It's been awhile.
I have so many thoughts flying around my brain that I am still trying to make sense of. Two weeks ago, I realized it had literally been months since I'd taken time to write anything more than a grocery list. Even my usually bursting planner has been abandoned for most of this summer. I gave up on updating our family blog a while ago. I have been trying to muddle through Shutterfly scrapbooks, but I'm still a year behind on those. I haven't created anything, painted anything, or designed anything just for the sheer joy of it in months and months.
Why? I thought to myself. Why am I not making time for these things that I love?
I've been reading. Actually, I've been flying through the fluff fiction. 25 books since May. Reading is breathing for me. It's life.
But it isn't everything.
I'd be lying if I said that this summer has been the best ever. Parts of it have been amazing, but 70% has been downright miserable. I've been losing track of myself, retreating into a person who is neither pleasant nor successful nor content. I feel as if I've been hiking through wet sand, uphill, in a wind storm. My husband comes home to find me battered, listless, and completely worn out. I'm not usually one to back down from a fight, but my whole summer has been a losing battle.
In explaining these emotions, I wish I could find the reason for it all. I have my suspicions: an anxiety-riddled six-year-old, a potty training flunkie, a curious baby who makes me realize that my other two were, in fact, somewhat mellow toddlers. At least more mellow than her! I shake my head and have to laugh. My favorite portion of my older two's childhoods was undoubtedly that period between 12 and 20 months. I'd got back to 4-6 months with my youngest in a heartbeat. She had such a pleasant babyhood and oh how I loved being with her! Of course she is highly entertaining nowadays and nothing melts me more than when she'll stop whatever mischief she is making, crawl over, and thrust her head into my lap for a sort of half-cuddle before she is off again.
With all my energies going three different directions, there is very little leftover, and what I do have, I like to give away: to my husband, my parents, my friends, my home. I've been doing these people a disservice though, because I haven't been taking enough time for me.
I don't feel like my routine has changed that much. I've been going to the gym, saying prayers, showering on a consistent basis. I am starting to realize, however, that sometimes when life gets harder, you need longer time outs and more time for you. As a mom, it is hard for me to take that time without feeling like I'm stealing something from the people I love. An overnighter with my best friends restored me more to myself than I've felt in weeks--but I still came home feeling like I'd been away too long and cheated my family out of something that should have been theirs. I feel like I take these breaks but they are always a race against the clock, because there is always something waiting for me when the break ends.
Having something to come home to is a wonderful thing. I first really learned this lesson nine years ago on my intermission, when time was both my enemy and my ally. This time my break was at home, doing some of the things I now like to escape from. I wanted so badly to be back in Texas, but oh how I relished that time that I had to be somebody's sweetheart, somebody's sister, somebody's best friend--and all without a nametag and a structured bedtime.
The other night my newfound stylist and friend had a last minute opening for a haircut. My hair feels like it has been falling out faster over the past few weeks, and sometimes haircut gives me a mental peace of mind that I won't go bald. I know it doesn't make much sense, but that's the way it is. I snapped up that appointment and then made sure it was okay with my husband. When he got home from work a few hours later, he found the wife he's been finding all summer in a not-great state. A conversation about going out for dinner turned into trying to get the kids herded out the door, a feat that we gave up after twenty minutes of pre-leaving activities (like putting away laundry and going potty and getting along). After overhearing me leave a child's room when said child refused to do his/her (protecting the identity of the not-so-innocent) responsibility or listen to what I was calmly (I'm giving myself props for staying calm here) trying to say to said child, he came upstairs to find me brushing my teeth at 5:00 and, for the first time in our married life, pushed me out the door with a directive to go get some dinner and have some time to myself before my haircut.
So I did. I left. His actions gave me the permission to breathe for a minute. I used a birthday coupon to get a free hamburger and treated myself to onion rings, which I ate in the library parking lot while reading a book on my phone. I went to the store without having to coral children or feel guilt about spending money. I was buying toilet bowl cleaner. I felt...liberated?
Then I took my tired eyes to my appointment and spent the next two hours (the haircut did not take nearly that long) talking to a kindred spirit. I found myself telling her about the struggles of this summer. We talked about the wonderfulness of understanding husbands, the frustrations of messy houses, the challenge of mental illness and depression, the feeling of losing control and losing yourself. I found myself explaining to her that writing was my outlet, my thing that helped me make sense of the world. And I inwardly kicked myself because I have been robbing myself of that understanding. I called it cheap therapy, but she corrected me and said no, there's nothing cheap about it. It is therapy and it is necessary.
And I've been ignoring it.
No wonder I haven't been able to make sense of life lately. No wonder simple chores have seemed pointless and my relationships with my children strained. I've said to Scott on more than one occasion how I feel like they treat me like I'm worthless and there is no element of gratitude, only entitlement and how I wish I could get that through to them that life doesn't owe them anything.
Perhaps the answer here is as simple as my epiphany about getting Kevin to practice her piano. It's probably the same as reading, I thought. She sees me reading, so she knows I love books and she wants that too. Maybe I just need to find time to sit down and play the piano more just because I enjoy it and she'll see that it can be fun and not self-imposed torture.
Maybe if she sees me taking the time to love myself more and treat myself better, she'll find that she wants to do the same. Maybe it's okay to put myself first, to come home and not apologize for being gone too long, to sit down at the computer and ignore the to-do list and focus on the to-be category.
As my dear friend Anne Shirley says, "It's not what the world holds for you, it's what you bring to it."
I'm going to spend a little more time bringing myself.
Showing posts with label Marinda's Soapbox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marinda's Soapbox. Show all posts
Friday, August 10, 2018
Friday, March 23, 2018
23
It's the age I was when I got married.
My aunt's number in sports; we all wore it at one point or another. (Forget Jordan and James, they don't count).
And it's the birthday day that I share with both of my grandpas.
I was born 16 days late. Don't believe me? Ask my mother. She has for sure never forgotten this about my birth. We joke about all of the reasons my birth was delayed: I needed extra heavenly instruction, I didn't want to leave, my husband (who was born a mere 11 days before me) wouldn't marry an older woman, I like making people wait, I'm a stubborn cuss. I think all of the above may be true. All I know for sure is that I love being born on the 23rd.
And I miss the men whose birthday number I shared.
My Grandpa Browning would have been 80 years old today. He died three days before I turned 24. I miss him everyday. Sometimes I forget what side of heaven he is on; I often expect him to show up at family functions. I have no doubt that sometimes he does; we just can't see him.
I didn't get to say a "real" good-bye to either of my grandpas. When my Grandpa Burningham died, my parents wisely decided that it was best for us to remember him the way he was the last time we saw him: smiling and chuckling at my little brother's 11th birthday party. When my Grandpa Browning died, he wisely decided that none of his grandchildren would see him in such rough state. I never saw him in his halo, but I still think of him everytime I hear Beyonce on the radio. I remember sitting in a bland family waiting room at the U of U hospital. I remember the smells of the Subway sandwiches we brought as they went stale. I remember talking to the two of my cousins who also were there. I remember Scott sitting with me as I watched my parents, aunts, and uncles go in and out of the room. I only saw my grandma in the hall, the clock jutting out of the wall reading somewhere between two and three am. She was flanked on all sides by a bedraggled, tall, Browning army. The whole scene is monochromatic in my mind: their usually rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes seemed dull and gray.
In every creative writing class I ever took in college, my professors had one rule: DO NOT WRITE ABOUT A GRANDPARENT'S DEATH.
It's too cliche, they'd say.
Everyone's been there.
You have nothing new to add.
Everybody dies.
In essence, get over it, but don't write about it.
So every time I've wanted to write about their deaths, I've tried to avoid the subject. After all, I have two degrees that say I know better.
I've since learned something that my professors could never quite verbalize: we treat death over-dramatically. When you know what comes next, and how close those who no longer have bodies really are, then death is nothing more than someone trading in a body for temporary invisibility. They live in grander ways after they've died. They live in our memories, our hearts, our fettishes and inside jokes and tender mercies and stories and our motivation to be better.
Both of my grandpas have a place in my home.
Grandpa Browning is there when we have family scripture study and family prayer. He's there when I tease my children and drag my daughter out of bed over-cheerfully. He's there when I sprinkle cinnamon sugar on my daughter's toast and put fresh strawberries on my ice cream. He's there in the way I try and treat others will love, kindness, and a smile. He's there when I curse under my breath. He's there when my son gets some crazy idea and there when my baby girl starts giggling for no reason. He's there when we talk about heaven, there when I teach my children the meaning of the word "resurrection." He's there when I make out with my husband in the kitchen and there when I buy flamingo stuff just because. He's there in the antique books and rocking chair that he passed to me. He's there in photos and in decisions and in heartaches.
Grandpa Burningham was not as loud or boisterous, and his gentle influence is felt in calmer, steadier ways. He's there when the trees and flowers start blooming. He's there pointing out a bird's nest so I can show it to my children. He's there at the first snow; I see him on his red flyer sled laughing like a little boy as he sleds down the gravel lane. He's there when I send my husband off to fulfill a calling, there when I watch and sing Broadway musicals, there when I learn something new about World War II. He's there, silently giggling when I'm in a bad mood for some insane and unimportant reason. He's there when I pour my son a bowl of Golden Graham's or give my children an ice cream treat. I can see his smile and feel the warmth of his hugs. Memories of him remind me that sometimes it is important to just sit in the recliner and listen to music or cuddle a child; because of him I know that you don't need words to express joy, love, support, or satisfaction.
With Easter right around the corner, memories of them and others who have gained a greater life are prominent in my mind. New life comes from death; that's the great metaphor of spring, right? Pruning means a more abundant harvest. Rain makes the flowers grow. Beautiful rewards come with sacrifice and sometimes a painful price.
The seasons keep on changing and life keeps going.
My aunt's number in sports; we all wore it at one point or another. (Forget Jordan and James, they don't count).
And it's the birthday day that I share with both of my grandpas.
I was born 16 days late. Don't believe me? Ask my mother. She has for sure never forgotten this about my birth. We joke about all of the reasons my birth was delayed: I needed extra heavenly instruction, I didn't want to leave, my husband (who was born a mere 11 days before me) wouldn't marry an older woman, I like making people wait, I'm a stubborn cuss. I think all of the above may be true. All I know for sure is that I love being born on the 23rd.
And I miss the men whose birthday number I shared.
My Grandpa Browning would have been 80 years old today. He died three days before I turned 24. I miss him everyday. Sometimes I forget what side of heaven he is on; I often expect him to show up at family functions. I have no doubt that sometimes he does; we just can't see him.
I didn't get to say a "real" good-bye to either of my grandpas. When my Grandpa Burningham died, my parents wisely decided that it was best for us to remember him the way he was the last time we saw him: smiling and chuckling at my little brother's 11th birthday party. When my Grandpa Browning died, he wisely decided that none of his grandchildren would see him in such rough state. I never saw him in his halo, but I still think of him everytime I hear Beyonce on the radio. I remember sitting in a bland family waiting room at the U of U hospital. I remember the smells of the Subway sandwiches we brought as they went stale. I remember talking to the two of my cousins who also were there. I remember Scott sitting with me as I watched my parents, aunts, and uncles go in and out of the room. I only saw my grandma in the hall, the clock jutting out of the wall reading somewhere between two and three am. She was flanked on all sides by a bedraggled, tall, Browning army. The whole scene is monochromatic in my mind: their usually rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes seemed dull and gray.
