Family

Yesterday I watched my little brother's life change.

A white envelope containing and off-white letter and a blue-bound booklet of what to do and when to get it done by.

Excitement in his eyes, acceptance in his smile, calm in his countenance, and almost unseen shake in his hands.

The reading of the letter took less than two minutes, but fulfilling the call to serve will take two years.

His life will never be the same.

As we drove home last night, as we often do, my husband and I started talking about our missions. About how our calls were the exact right places for us to serve. About how we were given exactly what we needed just when we needed it. About what we learned. And even after we stopped talking, I thought about different people and what they taught me. About all the things I want to teach my little brother, knowing that when it comes down to it, I can write a letter and give advice, but the lessons he learns will be up to him. I can't teach them. The people he meets can, and they will.

I thought of Jen. How she taught us to live the gospel while we preached it.

I thought of La'El, who was so prepared, about how we wanted to give up after her neighbor had spent twenty minutes trying to argue with us and condemn us to hell. We didn't give up, and we were blessed immediately. She gave us hope. And falafel.

I thought of Morgan, who taught me how to unwind my tightly-wound self and have some fun.

I thought of Lowell, who needed me to be his missionary. He will forever be the one soul I was sent to Texas for.

I thought of the Vega's, who gave it all up and broke my heart.

I thought of Jennifer Ann, and how she radiated goodness and a willingness to work from day one. She still does.

I thought of Melodee and Mindy, how we started together, giggled together, and worked together, and how I watched them go home together as I stayed behind, and how I missed both of them when they were gone.

I thought of Matthew and how we spent the last halves of both of our missions following each other around, and how much he taught me about serving with strength.

I thought of Isaac, who never minded being Relief Society President, and the shock and concern in his voice when he found out I was being sent home.

I thought of Kimmee, how she and I were kindred spirits and how we walked down those lonely Texas streets together, smiling, and how I hated it when she would ask me if I was happy because I wasn't sure the answer was yes.

I thought of Luke, and how his whole being slowly filled with light to the point where we almost didn't recognize him.

I thought of Sister Carr and how Heavenly Father sent us to an area where He gave us very little success but gave us the important charge of loving and serving her.

I thought of Valerie, my singing angel, who was exactly obedient, and how we would win the zone challenges without even knowing there was a challenge.

I thought of each of my companions, my district leaders and members, the Elders in the zones I served in. They each taught me something. They still do, every day. Every one. They were my family when family was far away. I thought of the blessings given, of talents shared, of concern shown when we weren't up to par, of joy shared when we finally saw success.

I thought of my family and friends at home, awaiting every email, and how I saw them in my mind on their knees, praying for me, and how they gave me courage and strength. I thought of my mother, who sent me off with a hug and told me it was my turn to fly. I thought of my father, who spent $17 to make sure the last letter reached me before I got on a plane to go home, and how I needed that letter more than anything that day.

I thought of all the nameless and now faceless people I met on the streets of Texas. College students, sometimes stoned, sometimes confused, sometimes just being polite. Country rednecks with loveable accents and half a dozen dogs. Young children who begged us to sing to them just one more song. Individuals and families who invited us into their homes, who got into our hearts.

And now I think of the nameless and faceless people of Korea, the ones that we will get to know through letters and emails and pictures. The ones we love enough to give a little brother up for, so he can teach them about another Brother, an older Brother who has given everything, and only asks for a broken heart in return. There is a heritage, a family they didn't know they were missing, and soon they will be part of our homes and our hearts.

Godspeed, Elder. Bring them home.

In honor of throwback Thursday...

Five years ago today I realized I was in love with the man I now call my husband. It had taken me a while to reach that conclusion, but I'm forever glad I did, even though at the time I kept the knowledge mostly to myself (with the exception of a two or three close friends). I knew that if I continued living on the path I was travelling, that eventually all things would work out. So a week later I turned in my mission papers and trusted that I would have my chance to fall in love in person (and not through letters) eventually.

Now I have that chance every day.

Most of the time I use this blog to write about the things that help me realize I am a good mom, a good friend, a good daughter, or a good person (even when I don't feel like any of those things). I realized today that I rarely talk about what I am doing to make myself a good wife.

There are several possible reasons for this. It is easy to write about being a mommy. People forgive you for your bad mom moments, and sometimes admit that they have made the same mistakes or feel the same way you do. But somehow, in all of our mommy blogginess, it is rare (though not unheard of) that women write about becoming a better wife.

