By Cynthia Blades About a week before we were sealed in the Washington, D.C. Temple, my husband (Les) and I were praying together and I thanked Heavenly Father for any children we might be blessed with in the future. As I ended the prayer I had a vision of a little girl in a white dress. I began to cry and my Les asked me what was wrong. I told him I could “see” our little girl. All of this was very vivid to me. I saw a little girl with blonde hair wearing a white dress. She was barefoot and behind a white picket fence. Behind the fence was a field of daisies. She was not alone as there was a man on his haunches smiling as she ran from him to the fence. Her smile was filled with joy and excitement. As she ran to the fence she would look back at the man (also in white) who shook his head “no” as if tell her it wasn’t time yet. It was confirmed that the man in my vision was Les’s grandfather, lovingly known as Opa, when we went to see his parents and I saw a picture of Opa for the first time. He had died almost ten years before I had met my husband. I even knew the name of the little girl. Her name was Marianna Elise. Les and I had three children. The first was our son, Taylor. We thought for sure we were having a little girl because of what I had experienced and had a closet full of pink, frilly clothes for our new little one. Fortunately, I had bought a few boy outfits, just in case. Our second child was a girl. But, she wasn’t Marianna Elise. I knew the moment she was delivered that she would be named Katie Ranee. Our third and last child was also a girl. I truly thought she would be our Marianna, but again, I knew she wasn’t and so she was named Abigail Harp. Before delivering Abigail I had two doctors recommend that I not have any more children. I had delivered all three via C-section and almost tore at my inner incision scar, and so my OB/GYN said it could be dangerous should I become pregnant again. My primary caregiver recommended I not have any more because of my severe depression. I could not take my antidepressants while pregnant and although I thought I was fine, those around me assured me that I suffered a lot throughout the nine months. Both doctors said it was our decision but that if we decided not to have any more, they would perform a tubal ligation when I delivered Abigail via C-section. We were devastated and I felt sure that if I had a fourth, it would most certainly be Marianna. Les and I prayed and didn’t get an answer either way. Les told me that if I felt strongly that we have one more, he would support me throughout the pregnancy. Other friends and family told me that the depression was really bad and that I should go ahead with the doctors’ recommendation. I distinctly remember that within seconds of delivering Abigail, my doctor asked, “Are we doing the tubal?” I don’t know if it was inspiration or what but I said yes. I cried when he snipped the first tube and said, “Well, there’s one tube that won’t be producing an egg.” I almost shouted to leave the other tube alone but I didn’t, and so both tubes were done. Over the years (Abigail turned 30 in 2017) I have shed many tears that we didn’t have that fourth child. I have prayed to know why Marianna did not come to us. I’ve been asked if maybe Katie or Abigail was really Marianna but they weren’t. It’s been suggested that one of our granddaughters might be Marianna but they aren’t. Marianna was ours; mine and Les’s. I wish I had had the faith to conceive one more time. I believe that not only Les would have supported me and been by my side but that Heavenly Father would have blessed me as well. There is a part of my heart that aches for Marianna but I have been so blessed with the three children we have. Two have served missions and all three have been sealed in the temple. Their testimonies are strong and they serve the Lord in numerous ways. I believe that Marianna will still be a part of our lives. I’ll just have to be patient for the answers.

By Carolyn Booth Although I have the option to have more children, it hasn’t felt right for almost a year. I have had depression in varying degrees my whole life, and also suffer from anxiety and a toxic level of perfectionism. As much as I try to shield my kids, two boys at four and two years old, it’s difficult to do so when it aggravates my symptoms. When it first occurred to me that I will probably never have the little girl I wanted (Vivienne would be her name), or another emotional, beautiful boy, I did go through a grieving process. But I knew the children I already had deserved more. I was already yelling too much, when the anxiety bore down on my chest and throat. I was already needing to be in bed a lot. I was already struggling preparing their meals, and taking them out of the house. I knew I needed it for me, too. I needed to get on top of eating three proper meals a day, which rarely happens, even now. I needed to stay on my medication, because not doing so presented the risk of suicidal ideation. I needed to stay alive for my kids. So now, I’m at a point where I’m discovering once again who I am. I’m discovering the things I like, and the things I need to change. I am now dedicated to advocating for the cause of women in the church, because I believe we have so much to offer. I’m also looking into studying psychology, and the prospect is exciting. One day I’ll be able to say “I’m a psychologist,” instead of “My husband is a psychologist,” and I will be able to help people. I’ll be able to engage empathically from my own experiences with mental illness. Also, maybe I’ll be able to learn to love my scratchy cat, Elphaba.

