Book Review for Lynn Austin's newest release, "Chasing Shadows"

4.5 Stars* for Lynn Austin's latest slam dunk contribution to historical Christian Fiction. I've been a fan for a long time and this book did not disappoint!

Lynn Austin's love and respect for the Dutch people comes through every page. There are a million WW2 books out there, but this one really opened my eyes to the struggle of the everyday citizen in occupied countries. The characters show a full range of experiences, from the refuge to the ordinary citizen just trying to do the right thing in a world gone wrong. "What would I do in this situation?" came to my mind more than once, and the story has stayed with me for days.

In the story, Lena calls the people she is hiding on her farm "the shadow people." They only came out at night; most of the time she didn't even see their faces. Yet she fed and sheltered them. They didn't know her or her family, but they depended on her for their very lives. The shadow metaphor grows stronger throughout the story. Over and over, the main characters learn to take refuge in God's shadow, trusting in His will and His word as they sought to survive the darkness.

An excellent choice for book clubs or anyone seeking to deepen their faith, I highly recommend this book!

*4.5 stars instead of 5 because I did feel that there could have been more language showing instead of telling the story. Some parts moved too quickly for my liking; I felt that they could have been flushed out more.

Dear Grandchildren: A Few Thoughts about the Pandemic

 Dear future grandchildren,

I know someday you will be given a school assignment to interview some old person who lived through the Covid-19 pandemic, and since your grandfather will probably drag his feet about an assignment like this, I thought I'd be proactive and write down a few thoughts while the soreness in my arm from my second vaccination shot is still fresh.

It has been a longer year than anyone ever imagined it would be. I know that your parents will have different memories of the pandemic than I do. Hopefully they remember the fun things we did--like going for walks to peek at the teddy bears in our neighbor's windows or the Christmas parade where we stood in the driveway and waited for the parade to come to us and your grandpa threw out Elf MREs. I sure hope that movie is still one you watch at Christmastime. Perhaps they will remember being anxious about the health of their grandparents, or how much they missed playing with their friends and going to church. I'm sure they will remember when schools shut down, and how it was no big deal to wear a mask to go back in the fall because every one was just so grateful to be able to be back at school.

There were tears as we waited anxiously to see if everybody would be 100% healthy so we could go to Thanksgiving at Papa's house. And Kevin told me more than once, "if it means keeping Papa safe, we can stay home."

The prophet asked us to fast and pray to end the pandemic, and miracles did come from those prayers, although it took more time than anybody wished. At some point, 11 months into the pandemic, Sly remembered that we had forgotten to pray for the end of the coronavirus and he said that was probably why it wasn't going away. Some would call it a coincidence that in the days after his prayers, his father and I were approved to get the vaccine. I call it calling upon the powers of heaven.

There were birthdays without grandparents, a postponed baptism, and Sophie's preschool shutting down for two weeks at a time, three months in a row. We wore masks everywhere. We cancelled vacations. We cancelled family gatherings. We learned to measure time without the landmarks of holiday traditions.

But we also embraced new traditions, new experiences. We went hiking more. We played as a family more. We went for walks and the kids finally learned to ride a bike. We left treats and dinners on doorsteps, admired new babies from afar, spoke to neighbors six feet apart or over fences. We found new ways to show we cared, new ways to serve. There are a lot of things I hope don't go back to the way they were "Before."

I've written a lot about what the pandemic was like for my kids and my family as a whole, but what you probably need to ask about is how the pandemic affected me. 

Were there tears? More than once.

Did I wake up at night in a cold sweat because I'd dreamed I'd gotten sick and there was no one to take care of my children? More than once.

Did I panic and go get tested even though the only symptom I had was a shortness of breath that was probably due to an anxiety attack? Thankfully, that only happened once.

I've never felt so weary and weighted as I have this past year. In some ways, it was lonely, but in others I was less lonely because we were more aware of the need to reach out. 

Two weeks into the pandemic, my niece and nephew came to stay for an undetermined amount of time, since with their Mom having pregnancy complications in another state and grandparents quarantined to stay safe from the pandemic, there was no safe place for them to be. This was one of the hardest things I'd ever experienced--not because they were hard kids or that I resented having them here. Oh no. Quite the opposite. I worried about all of the little ones. I struggled to keep them occupied, distracted, and happy. I am so proud of how brave those two were, having to be away from their parents for a month, staying in a new home with new rules, even celebrating their birthdays without their mom and dad. All five of the kids were total champs. Yes, there were squabbles and tantrums and whining and all the normal childhood maladies (in addition to a sprained ankle, ear infection, and homesickness), but the thing that wore on me was the emotional toll of worrying and not being able to fix anything. 

