In Greek mythology, a phoenix is a long-lived bird that is regenerated, or reborn. The phoenix is often associated with the sun and obtains new life by arising from the ashes of its predecessor. According to some sources, the phoenix, in a dramatic show of flames and combustion, dies and simply decomposes before being born again. The phoenix symbolizes renewal in general, as well as the sun, time, consecration, resurrection, life in heavenly paradise, and Christ. But, also, let me add a few of my own observations about this majestic bird. I would add bravery and survivor to its description too.
Coincidentally, I was in a coma, lying in a hospital in Phoenix, Arizona, where I was being treated for full-thickness third- and fourth-degree burns over 80 percent of my body in one of the biggest burn centers in the country. In the next room, my husband, Christian, also lay in a coma with burns over nearly 40 percent of his body. We both struggled to live and heal.
We had been in an airplane crash, and on impact the airplane had burst into flames, and we had been trapped. Because of the violent impact, Christian, our pilot and dear friend Doug, and I had all been knocked unconscious and lay burning to death inside the cockpit. Doug passed away 24 hours after the accident.
When I was nine years old, my oldest sister had her first baby, and it changed my life. Babies were incredible! I knew in that moment that all I wanted to do, forever and ever, was have babies. Lots and lots of babies.
Then when I was 18, I met a boy. We met at my dad's office one spring morning. I was filling in for the regular secretary, who happened to be sick that day. It was a day I will never forget, a day that changed my life forever. I was very shy (and I should say I had a missionary), but I felt something change inside me. This boy was beautiful, and upon our first meet something completely unexpected happened. A feeling came over me like electric waves pulsing through my body. It was trumpets sounding and angels singing, as if a real-life Cupid's arrow had struck my heart. I'd never felt anything as powerful and specific in my life.
I had been taught, and believed, that heavenly help would guide my life. I often prayed for answers or assistance, and trusted that God would deliver the guidance I needed, especially for something as important as marriage. So while I was a little surprised at the content of the message, I wasn't surprised to receive it.
Christian and I were married months later, in December, and welcomed our first child, our daughter Claire, in October just two months shy of our first wedding anniversary.
For that first-year milestone, Christian gifted me with an old, rickety rocking chair that he had found at D.I. That chair has followed us to every house in every state we've lived in.
Christian had nearly a year left at BYU and Claire had just turned seven months when I found out I was pregnant again. My pregnancies were proving harder than I imagined. I was deathly ill, and the puppy I gave to Christian for his birthday wasn't helping the situation at all. If I didn't love Christian so much, I probably would have killed the dog long ago.
We welcomed our second daughter, Jane, just 16 months after Claire was born. Christian was busy, and I didn't see him much because if he wasn't in class or studying at the lab, he was at work.
After graduation, we made an epic move across the country to New Jersey. Our new normals included extreme homesickness and stress.
One afternoon, while our girls napped, Christian and I sat down together at our kitchen table with our scriptures. Together we studied D&C 59. This particular chapter is about the Saints being blessed for keeping the commandments and striving to the end--even in trials and hardships. "Behold, blessed, saith the Lord, are they who have come up unto this land with an eye single to my glory, according to my commandments. . . . Yea, blessed are they whose feet stand upon the land of Zion, who have obeyed my gospel; for they shall receive for their reward the good things of the earth, and it shall bring forth in its strength."[1]
It seemed to really ring true for us at the time. Reading those scriptures led us deeper in our study, and we found the beautiful hymn "As Now We Take the Sacrament" by Lee Tom Perry.
We read out loud together this particular part: "For courage to accept thy will, / To listen and obey. / We love thee, Lord; our hearts are full. / We'll walk thy chosen way."[2]
For me, a very young mother far from home, and Christian, a very young father with the weight of his responsibilities as protector and provider on his shoulders, we knew together that as long as we had the gospel and each other, and we followed God's plan, we would be okay because we did love the Lord. And with God, all things are possible. That hymn has offered peace and comfort many, many times since.
Christian and I had been married just 7½ years when our lives changed in a massive way. At the time, we were living in Arizona. Our oldest daughter, Claire, was just six; Jane was five. We added two sons to our family: Oliver and Nicholas, just 3 years old and 18 months.
On a hot August afternoon, after a lovely day at the family ranch in New Mexico, we crashed in a small airplane after takeoff.
