Preface: “I am a child of God”

I am a child of God,

And so my needs are great;

Help me to understand his words

Before it grows too late.

Lead me, guide me, walk beside me,

Help me find the way.

Teach me all that I must do

To live with him someday.

Children’s Songbook, 2

My great grandmother was one of my favorite people as a child. Affectionately called Momo, she had a God-given way with children. Momo was a baby whisperer and could swoop up a crying infant, relieve a frazzled mother with a smile, and soothe all in a matter of seconds.

Momo was always inviting me and my siblings over to play at her house so my mom could run errands or have a moment to herself. And although her children had long since grown, her backyard was filled with children’s toys -- patched up tricycles, various sizes and colors of wagons, pogo sticks, and any number of seemingly miraculous new (to me) inventions. My days at her home were filled with vanilla wafers, Vienna sausages, and lots of hugs.

I was five when Momo passed. I had heard of people dying before, but had never experienced it myself. When my mom and dad came home sobbing from their morning walk to tell me and my older brothers of her passing, my young mind was trying to make sense of it all.

“How did she die?”

“She died peacefully in her sleep.”

“No, but how? Why didn’t she wake up?” It didn’t make sense to me that of all the sleeps she had, she just didn’t wake up from this one.

As my parents tried to explain what an aneurysm was, my young mind conjured a picture of something clogging a blood vessel in Momo’s brain, like a piece of bread, most likely. And that was it. It made sense. My young self was satisfied.

At Momo's graveside service, my older brothers and I sang my then-favorite Primary song, “I Am a Child of God." I’ve been told that my brothers started crying and stopped singing in the middle of the song, but that I, undeterred, finished all three verses by myself. I was taught that we would see Momo again and that she would still be part of our family. And with the sweet faith of a child, I believed. It wasn’t until a few years later that I really mourned Momo’s passing and was sad that she wasn’t with me then. I missed her.

I share this story to illustrate that the primary answers we give children (or adults, for that matter) are important. I was blessed with good parents that taught me really important truths about who I was, where I came from, and why I was here. And those primary answers set the foundation for so much of my life and world view going forward.

And yet, some of the primary answers I received from both inside and outside my church community, although many times well-intentioned, were unclear and later reinforced wounds and doubts about myself and others.

My goal here is to share some of the answers that have brought me peace, to consider and turn over questions in a way that in respectful and compassionate, and to allow answers to come gently and in a way that invites healing and faith in a loving God.

I have felt called to share some of my experiences in writing for over ten years. And I've gone back and forth about how, or even if, I should. Some of these stories involve people I love. And all of these people, including myself, are imperfect and multidimensional. It is my goal to portray with honesty and compassion human beings doing their best in difficult situations. All names have been changed.

So what are my primary answers? Well, one is that I am a child of a loving Heavenly Father, and He knows, loves, watches over, and protects me. He wants to right my wrongs, to heal my wounds, and help me grow and progress so I can return to live with Him some day. There have been many instances looking back when I saw His gentle, protective power in my life. I hope to share some of them with you.