Jesus Lives at Grandma's House

I guess this post is really a sequel to last week's post, but I couldn't let such a sweet moment pass by without recording it somewhere.

This past weekend was our church's General Conference. Growing up, this mostly just meant that we got to sit at home, watch church on TV while wearing pajamas, and eat M&Ms. Now, it is an opportunity to have my questions answered and my soul revived, and eat M&Ms. 

This weekend was no exception. There was a talk for every concern of my soul, from how to deal with three-year-old power struggles (seriously! There was a talk about that!) to why God gives us health challenges. I learned so much about my Savior and my divine role in establishing his kingdom. I wish I could share with you every quote that I noted, but that would take far too long. I am very excited to go back and study these words and to be able to lovingly say to my Heavenly Father, in much the same timid voice my daughter uses after she has been disciplined or taught, "I understand."

We watched the last session of Conference with my in-laws. This wasn't very productive for them, as our kids would much rather cuddle and play with their grandparents than with their parents, so it did mean that Scott and I got to hear more of that session of conference than any other. 

After conference had ended, we sat around visiting for a few hours. Sly delighted everyone with his most recent tricks--walking, folding his arms for prayer, talking in a loud voice. His favorite trick was to escape from the family room before we noticed he was gone. He kept working his way into their front room, which is kept nice and sacred and has quite a few breakables, making it impossible for us to leave Sly in there alone.

We thought he was going for the piano, because that is a favorite noise-maker of his at our house. After going after him a few times, Scott noticed that it wasn't the piano drawing our son into that room.

He was mesmerized by their small Christus statue. He was trying so hard to get the words out, but all we heard was "Jesus!" and "blpffft" sounds. He would crawl to the middle of the room and sit on the rug for a few moments, in reverent awe. Slowly he would work his way closer and closer to the statue, his smile growing.

 We may not have understood the words he was trying to tell us, but we understood the message: This is where I want to be. With Jesus.

After Scott shared with his mom the reason for Sly's escapades, she shared with us that my two-and-a-half year old niece had done the same thing. This particular niece is a bit wild and rambunctious, full of energy and spunk. For her to be calm and quiet is a rare thing! When they couldn't find her and the house was quiet, they started searching. They found her in the front room, holding Jesus' hand.

What a blessing these little children are. I know we're the ones that are supposed to be "leading and guiding" but lately, it seems that I am the one being taken by the hand and taught.

The very last talk of conference yesterday touched my soul in ways that you wouldn't think a talk about old men (really, that was the topic of his talk) could do to a 28-year-old woman. But one of the points of his talk was that no one is exempt from trials, especially physical health challenges. This has long been a concern of my heart. There are so many things I want to do--and yet, physically, these days I find myself unable to do much of anything but the bare minimum, and sometimes not even that.

In this particular talk, Elder Bednar shared a piece of advice Elder Hales had given him: "When you find yourself unable to do the things you used to do, you find yourself only doing the most important things."

I may not be able to do much these days. But I am capable of doing the most important things: giving cuddles, reading stories, teaching about Jesus, praying with my children, reading scriptures, singing songs.

I know many times our parents--my children's grandparents--wish there was more that they could do. I think a lot of the times they don't realize how much they do--and how, to me, the most important things they do for our family is reinforce the values of faith and love that we are working so hard to instill in our children. Because of them, my children have beautiful pictures of Jesus hung in their rooms, and that is the first thing they look at in the morning (of their own accord). Because of them, we are able to set an example of Temple attendance and worship. Because of them, my children know that they have two additional refuges from storms of the world besides just their own home.

And, as evidenced by my son's actions yesterday, there is something else they know.
Jesus lives at Grandma's house.

The Palms of His Hands

I went to the doctor yesterday. It was supposed to be for a routine checkup, but since my health has been so terrible lately, both Scott and I knew that this appointment would be a game changer. I didn't want to face it alone, and God blessed me with the kind of husband that made sure I didn't have to. He held my sweaty hand, asked all the fancy pharmaceutical and medical jargon questions, and brought up the concerns we had that I forgot to mention. Also, he saved me from having to take crushed up pig thyroid.