In every creative writing class I ever took in college, my professors had one rule: DO NOT WRITE ABOUT A GRANDPARENT'S DEATH.
It's too cliche, they'd say.
Everyone's been there.
You have nothing new to add.
Everybody dies.
In essence, get over it, but don't write about it.
So every time I've wanted to write about their deaths, I've tried to avoid the subject. After all, I have two degrees that say I know better.
I've since learned something that my professors could never quite verbalize: we treat death over-dramatically. When you know what comes next, and how close those who no longer have bodies really are, then death is nothing more than someone trading in a body for temporary invisibility. They live in grander ways after they've died. They live in our memories, our hearts, our fettishes and inside jokes and tender mercies and stories and our motivation to be better.
Both of my grandpas have a place in my home.
Grandpa Browning is there when we have family scripture study and family prayer. He's there when I tease my children and drag my daughter out of bed over-cheerfully. He's there when I sprinkle cinnamon sugar on my daughter's toast and put fresh strawberries on my ice cream. He's there in the way I try and treat others will love, kindness, and a smile. He's there when I curse under my breath. He's there when my son gets some crazy idea and there when my baby girl starts giggling for no reason. He's there when we talk about heaven, there when I teach my children the meaning of the word "resurrection." He's there when I make out with my husband in the kitchen and there when I buy flamingo stuff just because. He's there in the antique books and rocking chair that he passed to me. He's there in photos and in decisions and in heartaches.
Grandpa Burningham was not as loud or boisterous, and his gentle influence is felt in calmer, steadier ways. He's there when the trees and flowers start blooming. He's there pointing out a bird's nest so I can show it to my children. He's there at the first snow; I see him on his red flyer sled laughing like a little boy as he sleds down the gravel lane. He's there when I send my husband off to fulfill a calling, there when I watch and sing Broadway musicals, there when I learn something new about World War II. He's there, silently giggling when I'm in a bad mood for some insane and unimportant reason. He's there when I pour my son a bowl of Golden Graham's or give my children an ice cream treat. I can see his smile and feel the warmth of his hugs. Memories of him remind me that sometimes it is important to just sit in the recliner and listen to music or cuddle a child; because of him I know that you don't need words to express joy, love, support, or satisfaction.
With Easter right around the corner, memories of them and others who have gained a greater life are prominent in my mind. New life comes from death; that's the great metaphor of spring, right? Pruning means a more abundant harvest. Rain makes the flowers grow. Beautiful rewards come with sacrifice and sometimes a painful price.
The seasons keep on changing and life keeps going.
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
Lessons from Lutitia
This is my fourth great-grandmother, Lutitia Shearer Warthen.
A year ago, I had never heard of her. I'm so glad that has changed. This little woman's big spirit has been with me over the past few weeks as my family enters new territory and, starting at 5:30pm today, a new era. She's taken me on a journey, one that I don't fully understand yet, but here are some of the things I've learned from her.
Lesson #1: Teething Babies Ruin Everything (better said, Patience is a Virtue and it's okay to take your time to make a choice if you stand by it in the end).
Like me, Lutitia is an oldest daughter. Unlike me, she played a major part in keeping her family afloat. With 11 younger brothers and sister, she was invaluable and was often asked to do things that she probably didn't want to do. She spent her early mornings doing chores and then walked six miles to gain an education the world told her she probably didn't need. Her father was a schoolteacher, so she was blessed with parents that valued knowledge. It is little surprise that when her parents encountered a "strange Mormon religion" in the early 1830s, they listened to the missionaries and went to hear the Prophet Joseph Smith speak so they could find out for themselves the truth of the things they had been taught.
Oh how Lutitia must have looked forward to that meeting! Oh how her heart must have yearned to be fully present, to listen and pray and learn. When they got to the meeting, however, Lutitia's baby brother was cutting teeth and it fell to her to walk with him at the edge of the crowd. I picture this young girl, arms full of crying toddler, shushing and soothing, straining to see and hear and knowing that it was probably useless to even try. Lutitia's parents were baptized in November 1830. Though she was eight years old at the time and could have been baptized with them, Lutitia wasn't baptized for eight more years.
Lesson #2: Life Gets More Challenging (especially after making an important decision).
Her life was certainly not an easy one, especially after she was baptized. The mobs and persecutions the early Saints endured began to grow during this time. Lutitia told her children and grandchild about sleeping with clothes and shoes on, watching her father be taken prisoner, stashing away food and clothing for emergencies and then disguising herself to go retrieve the stashes from the hiding places in the cornfield in the darkness.
Lesson #3: It Might Take a While, But Eventually You'll Get Where You Are Going.
Within five years of her baptism, Lutitia was married and a young mother, living in Nauvoo. Everytime she probably thought that things couldn't get harder, they did. The Prophet died. The Saints were run out of their homes. Lutitia and her husband, Joseph Warthen, lived for four years in a run-down camp at Council Bluffs, working to be able to make their way to Salt Lake with their small family. By the time they reached the Salt Lake Valley in 1850, they had four young children under the age of seven.
I can barely herd my three children from the family room to the garage...I can't imagine dragging them across 1000 miles of prairie!
Lesson #4: Be Careful What You Pray For (and be ready to accept God's answer to your prayers).
You would think things got easier once they had settled in Utah, but they did not. Lutitia's parents had strayed from their faith and her husband's testimony began to falter. How she must have struggled, alone and steadfast in her convictions, watching those she loved walk away from the things that mattered most to her. Her husband wouldn't agree to be sealed to her or their children. She'd come all this way for what? A cabin in an untamed valley?
At one point, Joseph started talking about moving to California, where there would be more monetary opportunities for their family and especially for their teenage son, Albert. Lutitia knew that this would mean a break with the Saints for her and her children, and she desperately did not want to leave.
I am amazed that Lutitia's reaction was not bitterness or faltering in her faith. Instead, she sought to strengthen her relationship with the Lord. She loved her husband, who was a kind and generous man. So she prayed. She asked God to save her husband and help her family.
And then her husband was shot while he was lying next to her in bed. The hired man was to afraid to go for the doctor, so Lutitia went herself. Her husband lived three days and died, leaving her a widow with five young children.
Lesson #5: It Never Gets Easier, You Just Get Stronger.
Because she was a wealthy widow with a family in need of protection, she was quickly remarried into a polygamous marriage with a man who was poor and already struggling to take care of the family he had. She shared her abundance with her new family. Within two years, her husband left on a mission, leaving her pregnant with six children and responsible to take care of his first wife and their children. The grasshoppers came. She spent her days fighting bugs off the wheat and sold everything she had to feed her family. She spent the night before he daughter was born watering the crops because she had no help and she knew it was up to her. She worked day and night and by the time her husband returned, she bore him a third child and then collapsed from a physical and nervous breakdown. Her husband abandoned her, but God did not. She recovered, divorced her husband, raised her family, and never faltered in her faith. She spent her days in the Temple, doing the work for her extended family. She knew that God had answered her prayers and provided a way for her family to be taken care of, both temporally and eternally.
Lesson #6: I am a Wimp.
My life is nowhere near as difficult as Lutitia's was, and I am nowhere near as strong or even faithful. My parents and husband are the most faithful people I've ever met. I have never had to worry about being run out of my home by mobs or not being able to feed my family because of grasshoppers. My needs have always always been provided for--without the work that Lutitia was required to do in order for her needs to be met.
So as I've been indulging in thirty seconds of pity party here and there over the past week since my husband came home literally glowing from a meeting with his mentor, it is little wonder to me that the Holy Ghost brought Lutitia to my remembrance. Learn from her, the Spirit whispered, and so I have tried to.
I have learned that teething is tough on everyone and that it usually means you will have to miss out on something you wanted to be part of, but it is a blessing to be able to comfort a little loved one when he or she is in pain. I might have to miss out on things I desperately want to be part of, but that doesn't mean that blessings are taken away from me. I am given the gift of choosing my path, and as my husband and I face a new direction with our family, I am able to be a rather large part of that decision. It might take a while, but that's okay. Eventually I will understand.
When Scott first embraced this new path, I wholeheartedly supported him, and that has not changed at all. In the eight months since embracing this new opportunity, life has gotten a bit more challenging and the future a bit more cloudy. There are no easy answers, but there is comfort in trusting where God leads us. And He WILL lead us. I have no doubt that somewhere in the future we will end up where He needs us to be, and although the thought of doing what is required to get there seems as impossible as guiding preschoolers across the Great Plains, I know that the path will be made clear and we will get there, together.
Several years ago, I prayed for my husband to have a calling that would keep him busy and growing in the gospel. That prayer has undoubtedly been answered. When I prayed for this blessing for him, I did not consider all of the Sundays I would be flying solo getting our family ready for church or evenings I would spend putting our children to bed by myself.
When his work started to become frustrating and I began praying for him to feel valued and fulfilled in his career, I didn't know that God would want him to start a new career altogether. We were both blown away at how Scott's opportunity to teach at a university came so quickly and so (nearly!) effortlessly. I did not anticipate how excited he would become while planning out his course, or how this would give him that something he needed in order to hang on at his current job and see things through. I didn't know that God would ask more of him when it comes to church meetings and that I would be giving him up for yet another weeknight, and that would mean that I would be required to give up things I love (cough*bookclub*cough) so that our tired children could make it to bed at an appropriate hour. I didn't know that those additional meetings would guide him in his search for a direction for our future and provide answers to the questions we didn't realize he should be asking.
And when he came home from that meeting with the program director, he started throwing out words I never thought I'd hear him say, my mind protested but my heart opened my eyes and I could see our future, and deep down, I am okay with it.
And as I read through Lutitia's story, the same one I typed up for my family last spring, I realize that I will probably never fully understand God's ways, but that they are always right and He will always prepare us if we let Him. And, no matter what, I believe that God keeps his promises. He has always provided me with what I need, even when that need takes the form of a napping baby and PAW Patrol distracting my son so that I can write and learn and learn and write.
As I reread this quote from her biography this morning, the Spirit confirmed to me that this is the lesson I am meant to learn from Grandma Lutitia.
A year ago, I had never heard of her. I'm so glad that has changed. This little woman's big spirit has been with me over the past few weeks as my family enters new territory and, starting at 5:30pm today, a new era. She's taken me on a journey, one that I don't fully understand yet, but here are some of the things I've learned from her.
Lesson #1: Teething Babies Ruin Everything (better said, Patience is a Virtue and it's okay to take your time to make a choice if you stand by it in the end).
Like me, Lutitia is an oldest daughter. Unlike me, she played a major part in keeping her family afloat. With 11 younger brothers and sister, she was invaluable and was often asked to do things that she probably didn't want to do. She spent her early mornings doing chores and then walked six miles to gain an education the world told her she probably didn't need. Her father was a schoolteacher, so she was blessed with parents that valued knowledge. It is little surprise that when her parents encountered a "strange Mormon religion" in the early 1830s, they listened to the missionaries and went to hear the Prophet Joseph Smith speak so they could find out for themselves the truth of the things they had been taught.
Oh how Lutitia must have looked forward to that meeting! Oh how her heart must have yearned to be fully present, to listen and pray and learn. When they got to the meeting, however, Lutitia's baby brother was cutting teeth and it fell to her to walk with him at the edge of the crowd. I picture this young girl, arms full of crying toddler, shushing and soothing, straining to see and hear and knowing that it was probably useless to even try. Lutitia's parents were baptized in November 1830. Though she was eight years old at the time and could have been baptized with them, Lutitia wasn't baptized for eight more years.