Eventually, God provided a series of miracles that allowed my niece and nephew to head home and enjoy their dog and new baby brother. I was so relieved but even now, a year later, I miss having them here (don't tell your Grandpa I said that). I miss the feeling of being useful, of being needed. 

That was only the beginning to the hard things that 2020 brought. It wasn't just the pandemic--in fact, by the end, the pandemic was just something we were accustomed to working around with masks and hand sanitizer and distance. 

And, I have to admit right here, we were in no way hit as hard as others. Grandpa's job stayed the same, and he'd already gotten used to working from home. Financially, we'd never been more stable. We had a comfortable home. We had resources to buy new vehicles, do home improvement projects, help with a wedding. 

But during 2020, we did have to bury Grandma Gardner. We watched as Pa (Grandpa's dad) succumbed the effects of early-onset Alzheimer's. In the beginning, it was trying to keep him happy and occupied as his wife took care of her mother's end-of-life symptoms. Then, Grandma Fowler decided it was time to sell their house. We helped with the move, and although your grandpa didn't seem upset by it, I mourned the loss of what had become a third home for me. Then, after we wrapped up the move, Pa had to move into a memory care facility. A month later, four days before Christmas, he was gone. 

Funerals during pandemics are so different. Grandma Gardner's was held outside in a grove of trees. Being December, that wasn't an option for Pa's funeral, so the gathering was limited to family and close friends. It felt like a half-funeral, because so many traditions were left out, but in the end, I think that made it even more beautiful.

In 2020, my dad was diagnosed with melanoma, aka skin cancer. I helped drive him down to Salt Lake for appointments and surgeries. I waited in a cold car in a parking terrace because I wasn't allowed inside the hospital--we were just grateful that my mom was allowed to go with him. 

In 2020, my foot started hurting again. I'd had a major surgery on it in 2019 and had hoped to be done with foot issues for a while, but that was not to be. In November, I had a third (albeit minor) surgery. 

We all dealt with mental health issues in one way or another. We learned to work around things that had been our usual crutches--and other crutches became much more necessary. I watched more TV in 2020 than I ever had in my life, simply because by the time the kids finally went to bed (your parents were such stinkers), we had no brain power or energy to do anything but eat peanut M&Ms and watch Netflix. I lost count of how many shows we binge-watched. 

I think the thing I have learned most from this past year is that life doesn't stop. The pandemic tried to shut everything down--no sports, no school, no church, no gatherings, no vacations--but it failed to stop life from moving in its usual cycles. Our family experienced births and death, weddings and moves and all the usual growing pains that come within an annual trip around the sun. 

As I think back on all of the hard memories, I have a hard time recalling just why they were so hard because there was so much beauty in the midst of it all. And as our lives once again change and the world seeks a new normal, my gratitude for so many things has enhanced. Things like not being scared to go to the grocery store, planning a vacation, taking a friend to lunch for her birthday, picking out books at the library, inviting friends over for a holiday party. 

We held an Easter Egg hunt last week with my best friends from college. I am teary just thinking about how wonderful it felt to be together, in person. We'd kept in touch through texts, phone calls, Marco Polo video chats, cards in the mail, care packages dropped of on porches. All of those things helped us survive, but nothing felt so good as wrapping my arms around my friends (who had also had hellish years), holding them tight, and feeling loved. 

You can't stop living. That's what we learned. After a couple of months of strict quarantine, we started to decide what was worth risking. For my mom, it was hugging her grandchild. For my children, it was playing with friends outside whenever the weather allowed and wearing masks to school. For me, it was letting God take my worries so I could focus on what was happening instead of what could happen.

We didn't live through the pandemic perfectly. We tripped over bumps in the road so many times. But now that we've made it to the end, I can't say that I regret any of it. I am grateful we came out better than others, but I think if I came out of this experience having not changed at all, I'd just be a fully-vaccinated failure. 

Love,

Your Future Grandma

PS- You are welcome for the dig at Grandpa in the first paragraph. Simply remind him what I said and he'll do anything for you. Who am I kidding? If he's anything like my dad as a Papa, all bets are off and he'll do anything you want him to do. So maybe you will choose to interview him after all, but just know, I'm prepared. 

Not My Own

 She's been complaining all week that she didn't have preschool.

Naturally, I thought that she'd be excited to go this morning. 

We picked out a cute outfit for her to wear, the same one her sister wore to school on her fourth birthday. Probably my favorite of all the size 5 clothes in her closet. I let her play on the tablet while I curled her hair. We practiced her smile. 

