Small Moments, Simple Words, Great Things

This is my 2018 entry for Fruitland Home's annual Motherhood Monologues collaboration. I wrote it a few weeks ago, but I didn't want to forget to post it here. 

I was sitting in the mother’s room at church, feeling guilty for taking up a rocker with my bottle-fed, clearly-not-sleeping baby when I heard the voice over the speaker say these familiar words: “Through small and simple things, are great things brought to pass.”

A planned lesson. A hello, how are you? A kind look. Calling a child by name. Greeting a newcomer. Volunteering for an assignment. Participating in class. Getting the children ready. Making sure we are there. Raising my hand to sustain my husband in his new calling, knowing that it means more lonely evenings, chaotic one-woman bedtime routines and dirty dishes left in the sink.

I was standing in the kitchen, pen in hand, planner open, baby on my hip, and looking the faded clipping of a painting I’d cut out of an Ensign nearly ten years ago. The faces in the painting, familiar to me because of the models, show a mother and two sons with a Bible open between them, reading the words of God. The caption my adolescent Sunday School teacher attached to his painting was an unassuming scripture: “Now ye may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass; and small means in many instances doth confound the wise.”

Piles of reading homework from the kindergartener. Joy school lesson plans scribbled on index cards. Baby bottles lining the kitchen counter, keeping the painted rocks and brown paper bags company next to last week’s grocery ads. An open planner, the empty slots betraying the business of my days because writing “laundry” six times on a weekly spread is depressing. This month’s book club book waiting to be opened, the calendar says the meeting is next week. Crayon drawings adorn the fridge, the star space belonging to a construction paper pot-of-gold with a glued on rainbow drawing and lined white paper with pencil markings that proclaim, “mY sistr si speshul.” Two piles of photos from birthday collages, waiting to be put away in memory boxes. In the garbage is an orange bag that used to be filled with peanut butter M&Ms—my husband got a handful. My kids didn’t even know the bag existed until it was empty and they found it in the garbage.

I was scrolling through my Instagram feed, ignoring the screams and yells of my children fighting and the voice in my head highlighting my failures at keeping a peaceful home, when I read the words a friend had attached to a snapshot of her daughters, dressed in their Sunday best but clearly not wanting to pause for a picture: “’We may be doing things that only God can see, but they are the very things that make the greatest difference in our own lives and in the lives of those we love’-Tiffanie Brown, April Ensign.”

A kind word. A phone call, a text, a pinterest joke. Updated family pictures on the walls, a record of our family's growth. Blog posts from events that happened almost a year ago. An email here or there.  Hours spent researching family history. A prayer for a friend in need. Giving up a shower to cuddle a baby. Making sure everyone has clean underwear. Picking up debris off the floor before it finds the baby's mouth. 

I was sitting on the floor in my living room, trying to ignore the piles of toddler toys surrounding me as I talked to my mom on the phone for the first time in a week. I knew my husband was waiting for me to spend some rare time with him, but I just couldn’t help continuing the conversation because all week, I’ve needed my mom and we finally had a chance to talk. She’d left me a message on Thursday, the hardest day of my week, but I couldn’t call her back for fear of the tears that I knew would come once she answered the phone. All evening, I treasured that voicemail in my heart, thinking, my mom called me. SHE called ME.

On this evening, I had called her. I wasn’t feeling as alone, had taken a nap that afternoon, and was refreshed by the parts of the Sabbath day that didn’t include wrestling and wrangling children.

After so many days and so many reminders, I finally found myself voicing the truth I felt inside my heart:

“It’s hard to be the one at home. He’s got so many amazing and grand things going on, and I’m in the throngs of the small and simple.”

“Yes,” my mother’s voice confirmed. “But Rinda, the small and simple things one day will be the great things.”

Conversations with Sly

Sly: "Mommy, my nose is hurting."
Me: "Do you need me to kiss it better?"
Sly: "NO! Kisses don't work!"
Since when do my kisses not work? My heart starts to crack a bit, and then he says:
Sly: "But a cuddle would work!"

---
A few days ago, at lunch:
"Mommy, you'll always be my favorite parent."

--
Before lunch, with his dad, while his mom and sisters were gone:
Scott asks him if he wants chili for lunch. Sly makes this observation:
"Did you know that poop and chili are the same color brown?"
Scott takes him to a restaurant for lunch.