By Trisha Smith-Pierce We have a total of three children. We had the older two three years apart and the last one is seven years younger than her closest sibling. I wasn’t sure I wanted to have more than two children. When I got a boy first and then a girl, I thought our family was complete:  two happy and healthy children, one boy and one girl, three years apart. It was ordered and neat—perfect you may say.   Then I got a nagging feeling. It took me three years to finally pray about it. The answer I received was so reassuring. I had always been told that children were supposed to be with certain families. The implication was always that the children meant for your home may end up in a terrible home if you didn’t have them be part of yours. My feeling after I prayed and pondered about it had nothing to do with that type of idea. After I prayed, I really felt like my life and the life of any child would be just fine if we decided to stick with two.  We had a really great family and it would stay that way if we decided to stop. I felt like it was completely up to us and would be good either way.   We decided to try and have another one and now have a ten-year difference between our oldest and youngest. The result has been really messy. It has been tiring to deal with the physical nature of raising a toddler and the mental jujitsu of a teenager. Yet, having our youngest has increased the love as much as it has increased the challenge. I feel like our lives are larger because of our third child—in every way.

By Sherrie L. M. Gavin The gravel crunched beneath my tires as I pulled into the parking area. No other cars or people were around because it was so very late at night. Yet the bridge at Hoover Dam was still well-lit. On my right was the water that created Lake Mead. On my left, separated by the bridge was the spillway. The end of the spillway looked very much like a large funnel that led to into a narrowing abyss of blackness. Beyond the abyss was unknown to me, but I had always been drawn to it. This bridge was a physical crossroads; combining roads to and from Arizona, California, or Nevada to a single point that would take you to those places and beyond. It seemed strange that such a small bridge led to vastly different geographic places. So there I stood, staring. In my hands I gripped my small, blue, scriptures. I was also at a crossroads. And my quad scriptures offered no answers. I wanted to throw them into the spillway abyss where the blackness matched the feelings in my soul. I wanted to throw myself into the abyss as well. At age fifteen, I was diagnosed with MRKH—a syndrome without solid hypothesis. It meant I had no uterus. I had unwillingly visited a dozen doctors at my mother’s behest—but because the condition means permanent inability to carry a pregnancy, the doctors all focused on the best way for me to have sex. As a Mormon youth, I was shocked, sickened and terrified at that time. Now in my early twenties, I had been convinced by a friend who worked as a nurse to visit an OBGYN she recommended. Still unmarried, but more confident, I thought I would ask better questions and find answers. After all, God meant for all women to be mothers, right? So there had to be a way for me to be a mother, too. There wasn’t. So I was angry with God. I wanted to cry out that someone cruel enough to define women as mothers was but a false poltergeist—God could not exist! I threw my quad angrily at the ground, kicking it for good measure. But at that moment—utter sadness filled me. And I knew I wasn’t alone. I picked up my scriptures, dusting off the dirt and pressing the pages flat again, and I can’t recall exactly, but I think it was Romans 8:39 that caught my eye. And held my heart. “You have a lot to offer,” said a counsellor from the week before. “It doesn’t have to be what some guy in your church says it is.” The memory pricked me at that moment, and I bled tears. So I went and sat in my car, allowing peace to take over as I wept, giving all I had to God as I cradled my scriptures. I would never give birth. And I would not throw myself into the black abyss. Because God loves me, my body is strong, and I have a lot to offer.