Lesson #2: Life Gets More Challenging (especially after making an important decision).
Her life was certainly not an easy one, especially after she was baptized. The mobs and persecutions the early Saints endured began to grow during this time. Lutitia told her children and grandchild about sleeping with clothes and shoes on, watching her father be taken prisoner, stashing away food and clothing for emergencies and then disguising herself to go retrieve the stashes from the hiding places in the cornfield in the darkness.
Lesson #3: It Might Take a While, But Eventually You'll Get Where You Are Going.
Within five years of her baptism, Lutitia was married and a young mother, living in Nauvoo. Everytime she probably thought that things couldn't get harder, they did. The Prophet died. The Saints were run out of their homes. Lutitia and her husband, Joseph Warthen, lived for four years in a run-down camp at Council Bluffs, working to be able to make their way to Salt Lake with their small family. By the time they reached the Salt Lake Valley in 1850, they had four young children under the age of seven.
I can barely herd my three children from the family room to the garage...I can't imagine dragging them across 1000 miles of prairie!
Lesson #4: Be Careful What You Pray For (and be ready to accept God's answer to your prayers).
You would think things got easier once they had settled in Utah, but they did not. Lutitia's parents had strayed from their faith and her husband's testimony began to falter. How she must have struggled, alone and steadfast in her convictions, watching those she loved walk away from the things that mattered most to her. Her husband wouldn't agree to be sealed to her or their children. She'd come all this way for what? A cabin in an untamed valley?
At one point, Joseph started talking about moving to California, where there would be more monetary opportunities for their family and especially for their teenage son, Albert. Lutitia knew that this would mean a break with the Saints for her and her children, and she desperately did not want to leave.
I am amazed that Lutitia's reaction was not bitterness or faltering in her faith. Instead, she sought to strengthen her relationship with the Lord. She loved her husband, who was a kind and generous man. So she prayed. She asked God to save her husband and help her family.
And then her husband was shot while he was lying next to her in bed. The hired man was to afraid to go for the doctor, so Lutitia went herself. Her husband lived three days and died, leaving her a widow with five young children.
Lesson #5: It Never Gets Easier, You Just Get Stronger.
Because she was a wealthy widow with a family in need of protection, she was quickly remarried into a polygamous marriage with a man who was poor and already struggling to take care of the family he had. She shared her abundance with her new family. Within two years, her husband left on a mission, leaving her pregnant with six children and responsible to take care of his first wife and their children. The grasshoppers came. She spent her days fighting bugs off the wheat and sold everything she had to feed her family. She spent the night before he daughter was born watering the crops because she had no help and she knew it was up to her. She worked day and night and by the time her husband returned, she bore him a third child and then collapsed from a physical and nervous breakdown. Her husband abandoned her, but God did not. She recovered, divorced her husband, raised her family, and never faltered in her faith. She spent her days in the Temple, doing the work for her extended family. She knew that God had answered her prayers and provided a way for her family to be taken care of, both temporally and eternally.
Lesson #6: I am a Wimp.
My life is nowhere near as difficult as Lutitia's was, and I am nowhere near as strong or even faithful. My parents and husband are the most faithful people I've ever met. I have never had to worry about being run out of my home by mobs or not being able to feed my family because of grasshoppers. My needs have always always been provided for--without the work that Lutitia was required to do in order for her needs to be met.
So as I've been indulging in thirty seconds of pity party here and there over the past week since my husband came home literally glowing from a meeting with his mentor, it is little wonder to me that the Holy Ghost brought Lutitia to my remembrance. Learn from her, the Spirit whispered, and so I have tried to.
I have learned that teething is tough on everyone and that it usually means you will have to miss out on something you wanted to be part of, but it is a blessing to be able to comfort a little loved one when he or she is in pain. I might have to miss out on things I desperately want to be part of, but that doesn't mean that blessings are taken away from me. I am given the gift of choosing my path, and as my husband and I face a new direction with our family, I am able to be a rather large part of that decision. It might take a while, but that's okay. Eventually I will understand.
When Scott first embraced this new path, I wholeheartedly supported him, and that has not changed at all. In the eight months since embracing this new opportunity, life has gotten a bit more challenging and the future a bit more cloudy. There are no easy answers, but there is comfort in trusting where God leads us. And He WILL lead us. I have no doubt that somewhere in the future we will end up where He needs us to be, and although the thought of doing what is required to get there seems as impossible as guiding preschoolers across the Great Plains, I know that the path will be made clear and we will get there, together.
Several years ago, I prayed for my husband to have a calling that would keep him busy and growing in the gospel. That prayer has undoubtedly been answered. When I prayed for this blessing for him, I did not consider all of the Sundays I would be flying solo getting our family ready for church or evenings I would spend putting our children to bed by myself.
When his work started to become frustrating and I began praying for him to feel valued and fulfilled in his career, I didn't know that God would want him to start a new career altogether. We were both blown away at how Scott's opportunity to teach at a university came so quickly and so (nearly!) effortlessly. I did not anticipate how excited he would become while planning out his course, or how this would give him that something he needed in order to hang on at his current job and see things through. I didn't know that God would ask more of him when it comes to church meetings and that I would be giving him up for yet another weeknight, and that would mean that I would be required to give up things I love (cough*bookclub*cough) so that our tired children could make it to bed at an appropriate hour. I didn't know that those additional meetings would guide him in his search for a direction for our future and provide answers to the questions we didn't realize he should be asking.
And when he came home from that meeting with the program director, he started throwing out words I never thought I'd hear him say, my mind protested but my heart opened my eyes and I could see our future, and deep down, I am okay with it.
And as I read through Lutitia's story, the same one I typed up for my family last spring, I realize that I will probably never fully understand God's ways, but that they are always right and He will always prepare us if we let Him. And, no matter what, I believe that God keeps his promises. He has always provided me with what I need, even when that need takes the form of a napping baby and PAW Patrol distracting my son so that I can write and learn and learn and write.
As I reread this quote from her biography this morning, the Spirit confirmed to me that this is the lesson I am meant to learn from Grandma Lutitia.
"If we could understand the great trials our fathers and mothers were called to pass through, it would help us to appreciate the wonderful opportunities we have at present. It is through their strength and bravery under the hand of God that we are surrounded by the comforts of this life."
Monday, January 22, 2018
Scholarship
A few weeks ago, I was contacted by the English department at my alma mater. They were seeking a "where are you now?" follow-up on me so that they could pass it along to the sponsor of a scholarship I received during my university education.
I had been contacted once before, as a follow-up to a different scholarship I had been awarded earlier in my college career. Ashamed that I had nothing significant to report, I selfishly and cowardishly never responded. Still carrying the guilt of that decision, I determined that this time I would reply to the email.
I still had nothing significant to report. In the past six years since I graduated with my two BS degrees, I haven't had a job. I haven't been published. I haven't written anything on a consistent basis, and even the few times I sat down and wrote something that I intended to share with the world, the documents never made it past being saved on my hard drive.
For a day or two, I mulled over what I could say, and then I forgot all about the assignment until I was contacted a second time with a reminder that they still hadn't heard from me. This time I immediately sat down and typed out a reply.
I was surprised in the words that came, because they were an awakening for me.
I had been contacted once before, as a follow-up to a different scholarship I had been awarded earlier in my college career. Ashamed that I had nothing significant to report, I selfishly and cowardishly never responded. Still carrying the guilt of that decision, I determined that this time I would reply to the email.
I still had nothing significant to report. In the past six years since I graduated with my two BS degrees, I haven't had a job. I haven't been published. I haven't written anything on a consistent basis, and even the few times I sat down and wrote something that I intended to share with the world, the documents never made it past being saved on my hard drive.
For a day or two, I mulled over what I could say, and then I forgot all about the assignment until I was contacted a second time with a reminder that they still hadn't heard from me. This time I immediately sat down and typed out a reply.
I was surprised in the words that came, because they were an awakening for me.
Dear Mr. Smith,
I was a recipient of the Ralph Jennings Smith Scholarship during my last year at Utah State University. The scholarship blessed my life in many ways, as it allowed me to finish not just my Professional and Technical Writing degree, but also to obtain a second Bachelor's degree in American Studies, where my true passion is. I am a ongoing student of American history and creative writing and I hope to someday combine both interests and write historical fiction novels for young adults.
At the moment, my opportunities to sit down and get lost in the sound of my fingers typing are few and far between. One of the major blessings of obtaining this scholarship was that it allowed me to graduate from USU without any student debt. Because of this, I have been able to live my dream of being a stay-at-home mom. If I was carrying the burden of student debt, I wouldn't be able to spend my days as I do with my three children. My oldest daughter, who was born a few months after I graduated, has recently started kindergarten. She and I like to read together at night, and some of our favorite books have been about girls throughout history.
Although there are days that I long for more time to write, I understand that there are seasons in our lives. In no way do I feel that I am wasting this season of my life--I am exactly where I want to be! That said, I very much look forward to the day when I can send my children to school and spend my days writing. Until then, I try and keep my skills sharp by editing term papers, resumes, personal statements, and advertising flyers for family members and friends, keeping a family blog, writing personal essays, and jotting down ideas for children's books on whatever scrap of paper is handy! When I was at Utah State, my mother read one of my personal essays and made the comment that my writing would take me many places, but in the end it would always bring me back home. As I've spent the past nearly six years at home, I realize that home is the best place for me to live my dreams.
Thank you for your generosity, which has helped me in my path as a writer, mother, student, and historian.
Sincerely, Marinda Burningham Fowler
Utah State University 2011
On the days when I might wonder what my college education was worth, this is what I want to remember. I may not have my name in print or get a bi-monthly paycheck at my dream job, but I am where I want to be. The skills that I spent five years in college developing sneak into my current life in the most curious ways: helping my husband plan the MBA data analytics course he will soon be teaching. Editing a dear high school friend's personal statement so she can apply to medical school. Giving my little brother tips on the online advertising campaign he is creating. Planning Sunday school lessons twice a month. Participating in monthly book club meetings. Keeping up with current events. Teaching my son's joy school class every five weeks. Giving suggestions on nonfiction books for a neighbor kid's upcoming book report. Helping my nephews with their History Fair entries. Teaching my daughter how vowels work as she learns to sound out words. Doing family history research. Creating a record of our family, here and now. Gleefully searching through tubs of Scott's grandmother's old books with my mother-in-law. Problem-solving with my children. Planning our future.
And so many other ways.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Bend Backwards
I am 35 weeks pregnant and have reverted back to the state of a toddler.
I am prone to giving strangers crusty looks and wanting to answer "no" to every question.
I am hungry all the time but have no idea what I want to eat. I also get mad when I can't just have cold cereal, candy, or ice cream for dinner.
Patience is not my thing.
Sleeping is something I crave and fight at the same time. I can't make it through the night. I tend to wake everyone up when I do wake up and then it takes me forever to fall back to sleep.
I never know what I want, but you can bet I'll whine and complain about it until you figure it out.
Walking long distances is not my favorite.
I waddle everywhere I go, and tend to lose my balance when I bend over.
I am not happy about sharing. Anything. Especially food, blankets, and physical affection.
So what does this have to do with anything? Nothing. Just wanted you to know.
I am prone to giving strangers crusty looks and wanting to answer "no" to every question.
I am hungry all the time but have no idea what I want to eat. I also get mad when I can't just have cold cereal, candy, or ice cream for dinner.
