Last night we had a severe thunderstorm with lightning in our neighborhood. It was sudden, loud, and scary. The lightning lit up the windows and the thunder felt oppressively on top of us.
Scott was at school so it was just me and the kids. I don't remember ever being scared of a storm before, but I was scared of this one. Watching the lighting through our front window was probably not the best choice of keeping myself calm, but I couldn't look away. I tried my hardest not to let Kevin know I was terrified, because she has recently developed a fear of thunder. Sly was unphased and happily went about playing with the air vents.
After a particularly scary and beautiful blast of lighting, I started to say a simple prayer out loud. When I finished, I felt a tug on my shirt.
"Mom, why you say a prayer?" asked Kevin.
I knelt down to her level and told her it was because I was a little bit scared.
She smiled, put her arms around me, and in a matter of fact way said, "When you was a girl, Grandma sing you songs to help you feel better."
Although I am sure I have told her that I like to sing songs to keep from being scared, I don't remember telling her that it was Grandma (whom she is just starting to realize is my Mommy) who first sang them to me.
"Would you like to sing a song to help you feel better?" I asked, putting my arms around her. She nodded, and we started singing I am a Child of God (the only song she wants these days). After every line, thunder roared or lightning terrorized the grayish purple sky.
She was right. The song did help me feel better. Enough to take both kids downstairs (where we couldn't see the storm, only hear it) and let them play until the storm blew over or Daddy came home, whichever happened first.
I sat there, watching the Disney channel for probably the fourth hour that day (don't judge, school days are LONG), and smiled as I thought about the Primary songs my mom would sing to me when I was a scared little girl, and how, in my teenage years, after watching many a horror movie with my crush (totally not worth it, btw), I would go to bed with both the lights on and primary songs playing softly on my stereo.
I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Love Changes
A few nights ago, I was on my knees and closing my day and asking for Heavenly Father's forgiveness for not loving my children enough.
I was feeling guilty because there were multiple times that day when one or both children had caused me to think, "I really don't love you right now. I would like to give you away."
And then I would think, that's just so WRONG! Why and how could I possibly think that? Did I not take my anti-depressant last night? I did, I'm sure I did. So why do I feel this way?
And so I decided to talk all this over with Heavenly Father. And to repent. Because clearly I was doing something wrong.
The response I got from the spirit was not the one I expected. I expected to feel chastened and then get up and be better. I did not expect to be told that I was repenting for something I didn't truly do. The feeling was quiet, and subtle, but strong: You do love your children. You just don't love them in the same way that you used to, and that's okay.
That's okay.
Perhaps this conversation happened because I was jealous of a friend's testimony of the all-encompassing love of motherhood during Sacrament Meeting the day before. It was so obvious to me that she loved her baby. And I thought, I was that way once too, wasn't I? How come my daughter drives me bonkers now? Why can't I love her as much as I used to? And why do I suddenly run out of patience with my baby boy?
I finally figured it out, as I was pondering the Spirit's response to my prayer. It's true, I don't love my children the way that I used to, I still love them just as much, if not more. I just love them differently.
This didn't make a whole lot of sense to me until I realized that, once again, Heavenly Father has a plan, and when we figure little pieces of The Plan out, all of the sudden this life makes much more sense. As I finished my prayer, I looked at my husband, kneeling and running his hands through his hair like he does when he is concentrating on his personal prayers.
And I realized, I don't love him the same way that I once did. We started out as friends, a gentle kind of caring that gradually developed into an infatuation and obsession. I thought about him every minute of every day, checked my email obsessively until I saw that bolded "Scott Fowler" in my inbox, spent hours saying good-bye to him on the phone. We couldn't get enough of each other.
And then we got married.
And that all-consuming fascination changed. I won't say it went away, because it still pops up every once in a while (and I still constantly check my email hoping to see a message from him come through). I will say, however, that it developed into something both more and less. More comfortable, less consuming. More intricate, less intense. More dependence, less addiction.
In other words, sometimes I get fed up with him. Sometimes I need some space. Sometimes life isn't peachy-keen. Sometimes I have a hard time saying "I forgive you" and "I love you" on demand.
