The Story of Rhys--The Higher Plain

Finally, after hours of pleading, I began to realize that perhaps this pain wasn’t going to go away. Perhaps, for whatever reason He may have, the Lord wanted, needed me to bear it. Finally, I stopped pleading for it to be taken away and started praying for strength to be equal to what He was asking of me. It was at this point, after more than a full day and a half of labor, that began the most beautiful and sacred emotional experiences of my childbirth. I truly believe that I could not have had them if I had not been pushed to the utter extremity of my emotional endurance. Obviously it was not the extremity of my physical endurance (thanks to the endless energy from all the Rolos) because I continued on for several hours more, but it was the end of my conscious ability to deal with it.

As this mindshift came and I gave myself up to whatever the Lord had in store for me, no matter what it was, I saw in it the Savior’s pleading in the garden, “Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from me; nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done.” (Luke 22:42). I wonder how long he actually begged “remove this cup” before he said, “nevertheless.” It took me hours to get to my “nevertheless” moment. After that, the contractions were still as utterly excruciating and exhausting. I can’t remember feeling physically any different at all. But even in my utter fatigue, I had an increased measure of peace. I was carried along without feeling any need to control—at least beyond the innate and inexorable physical urge to create the position of least pain during contractions. My emotional struggles were gone. I did not feel abandoned. I did not feel like I was lacking in faith. I just felt exhausted. I was confident that the fatigue would not kill me, and beyond that, I could make it through anything else. I was able to live in the moment, the horrific and torturous moment, but just moment by moment nonetheless.

I think the most profound parallel to the Atonement that impressed itself upon me was not just suffering, but suffering for the sake of another. At the moment I finally said, “I will drink this bitter cup. I recognize that it cannot pass from me and I will drink it to the dregs,” imbedded in that commitment was the realization that the purpose of this suffering had nothing to do with me. I knew that there was no benefit (beyond insight) that I could possibly derive from this experience. It would not make me healthier, it would not give me any skills, it would not lastingly affect my body in any positive way. But there was One. There was one entirely other person that would derive lasting and eternal benefit from my suffering: My Child, my spiritual brother who was anxiously waiting to receive a body and come into this world. It had been made abundantly clear to me that suffering could not be separated from the process by which this child would receive his body. I didn’t know why the suffering had to be tied into it, but it was. Someone had to suffer, and he could not suffer it for himself. Recognizing this gave me renewed focus between my contractions. I did not want this pain. I would run away from it if I could, but if this pain is here, waiting for someone to suffer it so that this child may receive a body, then I volunteer. I volunteered with ever wave that wracked my body. I volunteered again and again, reminding myself as I whispered to the life in my womb, “For you. For you. It’s not about me. I will do this for you.”

As I prayed and cried and swayed and squatted my beautiful angel of a midwife was by my side every moment I wanted her. Countless times I leaned against her shoulder and she would softly whisper as she stroked my head, “It will take as long as it will take. It just takes as long as it’s gonna take.” I believe she was inspired in her comforting of me, because as I say it now, it seems unhelpful, but at the time it soothed everything. That one simple phrase spoke volumes of “I am here with you. I have seen this before. This has happened before. It will happen now. It is in the process. This is all the process. And this process will end. I promise that this process will end. And I will be with you all the way.” I don’t remember if I thought of it at the time, but I cannot remember the situation now without recalling every painting I have seen of Christ suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane during the time when the Father removed his Spirit and he was left alone within himself, but an angel was sent to comfort him. That angel was my midwife. And I was the one left utterly alone in my suffering.

It never made sense to me before what use an angel would be to the suffering Christ. It could not take the pain away. That would not be possible. Then why was it there? The Father was not there in person, but the angel was a symbol, a representation that the Father was aware and all knowing about the situation. The physical (or spiritual, probably) presence of the angel was a very real reminder and comfort that He (Christ) was not alone in the process. Although he was alone in the suffering, he was not alone in the process. What he was enduring was a process. He was in the process, and eventually the process would end. I don’t really know how He did feel, or what He did think, but I know that I now understand, to some degree, how an angel in times of unmitigated suffering can be a succor. My angel could not relieve my pain in any way, but she was an anchor that kept me reminded of the larger picture that included my suffering. A reminder that this suffering was not the whole picture, as it tried to convince me it was.