Patience is not my thing.
Sleeping is something I crave and fight at the same time. I can't make it through the night. I tend to wake everyone up when I do wake up and then it takes me forever to fall back to sleep.
I never know what I want, but you can bet I'll whine and complain about it until you figure it out.
Walking long distances is not my favorite.
I waddle everywhere I go, and tend to lose my balance when I bend over.
I am not happy about sharing. Anything. Especially food, blankets, and physical affection.
So what does this have to do with anything? Nothing. Just wanted you to know.
Friday, May 6, 2016
Motherhood Monologues #25: Home
When my husband and I went to close on our home, I felt terrible that I couldn't contribute financially. I mean, I knew I worked hard to keep our family functioning, but it wasn't a very nice feeling to watch him sign all of the paperwork with the caveat "oh, we'll add your name later" because I had no income. Not just steady income--literally, no income.
Somewhere in the process of picking out the house, making offers, packing up our apartment, and scrubbing the house clean of its former occupants, I made a promise to myself that if I couldn't get us a house, I would move heaven and earth to make the house I was provided a home.
Making a home is easier said than done, especially as children grow and careers change and roofs need replacing and basements flood and illnesses fluctuate. In my mind's eye, I know how I want my home to be, but like the development of myself into the woman I want to be, there are a lot of things I simply don't know how to do. So I'm working on it.
I have always wanted the type of home that would be a refuge for not just my family, but for any friends, acquaintances, and neighbors that come along. I want it to be a place that, while it might not always be clean, is always cozy. I want a place where visitors can walk in and immediately know that we try our hardest to keep Christ at the center of our home. We will not apologize for the life we desire to live, and we will especially not apologize for it or hide it within the walls of our personal refuge, but we will gladly invite anyone in who is willing to respect us and our beliefs, even if they do not agree.
I want my home to be a place of laughter and learning. I want to see the evidence of imagination--hence why I painted a wall so my kids could color on it and there are food coloring stains on the kitchen counter and a crocodile that lives in our bathtub (aka, a mat from IKEA. His name is Lyle.) There are shelves full of books in every room--reading material is never far away around here. There are princess gowns and blanket forts and every kind of sports ball. There are notebooks and art walls and sheet music and spaces to dance. There is culture here--it may not be classy, but it is enlightening.
I want my home to be a place of play. Every kind of play, from the swingset in the backyard to the kitchen set in the family room to the piano in the living room to the shelves full of puzzles and games in the front closet. We work hard, but we also play hard. Sometimes playing with my children is work for me--sometimes playing with me is work for my husband (as anyone who has ever played Monopoly with me can attest).
I want my home to be a place of growth. Although my husband jokes that the gigantic ruler in our front entryway is simply a way to tell how tall a burglar is before he/she runs out the door, to me it is a record of the lives of my children. They ask to stand by it often and in those moments I can see them aging before my eyes. Those inches that they pack on come slowly, a millimeter at a time, but when I notice that she has sprung up four inches since her last birthday I am able to see the difference between what was and what is.
I want my home to be a breath of fresh air. From the plants in our yard to the occasional scented candle or wax warmer, it is important to me that my home feels, smells, and sounds clean even if it is cluttered. There are times when I turn off all the inside noises and open the windows just to hear the renewal of spring and the see the whitening effect that direct sunshine can have on a person's life.
Our house is not perfect. It is not new and it is not fashionable, and we have a whole notebook full of our home improvement project lists (or we would, if we actually took the time to write our dreams down). Little by little, we are making changes. Some are temporal and tangible, like fresh paint and new doorknobs. Some are spiritual, like consistent scripture study and family prayer, and some are emotional, like the institution of family hugs and the passing of the "loving sign" and the kisses of kindness that my daughter's preschool introduced to our lives. Each of these changes, small or large, expensive or frugal, serves to change our house and change us--and that is what truly makes our dwelling place a home.
And that is all I have ever wanted.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
A Mom of "Just" Two
Almost two and a half years ago, I wrote a post entitled "A Mom of Just One." A few days after I published it, a dear, sweet friend chastised me a little and suggested I take out the "just" in the heading. "Mothering is hard with one and it's hard with more, " she wrote. "Don't discredit yourself. You're not a mom of "just one", you're a mom. And you're fabulous."
Folks, this is the kind of constructive criticism that works. I don't think she knows how often I have come back to her words to comfort myself when the rocky paths of motherhood trip me up and my soul is covered in road rash.
No, I didn't take "Just" out of the heading then. I left it as a reminder of a day when I just felt down and I had forgotten my purpose. I can't tell you how many times in the past two and a half years I have had to revise conversations with myself in my head...if I can just get through today...if I can get through today...if I can just be a little better...if I can be a little better...if I can just be a little more patient...if I can be a little more patient...
Here is what I've learned: just is one of those words that distances us not only from our true selves, but from God's plan for us.
Oh, how this lesson hurts me sometimes.
When you include the word "just," it is almost like placing a deadline on your efforts. When you eliminate that word, there leaves a lot of wiggle room--and I like to think that is what God would like mothers like me to give ourselves.
I'm going to be a little raw and a lot real here, because I have some words and thoughts and feelings and emotions in me that I really need to barf into cyberspace.
Today Sly learned to say the word "baby." We were looking at a book I made for him for his first Christmas, and as soon as I opened to the first page, he pointed to a picture taken on his first day of life and said, clear as a bell, "baby!"
I hadn't coached him. We haven't really talked babies with him. This really is no great coincidence, as his sister totes around babies all day long, but it still took me by surprise, and instantly I was transported back to when his sister was that age and Scott and I were discussing family planning and after a frustrating day, I told him we couldn't even think about another pregnancy until she could pass three milestones: 1. Walk on her own; 2. Sleep through the night; and 3. Say the word "baby."
For the first two years of her life, Kevin was a little behind developmentally. We knew this was because of her premature birth, and we didn't notice it very often, but now that we've had more than a year with a full-term baby, I can see the areas where she struggled because of those lost eight weeks in the womb. She walked at about the same age, but sleeping was and continues to be much more of a struggle with her than it ever has been for Sly. And talking? She said enough words for us to not worry, but she didn't communicate clearly until just after she turned two (and, quite frankly, she hasn't shut up since).
So I didn't worry about her hitting the milestones too fast, because I knew by the time she did our family would be ready.
It's been different this time around. After Sly was born, I was so deep into depression and health issues that Scott and I both knew that giving ourselves some extra space before we attempted a third (and possibly, probably last) pregnancy was going to be not only helpful, but necessary. What we didn't anticipate, however, was the strong stirrings of baby hunger that started this past fall. Every time we go to change our plan, we remember just how difficult and different the last two pregnancies have been and we pray about it and we know that, once again, the timing isn't right...yet.
That doesn't make it any easier when Kevin asks me almost daily when we can get another baby from the "hospidal" and talks about a sister as if she was a real person and informed me last week that there was a baby in my tummy (when I could clearly tell that there was not).
Or when nearly every one of my friends that was pregnant when I was pregnant with Sly is announcing a pregnancy.
A few weeks ago, Scott and I were talking about this baby subject (it comes up a lot), and he turned to me and said, "I bet if your health were different, we'd be close to having three kids by now."
Here's the thing that confuses me though: my kids drive me nuts. Why would I want more?
Why, on days when I've had to sneak down to the basement twice for a handful of chocolate chips and my son has colored on the walls and my daughter can't stop the floors from jumping out and tripping her, do I tell myself I actually want another child?
Scott brought home a pizza for lunch at 11:30 am (yup, that kind of a day) and we were talking about our newest nephew (we've gotten two in the last 30 hours!) and I said to him, "I'm sorry we aren't at number five." What I really meant was: I'm sorry we will probably never even get to number five."
And he looked at me with that handsome smile of his, pulled me close so that my cheek was resting on his worn gray fleece jacket, and said with absolute certainty something along the lines of, "Sweetheart, I'm just fine with that."
So, all day I've been telling myself that I'm fine being a mother of just two.
And then, thanks to Savanah, I remind myself that I'm not just a mother of just two...I AM a mother of two children. And motherhood is hard with one, with two, with five or with six, If you ask any woman who has struggled or is struggling with infertility, she will tell you that motherhood is hard even when you are just trying to have children.
During this past conference, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland spoke of the verbs of motherhood: to bear, lift, carry, deliver...and how the roles mothers play in our earthly lives are similar to the role Christ plays in our eternal life. The talk was beautiful--almost too beautiful, and I thought, "surely a sinner like me doesn't deserve those songs of praise!"
But then he ended his talk with these words, and I needed them just as much in October as I need them today (and I will probably need them in a month, a year, ten years from now):
"To all of our mothers everywhere, past, present, or future, I say, 'Thank you. Thank you for giving birth, for shaping souls, for forming character, and for demonstrating the pure love of Christ.' To Mother Eve, to Sarah (a mother of one child!), Rebekah (she only had two children!), and Rachel (again, two children!), to Mary of Nazareth, and to a Mother in Heaven, I say, 'Thank you for your crucial role in fulfilling the purposes of eternity.' To all mothers in every circumstance, including those who struggle—and all will—I say, 'Be peaceful. Believe in God and yourself. You are doing better than you think you are. In fact, you are saviors on Mount Zion,13 and like the Master you follow, your love never faileth.’14 I can pay no higher tribute to anyone."
His words aren't just to the mothers whose families are complete, or those who are up into the 3 to 5 times tables when it comes to "multiplying and replenishing the earth." They are to those who have never been able to have children, to those who are trying, to those who are pregnant, to those who have birthed stillborn babies or suffered miscarriages, to those with one child, and to those, like me, who have children but want more and are wondering if my best efforts and childbearing and childrearing are possibly enough to earn me that title of Mother.
And he never once uses the word just, though I have used it 20 times in this post alone.
So, right at this moment, I may have to take his word for it that I am doing better than I think I am, and that I can find peace in my role at this moment, and that though my love for my children may falter on some days, when it comes right down to it, that love never faileth.
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Lifelong Learning
My husband will be done with graduate school in six weeks. (That is, he will be done, provided he passed his class last semester--we are still crossing our fingers for that one.) Although he has technically only been in graduate school since January of 2014, he has been attending school for our entire five-year marriage, minus the six months he took off between his undergraduate and his graduate degree.
For the first 15 months of our marriage, I was also attending the university. Sometimes I think of this time as our "Golden Year." We always seemed to have enough--enough time together, enough money, enough to keep us busy. We would spend our evenings doing homework side-by-side on the couch. Our brains were constantly being exercised. And I loved it. I love to learn. I love school. I loved learning with him.
But then I graduated. That last semester of school, admittedly, was my least favorite, but that could have been because I had morning sickness as a constant companion and a job with a boss that was highly stressful to me. So, once graduation happened, parenthood happened, and me quitting my job happened, my new life was a relief and a blessing.
I enjoy being a stay-at-home mom. I wouldn't want to be ANYWHERE else, despite the hard days. There is one thing I do miss, however.
My brain.
A friend once told me that she lost a quarter of her brain with each child. She has five children. You do the math.
According to her logic, I should still have half a brain left. I seem to have misplaced it though. There are so many days when I can't remember the simplest things--how to do math, grammar rules, basic history facts. It didn't help when last week a friend posted an article on Facebook about how Type II diabetes is pretty much the same thing as Alzheimer's. That induced a bit of panic in me.
