The Boston Stake Presidency and Stake Relief Society Presidency drafted a letter which was read last Sunday in RS and Priesthood meetings. The Stake President has stated that the “overarching purpose of all of this was to train our leaders on helping any abuse victims.” The first four paragraphs were agreed upon and signed by the members of the Stake Presidency and the Stake RS Presidency. The fifth paragraph was added by the Stake President. This was intended for members of the Boston stake and is shared with permission of both the Stake President and Stake RS President. Dear Leaders of the Boston Stake, With recent events and a focus on abuse of many kinds, we wanted to reiterate our stance and that of the church in protecting children and adults from any form of abuse. policy is clear, the doctrine of the Church commits us to do all we can do to protect children, adults and to strengthen the bond between husband and wife. Abuse in any form is sinful, tragic, and in opposition to the teachings of the Savior. Church leaders should teach the principles in “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” including the evils of abuse and the importance of sensitively ministering to the victims of abuse. When information of abuse occurs, the first and immediate responsibility of Church leaders is to support and protect the victim and to take appropriate steps to protect persons vulnerable to future abuse. When Church members become aware of abuse, they should report it to the proper church authorities and as appropriate to legal authorities. Once secured, Church leaders should act in a way that is caring, compassionate, and sensitive toward all involved, with the goal of helping victims, perpetrators, and their families receive the healing love of Jesus Christ. We love the members of the Boston Stake and stand ready to minister to anyone who feels the need to meet with us. What I want to do for our Boston Stake members is to make it clear, that we do not want them to feel any lack of trust or confidentiality in dealing with their called, set apart and, in some cases ordained leaders. If any sister in our stake has been abused or feels that she has not been listened to or heard in a case of abuse, our hearts, ears and doors are open to discuss with them when they feel they can. I want them to know that in any discussion of abuse, my disposition is to start by believing them and mourning with them. Our discussions would be in the strictest of confidence and if the sister so desires, another sister leader or friend is welcome to join us. Sincerely, Boston Stake Presidency and Boston Stake Relief Society Presidency

My stake Relief Society president has demonstrated the most inspired initiative and leadership on the issue of mental health. After consulting with mental health professionals and preparing resource packets, she proposed to the stake president that he invite all ward RS presidents to join the bishops for their regular training council. We sat around a large table, exactly 11 women, 11 men, and one baby. A female licensed social worker spoke for a portion of the meeting on how and when to refer ward members to professional care; on what resources to offer members struggling with mental health, and specific guidance in certain extreme cases; and on establishing self-care and boundaries as we minister. The stake RS president spoke next, sharing a packet she had compiled of local and online mental health resources. The bishops seemed particularly grateful for this. How rare to sit in a council with exactly equal numbers of men and women! And what leadership our RS president has shown on this issue. At the founding of the Relief Society, our first president Emma Smith said, “We are going to do something extraordinary. . . . we expect extraordinary occasions and pressing calls.” This meeting was an extraordinary occasion to answer a pressing call. I am thankful for the cooperative ministry being modeled and encouraged in our stake.

Segullah has recently published its third anthology, called  Seasons of Change , containing more than fifty essays, stories, and poems written by LDS women on the subject of transition. For those listeners who are unfamiliar with Segullah , on their website they state, “Segullah is a literary journal and blog designed to encourage literary and artistic talent, provoke thought and promote greater understanding and faith among Latter-day Saint women. We publish insightful writings and images which explore life’s richness and complexity while reflecting faithfulness to the gospel of Jesus Christ.” In this episode Meredith Nelson interviews Sandra Clark Jergensen and Shelah Mastny Miner, the editors of Seasons of Change: Stories of Transition.

