Heartbroken insomnia

I just learned that the youngest son of some of our dear Provo friends, just 6 months old, has recently been diagnosed with spinal muscular atrophy, type 1; a rare genetic disease that only promises a life span of 2 years.  I am heartbroken for them.

On their blog, she writes of her struggles with sleep lately: of dreading the loneliness and solitude of night. Now having learned of their situation, I find myself sleepless as well, unable to tear my thoughts from these friends.  So here I am, hoping to type my thoughts out and maybe be able to sleep tonight.

We were neighbors with this couple 5 years ago, when their first son was born.  They were some of the first people we met in our married student ward, and some of the kindest.  To this day, I think of them often and the wonderful example they were to us.

I am realizing that there was a special, unspoken bond, formed with the many young couples we knew in that married ward.  Everyone was going through the same exact phase of life, starting a new life together, learning to be more selfless than selfish, starting to grow families... it was a sacred time of life, to be sure; filled with life lessons, and over-flowing with priceless memories.  As such a special time of life is shared among neighbors, it comes as no surprise to me now, 5 years later, that I am so affected by this tragic news.

Come to think of it, we still keep in touch with numerous couples from that phase of life, counting some of them lifelong friends, always to be considered family. 

But moving on.


In my mourning for them, I am uplifted by their faith and strength: still, 5 years later and 800 miles away, they are setting the example for me.  What incredible friends we have.

This entire thing throws into sharp perspective the blessings I have been showered with.  Carrying Lucy to time-out as she kicks and screams won't be as much of an annoyance anymore:  it will be a reminder of the strong body she has, a body that can kick and scream.  Pulling Eve away from Charlie's lego towers won't seem as exasperating anymore, because it means that she can crawl. And wiping Charlie's tears away, every 5 minutes, because he fell, or bonked his head, or stubbed his toe, etc won't be as exhausting as it once was, but will be a gift, because it means he can run, jump, and move his little body.

My heart, prayers, thoughts, and sleep, go out to our dear friends.

I am grateful for them, their example, and their faith.