I feel like it is easy to point out my mistakes as a mom. I have time to learn. I'm just a novice. I haven't screwed up my daughter that much yet. But my mistakes as a wife? That takes a lot more humility and a bit of eating crow. I don't like either of those things most of the time. And my marriage is something that needs constant nourishing and attention, and some days, I just don't have the energy.  But I guess that is my lesson to be learned: it doesn't matter whether you have the energy or not, marriage is messy and it takes work to keep up with it. It takes work to make it thrive.

The truth is, I married someone who deserves far more than what I am. But he loves me anyway. He adores me. He does the dishes because he knows they make me gag. He gets up with our daughter at night because he knows how much I need my sleep. He finds ways to help out around the house, even when he has a dozen other things that should take priority. He comes home for lunch when he can tell from my emails that I am having a bad day. He is the kind of person who, when I ask where in the USA he would want to go for our anniversary trip if money was no option, tells me he wants to go to Texas because he wants to see why I love it so much and I know he also wants to go there because he knows how my whole body lights up whenever anything Texan is mentioned. He wants to go because it will make me happy. He is also the kind of man, who, after several days of pondering and looking up hotels and airfare and having "can we really afford it?" conversations, lets me be the one to bring up the fact that we should really go somewhere else and save that extra money to use in other ways, even though we both really want to go and neither of us know when this chance may come again. He is the type of person that helps me call my visiting teaching partner because she speaks French better than English, even though it is my assignment, not his. He is the kind doesn't complain when I am too tired to do anything but sit on the couch at night and watch celebrities dive off 33 foot platforms. He lets me "go at" his school papers, even though I know he hates when I get into my red-pen editing mode (I am a paper's worst enemy, and he hates when I tell him he needs to revise things). He calls me at lunch, when he is running stuff to the mail, and when he is on his way home, just to say hello and see how my day is going. He encourages me when he knows I have reached my limit. He makes it possible for me to live my dreams.

And, like his brother Dave told him he would have to during a toast at our wedding luncheon, he does everything.

And what do I do?

What I can.

But it isn't enough, when I want to be the one doing everything. It is easy for me to point out my mistakes as a wife, but it isn't easy for me to admit to them, to him or to anyone else.

And you know what?

He loves me, even when he recognizes my faults and I don't admit to them. He tells me to stop beating myself up about our dirty bathrooms and cluttered closets. He tells me to leave the dishes and go read a book. He puts up with my constant sickliness, and jokes with me about how I might as well just get pregnant because I am nauseous all the time anyway.

And now you know my not-so-secret secret: he is how I survive.

It would be too cliché for me to simply write, "I'm going to try and be better sweetheart" or "I married superman" (as if you don't all read that on facebook every day and wonder how true it really could be if they are posting it on facebook and not saying it to their honey's face), so I won't. I also won't spend time today telling you all of the ways I don't measure up. I spend too much time doing that anyway.

I heard a quote a couple of weekends ago that has been running through my mind: "Marriage is God's gift to us. The quality of our marriage is our gift to Him."

My husband is my greatest blessing, and he shows me every day how much he loves God by how much work he puts into our marriage. There is quality here, because there is love and there is friendship. And so we will continue on, every day, working and doing and being better--for our daughter, for each other, for Him.

Home Sweet Home

Note: I am aware that today is Wednesday. Don't worry, I'll probably post tomorrow too. I just had to get some of what is on my mind off of it. Savanah, this post is for you. I know how you feel. Thanks for sharing.

Yesterday I happened across a news report on PBS. We don't have television in our home, so it was rather extraordinary that the planets aligned and I happened to be sitting in this particular living room, waiting, with only the tv haphazardly left on, showing a channel that most people don't bother to pay attention to. I half-listened as the news anchor, whose wrinkles still showed despite too much make-up, informed me that "the American dream is changing, and many Americans will never own homes. Renting is easier."

My heart cried out in protest. But that is our dream. We DO want to own our own home. We want a yard to mow, a flower garden to plant, and a garage to clutter. We want a place that we can mark our children's heights on the wall and paint any color we want.

Scott and I started our initial home-buying process two years ago. We figured we were paying just as much in rent as we would spend on a monthly mortgage payment, and we should start building equity if we couldn't start building anything else. So Scott started searching online and found several homes in our price range. He was excited. I was nervous. I had a different dream on my mind, and I knew that we could not possibly afford both. After a few weeks of looking, we sat down and had a good chat. I expressed my fears about buying a home and then not being able to sell it when the time came to leave Cache Valley. We both knew that time was coming, we just weren't sure when. And though Scott had a steady job, it was one where if anything else came along, we were going to take it. And then we decided that if we were going to pursue our dream of starting a family, we would have to count buying a house as "a dream deferred" as Langston Hughes would say.