It is difficult for me to send my husband off to school each week more than just because it means another three hours without him and being a one-woman show with our cranky kids. I suppose, in a word, I am jealous. Every day he comes home and tells me about what he has been doing that day--talking about the software problems he countered, the complicated processes he has run, the future of the business where he is employed. On school nights, he comes home full of enthusiasm about what he is learning and the discussions he has experienced. I nod my head and pretend like I understand the business jargon. To me, he seems so smart. Of course, he has always been smart, but now he just keeps getting smarter. He knows so many things. He can do this complicated job, and what can I do? Name every character on Daniel Tiger and Sofia the First. Recite the first Pinkalicious book by heart. Sing 20 different songs about spiders, pigs, buses, pumpkins, witches, or monkeys on command.
Growing up, I was always the smart child. My siblings struggled in school, each for their own different reason and challenge. I never really did. My biggest challenges were people and my own emotions. But the actual acadmics? With the exception of one pop quiz in geometry when my brain just plain quit, I never struggled to learn and know and succeed in school.
At this point, however, I'd probably say I am the least smartest child of all my siblings. My older brother has a juris doctorate. My little sister is a CNA, working toward being an MA and she is so stinkin smart when it comes to all things children and medical. My little brother, well, he knows everything (and what he doesn't know, he covers up with his charm and witty comments that have you laughing so hard you forgot what he was supposed to be doing in the first place).
So, I've lost that title, and you know what? It's taken a while, but I'm okay with it. I'm happy--ecstatic, really--to see my siblings succeed.
But sometimes I do miss that intellectual part of me that seems to have retired.
Here's the thing I am realizing, though. I may not be gaining academic knowledge or career experience or excelling at a recognizable, formal institution, but every day I am still learning, and the things I am learning now are just as important as the things I learned in school, if not more so.
Things like how to adapt recipes to fit my family's needs and what we have in our pantry.
Finding the best deals to make our money stretch farther.
Recognizing when those around me are in need of love and service.
Instilling a love of reading in my children by not only reading to them every day, but being an example to them of a person who truly loves to learn through reading.
Working through threenager and toddler meltdowns with patience and a calm demeanor (still practicing that one). I
am learning how to learn from the past to shape the future. I am taking the time to do the small things--kiss an owie, play the piano while my kids "sing" on their chosen stage of our staircase, playing catch and baby dolls--and still, somehow, finding time to still be myself in the midst of it all.
This past week we picked up a book at the library by Weird Al Yankovic entitled, "When I Grow Up." During show and tell at school, a little boy named Billy shares with the class the long list of things he hopes to do with his life--everything from being a famous chef to a snail trainer to a deodorant tester. When his teacher kindly reminds him that he should probably narrow down his list, Billy says that his great-grandfather is 103 years old and still hasn't figured out what he wants to be.
Here's what I learned from that book: I've got time.
And according to the Christian Rock radio station, when your kids leave for college, mom gets her brain back.
I hope, wherever that half of my brain is being stored, that it has enough preservatives to last another 20+ years, because I've got a lot of things left to learn.
For the first 15 months of our marriage, I was also attending the university. Sometimes I think of this time as our "Golden Year." We always seemed to have enough--enough time together, enough money, enough to keep us busy. We would spend our evenings doing homework side-by-side on the couch. Our brains were constantly being exercised. And I loved it. I love to learn. I love school. I loved learning with him.
But then I graduated. That last semester of school, admittedly, was my least favorite, but that could have been because I had morning sickness as a constant companion and a job with a boss that was highly stressful to me. So, once graduation happened, parenthood happened, and me quitting my job happened, my new life was a relief and a blessing.
I enjoy being a stay-at-home mom. I wouldn't want to be ANYWHERE else, despite the hard days. There is one thing I do miss, however.
My brain.
A friend once told me that she lost a quarter of her brain with each child. She has five children. You do the math.
According to her logic, I should still have half a brain left. I seem to have misplaced it though. There are so many days when I can't remember the simplest things--how to do math, grammar rules, basic history facts. It didn't help when last week a friend posted an article on Facebook about how Type II diabetes is pretty much the same thing as Alzheimer's. That induced a bit of panic in me.
It is difficult for me to send my husband off to school each week more than just because it means another three hours without him and being a one-woman show with our cranky kids. I suppose, in a word, I am jealous. Every day he comes home and tells me about what he has been doing that day--talking about the software problems he countered, the complicated processes he has run, the future of the business where he is employed. On school nights, he comes home full of enthusiasm about what he is learning and the discussions he has experienced. I nod my head and pretend like I understand the business jargon. To me, he seems so smart. Of course, he has always been smart, but now he just keeps getting smarter. He knows so many things. He can do this complicated job, and what can I do? Name every character on Daniel Tiger and Sofia the First. Recite the first Pinkalicious book by heart. Sing 20 different songs about spiders, pigs, buses, pumpkins, witches, or monkeys on command.
Growing up, I was always the smart child. My siblings struggled in school, each for their own different reason and challenge. I never really did. My biggest challenges were people and my own emotions. But the actual acadmics? With the exception of one pop quiz in geometry when my brain just plain quit, I never struggled to learn and know and succeed in school.
At this point, however, I'd probably say I am the least smartest child of all my siblings. My older brother has a juris doctorate. My little sister is a CNA, working toward being an MA and she is so stinkin smart when it comes to all things children and medical. My little brother, well, he knows everything (and what he doesn't know, he covers up with his charm and witty comments that have you laughing so hard you forgot what he was supposed to be doing in the first place).
So, I've lost that title, and you know what? It's taken a while, but I'm okay with it. I'm happy--ecstatic, really--to see my siblings succeed.
But sometimes I do miss that intellectual part of me that seems to have retired.
Here's the thing I am realizing, though. I may not be gaining academic knowledge or career experience or excelling at a recognizable, formal institution, but every day I am still learning, and the things I am learning now are just as important as the things I learned in school, if not more so.
Things like how to adapt recipes to fit my family's needs and what we have in our pantry.
Finding the best deals to make our money stretch farther.
Recognizing when those around me are in need of love and service.
Instilling a love of reading in my children by not only reading to them every day, but being an example to them of a person who truly loves to learn through reading.
Working through threenager and toddler meltdowns with patience and a calm demeanor (still practicing that one). I
am learning how to learn from the past to shape the future. I am taking the time to do the small things--kiss an owie, play the piano while my kids "sing" on their chosen stage of our staircase, playing catch and baby dolls--and still, somehow, finding time to still be myself in the midst of it all.
This past week we picked up a book at the library by Weird Al Yankovic entitled, "When I Grow Up." During show and tell at school, a little boy named Billy shares with the class the long list of things he hopes to do with his life--everything from being a famous chef to a snail trainer to a deodorant tester. When his teacher kindly reminds him that he should probably narrow down his list, Billy says that his great-grandfather is 103 years old and still hasn't figured out what he wants to be.
Here's what I learned from that book: I've got time.
And according to the Christian Rock radio station, when your kids leave for college, mom gets her brain back.
I hope, wherever that half of my brain is being stored, that it has enough preservatives to last another 20+ years, because I've got a lot of things left to learn.
Friday, October 23, 2015
More Than Yesterday
I wrote this post out in my head at 4:30 am this morning. Fifteen and a half hours later, I can't even remember what I wanted to say. I should have just gotten up and written it. Sigh. You live and you learn, right?
A couple of days ago, a friend of mine posted this picture on my facebook wall, with the caption, "When I saw this, I read it in your voice...probably because you are one that doesn't pretend every day is perfect. And your kids drive you crazy plenty."
A couple of days ago, a friend of mine posted this picture on my facebook wall, with the caption, "When I saw this, I read it in your voice...probably because you are one that doesn't pretend every day is perfect. And your kids drive you crazy plenty."
Ladies and gentlemen, all of the above is true.
My kids got on my nerves yesterday. Fried my nerves, actually.
I do my best not to pretend that every day is perfect. Because, although there are moments of absolute perfection (like when my daughter grabs our family copy of the Book of Mormon and settles into the rocking chair to flip through the pages because she just needs to "take a break and read scriptures"), the only perfect day I've ever had is my wedding day. And even then I could have done without my dad locking me in the car.
Funny how life changes over time. I was able to have dinner with three of my best high school friends last night. We parked ourselves in Zupas with our soups, salads, bacon paninis and chocolate-dipped strawberries and talked for nearly three hours. At one point, someone asked us what our biggest regrets were from high school. Although we started out talking about things like boys and extracurricular activities, our conversation eventually turned deeper. And, now that I've had 24 hours to ponder that question and conversation, I think that my biggest regret from high school--and to a point, college too--was feeling like I had to be perfect all the time. I felt that was what was expected of me: perfect grades, perfect habits, perfect choices, perfect girl. I had and was none of those things. Maybe it was the "P-Squared" nickname (aka, perfect person, which for real really was one of my nicknames, although I did not give it to myself). Maybe it was my class of constantly-competing, ladder-climbing, accolade-seeking peers. I guess "maybe" it was a lot of things, but mostly, it was me.
I have an idea of when my perfectionist persona changed, or at least when it started to change.
Somehow, in the past ten years, I've gone from pretending perfection to embracing imperfection. I'm glad that others can recognize that about me now. It's a wonderful compliment to know that someone, somewhere, acknowledges that you aren't anything more or less than who you present yourself to be.
To prove this to my friends last night, I demonstrated my cussing ability as per their request. Together, we openly admitted our failures and successes, the simple things that bring us joy (I'm talking about you and that freeing sensation, Tess). We talked about how motherhood is the hardest thing we've ever done, how marriage isn't always perfect but we are so grateful for the men in our lives, how we were all stupid in high school and should have probably kissed a few more boys, how our best memories involved the police, how our girl's nights in algae masks were so much more fun than the dances we didn't get asked to, how we wished we'd realized then we should have taken more time to appreciate the true friendships that we had instead of seeking after false ones.
Yesterday, as I was rushing to get out the door to meet my friends for dinner, I said goodbye to each of my family members and told them I loved them. As I finished giving her little brother a kiss, Kevin asked me, "Mommy, do you love yourself?"
I smiled and answered honestly, "Sometimes, sweetie."
A few hours later, I realized that I wasn't quite as honest with her as I thought. The truth is, I do love the woman I have become. Despite how far I have to go to reach my true potential, I do love being me.
After all, I'm not perfect.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Motherhood Changes You
I read an article the other day about how when women are pregnant, cells from the fetus work their way through a woman's body and stay there even after she gives birth to the baby, becoming part of major organs like her heart and her brain. Scientists believe this is a common phenomenon, and they've done several studies where they've found Y chromosome cells (the man cells) in the bodies of women who have given birth to sons.
Now, I'm not a scientist, so I don't really understand how all of it works, but I do understand this:
Motherhood changes you. It changes your heart and your mind and every little part of you.
I often think about the person I was "before." I'd be lying if I didn't admit that sometimes I yearn to go back to her. That woman could think! She had brain cells! She had the smarts! She had some confidence! She rarely went two days without showering!
I am in a time of life at the moment where motherhood sucks the life out of me. My children are small and they require so much. I am blessed with a husband who does more than his fair share of the work, but there is still so much asked of me on any given day. I feel like I lose intelligence daily--I find myself unable to recall facts I once know--like the order of operations or basic rules of grammar. My nerves are so fried I don't know if I will ever be whole again. Threenagers, you know?
