.”

     When I turned eight and went to be interviewed for baptism, my bishop asked me whom I wanted to baptize me, and of course I answered “My dad!” I can remember thinking how stupid it was to even ask that question. The day of my baptism was beautiful and perfect, especially the tender moment where my dad meticulously tied the big white satin bow in the back of my dress, taking extra care to plump the curves and make the tails hang just right.

     I began taking violin lessons around this same time in my life, a skill I had been dreaming of developing and was so excited to begin. I underestimated both the difficulty of this instrument and my parents’ unyielding determination that I master it. A crucial lesson came when, after tiring of listening to me crying about “the violin is too hard!”, my dad promised he could find something harder for me to do. After pushing a manual lawn mower through mid-day August heat, I agreed with him. I have never since forgotten that whatever my situation may be, it could always be worse, and even difficult opportunities are a blessing.

     The week before I turned ten, my youngest sister Abigail was born. We knew before she was born that she has a heart defect called Tetrology of Fallot. Among other things, she was missing one of her heart valves and had a hole in the center of her heart. Her little body turned blue from lack of oxygen when she was 10 weeks old, which led to her first open heart surgery. This was my first experience in giving up my desire for control to Heavenly Father and trusting His will. It was also the first time I noticed nurses and decided that I wanted to be one of them someday.

     Twelve was the year I learned to pray. Of course, I’d been praying my whole life, as is tradition in our Latter Day Saint culture, but the year I turned twelve I really learned how to pray.

     It began at the end of fifth grade when my teacher, Miss King, asked me if I was on the waiting list for enrollment into a new charter school that would be opened that fall. Confused, I went home and asked my mom and discovered that I was indeed on the waiting list, but the chances of me actually getting in to American Preparatory Academy (APA) were slim considering the vast amounts of children from all over the Utah Valley being added to the list every day. Being the adventurer that I am, I wanted to be accepted. I wanted it badly.

    I began checking online obsessively at the school’s progress, willing the phone to ring with the news that there was an opening and my name had reached the top of the list. Summer dragged on with no phone call, and the first day at my previously attended elementary school arrived. I sluggishly pulled myself onto the bus, knowing that my best friend since third grade was in a different class, and I would be alone. The prayers that I had been offering all summer of  “please help me get in to APA...please please please!” multiplied. APA’s school year didn’t start for another month, so there was still a margin of hope to hold on to.

    After two weeks of school fraught with loneliness, evil little boys that sat next to me, hundreds of more prayers, and sobbing every day after school, a miracle occurred. Knowing my love for the Harry Potter books, my dad fashioned an acceptance letter similar to Harry’s Hogwarts letter, and gave it to me with my new American Preparatory Academy uniform. I cried with delight and gratitude knowing the Lord had tested my faith and taught me a lesson on prayer that continues to bless my life.

     Thirteen was the year of being ugly. I think most people are ugly around that age, because it’s the time of puberty and your mind is changing and you’re learning and growing so fast at a time when all you want is to be accepted. I’ve always been tall, usually the tallest in my grade, but for some reason 7th grade I towered over everyone. I was tall; I was loud; I probably scared a lot of people. Add to that a really horrendous haircut mistake and necessary glasses and I was a sight to behold. Picture Goliath in a plaid and navy uniform with a bun and female-ish voice: “I DEFY THE ARMIES OF MIDDLE SCHOOL THIS DAY!”

    Lucky for me, I didn’t know I was ugly because I was wrapped up in being smart (because I was good at school and my parents told me I could be anything I wanted) and developing my music skills. I had played violin my whole life, but it really started to escalate in middle school. My parents firmly believe in having strong daughters who develop their talents and they always sacrificed and supported me.

    Thirteen was also a year of rapid spiritual growth. My young women leaders issued a challenge to read for ten minutes a day out of the Book of Mormon. If you read ten minutes every night for the whole week, then on Sunday you could add a toy compass to a jar. It was a competition between the Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels to see who could fill their jar first. Every week I was determined to be able to add one of those little compasses, but I always missed a night or forgot and didn’t get to contribute to the Beehive’s jar on Sunday. The last Sunday before our ward boundaries were reassigned, I added my first compass to the jar. It was a huge milestone for me and even though my family was put in a different ward the next week with new leaders and no compass jar, I never stopped reading my scriptures every night from that week on, which has made all the difference in my life.

     I finished the Book of Mormon for the first time all by myself on Father’s Day, 2005. I had been reading and marking up a paperback copy that the same compass-leaders from my previous ward had given me, and I gave the finished, colored, Testimony-earned copy to my dad that day. I had written my testimony in the cover and I can still see the look in my dad’s eyes after he read it. He told me it was the best gift he had ever been given and I made another resolve that day to never do anything that would take that look for me out of his eyes.

    Later that year, my dad was offered a job to work as a contractor in Iraq for 9 months, a respite from the unemployment we had experienced over the previous year. Around that same time I felt the desire to receive my Patriarchal Blessing, so the Sunday before he left for Iraq we went to the patriarch’s home where I was given my blessing. The timing of that blessing was certainly inspired, for on its heels came six years of the Refiner’s Fire that have defined me into the person I am today.

