Normally today I’d write of parades with children in sun bonnets, foot races down canyons rutted by wagons, fireworks and celebrations. All in remembrance of the great shared story that is ours on Pioneer Day. A story of restoration, conversion, migration, and refuge.

But I’m not in Utah this year. We’re in another mountain range. And as I type, cool mountain air rises through the screen door and over my shoulder. We’ve taken our first family trip since all five children were born. Our first vacation outside of Utah, that is.

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I had such high hopes for this adventure. But as I was packing swim trunks, favorite blankets, and running shoes, I felt a sore throat coming on. I had already lost my voice, and by the time we arrived at our destination, I was battling a lethal strep throat.

It’s been five days now and the sores in the back of my throat are just starting to disappear. I still have no voice. Nasal congestion barreled in at full throttle, holding all respiratory and sinus passages captive. And the finale? A lovely chest cough. Truth is, I’ve been miserable.

I was so looking forward to slowing down with my husband and children, to snuggling, giving lots of hugs, and walking hand in hand. Unscheduled time together –  that was the anticipated gift. Instead, I quarantined myself so I wouldn’t share the awful virus. I took up frenetic hand-washing, refused physical contact with all family members, left meal preparation to my husband, slept on the far edge of the bed, and conked out for two hours on the couch while everyone else went exploring in town.

I sat by the pool in a jacket while the kids swam. Each time they showed me some new trick or yelled “Mom,” I offered them an energetic but silent thumb’s up. The gesture felt inept, ingenuous. When Gordon said something funny, I wanted to laugh but nothing came out. One night I flailed my arms wildly to get everyone’s attention, only to whisper some point that seemed well… point-less by the time I got it out.

I let the children handle their own disagreements because I had no voice to intervene. And when I did speak, the strained barking from my throat made me bristle. I sounded curt and exasperated.

This was no vacation. It was a detached place of observing, of watching the world spin forward while I voyeured from another planet.

So much of our ability to connect with each other depends on voice and touch. And without these, I felt severed. Of course, losing one’s voice like this is not permanent. It is nothing compared to real loss, painful loss. Loss of future, children, or family.

But with any loss, even slight and temporary ones, something is learned.

And this is what I know. I love this life. I don’t like sitting the sidelines. I want to laugh, yell, sing bedtime songs, lace my fingers between my husband’s, hug my girls, dive into the lake, run breathless up the canyon road, point out the petunias growing long and wild in the flower box next door.

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I want to live.

Each morning here my eyes have met this psalm, hung near the bathroom door:

“This is the day the Lord has made; Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24)

Life itself is the gift.

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Today I watched Ali and Sami net minnows in the lake. I finally felt well enough to put my suit on, wade into the cold water, set out lunch on the picnic table, press my knees into the shore to help Eliza build a sand fortress complete with yellow wildflowers and  white rocks to line the moat.

Then tonight, as we were walking into town for dinner, Spencer put his hand in mine and I didn’t let go. It was the first time in days I have held hands with one of my children. Something inside me crackled, awakened, kindling a fresh love.

His small fingers, warm in my palm, felt like home.

What have you learned through silence or sickness? What helps you live life more fully? Tell us about a challenge that helped you cultivate gratitude?


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