Minutes before we gassed up the airplane to go home, I called my mother-in-law to tell her to tell the children that we would be home in about an hour. Minutes later, I woke up panicking in the back of our small airplane, and on fire. Screaming in pain, I couldn't believe this was really happening to me. I realized quickly, after several unsuccessful attempts trying to get out of the burning airplane, that there was no way I was going to make it out alive; and I knew if I just endured this horrid pain, it would eventually take me and the pain would be gone, but I would be dead. Then I thought about my four children, and somehow I found a way to get up and get out. Then I found the strength to roll and roll, extinguishing the flames off my body.
After I rolled for what seemed like hours, I landed in the yard of a home. I was exhausted and in shock.
I waited for help, and it came. The first of many miracles happened when our airplane happened to have crashed on the bishop's front lawn. I lay on my back, looking up at strangers who assisted me and helped comfort and calm me, and the bishop administered a priesthood blessing. All I could think about was how badly I needed someone to help me up so I could get home. My kids were so excited because I had planned to make our family's favorite dinner that night: pizza. On my kitchen counter at home sat the dough rising. I had a yoga class to teach later, and I needed to finish preparing my lesson for Young Women. I just needed to get home.
The airplane roared and crackled as fire engulfed it and a woodpile we happened to have crashed next to. We also crashed just yards away from a large propane tank. I was so frightened, and I remember frantically looking for Christian. Soon ambulances arrived and put us all three in different helicopters, and they flew us to the Phoenix, Arizona, burn center, where I was put in a medically induced coma for nearly four months.
During that time, our families were being counseled by the burn surgeons and hospital therapists to prepare for troubling times--if I actually was to live. At that time, it looked dismal at best. They also told my family I would most likely not have legs, fingers, ears, lips, and a nose. My quality of life would be painful and difficult.
They explained that, aside from my burn injuries being physically agonizing for me, my appearance had changed so significantly they worried it would be very traumatic for Christian and my children. They went on to explain that this could end our marriage. That may, sadly, be the case in other situations, but not ours. Christian and I built our love and trust on the teachings and example of Jesus Christ. He was and always has been the center of our home, lives, and marriage. We built trust and a family together and married one another's souls with all the love and respect we knew. And we had courage.
While I "slept," I missed my daughter Claire's seventh birthday and my son Nicholas's second birthday.
When I awoke from my coma, it was November.
Days went by--long days of frustrating silence and so many questions. And pain--so much pain. Because I was burned over 80 percent of my body, and because you can only donate your own skin to yourself, doctors took samples of my skin and sent it to a lab in Boston, where they grew my skin in an incubator. This skin is fragile, thin, and lots of times my body rejected it, which caused the doctors to perform critical life-saving surgeries multiple times. Family members desperately wanted to donate their skin to me, like you can donate a kidney or liver, but that doesn't work like that.
After my surgeries, I was told to lie carefully and very still. Each day I was in excruciating pain while doctors and nurses changed my bandages twice a day. I still couldn't move on my own. Each day I was discouraged. Each day I became a little more depressed, and my positive feelings I had for motherhood disappeared.
I'd lie in bed despondent and fearful, thinking about my life before the accident.
Never in a million years did I imagine my life here. This was certainly not part of the plan.
After a particular surgery where they graphed new skin around my eyes, doctors had to sew my eyes shut for two weeks while they healed. I felt claustrophobic, and as my world had gone dark, so did my heart. I couldn't keep watch on the clock to mark the slowly passing hours or anchor myself in Christian's eyes for comfort and reassurance. I was scared all the time.
All I could do was lie there in the darkness hour after hour, hearing voices around me. I couldn't help but drift to the past, thinking back to my previous life. I walked through our home in my mind, remembering the weight of a basket of folded laundry in my capable hands as I walked past my bright yellow room where my desk, computer, and books sat. I wandered through our kitchen and living room, smiling at the silhouettes I'd made of our family hanging on the wall above the fireplace.
A ritual I had always loved was walking through our quiet house after the children were asleep, and before Christian and I went to bed, to lock the front door. The house was still, the kitchen was clean, the toys were put away. With a click of the dead bolt on my front door, the dangers of the world were locked out. I felt safe, and our children were protected. I passed their bedrooms on the way back to mine. They were each sleeping deeply. I would readjust little bodies on beds and cover them with their blankets again. And then I'd crawl into bed with Christian, complete. Nothing could threaten our comfort and happiness when we were safe in our home, our children sleeping soundly at the end of a good day.
