No More Strangers

Penina.  I keep seeing her face in my mind's eye.  She looked worried but her smile showed acceptance at the same time - a courageous combination.  Let me explain.

Last general conference, more than one leader of the church encouraged the membership to reach out in local do-able ways to assist with the refugee crisis.  The invitation was open-ended in application, leaving room for inspiration.  President Uchtdorf's teary plea recalled his family history and reminded us of our church's own history with the familiar story of the early Utah Mormon pioneers having been forced to leave the confines of the contiguous boundaries of the United States at the time, and of necessity creating a new life out of whole cloth in the wilderness of the western frontier.  In a grander sense we are all refugees on this planet, like Wordsworth says, "trailing glory,...from God who is are home" I suppose.  So the challenge is to make homes and families here and provide refuge for others to have the freedom to do the same.

I was excited about the guidance from our leaders.  It made me proud and happy that as a people we were taking cues from a place of love instead of fear.  I internet-hunted the service opportunities in my city and signed up to attend a training session on an upcoming Saturday.  I found the address of the refugee service center.  It was in a large building or complex full of other city services:  part urban-planning think tank, part community center, part local government offices.  There were two presenters conducting the training. Previously, my knowledge of the refugee crisis was sourced from a combination of news headlines and hollywood.    That evening I learned a little more about the nuances of the terminology that we throw around. Although the term "refugee" is often used the most broadly, "displaced persons" is the preferred umbrella term for people who have left their homes and homelands usually for typically life-threatening reasons.  "Refugees" are "officially" those who have fled their homes, do not have the means to go very far on their own, usually live in the camps sometimes for years waiting for their name to come up and be placed in a designated city through the refugee program.  Their travel expenses will be paid for and they will be given housing and helped to find work during a transitional period of about 6 months, and then basically they are on their own, with only as-needed assistance.  "Asylum seekers" have made their way to our country or another country on their own and have asked to be admitted, again, because it would be too dangerous to go home.  A third category of displaced persons includes those that are forced to immigrate as sex slaves or who are tricked or lured to come to our country with promises of work, and are then forced to labor for no pay.  Shockingly, slavery still exists in the United States - not legally of course.  This center's largest program focused it's support on the refugees during that 6 month period of getting them on their feet.
Basically, each refugee family is assigned a case worker whose job it is to secure the big things like housing and the job.  At the same time, volunteers are welcomed and encouraged to help in a multitude of ways:  picking the families up at the airport, outfitting their apartment, taking them to the clinic for immunizations, taking them to the social security office to get cards, taking them to the local schools to register their children, teaching them the ropes of the local bus system, etc., (I guess so we don't have to indefinitely give them rides everywhere.) The assistance is clearly crafted as a support system towards independence.  Along those lines, this refugee center also sponsors an english teaching program and a sewing lesson program.  I could do this.

Once a layman like myself finishes training, and after the mandatory background check, you receive a monthly email with links to a sign up genius of the volunteer opportunities for the week.  I admit I was choosy.  I thought that going shopping and oufitting a little apartment sounded way more fun than an extra trip to the doctor or worse, the long lines of the social security office.  Maybe even my kids or the youth at church could go to Walmart with me.  Apparently, volunteers are given a Walmart card, a shopping list, and the key to the family's apartment.  It's like being a secret Santa.  Apparently, I am not the only person who felt this way.  Every time I would try to sign up for an apartment set up, it was taken.  Month after month.  My good intentions were essentially shelfed over the summer, with all the children home, and time spent traveling.  I thought unless I got an apartment set up job, I'd just wait for Fall.  That's when my team teacher inspired me.

Since last year, I have been teaching seminary every other day.  My team teacher, Amy, loves her two day a week schedule.  It's "just right" for her busy life with a preschooler still at home, and I love having my extra time to lesson plan too.  Working and planning together we have become friends who confide in each other on rough days and things like that.  One day, Amy said was rough, almost as an aside, or to top it off, because this time when she drove all the way downtown with her boys to take a refugee family to the clinic, the family had forgotten and were not even there.  I was so impressed!  I didn't know Amy had trained too!  Not only that, she was a semi regular volunteer.  If she could do it with three little boys in tow, what was my excuse for not having signed up to help yet?  I still waited until school started, but I decided I would stop apple picking my service and be willing to do the less "fun" jobs too. I'm so glad I did.  It's how I met Penina.

