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.