But how could I protect my children now from the outside world when I was, for all intents and purposes, the living dead? There was no dead bolt big enough to protect us from this, nowhere I could snuggle up and forget about the world around me. That reality weighed in urgently, ugly and unrelenting.
My once happy memories became so painful as I lay there. Christian tried to comfort me with thoughts of home. "Soon we'll be home, darling," he said, "sleeping in our own bed. I know it's going to be a while, but I can't wait to ride the motorcycle around the block, sit next to you on our porch swing, take the family on a bike ride."
Children are not allowed in the Arizona Burn Center, but I thought about them every day. I wondered where they were, what they were doing. I wondered if they missed me or wanted to see me again, even if they knew I looked so different. I doubted it.
The children would send me hand-drawn pictures of us together holding hands in fields of flowers and me cooking with an apron on. The nurses always taped them up near my bed, and I thought they were darling, but I asked the nurses to take them down. I was not that woman anymore. These pictures were of me with pretty white skin and brown freckles, my lips red, with rosy cheeks. Now I wasn't even close to that woman. In fact, I didn't even feel like a woman. I felt like a monster.
It had almost been five months since the accident, and I had been away from my children all that time, never seeing them once. In all that time, I hadn't even seen my own reflection either. I had been putting it off, so frightened to see my new face. I knew I looked different, but I was so terrified to actually see and deal with it.
One December evening, Christian walked through my door like he always did. This time he had a mirror in his hands.
"I know you can do it, Stephanie. Let's do it together," he said, sitting on the edge of my bed.
We sat there for hours, and he gently nudged me the whole time. "Okay, okay, I'll do it," I would say, then chicken out right before.
Then I decided I needed to do this myself--and alone. Christian kissed my forehead and quietly walked out of my room. After the door shut, I quietly said a prayer: "Please, Heavenly Father, help me. Help me like what I see. Help me be brave. Please bless me to find the old me somewhere." That prayer went straight to heaven, because almost immediately I felt calm and peaceful.
I took a deep breath and turned the mirror over. I started at my bandaged chest and worked my way up. My neck looked a lot like the skin on my arms--scarred and blotchy. I kept going. I looked at my chin, then my lips. Could those be my lips? They were huge and looked the way they felt: painful.
When I got to my nose, I cried out and put the mirror down. My nose was completely different, smaller and misshapen. I was unrecognizable to myself. My cheeks were blotched with bloody scabs and raised scars, and half of my ear was burned off.
My face scared me, and I knew it would scare anyone. I felt like I was wearing a Halloween mask. Panic took me over. How on earth could my children see me like this? I actually considered having my sisters, who were taking care of my children, put me somewhere where my children would never have to see me and deal with my inadequacies.
Being a mother was my purpose in life, the source of my fulfillment, and I knew my children would be afraid of me once they saw me. They would reject me. That fact leveled me. I was inconsolable. I wanted to die. "There is no reason to be here. My children won't even love me," I said to myself over and over again.
Those precious, beautiful children didn't deserve a disfigured, incapable mother. They needed someone strong who could take care of them no matter what. I was lacking in every way.
Each morning I would wake up with a deep ache in my heart. I wanted to wipe away the accident and everything that went with it. The nurses knew and had anticipated the big moment when I finally looked at myself in the mirror. They wanted to hear how it went, but I couldn't talk about it. "It was awful. Please don't ask me," I said. "Tell the other nurses too. It was awful."
Then I turned to God in prayer. Please help me through this. Please help our children. Then my favorite Primary song popped into my head.
"Heavenly Father, are you really there? / And do you hear and answer every child's prayer? / Some say that heaven is far away, / But I feel it close around me as I pray."
In that dark hospital room, I sang the first lines over and over out loud to myself: "Heavenly Father, are you really there? / And do you hear and answer every child's prayer?" I needed Him so desperately. But the next verse, a parent's answer to the child's questions, comforted me too.
"Pray, He is there / Speak, He is listening. / You are His child. / His love now surrounds you."[3]
I prayed for hours that morning, pleading with God for understanding and assistance. I had prayed on my own every day, with Christian and with my siblings when they would come to visit or spend the night with me. I was certain our prayers were being heard by our loving Heavenly Father. At times, I distinctly felt embraced by God's love, and the sweet assurance washed over me that everything would be all right. And I realized something. This broken, sad woman was still me, and underneath all these bandages and medicines, I still had all my toes, fingers, ears, a nose, eyes; and I could see, smell, hear; and, best of all, I had my children, and I had my husband who stood strong and immovable by my side defending me and encouraging me on.