I am jealous of the women who say they love every minute of motherhood, just like I'm jealous of the women who can pop out babies with little more than one doctor's appointment a month and some slight nausea.
Does the fact that sometimes I fiercely dislike motherhood mean that I don't love being a mom? NO.
I try not to complain about being a mother. I am overwhelmingly grateful for this calling in my life, and I wouldn't trade being a stay-at-home mom for any fancy, famous career. I guess I'm just trying to find balance on that fine line between loving what I do and being genuine about how much it stinks sometimes.
Before I was a mom, I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to see it all.
Now, I can barely make it through a two-day anniversary getaway because I miss my kids too much.
Do I still want to travel? Yes.
But not too far right now, because taking my kids with me doesn't seem like all that much fun either.
Before I was a mom, I had dreams about getting all sorts of educational degrees.
Now, it takes me a month to get through any "heavy" reading.
Do I still want to attend graduate school? Absolutely.
But I have to get my brain back and get my kids through elementary school first.
Before I was a mom, I wanted to write best-selling novels that would change the world.
Now, when I have a minute to myself, I'm reading or sleeping.
Do I still have stories in my head? Oh, so many of them!
But sometimes there are more important things to do in a day. Like laundry. Because one's children can't run around naked, even if their mother is writing a masterpiece.
Before I was a mom, I thought I was so tired.
Now, I fight through fatigue on a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute basis.
Do I think I wasn't tired then? No. I was tired then! I'm just more tired now.
But midnight snuggles and "Mom, I need a cuddle"s are so much better than being well rested.
Before I was a mom, I thought I understood everything.
Now, I understand that there are so many facets of life to be understood and that, even in the hereafter, there are things I may never know.
Do I still want answers? Yes.
But I've learned that sometimes not knowing can be worth it.
Before I was a mom, I thought I was someone.
Now, I understand that there is so much more to me because I am a wife and mother.
Do I still have hopes and dreams beyond making it to naptime? Oh, yes. Oh yes oh yes oh yes!
But I also am coming to understand that you don't have to "be someone" before you become a wife and a mother. You can become someone better as you do it with someone else to help you along the journey.
I have realized that the times I get most frustrated with being a mom are the times when I have something else I want to be doing and my children have a different agenda for our day. When I take a step back, I realize that my "this stinks!" moments are usually because of my own selfishness. And it is hard to let go of those things that I think are important to me to take care of the needs of my little ones. I want to fully acknowledge that. But, in letting go of the things that I think make me me, I gain something better in the process. Sacrifice is never really a sacrifice, because there are always greater blessings in the giving up than in the giving in.
A few weeks before I left on my mission, I was talking with a friend and he suddenly paused, looked at me, and said. "Rinda, I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself in the next few months than you can in any other way."
And you know what? He was right.
Then.
But now, when I see pregnant mothers, I think, "I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself than you can in any other way."
And then pudgy, dirty little hands grab at me and I think about how this is a mission that never ends.
It's true. Motherhood changes you.
Now, I'm not a scientist, so I don't really understand how all of it works, but I do understand this:
Motherhood changes you. It changes your heart and your mind and every little part of you.
I often think about the person I was "before." I'd be lying if I didn't admit that sometimes I yearn to go back to her. That woman could think! She had brain cells! She had the smarts! She had some confidence! She rarely went two days without showering!
I am in a time of life at the moment where motherhood sucks the life out of me. My children are small and they require so much. I am blessed with a husband who does more than his fair share of the work, but there is still so much asked of me on any given day. I feel like I lose intelligence daily--I find myself unable to recall facts I once know--like the order of operations or basic rules of grammar. My nerves are so fried I don't know if I will ever be whole again. Threenagers, you know?
I am jealous of the women who say they love every minute of motherhood, just like I'm jealous of the women who can pop out babies with little more than one doctor's appointment a month and some slight nausea.
Does the fact that sometimes I fiercely dislike motherhood mean that I don't love being a mom? NO.
I try not to complain about being a mother. I am overwhelmingly grateful for this calling in my life, and I wouldn't trade being a stay-at-home mom for any fancy, famous career. I guess I'm just trying to find balance on that fine line between loving what I do and being genuine about how much it stinks sometimes.
Before I was a mom, I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to see it all.
Now, I can barely make it through a two-day anniversary getaway because I miss my kids too much.
Do I still want to travel? Yes.
But not too far right now, because taking my kids with me doesn't seem like all that much fun either.
Before I was a mom, I had dreams about getting all sorts of educational degrees.
Now, it takes me a month to get through any "heavy" reading.
Do I still want to attend graduate school? Absolutely.
But I have to get my brain back and get my kids through elementary school first.
Before I was a mom, I wanted to write best-selling novels that would change the world.
Now, when I have a minute to myself, I'm reading or sleeping.
Do I still have stories in my head? Oh, so many of them!
But sometimes there are more important things to do in a day. Like laundry. Because one's children can't run around naked, even if their mother is writing a masterpiece.
Before I was a mom, I thought I was so tired.
Now, I fight through fatigue on a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute basis.
Do I think I wasn't tired then? No. I was tired then! I'm just more tired now.
But midnight snuggles and "Mom, I need a cuddle"s are so much better than being well rested.
Before I was a mom, I thought I understood everything.
Now, I understand that there are so many facets of life to be understood and that, even in the hereafter, there are things I may never know.
Do I still want answers? Yes.
But I've learned that sometimes not knowing can be worth it.
Before I was a mom, I thought I was someone.
Now, I understand that there is so much more to me because I am a wife and mother.
Do I still have hopes and dreams beyond making it to naptime? Oh, yes. Oh yes oh yes oh yes!
But I also am coming to understand that you don't have to "be someone" before you become a wife and a mother. You can become someone better as you do it with someone else to help you along the journey.
I have realized that the times I get most frustrated with being a mom are the times when I have something else I want to be doing and my children have a different agenda for our day. When I take a step back, I realize that my "this stinks!" moments are usually because of my own selfishness. And it is hard to let go of those things that I think are important to me to take care of the needs of my little ones. I want to fully acknowledge that. But, in letting go of the things that I think make me me, I gain something better in the process. Sacrifice is never really a sacrifice, because there are always greater blessings in the giving up than in the giving in.
A few weeks before I left on my mission, I was talking with a friend and he suddenly paused, looked at me, and said. "Rinda, I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself in the next few months than you can in any other way."
And you know what? He was right.
Then.
But now, when I see pregnant mothers, I think, "I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself than you can in any other way."
And then pudgy, dirty little hands grab at me and I think about how this is a mission that never ends.
It's true. Motherhood changes you.
Monday, September 14, 2015
The Least of These
My current assigned calling, or job, in my church is to work with the children. I serve in what is called the Primary Presidency, which is a group of four women asked to make sure that our church's program for children ages 18 months to 12 years old runs (I would say smoothly, but as everyone who has worked with children knows, there is bumpy and there is less bumpy and then there are rocky roads and then there are Himalayan hiking trails).
When I was first asked to serve in the Primary, I was terrified. Working with children was my mom's and my sister's thing, not mine. Heck, I can barely handle my own two children. But I'm not one to say no when the Lord asks me to do something, so I said yes. Seven months later and I am in love. This just might be my favorite church assignment that I've ever had.
Sure, Sundays are difficult, and I often feel that I'm in over my head and as my brother would say, "tu no sabes nada." (aka, you know nothing!)
But...
There are some Sundays that--that-- well, there are just some Sundays that I know I am where I am supposed to be.
We have a neighbor who has recently taken three foster care children into her home. They have joined our Primary and we are so excited to have their beautiful faces smiling at us on Sundays. Yesterday was their second time attending Primary with us. I felt so terrible the first week because I only remembered one child's name out of the three. All week I reminded myself of the second child's name and practiced it so that I knew I had it correct for her when I saw her on Sunday.
She was sitting on the back row, near the isle, happily singing and interacting with her new friends. On one of my numerous trips to the back door to make copies, do hall patrol, and be on bathroom duty, I knelt down by her chair and whispered, "Hi, Katie*, how are you doing today?"
She looked at me and her eyes got huge, "You know my name?" she asked, incredulous.
I swallowed, giving myself a chance to regain my composure, and said, "Yes, sweetheart, I know your name. I felt bad that I got your name wrong last week, so I've been practicing all week to make sure I got it right."
Without hesitation, she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight, the best way she knew to show me how she felt.
I remembered her name.
It was such a small, small thing.
It meant the world to her.
I was instantly transported back to one of the hardest moments on my mission. We had been invited to eat dinner with a less-active sister that we'd been working with for a month or so. She had two daughters and an infant son. It was not a happy home. This sister was very unkind to her daughters and it was clear that the baby was given all the love and attention (of which there was very little) available in the home.
During that particular dinner, I sat across from one of the little girls. She was wary of strangers and people in general and it was clear that she hadn't felt kindness from an adult in a very long time. I smiled at her every time I caught her looking at me. My arms ached to hold her and hug her and whisper in her ear how very much she was worth to our Heavenly Father--but, due to the missionary rules that I promised Heavenly Father I would obey, I was not allowed to pick her up, hold her, or do much to provide a gentle and a loving touch.
My heart broke even further, then, when she slipped off her chair and came around the table and tried to sit on my lap.
Trying desperately to explain to her that I wanted to hold her but I couldn't, I had to push her down as she attempted several times to climb up. I tried to give her a side hug, but every time I did she took advantage to try and settle into my lap.
Oh, how she cried.
Oh, how I wanted to!
I felt powerless. I wonder sometimes if maybe I should have just broken the rules and held her. Knowing her mother and grandmother, who would have taken advantage and probably reported me for something I did not do, I know that obedience was the correct course of action.
I pray that in the six years since that awful dinner appointment that someone has been able to show that little girl love. True love--the love of a Diety and values her so much that He gave His only begotten son--and the love of an older brother that willingly gave his life so that he could know all the aches of her small heart.
Every child deserves love. EVERY child.
When Katie threw her arms around my neck yesterday, I hugged her back as tight as I could, grateful that this time I could do what I could not do that first time. And in my head I heard the words whispered,
"If ye have done it until the least of these...ye have done it unto me."
*names have been changed
When I was first asked to serve in the Primary, I was terrified. Working with children was my mom's and my sister's thing, not mine. Heck, I can barely handle my own two children. But I'm not one to say no when the Lord asks me to do something, so I said yes. Seven months later and I am in love. This just might be my favorite church assignment that I've ever had.
Sure, Sundays are difficult, and I often feel that I'm in over my head and as my brother would say, "tu no sabes nada." (aka, you know nothing!)
But...
There are some Sundays that--that-- well, there are just some Sundays that I know I am where I am supposed to be.
We have a neighbor who has recently taken three foster care children into her home. They have joined our Primary and we are so excited to have their beautiful faces smiling at us on Sundays. Yesterday was their second time attending Primary with us. I felt so terrible the first week because I only remembered one child's name out of the three. All week I reminded myself of the second child's name and practiced it so that I knew I had it correct for her when I saw her on Sunday.
She was sitting on the back row, near the isle, happily singing and interacting with her new friends. On one of my numerous trips to the back door to make copies, do hall patrol, and be on bathroom duty, I knelt down by her chair and whispered, "Hi, Katie*, how are you doing today?"
She looked at me and her eyes got huge, "You know my name?" she asked, incredulous.
I swallowed, giving myself a chance to regain my composure, and said, "Yes, sweetheart, I know your name. I felt bad that I got your name wrong last week, so I've been practicing all week to make sure I got it right."
