I’m brushing my teeth when I hear the door creak. My child’s steps penetrate the silence. I’m tired but unsurprised. He shuffles into the darkness holding his blanket and stuffie (a rainbow Squishmallow whose outlandish exuberance I’ve come to envy). He still needs those tangible comforts to feel security. It’s 10:38 p.m. Bedtime was 9. He knows he is breaking the rules. He has broken a lot of rules this week.
The last week of summer break has been difficult. Routines have slipped. Tasks have been left undone. Emotions are high. I’ve lost the will to argue, saying to myself that school will begin next week. But I know the first week of school will be difficult. It’s often more heartbreaking than joyful. There will be many conversations with teachers and adjustments to new environments. Many reminders that my child does not comfortably fit in. I’m exhausted. I’ve been up until midnight dealing with tantrums multiple days this week.
His mouth trembles, and he lunges toward me for a hug. I know he is delaying, but I never turn away from his embrace. One day, he will no longer sneak out of bed for me. One day, he will not seek reassurance of my love. Children rarely want to talk at convenient moments. My energy returns. My heart melts. He is sorry, and he is scared.
“I didn’t get to tell my teacher from last year that I love her,” he explains. “I need to tell her that I love her.” His teacher retired, and he will miss her. He had come to rely on her steady, loving presence. He is afraid of separation. We will find out the name of his new teacher tomorrow. We hold each other in the darkness as we each silently ponder our own fears for the coming school year.
“I want to sing a Primary song,” he says. I suggest “I Am a Child of God” rather than his favorite, “Gethsemane,” since it is late and “Gethsemane” is long. We sing together in hushed tones, his voice beautiful. He brims with musical talent that I lack, a deficiency on my part that can pique his irritation when I mishear the notes he sings or the words he says. Both my children are smarter than me. I hope they’ll be patient.
“Mommy,” he asks, “will children who don’t keep the commandments still be with their parents forever?”
Here is the heart of the matter. He had a rough week. Rules were broken. I ponder the lyrics, “Teach me all that I must do to live with him some day.” Members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints joyously proclaim that families can be together after this life, but we also create checklists of ordinances and commandments that seemingly stand between us and reunion with our loved ones. My anxious child is terrified that his failure to meet these requirements will separate him from me.
I turn over in my head the phrase “families can be together forever,” lyrics from another Primary song. How do these words, intended to bestow comfort, feel to a child who had never before imagined that he might not be with his parents forever? Can. A conditional, even frightening word, one with no guarantees.
Visions of the Latter-day Saint plan of salvation diagram flash through my head: the Celestial Kingdom, Terrestrial Kingdom and Telestial Kingdom, often represented by circles that look uncannily like different planets. To be on a different planet than your parents is a horrifying prospect indeed. I will not show that diagram again.
God’s love has always and repeatedly manifested itself to me not through ordinances but through spiritual outpourings in my most personal, poignant moments. I know God loves me. And I know what it means for a parent to love a child. My capacity to do more for that child returns the moment I feel depleted. Forgiveness is endless. I know what I believe: Families who want to be together will be together.
“I’m unsure what the afterlife looks like,” I explain. “But I know that parents give their children endless chances because we love them. I expect that Heavenly Father does the same. I believe that we will choose to be with those we love, and I choose you.”
“And I choose you.” He snuggles his head in my lap. We both feel safe at the end of a very, very rough week.
Natalie Brown is a writer, mother and Latter-day Saint living in Colorado.
(Natalie Brown) Natalie Brown, Salt Lake Tribune guest columnist.
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