By Anonymous There I sat, across from a long time friend at a lunchtime bakery. She was a bit older in mom years than I, but we had cemented a bond through the new years of motherhood when we had met living on a remote tropical island. Together, we had supported our husbands in the anxious early years of career training while we both cloth diapered and made homemade tortillas from necessity. Now, years have passed and each of our youngest are in elementary school with our oldest nearly driving or nearly graduating. We have earned the things we planned for…there is career success for our husbands. And yet I am discontent. My husband and I pick out the same things, we often find solutions in the same way, we infrequently have arguments that linger. And yet for over the past year we have come to no resolution. He is certain our family is complete. I am certain there is another baby. There has been fasting, prayer, joint temple attendance. With each act of faith, we each become more convinced of our own position. He is just as confident with his spiritual witness as I am with mine. The ability to remain so polar opposite for so long is so foreign to me, so uncomfortable, that I lack peace. How can we both attend the temple and receive different witnesses? Who is right? As I share this with my friend, there is a knot in my chest. It is a knot tied up of yearning and insecurity, things I choose not to verbalize loosely. I am fragile. The separation of unity from my spouse has been wearying. Although we do pull it out and look at it, we then choose to tuck it away, recognizing the canyon growing between our positions. I tell my lunch friend how hard this has been. I wonder to her, who is more entitled to the Spirit? I wonder even more, if I were to have another baby would the yearning even go away? Or will it remain as a constant reminder of the cultural conditioning of the woman’s most prominent role, that of divine motherhood? I press further, how long should I weary the Lord and my husband? My lunch friend spoke simply to me. Her sister-like truths wrapped a warm comfort around my mind. She reminded me that my husband—my equal, my partner, my eternal companion—came first. Even before our children. She pointed out if he felt he could not stretch to welcome more, I needed to honor that. Because I chose him in marriage, he came first. When I allowed myself to feel the deepness of love for my husband, I found that taking care of his needs was more important than my desire to have another baby. This transition was not easy, but it was a shift in my focus that allowed me to remember to love him first, even more than my wants and myself. It was not an act of woman’s submission. He in turn was gentle with me. He was careful as he watched me silently grieve the loss of a baby I wanted. He nurtured me abundantly with whispered confidence that motherhood was not my only divine role. He innately knew my inner restlessness for more and planted soft encouraging words to push me forward, inch by inch, to become more. For months, he walked delicately near my heart, not because he feared I was not strong enough, but because he knew I had gifted him compromise to bring us to harmony.

By Lisa The decision not to have any more children was supposed to be clear and definite.  At least that’s what I had been told. “You will just know” kept resonating in my mind. After having four children and then realizing I should have another, I “knew” I’d be done once that fifth child joined our family. Yet, after our fifth child came, I wasn’t so sure. For a couple of years, I was not interested in holding or engaging with other babies. I would observe them from afar and pretended to care more than I really did, I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings just because I was going through a weird stage. Sadly, I truly felt no “motherly instinct” to hold a baby and didn’t feel grand joy in their cuteness. I figured this was my telltale sign that I was “done.”   But I soon found myself contemplating having another child. My husband and I discussed it and when I was considering it, he was not. When he was considering it, I was leaning towards being done. This yo-yo effect went on for at least a year. Friends told me to pray about it. I didn’t want to. I was afraid the answer would be “yes, you should have another child.” After a while, I finally was able to bring myself to my knees and pray for guidance. After much prayer, the answer I felt was, “if you want another child you will be blessed with one, if not, then it’s okay; you’ve done enough.” To be honest, I was relieved. I wanted to fulfill the Lord’s will for me and my family, but I didn’t feel like I wanted another child. I didn’t want to be pregnant again, nurse again, go through sleepless nights again, potty train, etc. My sanity level had hit its peak. I love my five children and enjoy caring for them. My enjoyment of seeing babies has returned. Though to some, the knowledge of knowing it’s possible to have another child and yet not desire one may seem selfish, the process in coming to that conclusion was not clear and definite. Turning to the Lord for confirmation, combined with Him allowing me to make the final decision—that final decision being based mostly on my lack of desire to nurture an infant—has aided me in my confirmation and given me peace in choosing to end my childbearing years.

