Might as Well Laugh About It Now (28 page)

Maybe it’s my years of being on the road, or having so many brothers, or so many kids, or having so many more complicated things happen in my life, but I can’t imagine having a meltdown over a dress. I hope I never do. And if I do, I think I’ll realize that it’s time to exit my entertainment career. As my daddy taught me early on when we toured as a family singing group: “It’s all for one and one for all.” I may be the one in the public eye, but I know I’m the face of a team of people who put their talent, their hearts, and their time into getting me there. A dress will come and go, but the people around you will remember, for years, their interaction with you. And it’s people who have the power to bring happiness, never a gown. Not even a gorgeous, sequined, feathered, too-tight gown! Other people lift you up, especially when your dress is held together with lace, pins, and a prayer.

After the dressing assistant left, I looked over at my girlfriend, who was enjoying a piece of crunchy toffee between two slices of breakfast Danish, like a sandwich. She had made one for me, too. As every female knows, after a good rush of adrenaline, you’ve got to replace your blood sugar.

You’ll Be There

On the tour bus with my brother Jimmy and my forever “partner in crime” and true-blue friend since age ten, Patty Leoni. She’s the sister I never had.

The first time I became an aunt I was only ten years old. I loved the idea of being an aunt, and still do, from that first Osmond grandchild, Aaron, through forty-eight more nieces and nephews, all the way to Jimmy’s youngest child, sweet little Bella. They all call me “Auntie M,” exactly like the character in
The Wizard of Oz
movie. Hey, hold on a minute! Wasn’t Auntie Em prematurely gray and a drab dresser who spends her days counting chickens? That does it! Not one of them is invited into my tornado cellar.

My nieces and nephews are charming, smart, amazing people. I know I’m biased, but they truly do represent their parents well in their communities and the world. The adult ones are teachers, nurses, creative entrepreneurs, businesspeople, involved moms and dads, and even entertainers. The ones who are still children really have it together, too! Many of them are honor roll students, involved in team sports, play musical instruments, have been in bands or choirs, and do a lot of volunteer work. My brother Alan’s eight sons formed the singing group the Osmonds Second Generation (2ndG), and they do shows throughout the year. Almost all of the young men served two-year missions for our church.

As much as I love every single one of them, one niece in particular really changed my life in a significant and lasting way. She has never called me “Aunt” and I haven’t seen her face-to-face in many years, but I think about her often and carry her in my heart. She was born in 1981, at a time when I was just getting ready to forge out on my own and sample a new life, independent of my family.

I had decided I was ready to leave Utah and live in Manhattan and study acting. My parents weren’t all too thrilled at the prospect of having me relocate two thousand miles away from them, but they had always encouraged each of us to expand our minds and our talents and couldn’t really voice too much opposition to my dream. My best friend, Patty, was ready to make the move with me. I thought I would finally be able to make my own choices without having to always consider how it would affect ten other people. As much as I love my family, I was young and single and saw no reason not to pursue my own goals.

One afternoon, Patty and I were sitting on one of the benches at the extra-large dining table my father had built into the bay window of the kitchen, talking about our future plans. I’m sure, in her highly organized way, she had a steno pad and pen poised.

When the phone rang, I jumped up right away because we were expecting news about the birth of my brother Tom’s fifth child. My mother had called earlier to tell me she was at the hospital with him and his wife.

This was before wireless phones, so our rotary-dial wall phone had an extra-long cord on it. In my family it was a top priority to be able to travel from the sink to the stove to the refrigerator without setting the phone down. The cord on this phone was so long you could have roped calves with it. On this day, I stretched the phone cord over to the table so Patty could hear all the good news, too.

Unexpectedly, my mother’s voice was filled with sadness. I could feel my heart start to pound under my rib cage. I was afraid to hear what she would say.

“Tommy’s baby was born a couple of minutes ago,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “It’s a girl. But the doctors don’t expect her to live long.”

I stood, stunned, tugging on the long phone cord, as if the information coming through it was garbled and wrong.

“Your brother is standing next to me and wants to say something to you,” my mother told me. Then I could hear Tom on the phone, though due to his hearing impairment I knew he would never be able to hear me.

There were sobs coming from my brother that wrenched my stomach and made my legs feel like they would collapse under me. I had never heard him cry that way. I have always been close to Tom and I knew that he and his wife were struggling in their marriage. At this point, the tragedy of losing a baby seemed to be a heartache that would be unbearable.

“Hello, my only sister,” Tom said. “Can you hear me? I need you.” That was all he was able to say before handing the phone to our mother.

My mother managed to explain to me that the baby had never developed a skull, leaving her brain massively damaged. It was a miracle that she had survived to full term, let alone the birth.

I had gone numb with shock.