--

During joy school, we talked about the letter "W" and sang Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree and then I had the kids draw a picture of what they see out the window.
This is his picture:

He looked out the window and what did he see?
A crack.
A crack in the window.

Way to be optimistic, son.

----

Saying the prayer over dinner last night:

"Please bless that {Sofa} can grow up to be a big sister....Amen."
Followed by a talk about how that probably isn't going to happen.

---
His favorite thing to say to us after getting out of time out is "I don't love you, but I forgive you."
---

Bedtime is literally painful with Sly. It takes forever and rarely sticks the first time. It is infuriating and frustrating and does us in just about every night, despite our firm and strict expectations. A few weeks ago, after putting him to bed two or three times, he came out and before I could scold him, he said, "Mom, I just don't have enough powers to go to sleep. I need some Mom cuddles to give me sleeping powers."

Admittedly humbled, I cuddled him and then sent him back to bed.

Almost Unhurried

She was playing in the shadows, on the floor, the only light coming from the fluffy Hallmark TV show because the Jazz were too distracting and she refused to calm down and sleep.

I had halfheartedly tried to rock her a few different times, but my heart was torn. Do I relish that last night of rocking her to sleep before she turns one tomorrow, or do I put off bedtime as long as possible so tomorrow takes a little longer to get here?

She made the choice in the end. She wiggled her way off my lap and onto the floor, where she played with her brother's blanket and her pink giraffe (a gift from a neighbor because she was born in the middle of April the Giraffe's labor) until she came across her bottle, which she handed to me emphatically. She'd already had two bottles, but she wanted more.

Who was I to say no? She's almost one which is almost two which is the land of a thousand "no" conversations daily.

So I went upstairs, warmed up some milk, said a little prayer of gratitude that we no longer have to fit formula into our grocery budget, snuck a cookie from the pantry, and went back downstairs.

She looked up as soon as she heard my footsteps. Her smile grew on her face and she said something she's never said to me before.

"MOMMY!"

In that moment, I was reminded of why growth is so bittersweet. As a mother, you think that nothing could be better than holding that newborn, but then she starts smiling at you, and that is the best feeling ever. The long days and longer nights turn into short weeks, and soon she is belly-laughing at her brother and reaching for her sister and playing with your hair while you feed her, and how could life get any better? And then she starts hitting milestones, unhurried, because she knows she is your baby and the only way for you to be okay with her growing up is if she takes it nice and steady and slow. Suddenly, you are looking back on your camera and realizing that you somehow missed that magic moment when she turned from newborn to infant to baby to almost-toddler.

She started with "Dad Dad Dad" and eventually started to master "Momomomomom." Last week she began saying "Mama" and yelling at her brother and calling for her sister and saying "hi" to everyone. 

But tonight she knew what she was saying.
And I knew she was growing up.
Who am I to say no?

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.

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.

"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."

Hands

My hands hurt. Even given the surgery I had to straighten my pinky at age 14, I don't think my hands have ever hurt this badly, this constantly.

Broken nails. Dry skin. Super dry skin. Cracked, bleeding knuckles. Warts. Acid burns from trying to remove said warts. Randomly numb fingers. Hurting bones in my thumbs--early arthritis? Too much texting? Too many kindle page swipes? I'm not sure.

This winter has been the mildest I ever remember in my life. We haven't even gotten our snow shovels out of the backyard shed. We took down the backyard swings but after two weeks, it was so warm that our kids begged us to put them back up. They've played outside almost every day since the second week of January.

Despite the warmth, my skin has taken a beating this winter. Between a bottle-fed baby, recently potty-trained preschooler who can't reach the sink faucet, and husband too busy to do the dishes as often as he usually does, my hands are constantly being exposed to hot running water.

When I look at them, I cringe. My husband gave me a manicure certificate for my birthday in July and I haven't been brave enough to book it because my hands just look so ugly these days. I want to hide them. If gloves didn't bother me so much, I would wear them all the time.

My hands work hard, and I am grateful for them. I am learning not to dismiss my gratitude for them easily. As my baby has switched her "favorite parent" allegiance from my husband to me, I've had to learn to do lots of things one-handed as she perches on my hip. My Jr. Jazz boxing-out skills have come in handy as I learn to use my body to block her freakishly long reach. I think often of Bethany Hamilton and wonder how she's accomplishing motherhood with only one arm, since my experience diapering my ten-month-old uses my entire body!