    Two days before I turned fifteen, on October 19th 2006, my best friend and life-long guardian, my older brother Andrew, was diagnosed with cancer. My good friend Anna and her mom took me and my three little sisters away to a pumpkin patch that day so my mom could take Andrew to the doctor regarding a funny, painful bump on his leg. When I came home, I found my mom in the kitchen and jokingly asked, “So, is it cancer?” A shadow passed over her face and she answered, “Might be.”

     My whole world changed that day. The routine became: wake up at 5 a.m. go to early morning seminary. After seminary, go to school and pay attention in classes because ‘Your grades count for high school now!’ Come home from school and take care of the little girls, help them with homework, help them eat dinner. Do your homework; help the little girls get in bed. By that time, my mom would be home from the hospital and she and I would lie on her bed until midnight talking and crying. Then wake up and do it all again.

     In between hospital trips, I watched my hero brother get sicker and sicker. His hair, which had grown long enough to fit into a ponytail, fell out in clumps on his shoulders. His body became thin and weak and he soon resembled a Holocaust victim. The cancer in his leg and the many surgeries resulting made it mandatory for him to walk with crutches and the sound of crutches to this day makes my heart wrench. He began keeping an emesis basin with him at all times because the chemotherapy treatments caused sores to develop up and down his G.I. tract and he would either vomit blood or spit into the basin because it hurt too much to swallow his own saliva. Medical equipment and Diane, his wonderful home health care nurse, became the norm around the house. My brother, the one who had never said an unkind word to me, was so incredibly sick and I couldn’t do anything. I rarely saw my dad because he spent his days at the office and his nights at the hospital, sleeping on a hard pull out chair so Andrew would never be alone.

    As painful as it was to watch and live through, I wouldn’t change that year for anything. I learned without a doubt that the Savior Jesus Christ is aware of my family and me. I couldn’t sit with my brother all night, but He could. I couldn’t make sure he would come out of surgery and chemo treatments okay, but He could. I couldn’t do anything to reduce the excruciating pain Andrew was in, but He could and did. Through the power of faith and fasting, Andrew was able to overcome much of the pain. My faith grew so much as I turned my beloved brother’s life over to my Beloved Older Brother. The first night Andrew went in for chemo, I locked myself in my bedroom and played Abide With Me, Tis Eventide over and over on my violin. I learned what it meant to have the Savior truly abide with me.

     Amid the dark and painful days of cancer, my family was blessed with a bright and constant light. Nathaniel Joseph was born March 5th, 2007. Nate, as he is known, brings me daily joy and a small glimpse into the kind of mother I will someday be.

      My dad returned to Iraq again Fall of 2008, and came home the following April. I can remember looking out the door and seeing him walk up the steps late that night and not even knowing what to say. All I managed was “Daddy....Daddy!” and reaching out to feel him and hug him. It was a very spiritual experience for me; I knew then that at some future time when I meet my Father in Heaven again it will be a similar experience filled with joy and relief at being united again.

    At this same time, the Draper Temple had finished being built and was in the process of showing thousands of people through the open house. I was privileged to be able to clean the Temple one night after a long day of tours. I was handed a towel and cleaner and told to take care of all horizontal surfaces. What an amazing experience it was to be in the Temple at midnight, walking through nearly independent of anyone else and taking in the peace and the joy of being in such a building and knowing that I would do whatever it took to be worthy to come back there and be married some day. I was also invited to sing in the youth choir at the cornerstone dedication, which solidified my love and appreciation for this Temple that I could see out my front window.

     In January of my senior year I began a Certified Nurse’s Assistant course through my high school. The course included 100 clinical hours and I got to serve and help those who cannot care for even the most basic aspects of life themselves. I had both funny and spiritual experiences caring for the elderly that taught me that you truly love those whom you serve. I also got a head start on the path to becoming an RN and discovered how much I really do love the field of medicine.

        Many who have known me and seen me throughout my life have said it was unfair for me to go through so much, that I “didn’t get to be a kid” and it must have been so hard. Yes, it was hard. My mom compared it to pulling a handcart like the Mormon pioneers. Like them, it was heavy and painful. Like them, I was cold and broken and bleeding. Like them, we had to rely on our dear friends and family to bring us in. Like them, I had only my faith in Jesus Christ and the knowledge that someday, it would all be made up to me. I am indebted to my Heavenly Father for blessing me with so many struggles and shaping me into who I am. I am strong and I am brave. I can do anything. My self esteem, identity, and values were all developed during these years when I faced so much and had to decide to find the strength inside myself to keep going.

     I hope to continue to live my life as my parents have modeled and lived theirs. They are covenant keepers and kind friends. From their example I desire simple things: to become a nurse, to be married in the temple, and to be a mother. These desires are the product of my experiences and developments so far in this life, and when I get to the end of it, like the handcart pioneers I will say, All is Well.