I was released from the hospital on New Year's Eve and found my world upside down. True, I wasn't in the hospital anymore, but being home with my children who clearly were having a hard time connecting with me was much worse than I had thought.
One night I was in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, pondering unanswerable questions. Who is that person in the mirror? Will I ever like the way I look again? Can I love myself if I look this way?
I wondered if makeup would help. I hadn't opened my makeup bag for months, but I knew it had been unpacked and put in our bathroom. I found a tube of mascara and with my clumsy hands brushed it on my eyelashes.
I had been taught--and thoroughly believed in--my infinite worth as a daughter of God. I knew my value as a person transcended my looks, but that belief was being tested as I looked at my disfigured reflection in the mirror. Mascara didn't help.
I stood in front of the mirror crying, dark mascara streaming down my face, and Christian came in and wrapped his arms around me. I closed my eyes and tried to absorb another of his loving speeches.
There was a cry from downstairs. Nicholas. We both knew he wanted Christian and not me. If I went down, he'd probably end up crying even louder and wake up Ollie and the girls. But I wanted to be the one to comfort him. Nicholas cried out again, and Christian started toward the stairs.
"No, let me try," I said. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe tonight he would let me soothe his troubled sleep, like I'd always been able to before.
Christian helped me down the stairs, and when I got to the boys' room, Nicholas was crying and Ollie was zonked with a Zorro mask and cape still on. "Nicholas, Mommy's here," I said softly, and I lay beside him on the edge of the bed. " I'm here," I crooned, in much the same voice Christian had used to comfort me just a few minutes earlier. Nicholas settled down a little, and I proceeded cautiously, shocked that he was letting me touch him at all. He lay beside me, breathing deep, relaxed breaths. I looked at every detail of his face and his long brown lashes resting against his round cheeks. His chubby hands nestled their way under his cheeks. Even his white-blond hair seemed to be peacefully resting on his smooth, soft forehead. His perfect beauty struck me, and I was filled with love for this little boy, and gratitude that he would let me lie down near him. I had almost missed these precious moments with my children.
I had a choice: I could go from victim to survivor. But I didn't want to just be a survivor; I wanted to be a thriver. And I knew it was my choice, and I also firmly knew that the only way I could achieve happiness again was through my Savior, Jesus Christ.
That night I poured out my heart and soul to God. I told him that I wanted my job back again. And I didn't just want to be part of the family; I wanted to be in charge again. I wanted to do everything I did before the accident. I was determined to be present and active.
I missed me. I missed my long hair and healthy body. I missed holding my babies, and I missed snuggling up to Christian after a long day. But each day I found success knowing that I was that much closer to getting my apron back on or my fancy heels on for a weekend date.
In Alma 37:6, we read that "by small and simple things are great things brought to pass," and "the Lord God doth work by means to bring about his great and eternal purposes."[4] And I actually believed I was one of His eternal purposes.
Faith in God and in His Son, Jesus Christ, is absolutely essential for us to maintain a balanced outlook through times of trial and difficulty.
I know what it feels like to look different, and sometimes it's excruciatingly painful. I know what it feels like to feel ugly and worthless. I know all too much about the endless nights of loneliness and frustration, the depressing and devastating feelings that cause despair, pain, and worthlessness. In contrast, I also know what it feels like to be protected and loved. Christian has been my greatest strength and an advocate for me every single day. He cheers me on when I feel like I am defeated.
Now to you men, listen up. Be strong and stay clean. Please do not indulge in the filthy grasp of pornography. It is demeaning to the beautiful girls, young and old, who are in your lives and the women you will someday marry. It corrupts your minds and hearts and distorts what a normal loving relationship and marriage is. I mention this because there was a time along our journey where Christian was given the opportunity to indulge in pornography to help him cope and deal with the situation. He recalls how thankful he was that he didn't ever think about even considering that. He had never indulged in pornography before we married, nor was he involved in it as a young man, so it wasn't as hard for him to avoid it when times got hard and the temptation so very easy and accessible.
I can't imagine having to compete with pornography when I was in such a delicate place in my life. There was a time after I had seen myself and come to grips with that reality that he would never want me again. I was sure he would have to drag me around as his miserable, sick, repulsive wife. I think recovery for me would have been very different if Christian and I had to climb that hurdle as well.