When the pain is at its worst, but there is still laundry and cleaning and feeding and bathing to be done, I remember another set of hands with "no beauty that man should him desire." These hands also fed and cleaned and bathed and fixed and worked. They also were sacrificed to serve others, cracked and bleeding and probably misshapen from the pain of nails pounded into a palm.

Though those hands did and do far more than mine will ever accomplish, sometimes my hands have the power to act in the place of His.

They soothe a fevered brow
They wipe away some tears
They break bread to nourish small bodies
They help another quench her thirst
They carry the weak and strengthen the faltering
They bathe and clean away the dirt of life
They clothe those who cannot dress themselves
They teach and train and tidy
They bleed willingly and bear the scars

And, without my having to reach, they bring me closer to Him.

CPR Parenting

This post was written as a guest blogger for Fruitland Home, but I thought I would post it here as well. It was posted on our personal family blog when I meant to post it here, so forgive me if you've gotten it twice!

Most of the time, I feel like a terrible parent. My kids fall victim to the “too much” Syndrome: too much tv, too much fighting, too much sugar, too much entitlement, too much in the toybox.  They have too much going on and it is too much for me.

Shortly after my youngest child was born, I was holding her and thinking about how it was so easy to remember to hold and cuddle her, because she demanded it, but how I forget to hold and cuddle my oldest child, although she still needs it. I’m really good at reading to my oldest, because she asks, and she enjoys it, but I’m terrible at remembering to read to my son, because he doesn’t like to slow down long enough to listen. On the other hand, he is excellent at getting me to play with him because he petitions me for playtime all day long.

I’m decently good at giving each of my children something, but I fall short in something else.  Above all else in life, I want us to have balance because I believe that balance leads to peace and happiness, even if “quiet” is rarely part of that equation.

So, I came up with something I call “CPR Parenting,” which allows me to simplify my mothering obligations into three meaningful activities that I strive to do with each of my three children daily: Cuddle, Play, and Read.  

I am a task-oriented person. There is a to-do list for every day, even when I don’t get anything on said list done. I can’t always keep track of every need my children have, and inevitably at the end of the day I will remember that I didn’t practice piano with her or go outside with him or read to the baby, whose brain is developing faster than the alarming rate at which I’m losing brain cells.  I can remember CPR though, and I feel like if I’ve done these most basic of basic childcare tasks, I have also done something meaningful with my day.

Cuddling gives them a sense of security in my arms and a chance to calm down and be still, even if that cuddle time only lasts two minutes. Each child has different needs, but a princess once told me that “everyone needs another hug.” Children need affectionate, safe touches. Some days they will need you more physically than others. That’s okay.

Playtime allows me to spend time with my child’s imagination. I have one child whose imagination knows no bounds---forks and spoons make families, balloons are a common mode of transport, and nothing is what it seems (is that a orange crayon? Why no, it’s clearly a dinosaur). I have another child who, although she is not as creative when it comes to coming up with plots and storylines, is amazing at creating things. Playtime with her usually means an art project, which usually means a mess, but I spent her whole toddlerhood convincing her that it was okay to be messy. Now she is the one who often reminds me, “if we’re messy it means we are having fun, Mom!” Playtime helps me to relax and have fun with them. I give myself bonus points if I can resist the urge to clean and organize the playroom while we’re doing what Maria Montessori referred to as “the work of the child.”

Reading is my outlet; I cannot survive without it. There is not a day that goes by when I don’t read something. I feel guilty sometimes that my reading becomes more important than reading to my children. I know that I am setting an example when my kids see me with a book in my hands, and that is important, but my silent reading doesn’t do much for their cognitive development. My mother, early childhood expert extraordinaire, told me that according to the research she’s done (along with 30 years of teaching preschool and kindergarten), it takes a thousand hours of “lap time” to prepare a child for kindergarten. By the time they reach the age of five, children have lived somewhere around 1,825 days. If you read to your child 20 minutes a day for each of those days, you’ll be at 608 hours. In other words, children need to be read to EVERY CHANCE you get or you’re already behind. Along with the academic benefits, reading is something that children can come to associate with love, adventure, and stress-relief.

I figure that If I can take time out of each day to give my children specialized, meaningful, separate time with me, then all the moments when I fail them will at least have something to counter balance the scale.