And then I cried. Again.

February 2012.  A little thought had been niggling.  A little blond thought.  I told it to go away.  It niggled a little more.  I forced it down hard.  I thought it had been banished successfully and then one day, out of the blue, it hauled off and side winded me.  I cried a lot that day.  I tried bargaining with Heavenly Father.  I didn't tell Dan, because I was still convinced that there was some wiggle room. 
All through February, the thought percolated.  In March, the tea kettle started whistling.  I finally got brave and talked to Dan.  He agreed with me.  We should let the thought fade away.  But it didn't. 
In April, we started the process.  We got the barriers preventing the thought removed.  All the while, I hoped for an Abrahamic sacrifice.  All the while I tried to give the thought to someone better prepared and needful.  One day when I was in a bargaining mood, I asked why somebody else couldn't think this thought-- I had a couple of people in mind.  The answer came-- "because he's yours."  Just those three words.
I stopped complaining and made room for the thought.  I got a blessing from my Dad, because Dan was still not convinced and I wasn't sure that his feelings weren't coloring the blessing he had given me.  The feelings my Dad got were that Heavenly Father knew it would be a sacrifice and that it was our choice. 
A compromise was made around this looming thought.  There was a specific time frame due to extenuating circumstances.  We would do our best, but after the buzzer rang, we would gracefully exit the floor.  I actually extended the time frame a little.  But nothing. 
I was confused.  I cried a lot.  Again.  I felt a little bit bereft and mourned for what didn't happen, even though I had not been completely sold on it happening.  I'm a girl.  I get to be that way sometimes.
That was the end of September, working in to October.  I still felt a little fragile about it and prayed for a release.  I couldn't keep thinking about the little blond thought and wondering.
Then my body came to a point where I couldn't handle the pain anymore and realized that I shouldn't be in pain anyway.  That began the saga of Psoriatic Arthritis.  Which began the lifetime of medicines that cause major birth defects.  I felt released.  I had done my part.  I had been willing.
In my circle of friends, there are many thoughts coming to fruition.  Three of them, specifically have rather miraculous tales attached to them.  Two of them have come to earth, trailing clouds of glory behind their little blond heads.  One is yet to come. 
And so I cry again.  I can't help but wonder if any one of those thoughts was supposed to be mine.  Was I less like Abraham and more like Laman and Lemuel?  Was my willingness to sacrifice just not enough?  Did Nephi have to come do the job I was asked to do? 
I'm so glad my friends are having these little thoughts in their homes.  I know and love each of them, so am not worried about that aspect. 
I woke up this morning feeling a little better about it.  And then, late this afternoon, I read this by President Joseph F Smith:  How will a young married couple feel when they come to the judgment and discover that there were certain spirits assigned to them and they refused to have them? Moreover, what will be their punishment when they discover that they have failed to keep a solemn covenant and spirits awaiting this mortal life were forced to come elsewhere when they were assigned to this particular couple?"
I've been crying all night.  The only comfort I get is that # 1.  We aren't young # 2.  We were willing, if somewhat circumstantially and finally, # 3.  It's been taken out of our hands. 
I guess after all things, I really don't know which thoughts start where and the best place for them to turn to action.  I understand Heavenly Father's overlying plan for His children, but sometimes mistake my place in it. 
I'll probably cry again, but this will pass like all of the rest of life.  I'll grow from it and hopefully learn something from it. 
I just needed this out of my heart and onto something else.  The glass walls of my shower sometimes get suffocatingly close.