Without hesitation, she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight, the best way she knew to show me how she felt.
I remembered her name.
It was such a small, small thing.
It meant the world to her.
I was instantly transported back to one of the hardest moments on my mission. We had been invited to eat dinner with a less-active sister that we'd been working with for a month or so. She had two daughters and an infant son. It was not a happy home. This sister was very unkind to her daughters and it was clear that the baby was given all the love and attention (of which there was very little) available in the home.
During that particular dinner, I sat across from one of the little girls. She was wary of strangers and people in general and it was clear that she hadn't felt kindness from an adult in a very long time. I smiled at her every time I caught her looking at me. My arms ached to hold her and hug her and whisper in her ear how very much she was worth to our Heavenly Father--but, due to the missionary rules that I promised Heavenly Father I would obey, I was not allowed to pick her up, hold her, or do much to provide a gentle and a loving touch.
My heart broke even further, then, when she slipped off her chair and came around the table and tried to sit on my lap.
Trying desperately to explain to her that I wanted to hold her but I couldn't, I had to push her down as she attempted several times to climb up. I tried to give her a side hug, but every time I did she took advantage to try and settle into my lap.
Oh, how she cried.
Oh, how I wanted to!
I felt powerless. I wonder sometimes if maybe I should have just broken the rules and held her. Knowing her mother and grandmother, who would have taken advantage and probably reported me for something I did not do, I know that obedience was the correct course of action.
I pray that in the six years since that awful dinner appointment that someone has been able to show that little girl love. True love--the love of a Diety and values her so much that He gave His only begotten son--and the love of an older brother that willingly gave his life so that he could know all the aches of her small heart.
Every child deserves love. EVERY child.
When Katie threw her arms around my neck yesterday, I hugged her back as tight as I could, grateful that this time I could do what I could not do that first time. And in my head I heard the words whispered,
"If ye have done it until the least of these...ye have done it unto me."
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| photo cred: http://cslewis.drzeus.net/forums/viewtopic.php?f=9&t=8163&start=15 |
Monday, July 20, 2015
Justice and My Friend Mercy
I think we all go through those seasons of life where there seem to be more storms than sunshine. Scott and I went into July knowing that it would be an expensive and fun month, but we had no idea just how adventurous it was going to be. It seems that since the second of July, we've had one rough day after another, with challenge after challenge. These trials are nothing we can't handle, we have friends and family members going through worse, but they've been hard on us.
Mostly because the hardest parts aren't our fault.
I think sometimes it is easier for Scott and I to go through trials when we know why something happened--we understand agency and choices, and we try to accept responsibility for our actions and not complain about the things we ourselves have caused (with the exception of having children, I need to have a better attitude about that, but seriously, we were both good kids--where did these two miniature crazies come from?!).
Last weekend, Sly started running a high fever for the second time in a month. We debated for the next 48 hours about whether or not he would be well enough to make the trek to Idaho Falls for my Grandma's annual Float N Bloat family reunion (the name explains it all: we float the canal and eat lots of food. Scott says that the older you get, the less floating and the more bloating you do). On Friday night, we started making different plans for our weekend. Sly had just endured possibly the worst day of his life thus far, and I just didn't want to make this illness harder for him to overcome. I prayed and prayed to know what to do. The next morning, he woke up doing lots better, even though he was still not 100%. I had a strong feeling that we should go, so we packed up and headed out.
An hour or more into the drive, we were almost rear-ended by a driver who wasn't paying very much attention. Thankfully, Scott was and he was able to move our car in just the right ways to avoid an accident. We knew we were being watched over and continued on our way.
Then, when we were about 45 minutes from our destination, Scott and I were in the middle of a conversation when the semi in the lane next to us made a loud noise and started spewing debris at our car. Chunks of rubber and cement (yeah, cement!) blasted the front of our car. Scott and I both watched as the black and gray matter came straight at our windshield, and then somehow miraculously bounced over our heads and off our car without coming through (or even denting) the glass.
I wasn't scared until Scott said, "They cut our power. I don't have any brakes."
And I started praying as I pushed the button to turn on our emergency lights. It took us a couple of miles to get over to the right lane, then to the shoulder, and then to slow down enough that the emergency brake would stop our car without sending us fishtailing into a ditch.
When we looked back, the semi that we thought had pulled over was no where to be found. Apparently he didn't have enough damage to stop, so he moved on and left us on the side of the road in the July afternoon heat, wondering what on earth we were going to do now. The front part of our grill was gone, with pieces missing. The hood was so dented we couldn't open it. Liquid was pouring out from underneath the carriage.
And our kids were waking up.
We started looking for some other adults to take charge of the situation. There were none, so we began making phone calls.
I kept thinking, "Why us? Why now? I thought we had been prompted to come to the family reunion. If this was supposed to happen, why did I feel that way?"
My father wisely explained to me later that sometimes these things need to happen "to give us experience" just like the scriptures say, even when we don't understand why it is necessary.
I don't know why exactly we needed to be in Idaho that day--part of me knows we needed to spend that time with family, and another part of me thinks that Scott's smart driving skills saved more than one life that day.
If we had been in a smaller car, we would have been dead. As it was, he and I should have been severely injured and we weren't. Kevin, who would have been traumatized by the whole thing slept right through it, and Sly was facing backwards where he couldn't see and wasn't even disturbed (until, of course, we stopped driving and he got bored).
My first thought was to call my parents. My mom didn't answer. My dad never has his cell phone, so I didn't even bother. My aunt didn't answer. I only had 2% left of my phone battery, so I hurried and dialed my Grandma's number on Scott's phone. My aunt Luci just happened to be in the house (the celebrations, already well under way, took place entirely outside) and answered the phone. I then talked to my mom, who quickly sent my uncle David Jack and Luci with her car to come rescue us, before we even knew what would be happening with our car (all we knew was that we wouldn't be driving it to Idaho Falls).
Scott called 911 and an officer responded immediately. Somehow, in all of our AC/tire replacing excitement of the week before, the owner's manual and insurance card had been taken out of the car. We couldn't reach anyone with access to our number, and then Scott just happened to find it on his email (because we'd sold his car to my little brother and gotten the insurance switched over only days before).
Luci and David Jack showed up right after the tow truck. We moved our bewildered, hot children and all of our belongings over to my parent's car, signed the necessary documents, and watched my beloved car get towed away. Seriously, I adore that car.
Though Scott and I were still a little shaky for the rest of the day, we so enjoyed our time with family and family friends. Literally and figuratively, arms were wrapped around us and anyone who could jumped in to see if they could help. My aunt Rah, who would be spending the next week in Idaho, offered to let us take her car home so that we wouldn't have to pay an outrageous price for an out-of-state rental without the insurance company to help us negotiate a reasonable rate. My parents also offered their car, (and somewhere along the lines this equated to Papa telling Kevin that she was coming home with him) and nobody minded that we didn't float and ate more than our fair share of Steph's caramel brownies.
As Scott and I drove home that evening, we analyzed the accident from every angle. When we approached the place where we had pulled off, we started scanning the road for debris, but we saw nothing unusual. As we drove past "the scene of the crime" a quote that I'd shared at our family history conference the month before came to mind.
Mostly because the hardest parts aren't our fault.
I think sometimes it is easier for Scott and I to go through trials when we know why something happened--we understand agency and choices, and we try to accept responsibility for our actions and not complain about the things we ourselves have caused (with the exception of having children, I need to have a better attitude about that, but seriously, we were both good kids--where did these two miniature crazies come from?!).
Last weekend, Sly started running a high fever for the second time in a month. We debated for the next 48 hours about whether or not he would be well enough to make the trek to Idaho Falls for my Grandma's annual Float N Bloat family reunion (the name explains it all: we float the canal and eat lots of food. Scott says that the older you get, the less floating and the more bloating you do). On Friday night, we started making different plans for our weekend. Sly had just endured possibly the worst day of his life thus far, and I just didn't want to make this illness harder for him to overcome. I prayed and prayed to know what to do. The next morning, he woke up doing lots better, even though he was still not 100%. I had a strong feeling that we should go, so we packed up and headed out.
An hour or more into the drive, we were almost rear-ended by a driver who wasn't paying very much attention. Thankfully, Scott was and he was able to move our car in just the right ways to avoid an accident. We knew we were being watched over and continued on our way.
Then, when we were about 45 minutes from our destination, Scott and I were in the middle of a conversation when the semi in the lane next to us made a loud noise and started spewing debris at our car. Chunks of rubber and cement (yeah, cement!) blasted the front of our car. Scott and I both watched as the black and gray matter came straight at our windshield, and then somehow miraculously bounced over our heads and off our car without coming through (or even denting) the glass.
I wasn't scared until Scott said, "They cut our power. I don't have any brakes."
And I started praying as I pushed the button to turn on our emergency lights. It took us a couple of miles to get over to the right lane, then to the shoulder, and then to slow down enough that the emergency brake would stop our car without sending us fishtailing into a ditch.
When we looked back, the semi that we thought had pulled over was no where to be found. Apparently he didn't have enough damage to stop, so he moved on and left us on the side of the road in the July afternoon heat, wondering what on earth we were going to do now. The front part of our grill was gone, with pieces missing. The hood was so dented we couldn't open it. Liquid was pouring out from underneath the carriage.
And our kids were waking up.
We started looking for some other adults to take charge of the situation. There were none, so we began making phone calls.
I kept thinking, "Why us? Why now? I thought we had been prompted to come to the family reunion. If this was supposed to happen, why did I feel that way?"
My father wisely explained to me later that sometimes these things need to happen "to give us experience" just like the scriptures say, even when we don't understand why it is necessary.
I don't know why exactly we needed to be in Idaho that day--part of me knows we needed to spend that time with family, and another part of me thinks that Scott's smart driving skills saved more than one life that day.
If we had been in a smaller car, we would have been dead. As it was, he and I should have been severely injured and we weren't. Kevin, who would have been traumatized by the whole thing slept right through it, and Sly was facing backwards where he couldn't see and wasn't even disturbed (until, of course, we stopped driving and he got bored).
My first thought was to call my parents. My mom didn't answer. My dad never has his cell phone, so I didn't even bother. My aunt didn't answer. I only had 2% left of my phone battery, so I hurried and dialed my Grandma's number on Scott's phone. My aunt Luci just happened to be in the house (the celebrations, already well under way, took place entirely outside) and answered the phone. I then talked to my mom, who quickly sent my uncle David Jack and Luci with her car to come rescue us, before we even knew what would be happening with our car (all we knew was that we wouldn't be driving it to Idaho Falls).
Scott called 911 and an officer responded immediately. Somehow, in all of our AC/tire replacing excitement of the week before, the owner's manual and insurance card had been taken out of the car. We couldn't reach anyone with access to our number, and then Scott just happened to find it on his email (because we'd sold his car to my little brother and gotten the insurance switched over only days before).
Luci and David Jack showed up right after the tow truck. We moved our bewildered, hot children and all of our belongings over to my parent's car, signed the necessary documents, and watched my beloved car get towed away. Seriously, I adore that car.
Though Scott and I were still a little shaky for the rest of the day, we so enjoyed our time with family and family friends. Literally and figuratively, arms were wrapped around us and anyone who could jumped in to see if they could help. My aunt Rah, who would be spending the next week in Idaho, offered to let us take her car home so that we wouldn't have to pay an outrageous price for an out-of-state rental without the insurance company to help us negotiate a reasonable rate. My parents also offered their car, (and somewhere along the lines this equated to Papa telling Kevin that she was coming home with him) and nobody minded that we didn't float and ate more than our fair share of Steph's caramel brownies.