Post-children years—the years that split my life into boxes. As I now unfold the flaps of that thirty-year block and rewind them, vivid memories come floating back through buried layers of subconscious soup. It was a place filled with juxtaposed emotions: tearful joy alongside aching sadness; thankful pride mixed together with profound heartache. A breathless journey down a steep mountainside, with five jerking precipices rising up (too quickly), marking the anticipated, yet dreaded, parting as each child left home, ripping out a vital piece of my heart. A wave of painful joy washed over me, a place of thankful mourning, as one gift of life from the sinews of my body, after another, moved away from needing me ever-present in their life. Although grateful for the freedom to sleep uninterrupted by nursing babies, wandering children, scary dreams, or teenage counseling, the body I had lived in comfortably for thirty years began behaving in strange and unpredictable ways. Post-reproductive years had been looked forward to as a comfortable, rhythmic place: without the cataclysmic upheavals of conceiving, growing, bearing, nursing, and swaddling (and the attendant three different sizes of clothes in my closet). Yet in this unfamiliar place, thermonuclear surges, deep within the core of my body, randomly turned on, or off, in the middle of the night leaving me inside a waterfall. Previously regular and manageable, I renamed what happened to my body every month as “Red Tide Days,” rendering me completely housebound. Facing these physical predicaments, I was reintroduced to a long forgotten insecurity about my physical body and faced tremors of deeply shaken confidence in losing my definition and purpose in life. I felt the long slow process of dying begin and I was way too young for this. There was new freedom there, stretching space and time with open possibilities where previously every second was crammed to overflowing, going in a myriad of directions. But I also faced an erratic fear of not being desperately and immediately needed, followed by near panic at the thought that this phase of joyous, hectic dependence—within which I could teach, lead, and influence those I loved the most—was just gone. What on earth, after all, had I taught them? Through the fog of pain, adjustment, and confusion penetrated gentle comfort. Essentially, I had taught them to rely on God, love fiercely, treasure blessings, and swallow life with an unquenchable thirst. Gradually an awakening sense of opportunity began to dawn, intimidating at first: freeing, then exhilarating. I had to decide where to turn (unencumbered, all by myself), what to do, how to go all over again, as I edged toward inviting yet terrifying new horizons. My basket of living filled up again with purposeful direction, in some ways even fuller than before, working toward goals which had been postponed for years. In teaching my children to follow their own path with love, I could also follow mine, without regrets, and thankfully, begin to look forward, not back. Marilynn & her grandchildren

By Anonymous  “You know, you can be done having kids,” he said, his face betraying the weight of a familiar argument. Frustration. Pity. Condescension. Much as I wanted to say, “Well, of course I know that,” it didn’t come out. Instead, I thanked him for the visit, hopped off the exam table, and pushed the stroller out the door in front of me, noting how easy it was to maneuver without my middle child sitting on the front wheel. By the books, there should not have been anything wrong, but there was. Twice. The first growth restriction diagnosis was chalked up to a fluke: two-vessel umbilical cord. The second had no discernible cause; another fluke, perhaps. That’s all well and good in terms of playing the odds, but speaks nothing to the experience. At least two doctors told me that it was normal. “You and your husband are not big people. Maybe you just make small babies.” I was suffering from anxiety; I should take antidepressants. I had nothing to worry about. But the tests confirmed my suspicions, and antidepressants did not work. I relied on meditation and booked a counselor, dragging my two older children with me so that my medical appointments could be kid free. I only had so much help. They say motherhood is hard, that pregnancy is miserable, but it’s all worth it as soon as you meet your baby. Then they ask when you’re having the next one. “Don’t do it; it’s not worth it,” I joked at a Primary activity that weekend, as the other leaders and I talked about upgrading our compact cars to various types of minivans. I was kidding, of course, I’d do it all again. I think most mothers will relate to the superhuman ability to set their own needs aside for their children. But at some point, I realized I could not further divide my already minimal energy, especially not with another high-risk pregnancy. As mothers in Zion, we learn that motherhood is a crowning glory. We see the woman down the block deliver her sixth child and all we hear is vague allusions to how everyone is adjusting. No one talks about how impossible it is to function. The long postpartum recovery, when you’re left to take care of the older kids and a baby and yourself while still bleeding, feeling like your abdomen is held together with paperclips. Some women have minimal issues and are back at church a week later, juggling everything like pros—at least, they can make it seem that way. There is so much pressure to suck it up and deal. And while I could list out pages of my own reasons to be done having babies—growth restriction, postpartum hemorrhage, physical therapy, surgery, depression, anxiety—it never seems like enough. Against the pressure, I have had to say no. To draw the line and see who respects it. After all, it is my body, and I owe my best to myself and my family.