I chose my sign up based on what was the best time for me - Thursday morning.  There were two slots for taking a family of 8 to the clinic.  The center assumed this would take two vehicles.  I signed up for the second slot.  I got an email later explaining that the first volunteer could indeed fit everyone in her car, but that a new family of 5 from Afghanistan would need a ride to the clinic that same morning and could I fit 5?  I said yes and was sent their address.  Because they had a three year old and a five year old, if I needed to borrow car seats, I could stop by the center on my way over. That sounded like it could work just right.  Thursdays are Amy's day, so I don't teach in the early morning.  Also, my high schooler, Weston was getting a ride to cross country practice.  Once I got the younger ones off to school, I could head downtown.

Of course, the morning did not go as planned.  Weston was never picked up from seminary. Didn't I remember they were training at the nearby park, not at the high school this morning, so they didn't have to leave straight from seminary?  My bad.  At least Weston wouldn't be as late as I thought.  The thing to go was the shower.  It would have to be a sponge bath morning.  We picked Blake up, gave Miles the go ahead on the bus, Weston walked Blake in (late) because I still wasn't wearing shoes, and then it's a good thing he runs fast enough that he probably caught up with his team in no time. This could still work, but I would definitely need to at least wear shoes and maybe lipstick.

The funny thing is, I was early.  I got to the center, I got the car seats, I drove to the apartment complex, and I waited in the car and read my scriptures.  Go figure.  All that stress for nothing. When it was really time to knock, I said a little prayer and prepared to meet the family from Afghanistan who knew nothing about me, and of whom I knew only about three things:  1) They had three children (two of which needed car seats,) 2) the father was the only family member who spoke any English, and 3)  their last name was aptly, "Afghan."  As I mounted the steps to the second story of the apartment complex, I thought to myself, this is just like being on a mission or like visiting teaching, or finding lost sheep.  I've done this lots of times.  Except I must admit I was missing a companion.  Well, here goes nothing, and I knock. Nothing.  I knock again.  Oh no, it's like what happened to Amy.  They are not here.  I had asked a man outside if this was the right address.  Should I just leave?  Call the center?  Well I have to at least return the car seats.  I decide before abandoning ship to double check with the office because I couldn't see the address posted on the outside of the building anywhere.  The office staff tell me I am looking for the next complex.  Relief and a little anxiety wash over me.  Great, now I am going to be late!  I repark and reascend.  This time there's a door bell.  Did it work?  I knock.  Not again..., but that might have been some rustling.  One more knock.   A pretty little girl who looks about the same age as my Blake opens the door half way.  She is wearing a black head scarf and a beautiful beaded tunic over some baggy leggings.  She looks intrigued and not unwelcoming as she opens the door a little wider.  I'm glad I'm not scary, and I assume that they are expecting me. I see her two little brothers bashing into each other and play fighting over a yellow rubber ball in the background.  The are both wearing stiff new jeans and marvel comic t-shirts.  You can tell that the 5 year old is jumping up and down partly to show me how his Captain America sneakers light up when he lands.  Adorable.  Next, the mother emerges from the back room.  She smiles and nods as I try to explain who I am.  "Yes."  She says over and over, and motions for me to enter.

I wonder if the husband is finishing getting ready and then we'll leave for the clinic.  I obediently sit down.  I notice all the shoes at the door and think, I probably should have taken mine off.  I survey the scantily furnished 2 rooms.  I am sitting on the sole couch.  A dining set is in the apartment too, but it seems to be playing a different role.  The chairs are lined up against the far wall of the dining area, and the table is pushed under the window of the living room with a dell laptop on top.  That's it.  No pictures on the wall.  Nothing even from their country.  I wish I'd gotten their apartment set up job, but then, maybe like the dining set, some of my offerings or ideas would be lost in translation.  After a little while it becomes clear that the husband isn't home and consequently this sweet mother has no idea what I was saying or why I am in her home.  When I realize this I am astounded at her free kindnesses.

