Sacred Mountain

A Story of Faith Written by Kinnsi Sigler

My body involuntarily jerked up as I gasped for air, waking yet again in a cold sweat. Not this dream again, I thought as I held my hand to my heart to feel its rapid pounding. 

I rehearsed the events of my dream in my mind as I tried to drift back to sleep. I was in a dark space. It was light enough to see, yet a heavy darkness hung in the air that pierced my soul and made me feel desperate in a way I had never experienced before. I knew I needed to communicate somehow to conquer this darkness that seemed would inevitably devour me. There was so much I wanted to say but no matter how hard I tried the words would not come out. It was torture. The most realistic yet bizarre dream I had ever had. I would eventually wake myself, gasping for air in my attempts to scream out for help. 

This dream visited me, like an unwelcome friend, for years. Not often, but every few months, and it was always the same. I would ponder its meaning for a while and eventually forget about it until it would meet me in the night again.

Time moved on and my husband and I started a family. Life was wonderful and progressing just as we had hoped. I gave birth to our second child in December of 2012. He was a light in the world from the moment he arrived. Perfectly created by a loving God and sent to us. 

I felt so much peace when our son arrived, never suspecting that anything could go wrong and then it happened. The dream was back. This time in the daylight and there was no waking. 

I’ll never forget the first time I felt the familiar despair. Our son was two months old and we were driving home from the audiologist. We had just received the news that he was deaf. He could hear some sounds, but not much, and would require hearing aids to access speech. As my husband drove us home the darkness from my dream rushed in. The weight was too much to bear and I began to sob. I was ashamed of my sadness, I knew our son was exactly the way he was meant to be, yet I still felt despair. I felt inadequate, alone, and overwhelmed.

The days went on and reminders from my dream continued to sneak in; the inability to speak, to be heard. I was desperate to yell out for help yet the words wouldn’t form. There was a palpable weight in the air around me, real yet unseen, making even the smallest of tasks exhausting.

My heart broke each time I would drive with our son in the car. He hated his infant car seat and would cry every time we drove. As any mother would do, I would use my voice from the driver's seat in an attempt to calm him and then I would realize that he couldn’t hear me and my attempts were futile. Tears would stream down my face. I felt completely helpless as we traveled down the road. 

I would imagine the trials our son might experience in life and how I wouldn’t be able to relate to them, I wouldn’t be able to fix them; the unfairness and the frustrations. How could I possibly be the mother he needed me to be? I yearned to be seen, to be known but I didn’t even know my own identity anymore. I was lost, buried beneath stacks of pamphlets and dizzy from appointments with specialists who seemed to speak a different language. I wasn’t enough, I would tell myself. There was no way I could navigate through this new world our family had unexpectedly been taken to. My despair was so deep that I lost myself. My internal struggle had little to do with my son’s diagnosis and everything to do with my own self doubt. He didn’t need fixing. I did. I was drowning and needed to reach up for air. I needed to yell out, to shout out for help, but how? Besides my dream, I had never experienced anything like this before. I needed to find a way to grieve the life I had already imagined for my son, for our family, and accept a new one. I was facing a mountain I did not know how to climb.  

Afraid of the unfamiliar path ahead, I chose to cling to the familiar things that brought me peace and comfort; scriptures, prayer, and music. I felt like the woman from the New Testament with the issue of blood, desperate for help, knowing that, “If I may but touch His garment, I shall be whole.” I was reaching for my Savior like never before, hoping, with my tiny mustard seed faith, that He could help me climb it. 

Despite my best efforts to reach the Lord, things remained hard. Why was this so difficult? I always felt Him near but He seemed just out of reach, until one tender day when a Hillary Weeks song came on and I heard her sing the words, 

“In the moments when no earthly words can take away your sorrow and no human eyes can see what you’re going through, when you’ve taken your last step and done all that you can do, He will lift your heavy load and carry you.”

The lyrics were like mana to my soul and I felt immediate relief. I was ready to allow Him to lift my load and, in that sacred moment, He did. 

Looking back I realized that I somehow found the strength to victoriously use my agency to surrender all control to Him. I chose to let go and let Him. The Savior sat with me in my moments of despair. He stooped down to where I was, never rushing me through my grief, but rather allowing me to feel all that was intended for my growth until I was ready for Him to lift me. 

With every doubt and every fear he would softly whisper, “I am here.” When I ask, “How can I empathize with my son when I don’t know what it’s like to be deaf?”, He softly whispers, “I can.” 

His grace is the stepping stone that fills the gaps along my path. He goes before me, He is with me, and He is behind me. He taught me that you don’t need your ears to hear Him because he speaks to your soul. 

Oh how I love my Savior. The only one who could take my dark, terrorizing dream and make it a sacred place. Jesus took my weakness and made strength. As I climb my mountain with Him I realized I am capable of so much more than I ever could have imagined. 

Each step hand in hand with the Savior up the mountain is a new perspective, an opportunity to learn a new language, the richness of deaf culture, and the undeniable reality that we are all God’s Children. 

I now have four children. Two of them are deaf and all of them are amazing. My mountain of motherhood is a lifelong journey filled with breathtaking summits and humbling valleys. The experience of having deaf children has prepared me for the many other mountains I am sure to face in life. It continues to teach me how to recognize the Savior along my path, turning once insignificant seconds into sacred moments. I will forever be thankful for my mountain climbing opportunities that humble me, teach me, strengthen me, and draw me closer to the Savior.