By Anonymous I grew up the fifth of seven kids, around a close knit extended family—all of whom had large families. I always expected to have a large family, “At least five, of course.” Then time passed, and I didn’t get married until I was 29. I knew seven kids was off of the table because of my age but also because of desire. I guess as I matured I better understood the realities of such a large family. When my husband and I talked about how many children we’d like, we always figured at least two but we’d see, and take them one at a time. By age 34, we had two kids. I always figured we’d have at least one more, but my husband really didn’t want any more. When our youngest was a year old we really started thinking hard about it. Over the course of the next year, we did a lot of growing as a couple. I could never get God to tell me if I was supposed to have more kids, but I did get the impression that my relationship with my husband was more important than how many kids we had and either way, it would be fine. We maybe started with defenses and judgments, but we were able to respectfully work through it. We learned that we were both selfish and both selfless in our opposite opinions. We also learned that our personalities are polar opposites. I had to come to terms with my upbringing, which taught me, through example, it was righteous to have lots of kids and wicked to limit your family. I felt deep down that there was some truth to that, though I also knew deep down, those were some false traditions passed down. In the end I was able to respect my husband’s position and I was able to say that my wish for another child wasn’t just some desire to be righteous and please my family. I was willing to stop at two, and not just grudgingly willing. I was at peace and wasn’t going to hold it over my husband’s head. We both knew we weren’t going to change each other’s minds and that was okay. One day my husband relented and decided he would sacrifice his choice for me and we could try for another baby. I got pregnant. Pregnancy and a new baby were strains on our marriage, as we knew they would inevitably be, but we were okay too. Shortly after our new baby came, my husband got a vasectomy. I was supportive and at peace with that. We were done. I had grown up hearing so many stories about how couples had felt there were more souls waiting to come to their family or they were done with kids, but then felt a surprise prompting to have more. Or they felt they should be willing to accept as many souls as God choose to send to them, but I had never heard a story about how a couple knew it was time to stop. I think that’s why I felt compelled to share my story. God never told us. We had to work through it together and just use our own agency, but in the process our relationship was immensely strengthened. Our marriage really was more important than how many kids we had.

By Jenny Alton I gave birth to our first son at age 21. When he was three, my husband became very sick and was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I had always felt like our family wasn’t complete with just one child, but the future had become painfully uncertain. I just didn’t know if we would be able to handle having another child with the challenges we had. My husband’s health thankfully began improving, and we were able to have our second son when I was 27. This second delivery was a tough one. My son was posterior, so his unmedicated home birth delivery was, shall we say, very challenging. I had also struggled a great deal with depression and anxiety throughout that pregnancy. The anxiety began in childhood and the depression in young adulthood, and they, unfortunately, seem to be my devoted companions for life. I remember standing in our kitchen a few hours after the birth, so in love with my new little boy, but frankly, very traumatized from the experience of getting him here. And that’s when I had the impression, “It’s okay. You’re all here now.” I was still young and so I didn’t want to believe that impression for several years. I was also feeling cultural pressure, whether real or imagined (probably both), about having a larger family. I thought that we weren’t “good enough” with only two children. But I eventually kicked those beliefs to the curb and accepted the impression that had been given to me years before. It was so sweet to finally embrace the knowledge that God loves my little family just the way we are and that it’s 100% okay for my husband and me to spend energy that might have gone into having more children on keeping ourselves as healthy as we can for the amazing two children we have.

By Michelle Barney We weren’t planning on being done. My husband always wanted a big family with lots of little faces running around the yard. Seven, he said, was the perfect number. I was not so sure. After our second child, we miscarried twice. My heart carved identical holes where the children would stay, unable to come into this world any other way than through the piece of me they’d taken when their little hearts stopped beating. Still, I hoped for the day when I could cradle another child in my arms. Time passed without answers, without hope. Only the words of a kindly nurse: It’s time to see a specialist, my dear. I went to the temple instead, begging for comfort and answers and the pain in my soul to cease. In the temple, I saw a boy somewhere in the recesses of my mind. He smiled at me, and I knew that he was mine. Wait for me, he said. I’m coming. And though I did not give up in my heart of hearts, I could not keep trying and failing, my heart could not take much more. We stopped the ovulation tests, the worry, the doctors, the fear: let God take over what we could no longer control. Within the year, we were pregnant. A boy. There is a worry that you only understand when you’ve lost one, when every moment is swallowed up in fear and hope and love so strong you cannot breathe. Even after the danger passes, I let the fear of losing him swallow me up until I could do nothing else, see nothing else, until I haunted the hallways of my own life. It took all my strength, all of my will just to hold onto this little life. For 38 weeks I was a ghost. The day my rainbow child was born, I knew. This was the one I had been waiting for. I saw his sweet face, and I knew I’d seen my miracle. I knew my Father in Heaven had granted me one more soul to care for, one more heart to hold—one last burning light in the dark. God has given me three beautiful children on this earth and two precious souls I do not yet know. He has gifted me with angels of comfort and peace. He has helped me feel the guidance of His hand. It’s fitting that children born after a miscarriage are called rainbow babies. Only after the storm did God send Noah this burst of light and a promise that these storms would not come again. I sit with my son, now five years old, a perfect image of the boy I’d seen in the temple that day and I tell him that he is a special soul. He is a rainbow child sent to bring us joy. I do not doubt that my childbearing days are at an end because I’ve come out of the storm, I’ve been given a rainbow.

