At the age of thirty-nine, I learned that I needed to have a hysterectomy due to massive fibroids and severe adenomyosis. Given the enlarged state of my uterus, my doctors determined that I needed to have an open abdominal surgery. As a single woman nearing forty, I was at peace with being childless and lived a very fulfilling and happy life—but there was something about the finality that comes with a lost womb that pierced deeply. I quietly mourned over this unexpected amputation for countless reasons; burning tears rolled down my cheeks when least expected.
My surgery proved to be unexpectedly difficult, and in the miserable weeks that followed, multiple problems and complications emerged that did not make sense, resulting in further hospitalization.
During this physically and emotionally agonizing time, terms like kidney failure, high white blood cell count, Foley catheter, insult to the bladder, trigone region, ridge along the back wall, invasion of foreign tissue, calcification, necrosis, cystoscopy, and CT cystogram swirled around in my head both day and night.
It eventually became evident that one of my organs had been mistakenly sutured to some internal tissue. That injury led to the formation of a vesicovaginal fistula. To my horror, I had joined the ranks of approximately two to three million women, primarily in the global south, who suffer from a tragic ailment resulting in continuous and unremitting urinary incontinence, a condition that one writer describes as leprosy of the twenty-first century.1
As loss and suffering seeped into every crevice of my life, as I encountered the rawness that comes with devastating loss, as feelings of utter vulnerability consumed me, my understanding of mortality and conversion took on additional meaning.
The Slow Work of God
As a vesicovaginal fistula victim—stripped of all dignity, hampered in even the most basic functions of life, and lost in a sea of physical and emotional pain—I faced, head-on, the realities of living in a fallen world, the challenges that emerge when others make mistakes, the inevitable disappointment and despair that result from failure, loss, and unhoped-for outcomes. I already knew—personally, historically, and theologically—that mortality is difficult. Sometimes impossibly so. I also knew that unfairness stems from agency gone amiss, accidental oversights, bad luck, or unfortunate circumstances and not from a punitive God or divinely orchestrated trials intended to teach a lesson. I knew conversion and healing were processes. I recognized the importance of the slow work of God. But I did not know that things could be so impossibly difficult, so excruciating, and so laboriously slow.
To repair my vesicovaginal fistula, I had to have two additional surgeries in October 2019. The pain I experienced during this time is beyond description. Everything felt surreal. I no longer felt like a person; I was merely an actor going through the motions of a tragic role. Tragedy after tragedy. Bad news awaiting around every corner.
By early November, I sensed that I was not recovering well nor was I healing properly. A CT cystogram later that month confirmed my greatest fear. I remained composed—numb—as my surgeon, with tears trickling down his face, informed me that my vesicovaginal fistula was still there.
When I got to my car, the floodgates opened. I buried my head into my steering wheel and broke into violent sobs, my body convulsing as I pleaded with God for help. I had nothing left to give. Nothing.
We hoped that extended time with a Foley catheter might still result in the tract sealing up. The medical literature suggested that this could potentially happen. My family prayed and hoped; I prayed and hoped. But deep inside, I knew the journey was going to be a long one—a longer one.
While still hoping for this miraculous recovery, a member of my stake presidency and my ministering brother offered to give me a blessing. Though I had received several priesthood blessings already, I accepted the offer. Any extra petitions to the divine were welcome.
The words uttered in that blessing confirmed what I knew in my heart: You will ultimately be okay, but not yet. This recovery is going to take a long time, and it’s going to be very difficult, but you will have opportunities to learn and grow along the way.
I wanted immediate healing—“Now, Lord, now!” I had so often pleaded. But God knew that my physical circumstances were complicated and that my recovery would be prolonged. He knew that my suffering would continue to increase and that things would get worse before they got better. So, He helped me recognize that most miracles do not come as an immediate and instantaneous fix. Rather, miracles are manifest through the slow work of God. Miracles are woven into transformation—slow change—the very process through which healing and conversion emerge. The miracle, I would eventually discover, was in the journey itself: God’s grace was manifest in every moment, including the moments of devastation and failure—especially in the moments of devastation and failure.
Ironically, and perhaps paradoxically, it was within the context of my tragic circumstances—even as everything continued to spiral downward and the words “I am sorry, but it didn’t work” continued to plague me—that I sensed divine presence more powerfully than I ever had before. No immediate answers. No sudden clarity. But a reminder that I was not alone. An abundance of love. Peace. Stillness. And even some hope.
I sensed divine presence from hospital beds, during painful procedures, laced throughout my most despairing moments, as tears streaked my face, during restless nights when I awoke soaked with sweat and urine, and when I received bad news, even horrific news. God remained with me, sitting with me through my pain, never rushing me, seemingly holding my hand as the very slow process played out. God was helping me consecrate and sanctify my most difficult moments, enabling me to become increasingly converted as the very slow healing process played out.
The power—grace—was in the process of God’s slow work.
I was God’s slow work.
As my physical health unraveled, as my mind felt overwhelmed by trauma, my spirit found its pathway to healing. Old, deep wounds began to transform into strength, insight, love, forgiveness, and compassion. I began to recognize that the inner me, the real me, the daughter of heavenly parents within me, could be restored. Recovered.
Despite and because of my suffering, I was in the process of finding the inner peace that comes through aligning one’s relationship with divinity. I was experiencing conversion of a deeper, richer kind—the kind of conversion that comes through intense loss. The kind of transformation that reaches deep within.
Slowly, steadily, the virtue of Christ entered my life, peace filled my heart and mind, and, like the woman with the issue of blood, I, too, eventually became “dry” (Luke 8:43–48).
Loss, Grace, and Conversion
My historical research, my study of scripture, and my own life have revealed to me deep interconnections between loss and conversion. Loss implies some kind of deprivation. It comes in various forms and contexts, and it is no respecter of persons. It is an inevitable part of mortality, a consequence of living in a fallen world, a companion to agency. Loss can stifle us, harden us, canker us—but loss can also change us, humble us, and draw our hearts and minds to the divine. Loss can also serve as a precursor to conversion.
Though some forms of conversion can occur in a single instance, true conversion—the shift away from the natural woman or man, the process of becoming “new creatures” in Christ—unfolds over the course of a lifetime (see Mosiah 3:19; 2 Corinthians 5:17). Converting, then, is a daily decision. It depends upon divine grace and overlaps with repentance, healing, consecrating, receiving personal revelation, and engaging in the quest for sanctification. Conversion is the process through which we recover, restore, and renew our relationship with God; conversion means truly embracing our identity as children of Heavenly Parents.
Because loss is so difficult, and because conversion is so difficult, God grants us the gracious gift of time. Speaking with patience, love, and compassion, He reminds us:
Ye are little children, and ye have not as yet understood how great blessings the Father hath in his own hands and prepared for you; And ye cannot bear all things now; nevertheless, be of good cheer, for I will lead you along.
In other words, God knows that mortality can be impossibly hard, and He knows that seeing clearly takes time. His work—“the immortality and eternal life” of His children—is thus a slow work, a gracious work, a work that gives us time and space to sit with our suffering, to lament our losses, to heal our hearts and minds, and to restore our relationships with ourselves, others, and the divine (Moses 1:39). The work of God is slow because God knows that we need time to truly change, to truly become converted, sanctified, holy beings.
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Article Notes
1. See Nicholas Kristof, “The World’s Modern-Day Lepers: Women with Fistulas,” New York Times, March 19, 2016.
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