And sometimes, I get lost just looking at him because I could never have imagined loving and needing someone this much.
And then it clicks--this! this is why Heavenly Father intends for children to be born into a marriage between a man and a woman. Marriage is a training ground for parenthood. True, the relationship between husband and wife is very different than the one between a parent and child, but the love in these bonds grows in similar patterns.
First, there was a comfortable connection (morning sickness aside), a sense of potential between us. As my pregnancies developed, this grew into, yes, an infatuation with all things my baby. Once my babies were born, everything centered around their existence (this was the obsession phase). Everything about them was perfect, and their flaws went largely unseen (with only an occasional complaint about sleeping patterns. I had issues with Scott's snoring at first too). And then, without me even noticing it, I became so accustomed to their presence in my life, that my relationships with my children became comfortable. I now know who they are, although they change every day. I anticipate their reactions to every little and big situation, and they know what makes me tick. They put this knowledge to good use.
And sometimes, it is hard to say, "I love you" at all times.
And sometimes, I stare at them--usually while they are sleeping--and wonder at loving and caring for another person more than I love myself.
My love for my husband changes every day. And it doesn't just change, it grows. In all directions.
And so I am starting to understand that, perhaps, Heavenly Father is teaching us how to love each other first, so that we can love our children second.
In all directions.
I was feeling guilty because there were multiple times that day when one or both children had caused me to think, "I really don't love you right now. I would like to give you away."
And then I would think, that's just so WRONG! Why and how could I possibly think that? Did I not take my anti-depressant last night? I did, I'm sure I did. So why do I feel this way?
And so I decided to talk all this over with Heavenly Father. And to repent. Because clearly I was doing something wrong.
The response I got from the spirit was not the one I expected. I expected to feel chastened and then get up and be better. I did not expect to be told that I was repenting for something I didn't truly do. The feeling was quiet, and subtle, but strong: You do love your children. You just don't love them in the same way that you used to, and that's okay.
That's okay.
Perhaps this conversation happened because I was jealous of a friend's testimony of the all-encompassing love of motherhood during Sacrament Meeting the day before. It was so obvious to me that she loved her baby. And I thought, I was that way once too, wasn't I? How come my daughter drives me bonkers now? Why can't I love her as much as I used to? And why do I suddenly run out of patience with my baby boy?
I finally figured it out, as I was pondering the Spirit's response to my prayer. It's true, I don't love my children the way that I used to, I still love them just as much, if not more. I just love them differently.
This didn't make a whole lot of sense to me until I realized that, once again, Heavenly Father has a plan, and when we figure little pieces of The Plan out, all of the sudden this life makes much more sense. As I finished my prayer, I looked at my husband, kneeling and running his hands through his hair like he does when he is concentrating on his personal prayers.
And I realized, I don't love him the same way that I once did. We started out as friends, a gentle kind of caring that gradually developed into an infatuation and obsession. I thought about him every minute of every day, checked my email obsessively until I saw that bolded "Scott Fowler" in my inbox, spent hours saying good-bye to him on the phone. We couldn't get enough of each other.
And then we got married.
And that all-consuming fascination changed. I won't say it went away, because it still pops up every once in a while (and I still constantly check my email hoping to see a message from him come through). I will say, however, that it developed into something both more and less. More comfortable, less consuming. More intricate, less intense. More dependence, less addiction.
In other words, sometimes I get fed up with him. Sometimes I need some space. Sometimes life isn't peachy-keen. Sometimes I have a hard time saying "I forgive you" and "I love you" on demand.
And sometimes, I get lost just looking at him because I could never have imagined loving and needing someone this much.
And then it clicks--this! this is why Heavenly Father intends for children to be born into a marriage between a man and a woman. Marriage is a training ground for parenthood. True, the relationship between husband and wife is very different than the one between a parent and child, but the love in these bonds grows in similar patterns.