The mother sort of mysteriously disappears in the back and I show the children pictures of my children and use my fingers to confirm how old the girl is - yup, same age as my Blake.  Without any ability to communicate through language I am struck by the universality of family roles.  I recognize the girl as the motherly and mildly bossy oldest daughter.  The baby of the family is unmistakably that spunky scrappy youngest brother who has had to defend himself his whole life.  Finally, the five year old seemed to be the typical middle child, a little attention hungry and apt to show his little brother who is boss.  He was creative too.  He began to play a whole game of jacks with his yellow ball and a handful of imaginary jacks, or whatever their counterpart is called in Afghanistan.  His five year old fingers and hands were clearly practiced at the movement of throwing up the ball and picking up what were invisible little objects, before successfully opening his hand to catch the falling ball in the nick of time.  When the brothers became extra rambunctious, fighting over the ball again, I couldn't suppress a laugh. The little brother had a wicked grin on his face and shot me some dancing eyes as he came up from behind big brother and kicked in him the rear.  When the big brother retaliated the sister got between them.  In resistance, the five year old put his little hands around big sister's neck.  They could tell, I was asking them to be nice then.  I looked shocked, and then pantomined petting my arm, and asked them to "be soft."  That's when big sister went back to her mother, probably to tell on her brothers and finally the mother reemerged from the back bedroom again, this time in a golden dress.  She had straightened and pinned her headscarf in place.  She looked gorgeous and I assumed ready to go to the clinic in a golden dress.  I was wrong.  She went to the kitchen and sliced up an apple, core and all.  She handed the plate of apple slices to me as a sat.  I thanked her.  It was delicious.  It was a honeycrisp and it was chilled.  I confess I ate the seedless slices first and smiled.

I broke out my iphone.  What language do they speak in Afghanistan?  Multiple.  I tried the most common - Pashto and wrote down "I am here to take you to the clinic" or something like that on a translation website.  A scrawl of Arabic looking letters filled a box and I showed it to her.  Zero recognition.  I used google images to look up pictures of immunizations.  Now we were getting somewhere, or were we?  When I pointed to the pictures and pointed to the children and pantomined shooting a needle in my arm, for the first time, she did not say "Yes."  She shook her head and looked very opposed.  So what was there to do?  Perhaps she could get a waiver if she didn't want her children immunized before registering them for school, but she would for sure need a translator or her husband for that.  I set down the plate of apple slices and thanked her again.  She didn't look prepared to go, in fact, by now the boys were on an embroidered cloth on the living room floor eating pita slices and scrambled eggs out of the pan.  How efficient, I thought.

My last ditch effort to take them to the clinic was to point to my vehicle and motion if they wanted to follow me.  Again she said "Yes" but she must have meant "Yes, you are leaving now."  Or else, her philosophy is to say "yes" when in doubt.  It's a pretty good philosophy actually.  They were a lovely family, and I felt like my visit had been useless for them.  Perhaps I entertained the children a bit.  I left feeling grateful for the international language of family which gave me a connection to this other mother, a hope that the daughter stays strong because she will probably learn English before her mother, a desire to buy some jacks for the big brother, a smile when I remembered the baby and jokester of the family, and a sheepish embarrassment for having had a conversation the day before with my husband about wishing for wooden instead of vinyl framed windows.  We. have. soooo. much.

I went back to the clinic and returned the car seats.  They had another job for me.  I explained I'd be happy to help for the next hour and a half, but then I was expecting a plumber at my house.  Our water heater had been broken and we'd been having cold showers for about two weeks.  The case worker involved  said, "if you can just take this woman to the emergency room, you will have made my day.  I can come pick her up later."  There was a pregnant woman from the Republic of the Congo who was hadn't been able to use the bathroom or eat for a few days.  She was about 4 and a half months along, and had an appointment with an obstetrician the following week, but her case worker didn't think she should wait that long.  Amen to that.  I would be happy to take her.  She was so new to the country that her medicaid paperwork was in process, so they scrawled out her corresponding number.  The case worker also put her own name and phone number on the back of a card for me to give to the hospital so they could call her when it was time to pick the woman up.  The recent refugee didn't have a passport yet either.  She just had an official looking computer print out with passport picture like images of her, her husband, and their five children.  That's when I first saw Penina looking back at me from those precious pieces of paper that I was terrified to misplace.