So instead we found a bigger apartment with better amenities, settled in, and discovered Kevin was on her way only a few weeks later. We had no regrets.

But that didn't stop us from watching every "House Hunters" and "Sweat Equity" and "Property Brothers" episode we could find on hulu.

About two months ago, we resumed our home search. When looking for apartments here in the Salt Lake Valley, we tried to find ones with short leases. We were just sure we would be getting into a house by this summer. As luck would have it, the only apartment we felt good about required a one-year lease. That's okay, we told ourselves. We can get out of it early, if we need to. We'll just pay the fine. Things will work out.

So, about six weeks after moving here, we started looking. Once again, Scott found several good "options" for us--or so we thought, until we went to see them. We realized that something can sound good on paper, and look good on the internet, and be absolutely horrendous in person. We only toured three houses before I got that sinking, I-want-to-barf feeling. Something wasn't right. And as we came home, to our cute and nearly-new, only-three-years-old apartment, I realized I liked where we were.  I didn't mind that we were surrounded by neighbors above us, below us, and on two sides. I loved the finishings, I loved the floorplan, I loved the location. And in comparison to those houses we saw, I wanted to stay here.

But I still wanted my own home.

Surely I couldn't have both.

We started praying harder. While together we were asking God to help us find the right place, individually we were both asking, is this the right place? Together, we were figuring out how to add saving for a home into our tiny budget. Individually, we were wondering if we could possibly afford it at this point in time. Together, we were looking at home ads on the internet. Individually, we were getting more and more discouraged.

And then one day Scott turned to me and said, "I feel like we need to stay here for a while."

And I said, "Me too."

And our home search, once again, went on the back burner.

The desire for our own home hasn't gone away. If anything, for me, it has intensified. It feels like every day I read on facebook about one of my friends closing on a home. I see their "home improvement" pinterest boards. I see their "new home tours" on their blogs.

And that little green monster in me starts to whisper in my ear: why can't that be us? Why can't we be picking out wall colors and door handles and claiming our things from our parents basements?

And I have to tell that green guy to shut up before he gets going very far, into all the hopes and dreams that we have for our future home. I know this is where we are supposed to be. Renting. In a two bedroom apartment. Storing 75% of my book collection in my brother-in-law's basement. Throwing money down the drain for another couple of years.

But is it throwing money down the drain? We have a roof over our heads. We have two bathrooms and two bedrooms and a place to park our cars. We have food in the cupboards and our pictures on the walls. We have wrestling matches on the carpet with our daughter and spots on the walls from accidentally-flung-and-forgotten-about spaghetti sauce. We are happy! We have a place to be together.

Isn't that what a home is, anyway? A place to come back to? A place that holds people you love? A place that you can call yours, even for a short period of time?

So while we have no house deed to our name, and probably won't for a few more years, I am learning to be content with where we are. This is the place for us. This is where our dreams are coming true, little by little: a father providing for his family while earning his college degree, a baby learning to walk, a mom feeling like she is exactly where she needs to be.

This is our home.

A Reminder

I love the feeling of being safe inside when a storm rages on outside. Even though we live on the second of three floors, the wind howls and the rain echos through our vents. Earlier this week we had a storm that I barely noticed--baby girl and I were safe inside with no plans of going out. She slept soundly in her room as I emailed back and forth with my husband while he was at work. It was a quiet, peaceful moment, when all of the sudden I heard what I can only describe as a radio/satellite/white noise/static alien noise coming from our laundry closet, where the furnace and some vents are.

Momentarily, I was terrified. And then I thought, "whoa! cool!" I didn't know sounds like that actually happened outside of tornado movies.

I'm no scientist and definitely no meteorologist, so I'm not sure how those sounds became trapped in the storm and somehow found their way into my living room. I picture the sound bytes getting caught up in a wind gust, swirled around, and suspended for a brief second in the air--long enough for me to hear--and then being swept off again.

Yesterday I was standing in the shower, trying to wash the tiredness out of my muscles as the day started, fighting the storms raging in my head, and another sound byte came into my mind and hovered there for a moment. It was the voice of my best friend Kim, who once gave me the best advice I ever needed.

"Rinda, you don't do failure."