First, there was a comfortable connection (morning sickness aside), a sense of potential between us. As my pregnancies developed, this grew into, yes, an infatuation with all things my baby. Once my babies were born, everything centered around their existence (this was the obsession phase). Everything about them was perfect, and their flaws went largely unseen (with only an occasional complaint about sleeping patterns. I had issues with Scott's snoring at first too). And then, without me even noticing it, I became so accustomed to their presence in my life, that my relationships with my children became comfortable. I now know who they are, although they change every day. I anticipate their reactions to every little and big situation, and they know what makes me tick. They put this knowledge to good use.
And sometimes, it is hard to say, "I love you" at all times.
And sometimes, I stare at them--usually while they are sleeping--and wonder at loving and caring for another person more than I love myself.
My love for my husband changes every day. And it doesn't just change, it grows. In all directions.
And so I am starting to understand that, perhaps, Heavenly Father is teaching us how to love each other first, so that we can love our children second.
In all directions.
Perspective
So, Kevin has developed a severe dislike of having dirty hands. I'm not sure if this is a sensory thing, or a phase, or something she is doing just to drive me batty, but after ten days of her begging for napkins, wipes, magic soap (germx), or to have her hands washed every five minutes, I'd just about had it.
Then I found out that my nephew has Giardia.
Poor kid.
And, in the process of texting back and forth with my sister-in-law to see how their family is doing, she shared with me that this particular child is OCD about hand-washing, and in this case, it paid off, because his four brothers are perfectly healthy and he has been carrying the extremely contagious parasite around for more than two weeks.
So, there's that.
Have another baby wipe, Kevin.
Then I found out that my nephew has Giardia.
Poor kid.
And, in the process of texting back and forth with my sister-in-law to see how their family is doing, she shared with me that this particular child is OCD about hand-washing, and in this case, it paid off, because his four brothers are perfectly healthy and he has been carrying the extremely contagious parasite around for more than two weeks.
So, there's that.
Have another baby wipe, Kevin.
Monday, May 11, 2015
FHE: A Blesson
The Anecdote
Kevin coined a new term tonight: "Blesson." She was downstairs playing and I called down to her, telling her it was her turn to teach the lesson tonight and I asked her what she wanted to teach. I didn't get much of a response, but I did overhear her tell her baby doll that we were going to have "a blesson and a test-a-mode-ee for famoween."A couple of hours later, after Sly had gone to bed and Daddy had finished working on the still-not-finished sprinkler system (don't worry, neighbors, we are getting there! It's just a matter of moving dirt!), we sat down on the floor for a short FHE. Kevin had told me a couple of times that she wanted to share her testimony for FHE, so I figured we would just run with that and have a brief discussion about a what a testimony includes. I tried to let Kevin take the lead in the discussion (because, after all, she was in charge of the blesson), but after five minutes of hearing about her baby's screaming problem, we took back the reins.
I asked her what a testimony is (three times). She finally quit obsessing over her doll's behavior long enough to look to Daddy for help. He told her that a testimony is something we believe in and share with others.
"Kevin, do you love Jesus?"
"Yes, I love him!"
"Then that is part of your testimony."
"I love him and I want to go to him's house."
"Where is Jesus' house?"
"You want to come to him's house too, Mommy?"
"Yes. Did you know that Jesus' house is the Temple? Do you love the temple?"
"Yes."
"Then that is part of your testimony!"
We went on to talk about the prophet, and our family, and how we want our family to be forever, and how all of those things are part of her testimony. I ended the lesson by telling her, "even though you are small, you still have a testimony. And as you get bigger, if you work hard, your testimony will grow too."
"Yes," she said, "Because you will teach me."
The Epilogue:
The Moral of the Story
Blessons don't have to be long. They don't have to be planned in advance. They don't have to be full of object lessons, activities, pictures, puppets, or youtube videos. They don't even have to be about gospel topics.
They just have to happen.
And when lessons happen, miracles happen.
Lessons full of blessings=blessons.
Kevin was on to something after all.
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."
Thursday, April 23, 2015
100 Years of Famoween
One hundred years = roughly 5200 Mondays.
Mutiplied by thousands of families.