And as soon as our neighbor's car pulled into the driveway to take her to school, she curled up like a potato bug in a child's hand. 

This child, my youngest, is the most cleverly manipulative of all my children. Just yesterday, I told her I needed to go talk to Dad before we could play baby dolls. After about five minutes of sitting in his office, we heard a boom crash above us and then little footsteps descending the stairs. She burst into the room, handing her dad a package of crackers so he could have a snack. How sweet, you might be tempted to think (and her Dad certainly thought so), but I could see the working gears grinding in her head. Bring Dad snacks. If he's eating, he can't talk. If he can't talk, Mom can come play baby dolls with me. 

Meet my Sophie, blog world. You don't really know her, because life got admittedly 1000 times crazier after she was born. She is no stranger to social media. She has quite a following on my instagram account. My mom always reports to me that "so-and-so said she loves your Sophie Stories." Chronicles of Sophie, my mom calls them. 

Coping mechanism, I call them.

Last fall, we signed her up for soccer. She showed the most promise of all our children, naturally dribbling a ball across the backyard during our family scrimmages.  Boisterous and bubbly, we thought for sure she'd be the one to get in there and be aggressive and confident. 

No, instead she stubbornly sat on the sidelines and threw funny fits and I decided that instead of getting frustrated at her not playing, we should just roll with it, and I started recording her antics in my instagram stories. Thus Sideline Sophie was born. 

Yesterday I was looking for a blog post I wrote years and years ago, and I chuckled when I came across one titled "The End of the Threenage Year(s)." Curious, I clicked on it, and immediately felt guilty because I used to be so much better at recording my thoughts and feelings. Blogging was the coping mechanism that allowed me to survive Kevin's early childhood. As I read, my guilt morphed because I had such a hard time remembering Kevin as I described her in that blog post. She turned nine two weeks ago. She's now a confident third-grader who finishes her library books within two days and loves to play card games, roll her eyes at her dad, and tackle new art projects. 

What if I forget what Sophie is like that this age? I wondered as I formed a bow with the yellow ties on her dress. I've been so terrible at journaling or blogging. What if I forget how she says funny things constantly? How she joins Scott and I for lunch daily and when I tried to excuse her behavior toward him the other day, she said, "Nope, Dad, I was making fun of you." And then, ten minutes later, "Dad, I'm still making fun of you!" Or how she goes grocery shopping while the big kids are at school and thanks me for "Mommy and Sophie Time" as if she never gets enough of it? Which, clearly, must be true because she inevitably crawls into my bed every night. And in the morning, when she's just waking up and her arms start to snake around my neck and I ask her why she's in my bed, did she have a bad dream? She whispers, "No, I just needed you."

I love being needed, but I am exhausted. I don't sleep because I need that hour of reading time to myself in bed after Scott starts snoring. It's the only peace I have, knowing they are all asleep and I can breathe and be me.

I picked my little potato-bug preschooler off the ground and cradled her as I walked out the door to put her in my friend's car. "You can't stay home with me, sweetheart, I have to go to the dentist this morning." 

Buckling her in was a tag team effort. I told myself she'd stop crying as they pulled out. After all, her best friend cried all the way to ballet when we carpooled for that on Tuesday and then she was just fine. I went inside, fixed myself a cup of Nestle hot chocolate with just a hint of Stephen's Raspberry Chocolate flavoring. I sat down and folded my arms, out of habit, and I started saying a prayer in my mind, out of habit. I thought of my crying daughter and my prayer changed into a pleading with my Heavenly Father to please help her be brave and take care of her. 

I went to the dentist. I got home and there was a message on my phone from her preschool teacher. "Hi. CALL ME." 

I did. Picture day was not going well. "She only says she'll do it if her Mom is here." 

It's the first time I've ever had a teacher call me for any of my children, asking me to come. I've gotten calls for Kevin about clumsy playground accidents, but they usually ended with, "She's fine now, I just wanted you to know." I've never had a teacher complain about Sly. Ever. (This is probably the most surprising thing about my life, as Sly these days is a whole other blog post I'm not sure I'm ready to write). 