Most days, I feel like I am failing. There is always something I'm not quite up-to-par on. Either I'm behind on the laundry, or the laundry is caught up but the floors aren't vacuumed. If the floors happen to be clean, chances are the bookshelves aren't dusted. And if there is no dust in sight, you can probably bet that dinner most likely isn't nutritious or ready by the time Scott gets home. And if dinner is ready, I'm probably not feeling up to eating it because I've overdone it for the day. If you want to see toddler tornados at their best, folks, come on over!

But you know what? I don't consider mounds of dirty laundry, unvacuumed floors, or mac-n-cheese dinners failure (unless it is the Hy-Top brand, which is mac-n-cheese failure at its finest. Yuck).

I consider them life.

In our church, our leaders have asked us to set aside Monday night for time together as a family. We do things that strengthen our relationships with each other and with Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father.  After a weekend of being spiritually renewed, uplifted, and motivated, Scott and I thought it would be a good time to sit down and revamp our goals for the year. We knew some of them had changed, but to be honest, neither of us had thought much about the goals we set for 2013 since about February. We read through our goals as a family. One had changed and two needed redefining. Scott read through his personal goals and said they were still the same, with an addition to apply for the MBA program. Kevin had also made progress on her goals to 1. Grow some teeth (she now has six), 2. Learn to walk (she can get around furniture by herself and is so close to taking off on her own) and 3. Learn 18 words (she still only knows "Daddy" but sometimes I think I hear her saying other things like "all done!" "MOOOM!" and "Papa"). They are both well on their way to 100% goal achievement this year.

And myself? So far the only goal I've even come close to is "learn a new skill" but somehow I don't think watching my mother-in-law make bread one time exactly cuts it. I haven't started writing that braided essay I was so jazzed about, and I don't think doing yoga two times in the past three months equals training for a 5k.  So I threw those goals out the window too.

Does this make me a failure?

How often do you set a goal that is the wrong one? I think these goals were the wrong ones for me. I don't think abandoning them makes me a quitter. I think it makes me wise...or at least that is what I would like it to mean. After all, "if you fail to plan, you plan to fail." I did the planning part. I just failed at making the right plans.

Have you ever gone back and read one of your old journal entries? Facebook posts? Blog posts? Does that person, maybe even the girl you were last week, seem different to you? Sometimes I read things I have written and I feel like some other person must have written that--surely not me. But that is the thing about being humans--we are constantly changing. And the girl I was last week, and the girl I was yesterday, and the woman I am today--they are not the same person. And that is on purpose.

Over the past few weeks, Scott and I have often watched Kevin playing, or listened to her babble, or admired her fast mobility and subsequently mourned the loss of our baby girl. Because she is so not a baby anymore. And though we miss that baby, and probably always will, we adore our little toddler. We enjoy getting to know her as she gets to know herself. And little by little each day as her hair grows longer and her teeth get bigger and her muscles get stronger, she becomes someone new.

I don't want myself to stay the same any more than I want Kevin to stay the same. I want to learn and grow as much as I want to see her learning and growing. Isn't that what life is all about? Becoming someone new, someone different, someone stronger each day?

The girl that set those goals in January knew what she wanted for this year. The girl that reset her goals in April knew that this year has not gone, nor will it continue to go as she'd planned. But that is okay. Because it will probably go better than planned. It usually does, when you put God in charge.

For example:

I can change a diaper while my daughter rolls and flails. That is a new and necessary skill I have needed this year.

I have written more in the past few months than I ever did last year. And what's more, I am writing in such a way that has led to reconnecting friendships long dormant. In my own little way, I am writing things that make a difference. That is better than any braided essay I ever wrote in school and only let my mom and husband read.

And I might not be training for a 5K (let's face it. I hate running. I always have. I always will). But occasionally I do yoga. And I take lots of walks with my family. And I've made plans to start walking with a friend. And I am making healthier choices, because I hope to be training for something more important than a 5K in the future, and it will take work to get there.

So thanks once again, Kim, for the reminder.

I don't do failure.

Receiving Her, Receiving Him

A look at my home on any typical day would show you this: toys strewn across the living room floor. Residue from milk puddles from supposedly spill-proof sippy cups dotting the carpet. Clean dishes stacked in one pile on the counter, dirty ones in another. Bits of bite-size finger foods thrown on the floor. Dirt in places I don't have time to clean and dust covering every bookshelf.  So many mounds of laundry that I swear I just washed sitting there dirty, begging me to pay attention and reclaim my house. Mirrors and windows and sliding glass doors with tiny fingerprints that I want to wash but can never bring myself to because I know those little prints only stay little so long.