By Jo Anna Kemble Childbearing came natural and strong for me. I know this may not be common, but it was true for me. I had my first child when I was 22, and the childbirth was textbook and perfect. At that moment I knew that having babies was my calling. It took me three years to have another. After that I had two more children in quick succession. But pregnancy was hard and unpleasant for me. I hated it. I was sick with hyperemesis for nine months. When I was pregnant with my fourth child I thought for sure I could never do this again. I felt that I was a burden to my husband and children. I encouraged my husband to get a vasectomy. He seemed at the time to be all for it. Looking back on it I can see that he procrastinated going forward on it. Maybe because he didn’t want the surgery or maybe because he wanted the option of having more babies. At the moment he went to have the procedure done I wanted to change my mind. But we were sitting in the waiting room full of people and I was nine months pregnant. My mother had said we had more than enough children. The doctor told me I shouldn’t have anymore because my bowels were prolapsed and I was at risk of pushing them out. I was conflicted and anxious. My head won out over my heart and I let him go. The moment came to give birth only a week later. Everything went according to plan. I took the baby home and there were no real problems. But I had one major regret. I remember vividly nursing my newborn and thinking this is the last time I will ever do this again. A sadness and regret started deep inside me that I couldn’t let go of for the better part of a decade. I knew I had made the wrong decision to not have more children. There was nothing I could do now but to accept it and try to move forward. That small voice inside me to “must have babies” had to be quieted, denied, subdued. I have struggled with this sorrow and only now have been able to put a voice to it. Thank you.

By Helena Österlund After our fourth child was born, I felt there was room for one more pregnancy in my body. My husband, however, felt that we were done. After a year, we felt the need to pray about it, but before that, I needed to be willing to hear, “No more. You’re done,” and my husband to hear, “Yes, one more is waiting.” Otherwise, we were not going to hear what Heavenly Father would tell us. It took some weeks, but then we were ready. After a couple of nights, my feeling just went away. “No more. You’re done.” A peace came over me and us. I’m so grateful to my Heavenly Father for the concern of my health. I didn’t know then, but some time later my back started to give me some serious trouble. Some days I couldn’t get out of bed. I realized that if I had pursued my own wish of having another child I would have had, on top of everything else (Taking care of four is a lot of work! Puh!), a baby to take care of when my back was causing me so so much trouble. Since that night of peace I/we have never looked back. Thankfully my back is much better these days, but we have both felt and seen the Lord’s hand in our decision so many times. So grateful. By Patricia G. Karamesines   When my husband and I married, we wanted at least four children, spaced two years apart. Between Kid One and Kid Two, we stayed on track, but we were forced by circumstances into ending the plan—not because we came to a conclusion like, “They’re all here.” Quite the opposite. My second child arrived in the world with severe disabilities. After that, I didn’t know whether I’d have another baby. When she seemed to stabilize somewhat around seven years old, I was 40. Nevertheless, my husband and I decided to go for it. Our third child was born two weeks before I turned 41. It was a difficult pregnancy, hard enough that I decided, “This is a young woman’s game. Can’t do it again.” Besides that, providing care for an infant and a fully dependent seven-year-old took its own toll. Still, for years after, when I spoke to my three kids or called them, names in a row—to  pay attention to something or, for instance, to “come eat”—there was always something I’d characterize as a shapeless or empty name for a fourth child trying to form at the end of the list and tip of my tongue. It happened over and over and always brought me up short in a stumble of muteness. Years passed, and that ghost of a name gradually stopped haunting my mouth. But I never felt my family was complete. I only resigned myself to the fact that my childbearing years were over. By Tiffany Wacaser   I was diagnosed with lupus after my third child was born. We thought, then, that our family might be complete. We were blessed to have three more children as my health stabilized. Before my final pregnancy we realized that my age and lupus meant it would be my last pregnancy. I was so grateful for the opportunity to bear the children I had, I didn’t feel very sad at ending that process. As I contemplate my future, I am content with my family and the work I have done and am doing as a mother. By Paula Purifoy   When I had my second to youngest, S for short, the whole pregnancy I was content to be done. We had our four that we always wanted and it was the two boys and two girls we said would be perfect. As I sat in the hospital room, hours after her birth, I just knew there was one more meant for us. My oldest is an older child adoption and I always thought it would be neat to adopt another child, so they could have that special bond. This time, I wanted to bring the baby home from the hospital. I just didn’t expect it to happen six months after S was born! About six months after that, I had one of the days where I just knew that eventually he, our youngest, would be ours forever and it felt right. Two years later, the adoption was finalized and we never felt that desire to have another child.