Next I met her in person.  She was regaled in a vivid screaming yellow, grass green, and brown patterned african gown with a wrap-around adjustable waist making room for her swelling belly. Why are American clothes so boring?  She was shy and young (30 something), and very beautiful.  The translator would not be going with us to the emergency room, the case worker told me, so I had to remember everything that she told me.  "I can do this."  I sort of whispered under my breath, which is a mantra I tell myself often when facing a new or unwanted challenge.  The case worker sort of stopped everything and looked at me and repeated with conviction, "Yes you can."  as in "woman up!"  and then she said, "and she can too" as in "if you only knew what this woman has already lived through."  Before I knew it, just Penina and I by ourselves were headed out to my vehicle.  I opened the front passenger door and she climbed on it.  I closed the door for her and went over the driver's side.  I buckled up and looked over at her and although I wasn't sure what good speaking English would do, I asked Penina if she needed help with her seatbelt.  I pointed above her shoulder and it was clear she didn't know what to do next.  I helped her get buckled up, being sure to put the belt sort of across her lower abdomen, and turned on the car.  The next thing I wondered was which radio station to play.  Dead silence seemed too awkward.  I decided on classical - it was wordless, that could be universal.  As the symphony played Beethoven or was it Tchaicovski,  I realized this music and these instruments although they are expressing universal themes and emotions, could be as foreign to her as the English language.  Oh well.

Thank goodness for google maps.  Although, I knew how to get to the hospital from home, the service center was in a part of town I wasn't as familiar with.  I turned off my talking phone once I knew the rest of the way.  While driving, I could tell that Penina was not entirely comfortable.  With all the construction and lane closures and freeway changes, I couldn't blame her.  I was trying to place myself in her shoes.  The trust she had in an absolute stranger to take her away through a labrynth of Texas freeways in a place where no one could even pronounce the name of her language let alone speak it was astounding.  Of course, she was doing it for her baby.  That I could understand.  Before backing out I had shown her my five children.  Motherhood was our instant connection.

Seton Main hospital was so crowded that morning.  I could tell, because I had to park up on the roof of the parking lot across from the emergency room entrance.  Penina's case wasn't so emergent that I would have to take her just to the curb, besides I didn't want to leave her alone, until she was somewhat cared for and accounted for.  As we walked to the entrance, I wasn't sure if she would want to hold on to my arm.  She was sort of shuffling her sandled feet a little slowly.  She didn't appear to be in stoic pain, but she definitely was in discomfort.  When we made it as far as the elevator, she did grab my arm for a second to steady herself, and one other time, I saw her wince, but when she caught me looking, she changed it for a smile.  So she was being stoic after all.  At the emergency room I told the admittors all I knew about Penina.  They said they had a policy if she was over 20 weeks, that they would send her up to Labor and Delivery instead.  I said, "well she must be right about exactly 20 weeks."  It was determined to send her upstairs - that is down the hall, turn right, past the cafeteria, another right, another set of elevators...  You get the picture.  I wasn't sure if I should get a wheelchair.  I couldn't gauge if that would hurt her pride or be a nice gesture.  I didn't know how to address this, so we walked.

Labor and delivery was swamped too, and just about sent us right back to the ER.  This time I stood my ground and advocated for Penina.  I explained that we just walked all the way over here, she is within the time frame when she should be seen by them, and explained that the woman hadn't eaten for maybe days.  They got the nurse.  Again the question, "how far along is she?"  I wasn't sure if they were still trying to send her away.  The staff were kind, but just so busy, and trying to triage.  At least Penina was sitting down now and could rest a little.  They were able to reach an interpreter on the phone.  "What was the due date you were given by the doctor or clinic when you found out you were pregnant?"  She had never been to a doctor or clinic for this or perhaps any of her pregnancies before.  "Ok then, we are going to have a lot of questions.  It doesn't look like an emergency, so I will be back later. Does she speak French?"  "No."  Then, to Penina, " Take off all your clothes and put this gown on, and I will come back to monitor you."  The nurse said this with gestures so she thought Penina understood.  Then she closed the curtain between Penina and myself to give her some privacy.  I waited and checked my email and instagram for the time I thought it would take Penina to change.  It sounded silent on the other side of the curtain.  I peeked around, to see if she was done and let her know I was still there.  She was standing motionless in her slip and undershirt, obviously not knowing what to do next.  The clock was ticking, but I couldn't leave Penina like this.  If she was lost, no one would even know her name. I pointed at her undershirt and she pulled it over her head.  I placed the robe on her and tied it in the back.  I didn't bother with the slip.  Why is it necessary for us to be so exposed and vulnerable before a doctor even knows what needs checking.  Sorry, a discussion for another day.