By the end of the appointment, we had a possibility of a new diagnosis and I sat drinking a 37-carb bottle of OJ because the nurse could tell I was looking a little pale and shaky after she drew 6-7 vials of blood (I lost track because I couldn't watch anymore).

When it became apparent that I wasn't going to be able to drive myself home, Scott took me out for a bite to eat. When I was still looking like death after 60+ more carbohydrates, he made an executive decision to work from home for the rest of the day. He went over to work to grab his supplies while I sat in a daze in the car. Then we picked up our children, drove home, and I slowly made my way upstairs and into bed.

Within ten minutes, both Sly and I were asleep. Sly woke up a little while later. I did not. I slept through several Kevin meltdowns, Sly walking and crawling all over the place, a Kevin potty break just down the hall, and all sorts of interruptions that made it impossible for Scott to work. Eventually I started to come out of my coma and I received a text that said, "Kevin is asleep on my lap. Your son is on his way up to see you."

Within seconds, Sly had pushed the door open and his head popped up at the foot of my bed. He started jabbering and cruised his way around so that I could pick him up. I was grateful to have recovered enough to be able to lift him. He gratefully came into my arms, and as I picked him up, I noticed he went quiet.

He turned his head and pointed to the painting of Jesus on my bedroom wall. He looked back at me and said, "Mama. Jesus."

Then, before I had a chance to reply, he looked at me and held out his hands. He touched the pointer finger of one hand to the middle of his other hand's palm, and then repeated the action a couple of times, switching hands.

One chubby little finger to the  exact middle of one tiny little palm.
"Mama. Jesus."
Mama, Jesus will make everything all right.

How did he know? We've certainly never covered the events of the Crucifixion in-depth with our one-year-old. We've talked to him and his sister about the Atonement in Family Home Evening, but somehow that didn't explain his reaction either.

Sometimes, I think, these little ones know so much more than they are able to tell us. But, when we need those messages from Heaven, the veil parts a little bit and with a mere gesture of his hands, I was given the comfort I so desperately needed yesterday.

You can be cured without being healed. You can be healed without being cured.

I have not forgotten thee. I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.

Look unto me in every thought, doubt not, fear not. Behold the wounds which pierced my side, and also the prints of the nails in my hands and feet; be faithful, keep my commandments, and ye shall inherit the kingdom of heaven. Amen.

There are several scriptures where Christ asks us to become like little children. I've always interpreted that to mean innocent and pure and teachable. Perhaps, however, what Christ is really asking is for us to remember what we knew as little children. 

My son knows so much more than I could have ever been able to teach him in a short 13 months. He has taught me more than I could ever fathom in his small lifetime, and I know there is a certain amount of testimony and knowledge that he brought into this world that he can only convey to us in small words and actions.

Like touching the palms of his hands.

art by Simon Dewey

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.

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."

photo cred: http://cslewis.drzeus.net/forums/viewtopic.php?f=9&t=8163&start=15

*names have been changed

Blanching and Blessings

This past week I finally finished up the Fruit Preservation Project 2015. I didn't actually preserve all that much fruit, but it felt like it. This year I picked all of our fruit off a kindly neighbor's in-laws trees, then turned a bushel of pears and a box of summer apples into 11 quarts of pears, 7 quarts of applesauce, two large batches of fruit leather, and over 30 fruit squeezies (the only way my daughter will eat fruit). To serious canners, this doesn't seem like much. Granted, this was a "light" year for us also, but for someone who is only in her third canning season, it still seemed a monumental task.

One of my favorite things about canning season is the time that I get to spend with my mother-in-law. For whatever reason, we didn't can anything while I was growing up. We did lots of other things, and my mother equipped me with many superb life skills, but making applesauce wasn't one of them. Probably because I'm not a big fan of applesauce.

My husband, however, loves applesauce. He especially loves to dip Cheetos in applesauce.
Don't knock it 'til you've tried it.

Before Stephanie taught me how to preserve fruit, I had no idea what "blanching" was. For us, it is the first step in the process (after picking the fruit and letting it ripen).