By Jennifer Lambert As a young girl, I always wanted to have five children. As I entered my late 20s and still wasn’t married, I came to grips with the fact that I likely wouldn’t have five. I’d settled on having three by the time I married at 31, and my husband was in agreement with me. When we’d been married about five months I had an urgent feeling that now was the time. My husband and I talked and prayed about it and we both felt good about moving forward. I conceived immediately and was over the moon. About six weeks into the pregnancy I knew something was terribly wrong. I had pain on one side and I suddenly stopped “feeling” pregnant. The news was the worst—I had an ectopic pregnancy. I was devastated. Was the prompting I had to get pregnant even real? Did I do something wrong? About 18 months later, I gave birth to our first child, a healthy baby girl. Exactly two years later, another healthy girl followed. I was 35 at the time and had gestational diabetes with both pregnancies, but still felt like I had one more in me. One year later, I had a miscarriage immediately followed by another ectopic pregnancy where I lost one fallopian tube. We still felt like there was another child. We kept trying to conceive, but we just weren’t having any luck. Two and a half years later I still wasn’t pregnant and then my husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Because he was so young, his doctor recommended an immediate radical prostatectomy. He would be sterile after the surgery, so we consulted with a fertility specialist and decided to try IUI. It was successful, and I found out I was pregnant the day of my husband’s surgery. I found out I had miscarried at 14 weeks. The following year was bad. I really felt like there was another child to be in our family, but I also felt out of options. We had banked enough sperm to do one round of IVF, but where would we come up with the money? My husband felt like our family was complete and wanted to sign the order to destroy the banked sperm. I just wasn’t ready. When Elder Renlund was called to be an apostle and I heard about his wife’s story, I started to feel comforted. Specifically, I felt like not having a big family was acceptable to the Lord. And then one day I stopped feeling so broken. I told my husband to go ahead and sign the papers. I still remember the dates of my losses and mourn. I hear a friend is pregnant, and I mourn that I won’t ever be pregnant again. But I feel at peace with my husband and two daughters and feel grateful for them and confident in the knowledge that my worth is not tied to how many children I have.

By Janette Sorensen Marshall Once you have gathered ingredients and baked a delectable variety of breads, it’s good to let them cool and then feast on the warm crustiness. You try sampling different spreads to experience what works for one loaf and what is better on another. The varying tastes are delightful and lead to new tastes. This is what the end of childbearing was like for me. The loaves were baked and cooling and the time for tasting all the experiences of life together were being continually launched in the exhausting and delightful repetition of days, months, and years to come. Some yearn for children they cannot have, others sometimes get children they don’t really want. Mine, like most, came one at a time. After each baby, and some time passed, I felt another call and I felt the Lord with me. Each one was wanted and came when I felt ready. With each, I felt a blessing in my heart from the Lord. I felt in partnership with the Lord each time a child was to come. Ten children arrived that way and at that time, I sensed that the children given to me to bring into mortality and rear were all here. I no longer felt that knocking on the door of my heart. That particular communication was cooling and the work of raising these children was in full swing. I am sure that partly because I had my quiver full, I didn’t feel any loss with the assurance that I had come to the end of childbearing. I felt the Lord was with me and my husband in the current life we had taken on. We were raising a house full of children and we enjoyed them with all the challenges and fun. With the end of childbearing, my mind and heart were completely taken up in the continuing endeavor of raising. When things were most challenging, I felt the truth of the words from D&C 123:16 sink deep into my heart with hope, “You know… that a very large ship is benefited very much by a very small helm in the time of a storm, by being kept workways with the wind and the waves.” In all times with our children, joyful and challenging, I had the precious knowledge that each child had come, by a very intentional decision, from prayerful conversations between me and the Lord. He gave me ten children and He has been with me in all the days of bearing and rearing them. I love them. And I love Him.