The nurse returned as promised, although this time it was a different nurse.  A younger nurse - maybe an intern.  She was less perfunctory, but also a little more flustered. She had brought a bracelet for the patient, but it did not say "Penina."  Gratefully, the nurse looked quizzically at the Western sounding name, and asked to review the identification papers.  "I'll be right back."  She said.  Then she whispered to me "I just read this fascinating history on the Republic of the Congo have you ever read it?"  "I've read Poisonwood Bible" I shrugged.  After she left, I sort of shuddered to think of Penina being mislabeled and even the Refugee Service center having a hard time locating her as a result. My plumber would have to wait.  Wait.  I noticed it didn't seem to bother Penina so much.  How long had she and her family waited in the camps until their names came up?  How long did she have to wait in airports and security vettings and wasn't she hungry?

The nurses' reading reference gave me an idea of how to pass the time with Penina until I really had to leave.  I looked up images of her country on google images.  I first pointed to a map of Africa with her country highlighted.  It didn't seem to interest her that much.  I showed her some jungle images and lush mountains, and waterfalls.  She smiled gratefully.  Then I stopped scrolling and took the phone away.  I didn't want her to see the images of the guerilla fighters.  Of dead bodies slashed open. There was a village of small huts.  I wondered if that was what her home had been like.  She didn't speak French.  She hadn't been to school.  She wasn't comfortable walking in shoes.  Someone else came in to ask Penina to sign some consent forms.  Penina made a very careful x on the dotted line. "Can you ask her if she can sign her name?"  The woman said in the phone, handed the phone to Penina, and then Penina smiled and put another neatly formed x on the next line.  "Ask her if she has a living will, or what's it called, ...oh yea, power of attorney?"  I wondered why this woman thought Penina would have an answer to that, but I guess she had to ask.  I thought: so much to learn. Meaning, I have so much to learn that Penina could teach me.  There are so many ways to live and so many places and so many words and other things I do not know.  Her experiential knowledge is just as exhaustive if not more than mine - it's just different, that's all.  The nurse was back on the phone with the interpreter.  "Can you ask her which pregancy this is?  and which number baby?"  Of course those aren't the same question, and I realized, there is a good chance she has lost a child.  She had.  I wondered how.  I wanted to know so much more, not out of curiosity anymore, I could read a history book for that.  I wanted to meet her children, and see her again, and make sure that this new little American baby would be okay, but it was really time to go.  This time her bracelet had the correct name and I had given three different people the number and name of Penina's case worker.  I said my reluctant goodbye.  I had been there when it seemed she understood that someone else would bring her back, but now that I was leaving, she looked at me as if she wanted me to stay.  I don't think I made the right choice.  Through the interpreter she asked me, "where was I going?"  "I had an appointment"  I said.  Figuring that wouldn't have a lot of frame of reference, the nurse just told the interpreter simply, "tell her she has to go."  Back to the rush like I'd had that morning - paying 1700 dollars so my family could have the luxury of showering in hot instead of cold water, picking up the car pool, making homemade pizza for dinner, and staying up with Blake to finish his procrastinated vocabulary homework, etc. etc. but I couldn't get Penina's pleading and then accepting face out of my mind.  I called her case worker's number back later to see if she had been picked up safely.  Another voice answered.  "Oh yea, I think I am supposed to be waiting for a call for the hospital.  Haven't gotten it yet."

"She's still there?"

"Apparently?"  I was kind of freaked out that the case worker had given the task to yet another stranger for Penina, and what had she been doing in the room all this time?  I prayed for Penina. What else could I do?

"Well, let her caseworker know if there is anything else I can do, please let me know."

"We will.  We really appreciate your service."  Click.

Next Thursday.  I can do this.