Here's the Wikipedia term for the culinaryily illiterate, like me:

"Blanching is a cooking process wherein the food substance, usually a vegetable or fruit, is plunged into boiling water, removed after a brief, timed interval, and finally plunged into iced water or placed under cold running water (shocking or refreshing) to halt the cooking process."

Because I picked our fruit myself from trees that hadn't been treated (or touched, really), some of it looked pretty rough. I used the worst-looking ones for fruit leather and squeezie puree. I wasn't sure we would get any "whole" halves out of the bunch. I was amazed, however, that after an appropriate amount of blanching time, the skins came of easily and for the most part, the fruit underneath was white and pure. Sure, there were a few pears that took a little more rubbing to get the bruises off, and some where the core was just plain rotten, but for the most part, blanching took care of the impurities.

As I was blanching pear after pear this year, I thought about how our Heavenly Father uses the same process on us. Sometimes we look a little bruised, battered and scratched on the outside. It's hard to believe there could be anything worthwhile under our skin. That's when Heavenly Father plunges us into boiling water--He gives us trials, tests, and challenges. Sometimes it just feels like all we are doing is swimming in hot water, but after a time we are pulled out--and then comes another "shock." The cold water brings another trial, and if it works, we become humble enough to be easily changed. That outer skin and the natural man slips away with a little twisting and rubbing.

It isn't pleasant for us, but once the process is said and done, we are in a better state than we were before and the blanching becomes a blessing, and the sweet fruit of those trials can be preserved for years to come.

Texts to my Mother

Motherhood is hard. Sometimes I am not very good at it. This summer has been R.O.U.G.H. I'm glad it is almost over, although I am sure fall comes with it's own challenges (my husband taking a double classload for his MBA being one of them).

Good thing that we are equipped with someone who has "been there" before, and dealt with us as whiny three-year-olds, and helps us realize that we turned out okay so our children will probably be fine too.

The following are a series of texts I have sent to my mother over the course of this summer. I share these for two purposes:
1. Your Enjoyment.
2. To Remember.

June 29
Me: Scott came home for lunch and I asked [Kevin] t tell him how many time outs she has had this morning. Her response? "I don't know...Three? Four? Nine? Seven, nine." (Correct answer: Two).

July 25
Me; "Want a threenager? I do not like her Sam I Am.
Mom: I am sorry...Do you want Papa to call her?
Me: No! He will take her side!

July 26
Me: For sale. Three year old. Comes with adorable dress, cute hairstyle, and a ton of attitude. No returns.
Me: Freshly bathed and potty trained.
Mom: Papa would like to take you up on it.
Me: He is more than welcome to her! She doesn't come with any toys though (she lost them all) and she is out of clean underwear.

July 28
Me: Does Papa still want to buy Kevin? We are running a special. Free shipping.

July 29
Mom: Did today go better?
Me: I only swore four times.
Mom: If that is an improvement then good for you.
Me: Yesterday I only cursed twice...
Me: But I also let my kids (swim in the backyard pool) today, so maybe that makes up for my sins?
Mom: Good job!

July 31
Me: On Daniel Tiger this morning: being silly= peanut butter and pickle sandwiches
Note: those are my mom's favorite kind of sandwich.
Me; Also, Kevin fell in the toilet yesterday.
Mom: I fell off the toilet when I was little, my mom said. I guess we will have to call Grandma's sandwich the silly sandwich.

Aug 11
Me: Do you know of any good boarding schools for three-year-olds?
Mom: (sends their home address) Papa headmaster.
Me: Perfect. I'll bring her by tomorrow and pick her up at Christmas.
Me: Make sure she knows her ABCs by then.
Mom: I will let him know!
Me: Seriously though.
Mom: Sorry it has been a rough day.
Later
Me: Both kids are having a screaming match and it's been going for 15 min. I'm hiding in the basement.
Mom: Maybe they will go hoarse
Me: One can only hope. Deafness would be an asset right now.