By Christina G. Our story started on June 15, 2002 at the Los Angeles temple, where we were sealed for all eternity. We talked about having children pretty quickly due to us already being in our 30’s. After the first year with no luck, I turned to my doctors who ran every test possible. I was told that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. Now it was the husbands turn. We found out that he was not so lucky and that he would never be able to have children. We discussed other medical alternatives with each other and our bishop but we felt that wasn’t the road for us. We discussed adoption but I was not fully on board. My husband is adopted, so he had no concerns. After some time of pondering and praying, we decided to move forward with adoption. It took us a year to go through the process of classes, home visits, and becoming certified with the courts. We were excited, scared and everything in between. We told everyone we knew that we were looking to adopt. We sent emails, flyers, and even went live on a radio show in Colorado to see if we could find that one person who would change our lives forever. After 3 years of waiting, crying, and fighting with each other, we decided we needed to stop and try to be happy with just the two of us. The first few years were a constant rollercoaster of emotions. We felt bitterness towards anyone with children. We would cry during baby blessings at church and get angry when every lesson seemed to revolve around the family. We had to step away from church for about a year but not because we didn’t believe, because we had to work things out for ourselves. I received an impression during this time that I knew before I came to this earth that I would not have children. It gave me a sense of peace to know this. We are now in our late 40’s and early 50’s and even though we still have tough days now and again, we truly believe that we will be blessed with children after this life. There was a talk given in 1981 at BYU by Ardeth G. Kapp that I like to read once in a while that has helped. This is a quote from that talk… “My answer came when I opened the scriptures to D&C 88:67–68: ‘And if your eye be single to my glory [and remember, God’s glory is to help ‘to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man’ (Moses 1:39)] your whole bodies shall be filled with light, and there shall be no darkness in you; and that body which is filled with light comprehendeth all things. Therefore, sanctify yourselves that your minds become single to God, and the days will come that ye shall see him; for he will unveil his face unto you, and it shall be in his own time, and in his own way, and according to his own will.'” I didn’t want to be in darkness anymore and I wanted so badly to comprehend all things. At this point in our lives we are enjoying just the two of us. We have been able to do things that most couples with children cannot do. We are grateful for the strength we have received through this earthly trial and we know Heavenly Father has great plans for us. I know this is not easy to go through and you are dealing with much heartache but I promise as you stay close to your Father in heaven, He will bless you with more than you can ever imagine. We are in this together and we truly have a tremendous love for all of you that walk this path.

By Anonymous My patriarchal blessing promises that I will be a mother, and that many faithful and choice spirits will be sent to my family for me to raise. Ever since I received that blessing as a 17-yr-old girl, I looked forward to the day when I would raise a large, loving family with many children of my own. When my husband and I had been married for four months, he confessed to me that he’d been struggling with a pornography addition since he’d been a teenager. It shocked me, rocked my world and made me question things about my faith, my marriage, my relationship with God. When my youngest daughter was a year old, I found a notebook under the couch in our living room in which my husband had been chronicling his ongoing battle with pornography addiction. At this point, I thought it had “been taken care of,” that it was no longer in the picture. That was the start of a very dark time for me. I distanced myself from my husband, and at times could not even stand to be in the same room with him. I gave up hoping for more children. After I found the notebook, my husband and I sought professional counseling. It took four years of hard work, but finally the grace of God rested on my heart and taught me forgiveness. My husband and I have experienced complete reconciliation and our marriage is stronger and full of more love and trust than it ever had been before. The consequence, however, is that during those years our children grew up. Our family dynamic became more solidified. The space between my youngest and a hypothetical third child got bigger until it was too big for me to feel comfortable with. My trust in my husband was too tenuous to take the risk of adding additional children to our family. And so we have chosen to remain a small, two-child family. At times I still wonder about the promise in my patriarchal blessing about “many” faithful spirits that would be my children. Two is not “many”. I feel judged all the time at having “chosen” a small family. And what I can’t do is scream out, “You don’t understand! I’m not being selfish at choosing two children! I made great sacrifice to choose to stay with my husband!” My heart breaks sometimes thinking that I have fallen short of what God expected of me. Maybe He knew this set of circumstances would shape me into the best type of woman and mother I could be, but there are still days that I just weep at that unfulfilled promise in my patriarchal blessing. I know that all things work together for the good of them that love the Lord. I know that somehow, I will find joy and purpose in my role as a mother to a small family, even when I thought my role would be a mother to a large family.