A same look in said mirrors shows my personage in a similar state of shambles: no make-up to cover anything up: blotches spread across my face, dark circles under the eyes, pale lips. I haven't had time (nor do I enjoy) blow-drying my hair so it has been in a constant state of unmanageable wavy frizz with bangs that have been too long for three or four weeks now. And say hello to those extra ten pounds, begging for the attention that I never have the energy to give them. This is me: tired face, tired arms, tired legs.  Toes with flaking nail polish and feet with cracking skin.  Hands with burns from cooking dinner and fingernails hastily clipped but not shaped. Clothes from high school and the first two years of college that I'm still making use out of. The shoulders of my t-shirt are covered in food residue, tear residue, and snot residue.

But there...on my cheek...can you see it? A little pool of slobber. An open-mouthed present from the most precious gift I have ever had the privilege of spending eight months throwing up every day in order to get.

Just look at her! Her little rolls of baby chub linger on her feet, thighs, and arms. When she smiles, it takes her whole face to do it: pearly whites, little lips spread wide, cheeks gathering upward, and eyes that beam such a bright blue I wonder that the angels don't just stop and stare every time she laughs. There's a bit of banana stuck in her left eyebrow. Her hair is a bit wrinkled from yesterday's pigtails, but that little patch of curls behind her right ear is still there and still curly and I have no idea where that curl comes from, but I am glad it is there. Her clothes are cute, mostly hand-me-downs with a few birthday presents thrown in, but she doesn't care where they came from. She wears them proudly and destroys them happily.

I don't know who Angela Schmidt is, but yesterday I read something that she said and I liked it. I more than liked it. In the past twenty-four hours, I have thought about it, memorized it, and decided to better live her words. And now I am sharing them with you.

"While we try to teach our children about life, our children teach us what life is all about."

So perhaps frizzy hair and dark circles under the eyes don't matter as much as smashed (and highly enjoyed!) bananas stuck on an eyebrow. And perhaps those extra ten pounds are nothing more than my own baby fat hanging on for dear life. And does it really matter whether my clothes are brand-new or well-loved and well-worn? If  my eyes are sparkling and my lips are laughing, then isn't that considered a good life? No, my friends, that is considered a GREAT life. 

I came across this Mormon Message the other day and in all my breakfast-getting, medicine-taking, baby-waking frenzy I surely needed to hear it. Whether you are or Mormon or not, perhaps you will also appreciate what Elder Anderson has to say. 

I love what this anonymous Mom blogger he quotes has to say about raising children:

"Motherhood is not a hobby. You do not collect children because you find them cuter than stamps. It's not something you do if you can squeeze the time in. It is what God gave you time for."

Sometimes it is good for me to take a step back and ask myself how I am using this time God has given me. Am I discouraged and depressed because I can't possibly keep up, or I am encouraged and impressed by the miracle I have charge over? And what is truly more important--clean sheets or cuddling with a baby who will only stay a baby for a few more short months if I am lucky?

Now let me quote someone to you that I would like to think I do know. He has been with me in all my rock-bottom life experiences and all of my higher-than-the-sky life excitements. I have come to trust His word. And He tells us that parenthood, and mothering, is not only something you do if you happen to have children. You can do it whether you are biological or adoptive parent with children in your home or not. 

He says: "And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me." (St. Matthew 18:5)

So as a teacher, do you take the time to show the children in your classroom love? If so, you are showing Christ love. As a nurse, do you show gentle care for each little patient that comes in with a sniffly nose or burning fever? If so, you are soothing Christ. And as a grandparent, every time you make a little one giggle, you are sharing joy with Christ.

And for all those young moms like me, every time you play with cars, or Fisher Price Little People, or baby dolls, you are teaching with Christ. Every time you make a bottle or cut up a pancake, you are nourishing Christ. Every time you cuddle, and snuggle, and kiss, and hug, you are showing Christ that you receive Him into your home with gladness. 

So I will take my toy-covered floor. And I will take my dish-covered countertops, and my laundry-piled bedroom, and my finger-printed mirrors. I will take my crazy hair days and my tired feet and old clothes. And you bet I will take my morning cuddles and nighttime lullabies, my playtime and mealtime and every moment I have with my smiling little girl. 

 

Because every moment I have with her is a moment that takes me closer to Him.