“They named her Jennifer,” my mother said. “She’s a beautiful baby. You need to come to the hospital right now to see her.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I know I can’t see her. I’ll fall apart.”

Being around sick or injured children had always affected me deeply. I couldn’t stop my overwhelming feelings of sorrow that something so awful could happen to a small child. I was terrified to see my tiny helpless newborn niece, to hurt for her. I couldn’t face my brother’s pain knowing that there would be nothing I could do to fix it.

“Marie, your brother needs you,” my mother said softly.

After she hung up, I stood in the middle of the kitchen floor with the phone in my hand, not knowing what to do next. How could I possibly help my brother get through this when it was doubtful I would be able to get through it myself?

Finally, after listening to the dial tone for an endless amount of time, I turned around to hang the phone back into its cradle. As I walked toward the wall some incredibly vivid images flooded my mind as clearly as though they were happening before my eyes. I saw myself in a divine place. I was saying good-bye to people, as if leaving a preexistence, getting ready to join my family. A small girl ran toward me and threw her arms around my waist. I could see her long dark hair and her face tilted up toward mine. And she said: “You’ll be there, won’t you? You promise?”

This vision only lasted for seconds, but it left me full of purpose. The fear I felt began to melt away. I knew I needed to go directly to the hospital to see that special little spirit before she left behind her mortal body and went back “home.”

I told Patty about these strong images and she jumped to her feet and grabbed her purse from the table.

“Get in my car right now, nerd,” she said, using the term of affection we’ve always called one another. “You made a promise to be there. You can’t miss this one. Come on, I’m driving.”

When we arrived at the hospital, I must admit that I felt a moment of hesitation before I went in. Could I explain to anyone in my family what I had experienced? Would it be of comfort? As I stepped through the door of the private room, I said a prayer that I would be helpful in any way possible. The worry disappeared completely and was replaced with a peace that I have always found when I give the issue over to God. I felt my Father in Heaven was strongly prompting me to be present and willing to listen.

I wrapped my arms around Tom’s neck and looked at him, directly, so he could read my lips very clearly. I wanted him to know what I had experienced. He hugged me and cried. Then Tom placed his little daughter in my arms. Her skin was almost ice blue and a tiny medical cap masked the damage to her head. I knew I was there to say good-bye to this sweet infant, but when I held her it didn’t feel like a parting to me. It seemed like a “greeting.” She was giving me a message, the start of a whole new perspective on life. I put my finger in her tiny hand and she gave it a squeeze accompanied by a tiny smile. When I told those around me that Jennifer had closed her fingers over mine and squeezed, the attending physician told me, “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. It was just an involuntary reflex.”

I looked over at Tom and he smiled at me. I could tell that we were both thinking that this tiny message was not coincidence. She was one little angel who knew exactly what she was here to do. She had reunited us all, once again, and helped us remember that family is most important and eternal. Her short time as an Osmond sparked in me a mission of my own. My desires shifted that day. I was no longer concerned about success in acting class, or life as a single girl, or any of my other self-designed quests. My attention turned away from what I wanted for my own life and toward what was needed by others, mostly those little ones who struggled with illness or injury. She helped me, a fearful person, by giving me the gift of loving to be near and helping as many children as I can with any medical condition: from burns to brain tumors, from arthritis to AIDS. Jennifer was an impetus in the creation of Children’s Miracle Network, which, in turn, helps more than 17 million children and their families every single year.

Knowing baby Jennifer, though only for a few hours, led me to a deeper understanding of this “proving ground,” as my father called this lifetime. It seems that no matter how many hours, days, and years we are here, our purpose is to eventually return the spirit to “home,” to a greater life to come. But in the meantime, it’s up to us individually to decide how much we will learn and grow in spirit, even through the weaknesses and strengths of being in a body.

For me, the challenges of bringing both the spirit and the body together toward the same purpose is far less overwhelming when I stay open to what I think of as guiding messages, received from a heavenly source. Having the image of Tom’s daughter asking me to “be there” seemed to be one such message that gave me clear guidance. Other times there have been signs in nature that have given me immense comfort.

Following my mother’s funeral service in May of 2004 (she had passed away on Mother’s Day), family and friends all gathered at the grave site for prayer and a final word. As more than one hundred of us stood together on the cemetery hillside, a pair of monarch butterflies appeared fluttering together over the flowers covering the casket. It was unusually early in the year for butterflies to emerge. In the spring breeze they first danced near the head of my grieving father and then proceeded to fly around each of my brothers and me. As if that wasn’t awe-inspiring enough, the pair of monarchs, in unison, found each of my nieces and nephews and my own children in the crowd and momentarily glided near their faces. It did not go unnoticed by many. Even the youngest children began to smile as the butterfly pair circled their heads.