By Sarah Gusky Kemer We sat on our couch, my head in the crook of his shoulder, and looked at the wall. My bloated stomach pressed against my sweatpants, feeling like it pulsed with my rapid heart beat. I felt the rock of dread in my stomach and I knew, in that instant, that this was going to be my only pregnancy. “Well, I mean, we’re not having any more kids,” I said. “Good thing it’s twins,” he said. He also carried the gene I did, we just found out, that would statistically cause cystic fibrosis in one out of every 4 babies we’d bring into this world. Too high a risk. The decision, weighted and painful, still felt right, even at that early time. I was only twelve weeks along. We chose an amniocentesis, for genetic testing on the babes. I ended up with two, actually. The first didn’t take—a baby kept getting in the way. The successful one gave confusing results and it wasn’t until ten weeks after that night on the couch that we learned our growing babes were fine. Just carriers. But better informed carriers than we had been, now, when they’re older. It’s weird to go through a pregnancy knowing it’s your last. First kick—last first kicks I’ll ever feel. On the way to the hospital the boys were kicking a bit, having been stirred up from the fetal testing preceding, and I knew it was the last time I’d ever feel growth and movement inside me. That another soul would ever reside so intimately close to mine. I relished my birth process and still take great pride in it. The feeling of birth and the feel of each baby, individually and thirty minutes apart, on my chest immediately after. The differences between them seen upon birth, and the stark similarities causing confusion so early on. It’s weird to raise kids knowing they’re your last. Each first is simultaneously the last. First smiles—last, first smiles (thankfully, not last smiles). Last first steps. Last first words. Last breastfeeding session, ever. Last diapers, ever. Now, last time they ask me to kiss them before school. It’s been six years since that night on the couch, and I’ve learned to not only live with but thrive in the discomfort from the combination of relief and sadness. It means I’m paying attention to each moment that matters, and appreciating what is so easy for me to take for granted. It makes me a better mother. Each night, before I go to bed, I take a moment to kiss my last-first boys in their sleep, to see them as babes again even in their five-and-a-half-year-old bodies. They still sleep in the same positions they did as infants. My relieved sadness is most prevalent in these moments, and I soak in the momentary pause in time passing. If I stay too long, our breathing syncs. Our souls must not be too far apart, then.

By Jenny Chamberlain I was standing over our large gray trash bin in the backyard. I had just thrown away the green Winnie-the-Pooh umbrella stroller we bought at K-mart when our daughter was born. Was it $9? $12? By now I can’t remember. I do remember that with each baby I pushed in it, I felt more satisfaction at our thrift in making it stretch through all of my children. When our second child, a boy, was heavier and stronger than the feather light daughter we had first, the stroller saved my neck and shoulder by giving me easy means to get from point A to point B. Our third child, also a boy, came along, and the sage green stroller represented freedom for me to get out of the house, breathe fresh air, and have a brief walk. My heart rate and spirits rose. By the time this boy came, the straps were getting worn. At some point between his birth and graduation from the stroller, both straps fell off. My babies so far had risen in weight by about a pound each birth, so the stroller became my symbol of hope that the next baby could weigh less. For the last three months of my fourth pregnancy I didn’t eat any sweets. I walked and walked with my toddler in that old green stroller.   When baby four, another boy, was born, he weighed 9 lbs 10 oz. He wasn’t quite a pound heavier than his previous brother, but he was heavy enough. I thought to myself, I can’t do this again. I don’t know if it was the heavy strolling I did while he was in utero, but he has been our most energetic toddler so far. He doesn’t walk. He runs. My husband and I discussed and decided to be “tentatively done.” As I wrestled inwardly with the end of the childbearing years, the number six kept recurrently coming to me. I couldn’t tell if it was God, my inner Lilith, or just random thoughts. I thought of my stepmom, who had two girls, and felt another boy should come to our family. She kept trying and miscarrying until one day, she miscarried so heavily that she passed out on the floor from blood loss and ended up in the ER. The little boy never came. The idea of more still comes back and tugs at my skirt, asking if it’s really true. I think it really is true. When I placed the green stroller in the trash can, I felt it. I broke down in an ugly cry. It is painful to let go of all of the possibilities. With each child I had learned how to nurture a little better, how to treasure and drink up each moment with a new precious life. Letting go of the potential for more — well it was purely wrenching.

Eva Witesman, a professor of public management at the BYU Marriot School of Business, joins Meredith Nelson in this episode. They discuss Eva’s viral BYU devotional, “A Future Only God Could See for You,” which commented on the right each woman has to her own personal revelation regarding her educational or personal path. In this podcast, Eva follows up on some of the ideas in her devotional, and talks more about her own career and family journey.

Making waves may be a stretch, but maybe ripples. Our stake president has typically held a dinner in between stake conference sessions for different groups each time. Once it was high councilors and wives, once it was new converts, once it was bishops and wives. He asked for ideas of others. I immediately piped up that he should invite RS Presidents, YW Presidents and Primary Presidents and husbands. And let them be served instead of making the meals. And let their husbands come as the guests instead of the wives. It was seconded by a few other high councilors, though we agreed to start out with RS presidents for logistical purposes.