Compound all of this by a couple of hours of whining, crying, pleading, arguing, begging, pushing, rolling eyes, covered ears, touching and taunting siblings, warnings from parents, rescinded treats, spills and stains, off-key singing, last minute lessons, weak and strong testimonies, scripture stories, board games, walks and recreational activities, pictures of the prophets, and many dysfunctional families trying to make it work and you've got a century of one of the most beautiful institutions ever organized in this dispensation of the fullness of times.
Family. Home. Evening.
When President Joseph F. Smith asked parents to gather their children for weekly family meetings in 1915, the instructions were simple: "Families were to take time to pray and sing together, read the scriptures, teach the gospel to one another, and participate in other activities that would build family unity." (True to the Faith)
A lot has changed in 100 years: technology, transportation, food, clothing, politics, family size, family shape, household costs to name a few.
But there are some things that will never change: the gospel. The love of Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ. The restored gospel. The most basic unit of society: the family.
And because these things never change, the basic directions for family home evening haven't had to change, either.
I am grateful to have grown up in a family where FHE wasn't an afterthought. It happened. It happened consistently. It happened when we were babies, it happened when we were teenagers. It happened even when my dad was commuting to another state for work. Of all the memories of my childhood, those gospel moments we shared are some of my favorites. Yes, there were Mondays when nobody got dessert, when somebody got banished to their room, where somebody ended up in tears, where we got absolutely nothing out of it. But there were also Mondays where we grew closer together as a family, where we learned the basics of the Gospel, where my parents planted seeds of faith that have grown into adult testimonies and carried our family through trials, challenges, and triumphs.
I remember my Dad teaching us the plan of salvation, urging us to be righteous so we could be together forever. I remember my mom organizing family Olympics, teaching us primary songs, and handing out awards for the annual "What Did You Do This Summer?" contests. I remember my older brother video taping our family having dinner and then showing us the video for our lesson and urging us to take note of our manners and how often we said "please" and "thank you" (we had a lot to work on). I remember my dad pulling out his mission suitcases, telling us stories and sharing memories as he showed us each item. I remember celebrating Pioneer Day with a walk along the railroad tracks in our backyard. I remember playing games as a family. I remember how my mom would do a special lesson as each child celebrated a birthday. I remember my little brother dressed in a bathrobe with plastic balls stuffed up the sleeves as pretend muscles as he taught us the story of Captain Moroni and the Title of Liberty the week after 9/11 happened.
Then, as we grew older, my parents used family home evening as an opportunity to prepare us for adulthood. My brothers helped lead discussions on the priesthood. My dad would read us a few entries out of his missionary journal. We attended each other's events. And my mom, who was coined "The Family Home Evening Nazi" when she protested me going up to Girl's Camp on a Monday evening to prepare with the other youth leaders, made sure it happened. Every week.
When my brother came home from his mission, he taught us one of the lessons he had taught his investigators. When I was on my intermission, my parents let me use FHE as a time to practice my teaching skills.
When Scott and I were married, there was no break in Family Home Evening. I remember that first married Monday. We went to Seagull Book and used some wedding money to pick out a picture of Christ for our home. When it was just the two of us, FHE took on lots of different shapes: sometimes we would go out, sometimes we would stay in. We made cookies, wrote thank you notes, compared answers to questions we still had about each other.
There was a time in our marriage when school, a new baby, and what we called "life" took over. The roughest patch we have had in our marriage (we are talking a barefoot marathon over sandpaper) can be directly traced back to those six months where our family evening gatherings were more miss than hit.
It took work, but slowly we got back into the habit. We haven't stopped since.
And you know what? It is working.
A couple of weeks ago, Kevin was watching Strawberry Shortcake on my phone while I worked on the dishes and Sly napped. She ran into the kitchen screaming, "Mom! It's fam-o-ween! Shortcake is having fam-o-ween!" She showed me the screen where Strawberry and a handful of friends were sitting on a rug and reading and talking together. In her mind, that was Family Home Evening.
My heart was tickled.
Over the next week or two, I hope to share some things that we do as part of our FHE meetings that work for us. Maybe something will work for you too. It isn't always perfect. More often than not it ends in someone refusing to say the closing prayer and me overdosing on dessert. Sometimes one evening can feel like a century.
