Bittersweet April Conference

Twice per year our church holds a worldwide, general conference so that we can hear our leaders speak to us. The meetings are held on Saturday and Sunday in April and October. Thousands gather to the actual meeting place in Salt Lake City, but the majority of members can't get seats so they are broadcast on local television through out Utah and are also translated and broadcast at meeting houses through out the entire world so all members can participate. Growing up, I always loved conference weekend. For one thing, I didn't have to "go" to church. I could just roll out of bed and wander in my pjs into the living room to watch church on TV. As I got older, I loved it more and more. Conference weekend meant receiving spiritual upliftment, spending time with family, a change of seasons, good food, and other comforting things. And it still usually means those things to me, but this is the second year now, where the memories of April conference, in particular, will hold other very special, bittersweet memories.

In April of 2005 I was visiting my 6 month old son in Haiti. I went only with the adoption coordinator for the orphanage and I slept on the balcony under a mosquito net with Loumy. The trip fell over April conference weekend. I didn't get to hear any of the Saturday meetings but on Sunday the orphanage director took me to the "Centrale" chapel in Port-au-Prince so that I could watch conference. I will never forget the sweet memories I made that day.

I smiled as I dressed Loumy in some khaki shorts and a little button-down shirt which I thought would be appropriate church attire. They were only 3 month size clothing, but they still drowned him.I smiled at how often I was told by the Haitians that Loumy looks just like me. Many Haitians are much darker-skinned than Loumy (especially at that age when he was malnourished, he was much fairer than now), so it is conceivable that he could be the biological offspring of me and a dark-skinned Haitian.

I smiled at how every single person over the age of 16 at the church knew my Haitian friend, Isson, in Utah. And most said, "Oh, he is my best friend!" These guys were some who asked me to take their photo to show Isson.

I smiled when I saw Isson's father, Termilhomme, with skin as wrinkled and dark as a burnt brownie, blush with pride when we heard his son's voice being broadcast all the way from Salt Lake City to our church there in Port-au-Prince as he translated the talks into Kreyol.

I smiled peacefully as I rested on the wooden benches in the chapel with Loumy quietly sleeping on my chest, waiting for my ride to take me back to the orphanage.

And of course all of that is offset somewhat with the bitterness associated with returning to an orphanage where the next morning I would pack my suitcases and put them into a van, then would hand my tiny little son to a nanny and would stare at him as his eyes widened with question and surprise, but then fear as he started to reach and scream for me. And I would get into the van and watch him staring incredulously after me as I bumped and jostled down the dirt road towards the airport, with no idea when I would be seeing my son again or if he would even survive the parasites in his belly and the other diseases lurking around every corner until I could return for him.Each April conference since then, I have hugged Loumy a little tighter and kissed him good night a little longer, so grateful that he made it safely home to us and spent that conference with the whole family.

Today was another April conference that I will always remember.

I will smile when I think about my tiny baby Finn, holding my finger and suckling at my breast in the NICU. I was so happy and proud that he ate an entire feeding and gained another couple of ounces. I will look at the onesie he wore today and will marvel that he actually ever fit into something so small. I will also remember a somewhat bitter feeling at the memory of rocking him in the chair and not daring to leave him yet as I would glance nervously from his face to the monitor and back again. I will remember patting him on the back and whispering, "You can't stop breathing like that. Breathing is not optional. I know you are tired and I'm so proud of you for working so hard to eat this past 24 hours, but you still have to breathe afterwards, even if you are exhausted." And I will feel a sadness pass over me as I remember putting him back in his bassinet and having to leave him again.

Next April conference, I sure hope to not be visiting any of my babies, but I hope to have them living with me! Hopefully I will remember to say less things like, "Stop being so noisy, we're trying to listen!" but rather will kiss them longer and hug them tighter because some past April conferences have been awfully bittersweet.