Might As Well Laugh About It Now

by Marie Osmond

  “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.

  I’m certain you could line up many skeptics who would tell you that this, too, was only a coincidence. I choose to believe otherwise. I think it was a heavenly message from my mother, proof that she was still with us in spirit. A Native American friend of mine confirmed that this was a traditional belief in his culture. As he told me: the butterfly represents the presence of good spirits, peace, beauty, and metamorphosis.

  Being the only girl in the family, I was the one who had made certain that everything at my mother’s funeral was exactly the way she would have wanted it. Between making all of the arrangements, from the flowers to the program, talking to the press, greeting more than five hundred people who attended the funeral, and at the same time checking in to see that my father, my brothers, and my own children were doing as well as could be expected, I had no time to mourn for my mom. I had to return to doing my five-hour-a-day radio show on the following Monday, and prepare for the next QVC show as well. The pace of life caught me up full-time, and I just pressed on without stopping to reflect and grieve.

  The following year, on Mother’s Day, I found myself almost unable to function; I was missing my mom so deeply. I knew I needed to take a couple of hours alone, to give myself time to mourn losing her. After calling in a babysitter, I got into my car to drive up into the mountains.

  The mountains are the one place I go to truly find peace and refuel my spirit. To sit in an aspen grove, or on a rock overhang, or near running water gives me an almost instant sense of emotional recovery. I guess if you want to truly feel grounded, go outside and put yourself down on the ground! Whenever my children are anxious or hyper, we go to a park and lie on the grass and take in the sky above us.

  About five miles out of town, I had an image totally contrary to my initial thought of finding some peace at high altitudes. I saw myself at the mall in one of my favorite department stores.

  I tried to shake the thought from my head, but it was persistent.

  “Oh, please!” I said to myself out loud. “You only want to shop to anesthetize the pain. Not a good idea.” I tried to shrug it off. I pressed down on the gas pedal, but it took concentrated force to make my foot react. Every impulse in my body was to turn the car around and head to the mall.

  Shopping was something that my mother and I did together if we needed to cheer up a bit. We’d sneak away for an hour or two and buy some inexpensive or fun thing that made us smile. Then we would find an ice-cream parlor and splurge on sundaes, promising not to tell anyone that we had.

  The memory made my heart ache with loneliness for her.

  “Marie, you are so dysfunctional,” I said out loud to myself. “Shopping is not the answer.” I put on my sunglasses and started to cry.

  Again, I felt a strong urge to turn the car around and head to the mall. This time, before my logical reasoning got in the way, my body stopped the car, made a U-t
urn, and headed back down the mountain.

  When I entered the department store, I stopped inside of the door. “Okay. Fine. Where to?” I thought.

  I felt prompted to take the escalator up one floor to a section of the store I had never shopped in before. I started to giggle; I had no idea why I felt compelled to go to that particular area, as it seemed like the “grandma” section, not trendy or even what I would consider fun clothing.

  When the clerk asked if she could help me, I wanted to say: “Do you have any idea why I’m here?” But I thought she might think I needed a different kind of help, so I casually said I was “just looking.”

  I started to leave the area, feeling embarrassed, when a thought hit me strongly.

  Turn around!

  I searched only for a moment before one tiny bit of fabric protruding from a rack of skirts caught my eye. It was a colorful butterfly against a black background. I moved the other clothes aside to see the full skirt. It was covered with hundreds of multicolored butterflies, from the waistband to the hem. There was only one like it on the rack and it was exactly my size. It seems my mother had taken me shopping again, and, in the fastest way possible, had assured me that she was still there with me.

  My mother always had a silent way to show her feelings to each of her children. She would take us by the hand and squeeze it three times to represent the words “I love you.” In the last months of my mother’s life, when she was unable to speak, she continued to squeeze my hand three times every day as I sat by her bedside. Both she and baby Jennifer, unable to use words, had sent me a message through a tiny squeeze. Though both are physically gone, they continue to gently squeeze my spirit, to open my eyes to the guidance and help that are available to me if I am open, and in turn, to ways that I can guide and help others.

  I bought the butterfly skirt. I knew my mom would want me to have it. To assure my mother that I had heard her message very clearly, I took that skirt out for an ice-cream sundae on the way home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Jimmy

  Karl

  Kim

  Marcia

  Tons of gratitude to all who generously offered their time, talents, and care to this book:

  Those who put me on track:

  John Ferriter, my William Morris agent . . . your enthusiasm has never wavered. I love you.

  Mel Berger at William Morris Agency . . . thanks for believing in me.

  Tracy Bernstein at New American Library.

  Marleah Leslie and Ann Gurrola, my publicists.

  And those who keep me on track:

  My fans . . . whose amazing loyalty keeps me moving forward.

  For reading pages with insightful editing eyes, listening to stories, and sharing profound perspectives and helpful ideas: Teresa Fischer, Patricia Bechdolt, Patty Leoni, Michelle Osmond, Connie Ljunberg, Darla and Greg Sperry, Gail Ryan, Lorraine Wheeler, Cheryl Burke and her Tai Pan crew.

  For assistance with the photographs and for being patient about looking at my mug over and over and over and over again: Peggy Vicioso, Tina Salmon, Debra MacFarlane, Kirsten Gallo, Debra Gehris, Toni Sorenson, Cashman Photography, Stacie Mullen of NutriSystem, and Megan Lozito and Leslie Holland of the American Heart Association.

  And finally, those who keep me from derailing:

  Kim Goodwin (my Kimmy, what a talent: makeup, hairstylist, photography, designer): For being the miracle who reappears in my life exactly when I need you most. Whether you like it or not, you are now part of my family.

  To my brother, Jimmy Osmond. You are the life raft in every storm. I don’t know what I would do without you, and I would do anything for you.

  My continued love and gratitude to my manager, Karl Engemann, aka the Godfather, the Grand Poobah, the Silver Fox, or often referred to as the Human Q-tip. In a sense you’ve raised me and, through your wisdom, guided me through decades of decisions, choices, and challenges with your incredibly gentle heart that has remained my one true constant through it all. I love you.

  Special thanks to my coauthor, Marcia Wilkie. I’ll never forget when we met ten years ago as you burst into my dressing room in Filene’s Basement!!!! . . . okay . . . it was backstage . . . with your “head writer” steno pad and a mischievous grin. I knew we’d work (and play) together for years to come. How’s that for good intuition??? You are one of the most talented women I’ve ever known. We’re the perfect blend of third-grade humor, intellectual curiosity, and spiritual awe. Most important, I know we’re friends till the end. By the way . . . did you change your cell phone number?

  My endless devotion to the eight people I love more than any words can express, my children: Stephen, Jessica, Rachael, Michael, Brandon, Brianna, Matthew, and Abigail. You are my source of daily love, joy, “aha” moments, tears, inspiration, and some pretty hefty laughter. You give me so many things to ponder on . . . and some to even write about. You are my world!

  And always, eternal gratitude to my loving Father in Heaven, who gives purpose to everything.