And sometimes one century is not enough to do one evening justice.
Mutiplied by thousands of families.
Compound all of this by a couple of hours of whining, crying, pleading, arguing, begging, pushing, rolling eyes, covered ears, touching and taunting siblings, warnings from parents, rescinded treats, spills and stains, off-key singing, last minute lessons, weak and strong testimonies, scripture stories, board games, walks and recreational activities, pictures of the prophets, and many dysfunctional families trying to make it work and you've got a century of one of the most beautiful institutions ever organized in this dispensation of the fullness of times.
Family. Home. Evening.
When President Joseph F. Smith asked parents to gather their children for weekly family meetings in 1915, the instructions were simple: "Families were to take time to pray and sing together, read the scriptures, teach the gospel to one another, and participate in other activities that would build family unity." (True to the Faith)
A lot has changed in 100 years: technology, transportation, food, clothing, politics, family size, family shape, household costs to name a few.
But there are some things that will never change: the gospel. The love of Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ. The restored gospel. The most basic unit of society: the family.
And because these things never change, the basic directions for family home evening haven't had to change, either.
I am grateful to have grown up in a family where FHE wasn't an afterthought. It happened. It happened consistently. It happened when we were babies, it happened when we were teenagers. It happened even when my dad was commuting to another state for work. Of all the memories of my childhood, those gospel moments we shared are some of my favorites. Yes, there were Mondays when nobody got dessert, when somebody got banished to their room, where somebody ended up in tears, where we got absolutely nothing out of it. But there were also Mondays where we grew closer together as a family, where we learned the basics of the Gospel, where my parents planted seeds of faith that have grown into adult testimonies and carried our family through trials, challenges, and triumphs.
I remember my Dad teaching us the plan of salvation, urging us to be righteous so we could be together forever. I remember my mom organizing family Olympics, teaching us primary songs, and handing out awards for the annual "What Did You Do This Summer?" contests. I remember my older brother video taping our family having dinner and then showing us the video for our lesson and urging us to take note of our manners and how often we said "please" and "thank you" (we had a lot to work on). I remember my dad pulling out his mission suitcases, telling us stories and sharing memories as he showed us each item. I remember celebrating Pioneer Day with a walk along the railroad tracks in our backyard. I remember playing games as a family. I remember how my mom would do a special lesson as each child celebrated a birthday. I remember my little brother dressed in a bathrobe with plastic balls stuffed up the sleeves as pretend muscles as he taught us the story of Captain Moroni and the Title of Liberty the week after 9/11 happened.
Then, as we grew older, my parents used family home evening as an opportunity to prepare us for adulthood. My brothers helped lead discussions on the priesthood. My dad would read us a few entries out of his missionary journal. We attended each other's events. And my mom, who was coined "The Family Home Evening Nazi" when she protested me going up to Girl's Camp on a Monday evening to prepare with the other youth leaders, made sure it happened. Every week.
When my brother came home from his mission, he taught us one of the lessons he had taught his investigators. When I was on my intermission, my parents let me use FHE as a time to practice my teaching skills.
When Scott and I were married, there was no break in Family Home Evening. I remember that first married Monday. We went to Seagull Book and used some wedding money to pick out a picture of Christ for our home. When it was just the two of us, FHE took on lots of different shapes: sometimes we would go out, sometimes we would stay in. We made cookies, wrote thank you notes, compared answers to questions we still had about each other.
There was a time in our marriage when school, a new baby, and what we called "life" took over. The roughest patch we have had in our marriage (we are talking a barefoot marathon over sandpaper) can be directly traced back to those six months where our family evening gatherings were more miss than hit.
It took work, but slowly we got back into the habit. We haven't stopped since.
And you know what? It is working.
A couple of weeks ago, Kevin was watching Strawberry Shortcake on my phone while I worked on the dishes and Sly napped. She ran into the kitchen screaming, "Mom! It's fam-o-ween! Shortcake is having fam-o-ween!" She showed me the screen where Strawberry and a handful of friends were sitting on a rug and reading and talking together. In her mind, that was Family Home Evening.