So I put on shoes and a jacket for the second time this morning, and Scott emerged from his office to come get a snack. "I guess Sophie doesn't want me to be a writer," I told him, trying not to be frustrated that my writing time was being further interrupted this morning (going to the dentist is bad enough). I'd promised myself long ago that once my children were in school, I would use that time to write. When we registered Sophie for preschool last spring, I was ecstatic thinking that time was almost here. For four hours every week in September, I wrote. For four hours the first two weeks of October, I wrote. And then life happened. I spent that time helping chauffer my parents to my dad's melanoma surgeries and appointments in Salt Lake City. I was happy to help. Then, when it seemed like that hurdle was conquered, Sophie's school went into a soft closure for two weeks. That began a three month journey of two weeks in school and then two weeks out of school for Covid closures. In between all that was Thanksgiving break and Christmas break and pretty soon, I was scheduling Relief Society meetings and  dentist appointments and doctor appointments and errands while Sophie was at school because it was just easier.  I told myself I'd get back to writing, that I would become like those lady authors I started following on bookstagram, that I could do it too, even though I don't now how any of them manage to publish books with smaller children than mine at home. Don't compare yourself, I constantly lecture my psyche. You do you. Now is not the time.

I drove to the school, thinking about what part of my manuscript I would have been writing had Sophie not needed me. Self-conciously, I tried to manuver my mini-van through the waves of teenagers leaving campus. I know what I look like to them, I thought, glad a mask covered up most of my make-up-less, uneven countenance. A middle-aged soccer mom in unfashionable clothing, waaaaaayyy out of her element. 

Still, my daughter needed me, so I parked the van and started walking to the school. My phone buzzed. A text from Sophie's teacher.

"We got her to take a picture! It turned out so cute! She's fine now!"

After confirming that she did not need me after all, I told Teacher Sue I would let her be and to tell her that I'm proud of her for being brave.

Climbing back into the van, I removed my mask and took a deep breath. If I hurry, I can still have 45 minutes of writing time before I have to come back to pick her up. Then I let out a groan and welcomed the familiar complaint: my time is not my own.

Immediately, a picture came to mind of a man sleeping in a boat. Weary and sorrowful, He was seeking time to himself to sleep and grieve the loss of his cousin. But the winds and the waves and his companions on ship would not leave him alone. 

His time was not his own, either. 

He got up from a needed rest. He calmed the winds and the waves and the storm and the sailors. 

And my heart.

I've always believed there is a season in life for every thing I want to accomplish. Sometimes those seasons overlap, like when I get to take a break from normal life to travel someplace different and new. I pointed out to Scott yesterday that this year marks 10 years since I graduated from college, and next year will be 10 years since I've had a real, paying job. I don't regret leaving the workforce. I don't regret choosing to stay home with my children. But the absence of regrets does not always equal the absence of restlessness and the desire to be and do more. 

"I'm just too tired," I told Scott as I bemoaned the fact that I wanted to go help our neighbor get her house ready to sell but I didn't even have enough energy to take care of all that my house needed. 

On Sunday, a friend of mine shared a story in a sacrament meeting talk about Henry B. Eyring and his father. Hal was having a hard time with a physics problem, and his father was trying to help him but realized his son was stuck. Brother Eyring was surprised that his son didn't think about physics all the time like he did. This led to him telling his son to figure out what it was that he thought about when he didn't have to be thinking about it, and then choose a career in that field. 

For the past several days, I have tried to pinpoint what I think about when I don't have to be thinking about it. Mostly, it's sleep I crave. Then I think about my to do list. Then, my children. Then, what book I want to be reading. Occasionally, I think about what I want to be writing. But I'd be lying if I said I thought about writing all the time. 

I feel like in the last nine years of motherhood and ten years of marriage, my identity is constantly being put in the Lost and Found bin of my brain. Who am I and what am I doing? I have no idea. What do I want from life? So much, but ask me later because I'd rather take this moment for me.

Back to Sophie, because I have two minutes until I need to go and pick her up for realsies this time. 

I do not regret giving up my writing time to go to her school and not enter. If she needs me, I will be there. But I am equally grateful that she is discovering that sometimes she does not need me. 

Right now, my time is not always my own. That's okay. I've always wanted to be serving God instead of myself, and raising a family is what He has asked of me. And I won't regret feeling weary or tired or taking a nap, because even the Greatest of All did the same. And I will try not to grumble the next time an REM cycle is interrupted by fuzzy, fine blonde hairs in my face and a little body settling into mine, breathing deep sighs because she has found relief.  

It is a wonderful thing to be needed. It is even better to be wanted. 

And, life will not always be this way.

In six years, life will look different, and it will be a different daughter whose threenage years are a fuzzy memory instead of a stark reality. 

Hopefully by then she is sleeping through the night in her own bed. So I will take my 45 stolen-back minutes and I will record my feelings and I will get back to basics because maybe, just maybe, that is where I will find myself again.