But we didn't have to deal with that, and perhaps when Christian listened to the prophet or his father or his Young Men leaders as a young boy telling him not to look at pornography, he wondered, "Why? Whom would it really hurt?" He probably never would have thought his choices could and would affect him and our marriage in this particular way. I don't publicly thank him enough for being strong, for being my champion and faithful, dedicated husband, and not giving in to something that would have been easy to indulge in. Instead, he showed respect by honoring our temple marriage and the covenants that we made to the Lord and to each other. He respected my body, the women in his life, and God's timing. His good choices have made our healing process less difficult and painful.
I know my skin isn't considered beautiful. I know my face is different, and it took me a long time to accept and understand that. But now, I look at how far I have come, and now when I look in the mirror I see a woman of faith, a woman of courage. I see a mother, a daughter, and a wife. In my scars I see strength, I see hope, and I see miracles. I see God.
And I am learning to be proud of my scars.
Elder Jeffery R. Holland talked to me in his office one day when I lamented to him about how I felt ugly with this skin and all these scars. He told me, "We look for Christ's scars because they are evidence of what He did for us. They'll be the first things He shows us when we see Him again. Your scars tell a story too. They might not make you feel attractive, but they are a witness of a miracle: that God blessed you to live and that you have accomplished very difficult things."
I made it through the weeks and months after the crash and through every day since because I have faith in something larger than myself--faith that God has a plan for me. That belief is a source of inner strength that leads me to peace, comfort, and the courage to cope, even when I don't really feel like coping.
With so much that was offered me by the doctors, therapists, hospitals, and other places and people, I realized along the way that ultimately nothing they did could make me happy.
At first I stubbornly thought that the only thing that would make me happy was for life to look like it did before the accident. But no one could give that to me, and no one else could make me happy. Happiness was my choice, and with the Savior and lots of faith firmly planted in His Atonement, my life could and would be happy and fulfilling again. We must rely on the Savior and His healing power.
About five years ago, when the devastating fire damaged the interior of the historic tabernacle in Provo, Utah, everyone was saddened. I felt a personal loss because since I was born 35 years ago, I attended stake conferences, Christmas and Easter programs, symphonies, and graduations there.
When, in 2011, President Monson announced that the tabernacle would be transformed and made into a temple, my heart was deeply touched. I could see the Lord's plan all along.
Sister Linda S. Reeves, in a general women's session, said,
Suddenly we could see what the Lord had always known! He didn't cause the fire, but He allowed the fire to strip away the interior. He saw the tabernacle as a magnificent temple--a permanent home for making sacred, eternal covenants.
The Lord allows us to be tried and tested, sometimes to our maximum capacity. We have seen the lives of loved ones--and maybe our own--figuratively burned to the ground and have wondered why a loving and caring Heavenly Father would allow such things to happen. But He does not leave us in the ashes; He stands with open arms, eagerly inviting us to come to Him. He is building our lives into magnificent temples where His Spirit can dwell eternally.[5]
We are all rising from the ashes of something. Your story might not include fire and physical pain, but as you look at the glorious temple, I hope it reminds you of the beautiful transformation that took place. I hope you look at it and admire the beautiful details that make it astonishing both on the inside and outside.
The temple for me is a reminder of God's healing powers and so much hope. We were both literally reduced to ashes and born again strong, brave, and courageous, with new wisdom and a different kind beauty. And that is why this temple is so significant to me. I share my story with this temple we honor, and I celebrate its rebirth and glorious renewal.
So, you see, the legend of the beautiful phoenix isn't just a story to me; it's my story and your story. If we let the Atonement work in our lives, we can be as a phoenix and rise from pain, despair, grief, tragedy, and heartache. The Son of God makes that possible. The Atonement can lift us up in beauty from our ashes, as Isaiah promises: "beauty for ashes."[6]
I testify that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer. Because of His atoning sacrifice, we can be washed clean, and as we worthily partake of the sacrament and renew and honor our covenants, our burdens can be lightened and we can repeatedly become purified and strengthened. I testify of these things in the name of our beloved Savior, Jesus Christ, amen.
Notes
[1] Doctrine and Covenants 59:1, 3
[2] "As Now We Take the Sacrament" by Lee Tom Perry
[3] "A Child's Prayer" by Janice Kapp Perry
[4] Alma 37:6-7
[5] "Claim the Blessings of Your Covenants" by Linda S. Reeves
[6] Isaiah 61:3