My heart was tickled.
Over the next week or two, I hope to share some things that we do as part of our FHE meetings that work for us. Maybe something will work for you too. It isn't always perfect. More often than not it ends in someone refusing to say the closing prayer and me overdosing on dessert. Sometimes one evening can feel like a century.
And sometimes one century is not enough to do one evening justice.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
My Best Friend's Grandma
It isn't often that I have cause to pause when I'm cleaning up the kitchen, but I did yesterday. I went to grab a dish rag out of the drawer in the kitchen and the one that my fingers landed on happens to be my favorite, because it is filled with the most love. The once-vibrant blue, green, and purple yarn has faded with the chore of repeatedly wiping peanut butter off my daughter's fingers and pancake batter off our counters. The rag itself isn't perfectly square; it started out that way but that last crocheted corner is loose, as if it's creator ran out of steam, but pushed through to finish it anyway.
Actually, that's exactly what happened.
Two years ago, Scott and I were invited to join my best friend Kim's family in their Park City cabin to watch the Superbowl. When we got there, Kim's then 96-year-old Grandma was sitting in a easy chair, a blanket spread over her lap, her weathered hands keeping busy. I couldn't see what she was working on; I was too busy visiting with Kim and trying to control my almost-toddler. But, during the power outage that stopped the game, Grandma Neta finished her project and handed it to me. With love.
That is the kind of woman she was, and will forever be.
I got the text late Saturday night. "So Grandma's not doing good. Had at least 3 heart attacks yesterday. They've brought in hospice." Tears rolled down my cheeks. Kim used to tell me that I'd gotten the Allen Crying Curse by default; I was a roommate and friend that was always treated like family. It struck as I texted back and forth with my friend, and again the next day, when I held her close minutes after getting the "she's gone" phone call.
In my college writing program, it seemed almost cliche to write about losing a grandparent. We were just told not to do it. And yet, four years later, I find myself sitting here, needing to write about my best friend's grandma, her life and her death and all the moments in between.
I didn't know that Grandma Neta knew my grandfather, but when he passed away, she got ready and sat in the car in the garage until Kim's mom consented to drive her to his funeral. Perhaps she had known my grandparents as an acquaintance, but I always felt that she was there for me.
There was one Sunday in college when Grandma Neta invited Kim, our roommate Kami, and I over for lunch. Kim warned us beforehand: when her whole EFY (a scripture camp for LDS youth) group got food poisoning and she was just fine, it was more than likely the result of eating Grandma Neta's "everything but the kitchen sink and sometimes that too" Sunday dinners every week.
I remember that fateful Spring Break trip, the one that Kim and I couldn't laugh about until a year later. Grandma Neta was the biggest Aggie fan I've ever known (rivaled only, perhaps, by my mother), and when the Aggies made it to the Big Dance and were playing in San Diego, she was on her way. Two days into our first college spring break, Kim called and invited me to come with her, Grandma Neta, Grandma Neta's little brother Con and his girlfriend (now wife) Colleen to go watch the Aggies play. The trip was...well, it was as fun as any trip consisting of three senior citizens and two 18-year-old girls can be. We were unprepared for the adventure. Our constantly snacking student stomachs were no match for the one-buffet-a-day regime the rest of them were fine with. We lived on string cheese, crackers, and the delicious, life-saving, homemade candy Colleen's father had sent with us. When the Aggies lost in the first round, we turned around the next morning and headed back to Utah. Kim and I desperately wanted to go to Tiajuana, just to say we'd been out of the country on Spring Break, but we never made it that last 15 miles. I still have a hard time eating string cheese.
Here's the thing about Grandma Neta, though. She wasn't just my pseudo Grandma. She was everyone's Grandma. She visit taught my aunt for years, even though she was well into her 90s, taking her to ball games and force-feeding her pineapple and cottage cheese and teasing her. Only days before she passed, she went to the ward Relief Society activity armed with handmade gifts for each sister (and my parent's ward, which also happens to be Grandma Neta's, is huge). There were homemade chocolates at Christmas, wash cloths for every wedding reception, and a smile and a hug and a few tears every time she saw a friend. I remember her at my wedding reception, introducing her to my babies, listening to her recite the Articles of Faith on demand during Relief Society and Sunday School whenever one was needed. She was a mother of many, a grandmother to all, and the greatest example of Christlike love I've ever met. It is fitting that she left this life on Easter Sunday; I don't know anyone better prepared to meet her Savior.