As Scott and I drove home that evening, we analyzed the accident from every angle. When we approached the place where we had pulled off, we started scanning the road for debris, but we saw nothing unusual. As we drove past "the scene of the crime" a quote that I'd shared at our family history conference the month before came to mind.
“Whoever seeks to help those on the
other side receives help in turn in all the affairs of life….Help comes to us from the other side as
we give help to those who have passed beyond the veil.” –John A. Widtsoe, 1980
I knew then, without a doubt, that we had been given divine aid, and that we had been extra blessed because I had spent time trying to help my family members who had already passed on. I don't know which angel was in charge of keeping me calm. I don't know which angel deflected the cement missiles from our hood. I don't know which angel kept Kevin asleep, or which one guided Scott's hands and feet as he directed our car to a safe place.
I just know they were there.
I know there were other angels there too, and these ones I can name, because they are the ones who physically rescued us and calmed our nerves.
Last fall, Scott's car was the unfortunate victim of a nasty hit-and-run. For days and weeks afterward, we struggled to forgive our nameless, reckless neighbor for costing us so much money and taking away a car that felt like part of our family (maybe a dependable family dog is a good comparison). It was tough. We had done nothing wrong, and yet we were dealing with the consequences of another person's bad decisions. Gradually, we learned that we were never going to know who did it and we needed to forgive to find our own personal peace.
This time around, I had the same feelings, but they resolved themselves much more quickly.
For the past few days I have been thinking a lot about the laws of justice and mercy. There doesn't seem to be a lot of justice going on here, and though I sometimes still wish that somebody else would take the financial hit, I am also not at all happy when I think that someday, in the life hereafter, somebody will have to pay for what happened to us. Because in my heart of hearts, I want these people to be forgiven, and I know that in the end, it is really Christ who ends up paying for the bad decisions that we all make, whether we accept his help or not.
I have also learned that when there seems to be an absence of justice, there is an abundance of mercy. There were so many things that could have gone wrong--but most things went right. We are taken care of, we are safe, and we are together.
And we couldn't ask for anything more.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
FHE Tips and Tricks: The Schedule
At the beginning of 2013, I decided I'd had enough of the "who is in charge of planning FHE tonight?" game. About a week into the new year, I received a prompting on how to fix that problem and make our FHE a more regular occurrence with less frustration and contention.
To be clear, this piece of inspiration was 50% the Spirit and 50% how my mom ran our home when I was growing up. Every month, she would type up a schedule with our FHE assignments: prayers, songs, lesson (as well as topic), and treat. My dad, as the patriarchal priesthood leader in our home, was always in charge of calling us together and conducting the evening (but we all knew Mom was really in charge). My mom started doing this in my early teen years. Even though she and my dad are now empty nesters, it always warms my heart to go to their home and see their FHE schedule on the fridge.
It seemed sort of pointless to me, however, to assign out all those things when it was just Scott and I and baby Kevin. So I decided, why stop with a month? Why not plan out a whole year of lessons? And our FHE schedule was born.
How to put together an FHE schedule in five easy steps:
1. Pick a theme
Starting in December, Scott and I start brainstorming ideas for themes. A theme could be anything from a family scripture to a motto or a quote. Our first year our theme was "Establish a House" and we used the scripture found in D&C 88:119. Little did we know that we would be buying our first home that fall. In 2014, we chose a favorite scripture: Mosiah 2:41, "Consider on the Blessed and Happy State of those that Keep the Commandments of God." Let me tell you, I needed that reminder of the blessings and happiness that come from keeping the commandments as I spent 2/3 of that year miserably pregnant. This year we decided to take our theme from Preach My Gospel: "My Purpose." We both knew our purpose as missionaries, but we have been blessed to take these words and change them from not just helping others come unto Christ, but helping our children come until Christ. And, when I created our schedule during the first week of January, I didn't know that three months later we would both be serving in new (and rather large, daunting, missionary-work-centric) callings. There is an inspiration that comes as we prayerfully select our themes. We do not know what our years have in store when we start them in January, but our Heavenly Father knows our needs perfectly.2. Split the the Theme into monthly topics
Once we found our theme, I took the scripture (or saying, in this year's case), and broke it down into monthly topics. For example, when our theme scripture was D&C 88:119, this is how our year was planned out:
January: Organize Yourselves
February: Prepare Every Needful Thing
March: Establish a House
April: A House of Prayer
May: A House of Fasting
June: A House of Faith
July: A House of Celebration (as you can see, I modified things a bit!)
August: A House of Learning
September: A House of Glory
October: A House of Order
November: A House of Gratitude
December: A House of God
In 2014, we followed a similar pattern and broke the scripture up into phrases, focusing on a phrase or principle each month. This year we have broken our theme (My Purpose) into the basic topics of the gospel, filing in with the other lessons from Preach My Gospel as needed.
3. Schedule out the dates for the entire year:
Before I break into finding lesson topics, I find it is easiest to write out the dates of every Monday underneath our monthly topic. This way I know how many Mondays we have to plan for and can consider things like birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays.4. Fill in the dates with FHE Tradition Nights
There are certain Family Home Evening lessons and activities that have become annual occurences for us. These include:
- Goal setting on the first Monday of the year
- A lesson dedicated to our yearly theme (the second week of the year)
- An emergency preparedness lesson in February
- A General Conference Review the Monday after conference in April and October
- A family service project night (usually in May)
- A family faith walk (usually in June)
- A trivia game night (usually in August)
- A family readathon (usually in September)
- A home organization evening (usually in October)
- A "Thankful Chart" creation lesson in the first week of November
- Our gifts to Jesus lesson, held a week or two before Christmas
- A Year in Review lesson on the last Monday of the year
- Birthday lessons (sometimes this is a lesson about a certain person in our family, sometimes it just means that the birthday boy or girl gets to pick a special activity)
- Bucket list activity nights (where we look at the activities we wanted to do together during the year and go do one of them)
We also take one night a month to focus on a specific type of lesson. In 2013-2014, we used these as Family History nights. For the first year, we just talked about people in our family history. For the second year, we focused on our eight grandparents. Most of the time, these lessons were our failures. The family history lessons were the first ones to go when something came up (like a special challenge from the bishop or a local activity we wanted to do instead, or a home improvement project that needed doing). When they did happen, they were wonderful.
This year, in an effort to include Kevin in the teaching portions of our family home evening, we decided to only hold one Family History lesson (in June, after I attend a family history conference with my mom's side of the family). Instead, she is in charge of teaching one lesson a month which focuses on a scripture story that relates to our monthly theme. She and I take a few minutes that day to pick a picture out of the gospel art book or talk about something she learned in nursery the day before that she would like to share her testimony about. Last week she gave the lesson on prophets. Usually this ends up being more of a question and answer session, where she holds a picture and we talk about the story or principle, but she has a sense of ownership over these nights that I think is important. Once Sly gets a little older (aka able to at least listen if not sit still through an entire FHE lesson) he will have a chance to teach some of these lessons also.
5. Plan lesson topics and assign teachers
Using the monthly themes, fill in the rest of the Mondays for that month. For us, this usually means that we plan 2-3 theme-related lessons per month. We simply alternate whose turn it is to teach, unless it makes more sense for one of us to teach a certain lesson. During our period of non-existent FHE, the reason was usually that we couldn't decide who should be in charge or what our lessons/activities should be about. With our schedule, we avoid all that because we know (well in advance!) who is in charge of what lesson. Sometimes, if Scott has an especially busy week at school or I'm not feeling well, we will substitute for each other.
Here is an example of how our months have worked from each of the last three years:
August 2013: A House of Learning
5 The Importance of Learning (Mom)
12 Trivia Game Night (we invited some friends over to play wii Jeopardy and Trivial Pursuit)
19 Family Readathon (we each picked a favorite picture book and read them together)
26 Family History Lesson (Miner-Mom; this one was about my grandmother who LOVED to read and learn)
December 2014: These Things Are True
1 The Nativity (Mom and Kevin)
8 Family Activity: Ogden Lights
15 Testimony Night (finish the Book of Mormon)
22 Gifts to Jesus (Dad)
29 O Remember Remember: Counting our Blessings (year in review lesson)
March 2015: Receive the Restored Gospel
2 First Vision, PMG Lesson 1 (Mom)
9 Family Activity (Kevin's choice, for her birthday lesson)
16 Priesthood Restoration (Dad)
23 Temples (Mom)
30 Scripture Story (Kevin and Mom)
Putting the Whole Document Together
After I go through and plan everything out, I format it all into a one-page document so that it can be easily hung in a page protector on our fridge. The page includes a title ("2015 Fowler Family Home Evening Schedule"), our theme, and each month and its theme bolded with all the dates and lessons/activities listed underneath. We usually assign out prayers and songs and treats the day of (a week in advance if we are lucky). Those things are easier to figure out than the lesson, especially when your three-year-old only knows four songs and is the appointed song leader each week (because she can do that part and refuses to say prayers).
Want to see an example of our schedule? Let me know.
(I am working on creating links to my schedule examples, but that is more work than my brain can handle this week. Come back later.)
(I am working on creating links to my schedule examples, but that is more work than my brain can handle this week. Come back later.)
This is our third year of using our schedule pattern, and let me tell you, it works. Do we always stick to the schedule? No. Things come up. We like to be flexible. We also like knowing that if there isn't any specific lesson that needs to be covered (like teaching your two-year-old obedience and honesty after a bad week of tantrums), we can simply look at the schedule on the fridge and it is all planned out for us. No scrambling needed.
This is not a copyrighted plan. Use this method if you think it would work for you and your family! You don't have to wait until next January to start! The important thing is to be gathering as families consistently.
A Few Words from Elder Bednar
And here's the witness of an Apostle if you don't believe me:
"Sometimes Sister Bednar and I wondered if our efforts to do these spiritually essential things were worthwhile. Now and then verses of scripture were read amid outbursts such as “He’s touching me!” “Make him stop looking at me!” “Mom, he’s breathing my air!” Sincere prayers occasionally were interrupted with giggling and poking. And with active, rambunctious boys, family home evening lessons did not always produce high levels of edification. At times Sister Bednar and I were exasperated because the righteous habits we worked so hard to foster did not seem to yield immediately the spiritual results we wanted and expected...
"...Sister Bednar and I thought helping our sons understand the content of a particular lesson or a specific scripture was the ultimate outcome. But such a result does not occur each time we study or pray or learn together. The consistency of our intent and work was perhaps the greatest lesson—a lesson we did not fully appreciate at the time."
Start this week. Gather your family. Share a lesson. Protect your home. Unite your family.
I know these things are important. I know they have made a difference in my family. If you are stuck, ask for help. I love putting these schedules together!
Obviously this kind of schedule works best for families with children at home, but it can be modified to fit any kind of family (even an apartment full of roommates, a newlywed couple, or emptynesters).
PS- Thanks Mom. You created a monster. My children will be calling me "The Family Home Evening Attila the Hun."
Obviously this kind of schedule works best for families with children at home, but it can be modified to fit any kind of family (even an apartment full of roommates, a newlywed couple, or emptynesters).
PS- Thanks Mom. You created a monster. My children will be calling me "The Family Home Evening Attila the Hun."
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