Maybe these texts don't cast me in the right light. Does that matter? I make an effort to be genuine and truthful on my blog. Truthfully, this summer has just about done me in. Mixing the overly emotional threenager with the busy madness of a baby-turned-toddler and a husband who is drowning in school and work, in addition to the fact that my health has been flaring up and my medications don't seem to be doing their job but the labs seem normal so no one at my doctor's office is too concerned...well, it makes for a depressed, exhausted, and snarky Rinda.

Motherhood is hard. I swear sometimes. I can't handle life some days. I take more naps than my preschooler. My brain was too tired last night and this morning to let me look over my husband's final paper for his economics class--the first time I haven't been able to edit because my brain literally could not think.

But, you know what? It's okay. I know I am doing what I am supposed to do.

A few days ago I was sitting in the Primary room at our church. Primary is the children's organization for kids age 3-12, and I serve in the presidency. Every week I get to sit with 70+ children as they sing and learn about Jesus. It truly is a privilege. Some weeks are tough, however, and we just pray something is getting through as they do gymnastics routines on their chairs, ask to go to the bathroom a million times, and call us out on every mistake we make. I watch the teachers of the individual classes and see their energy levels drop and the color drain out of their faces as the hour goes on. I was watching this on Sunday and I was overwhelmed, once again, of the feeling of charity I felt for these little ones. I knew it wasn't my love I was feeling, it was God and Christ's love for these children. I knew that their parents and teachers didn't always see the good they were doing, but that day, I could see it. I could see the improvement in behavior, the growth in their testimonies, the outward actions that showed me that something was getting through.

And suddenly, the Spirit whispered to me the reason that I'd been asked to serve in the Primary. It wasn't because my talents were needed (although they have come in handy) and I had a willingness to serve wherever I was needed. Rather, Primary has started to serve as a type and symbol of my daily life with my little ones. The teachers in those classrooms are doing the same thing that I do with my children every single day: teaching them the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Most days it doesn't seem like anything is getting through, and we spend more time coloring and taking bathroom breaks than the actual learning. But I think Heavenly Father wanted me to know that if learning is happening in Primary (and I know it is), then it is happening in my own home, and I'm doing a better job than I think I am.

After all, there are swear words in the Bible too.

Research

Let me tell you about a little moment I had with my children this morning. We were playing in Sly's room--and by playing I mean that I was sitting in the glider looking at my phone while the two little ones went to down pulling out every single toy in the vicinity, all to the musical symphony of my husband installing a ceiling fan in the room next door.

After a few minutes, I looked up from my phone to find that Kevin had claimed her throne (aka sat in the little chair that was once hers but now has been adopted by her little brother) and was "reading" one of Sly's books.

"Baby duck says 'quack,' baby puppy says 'ruff!'," she chanted as I smiled to myself, relieved that she still knew her animal noises (you know, in case they quiz you on that sort of thing when you start preschool). Soon she came to a picture of a baby giraffe.

"Momma? What sound does a giraffe make?" she asked.

My first thought was hold on a sec while I ask Siri...just kidding, I don't have an iphone. 

"I'm not sure, honey," I answered her. "Maybe they make a 'nom nom nom' sound when they eat the leaves."

"Giraffes eat leaves?" She reiterated, as if the idea was blowing her mind and she hadn't, in fact, seen a giraffe eat leaves on at least half a dozen visits to the zoo when she was two.

"Yes," I said. "That's why their necks are so long, so they can eat the leaves at the tops of the trees."

She nodded, gave me a skeptical look, and then went back to her book. A moment later she got up and walked out of the room, somewhat agitated. When she came back, she was holding a board book about jungle animals and their daddies. The first pages just happened to feature a giraffe and its father, go figure, eating leaves.

"You're right mom! They do eat leaves!" She said with a little laugh, amazed that I was correct.

And thus it began.
My daughter is no longer "taking my word for it."
She's doing her own research.

And just maybe, this experience has taught me not to roll my eyes every time she asks the question, "Why? But why? Why? Why, Momma?"

Why, indeed.
She's starting to figure out that I don't know all the answers.

Why do you have to grow up so fast, little one?

Yes, but why?