So yes, I will write about her. Because I don't want to forget her love.
Actually, that's exactly what happened.
Two years ago, Scott and I were invited to join my best friend Kim's family in their Park City cabin to watch the Superbowl. When we got there, Kim's then 96-year-old Grandma was sitting in a easy chair, a blanket spread over her lap, her weathered hands keeping busy. I couldn't see what she was working on; I was too busy visiting with Kim and trying to control my almost-toddler. But, during the power outage that stopped the game, Grandma Neta finished her project and handed it to me. With love.
That is the kind of woman she was, and will forever be.
I got the text late Saturday night. "So Grandma's not doing good. Had at least 3 heart attacks yesterday. They've brought in hospice." Tears rolled down my cheeks. Kim used to tell me that I'd gotten the Allen Crying Curse by default; I was a roommate and friend that was always treated like family. It struck as I texted back and forth with my friend, and again the next day, when I held her close minutes after getting the "she's gone" phone call.
In my college writing program, it seemed almost cliche to write about losing a grandparent. We were just told not to do it. And yet, four years later, I find myself sitting here, needing to write about my best friend's grandma, her life and her death and all the moments in between.
I didn't know that Grandma Neta knew my grandfather, but when he passed away, she got ready and sat in the car in the garage until Kim's mom consented to drive her to his funeral. Perhaps she had known my grandparents as an acquaintance, but I always felt that she was there for me.
There was one Sunday in college when Grandma Neta invited Kim, our roommate Kami, and I over for lunch. Kim warned us beforehand: when her whole EFY (a scripture camp for LDS youth) group got food poisoning and she was just fine, it was more than likely the result of eating Grandma Neta's "everything but the kitchen sink and sometimes that too" Sunday dinners every week.
I remember that fateful Spring Break trip, the one that Kim and I couldn't laugh about until a year later. Grandma Neta was the biggest Aggie fan I've ever known (rivaled only, perhaps, by my mother), and when the Aggies made it to the Big Dance and were playing in San Diego, she was on her way. Two days into our first college spring break, Kim called and invited me to come with her, Grandma Neta, Grandma Neta's little brother Con and his girlfriend (now wife) Colleen to go watch the Aggies play. The trip was...well, it was as fun as any trip consisting of three senior citizens and two 18-year-old girls can be. We were unprepared for the adventure. Our constantly snacking student stomachs were no match for the one-buffet-a-day regime the rest of them were fine with. We lived on string cheese, crackers, and the delicious, life-saving, homemade candy Colleen's father had sent with us. When the Aggies lost in the first round, we turned around the next morning and headed back to Utah. Kim and I desperately wanted to go to Tiajuana, just to say we'd been out of the country on Spring Break, but we never made it that last 15 miles. I still have a hard time eating string cheese.
Here's the thing about Grandma Neta, though. She wasn't just my pseudo Grandma. She was everyone's Grandma. She visit taught my aunt for years, even though she was well into her 90s, taking her to ball games and force-feeding her pineapple and cottage cheese and teasing her. Only days before she passed, she went to the ward Relief Society activity armed with handmade gifts for each sister (and my parent's ward, which also happens to be Grandma Neta's, is huge). There were homemade chocolates at Christmas, wash cloths for every wedding reception, and a smile and a hug and a few tears every time she saw a friend. I remember her at my wedding reception, introducing her to my babies, listening to her recite the Articles of Faith on demand during Relief Society and Sunday School whenever one was needed. She was a mother of many, a grandmother to all, and the greatest example of Christlike love I've ever met. It is fitting that she left this life on Easter Sunday; I don't know anyone better prepared to meet her Savior.
So yes, I will write about her. Because I don't want to forget her love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)