Showing Up

Yesterday I showed up to Institute.  I've missed it the past two times, making excuses regarding non-eternal commitments to myself.  Flashback to the day before: Monday, I was not very happy with my performance as a mother.  Flashback even further to Saturday: my two youngest had not fulfilled the expectation to clean their bedroom on Saturday -- I was literally gone the entire day at a seminary teacher in-service followed by the stake temple day.  When we'd returned in the late evening -- I sent Carlos and the boys to a restaurant so I could attack the kitchen and family room and recover some basic living standards.  I was too tired to want to even know what their bedrooms looked like.  Their big sister had spent the day with friends, and I am grateful that big brother Weston kept the two littles alive, but the house...the house.  Ah, well, there was always Monday.  So after school Monday no friends were allowed over at all -- we were going to do what should have been done two days before. The problem was, we were all sort of already worn down, and it wasn't long before my entreaties morphed into a monster-mom mini-tirade.  I was sharing my fear that they would wind up jobless.  I was composing a lecture on the principle of conditioning yourself to work, versus intellectually knowing how to perform a task...I was wasting my breath.  Still, they were putting legos away by adding them to former creations and throwing clean clothes in the hamper...I gave myself a timeout when I could feel tensions rise.  When I realized that I wasn't showing them the respect I wanted shown to me, I was a little ashamed.  I was acting in a very unenlightened way: not the respecting agency, while calmly setting up consequences way.  I just let it all blow over, and by the time the legos were mostly under control, I let them have a dip in the hot tub and freezing cold pool.  They wanted to and it certainly cured them of all grumpiness.  Still, as I recalled the day, I felt I had let them and myself down.  I hadn't been my best self, and I knew I could have done more to build my patience reserves.  I had taught seminary, but I had neglected my Book of Mormon personal study, for example.  I had wasted time on-line, and frankly my own room was pretty untidy, which was probably wearing on my subconscious.  Then,Tuesday morning shone.  I drove the boys to school and said, "Look at that sky! The Monday of Mondays is over.  It is a new day."   Miles sardonically quipped, "You can't judge everything by how it looks."  But I think he was hopeful too.  The morning slipped away and I hadn't fit in my planned-out 5 mile run.  That's a good thing to do, right?  but Institute was starting in about 5 minutes.  Which was the better choice?  I decided to go to Insititute.  I was a little late and slid onto the back row.  I didn't even have time to grab by paper scriptures, but I had my phone.  We were studying the Isaiah chapters.  Maybe I have been making excuses because of that -- I already took the course on Isaiah from the same teacher -- what more could I learn?  What I needed to learn was the lesson I was trying to teach my boys about work -- it isn't just about knowing something -- it's about conditioning yourself.  I was spiritually dehydrated and didn't know it, but I had showed up.  Then we read,

"For the Lord shall comfort Zion, he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord.  Joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving and the voice of melody...I am he; yea, I am he that comforteth you..."

I showed up to Institute yesterday, and guess who was there? -- the Lord.  I didn't see Him, but His spirit filled me with comfort and strength as these words were read aloud.  He spoke to me and I heard, on a day when I was feeling especially undeserving...
All through the simple grace of showing up.

PHS

I know it's been a good three weeks since I've posted anything.  I think the past 10 days I have been suffering from what I'll call PHS:  post holiday slump.  It's like I've been pushing the snooze button on the New Year.  I've been dragging my feet a little bit, because my ambitions are high and a little intimidating.  I've built this year up in my mind as a watershed moment and although I'm not sure if you can force watershed moments, maybe I just like the cadence of change...but I also enjoy the downy soft comfiness of old habits.  What is or could be considered striking about this year?  A few things:  Ainsley is graduating, so there will be a big change in our at home family dynamics.  We will just have 3 little boys at home -- a house of boys -- and I envision this will have an effect on our family fun times and recreation and vacation destinations even:  less shopping, more camping,...you get the picture.  With only 3 at home, we could also potentially change how we live in our home or what car we drive,...Also, living in our home 10 years makes me want to do some updating or customizing like tear down the gallery wall or put crown molding and plantation shutters everywhere, or finish the attic, or all of the above.  Finally, Carlos and I are turning 45. On our honeymoon I asked Carlos if we could live till we were 90 and die on the same day, so if he keeps that promise, then we are truly half way there:  as middle-aged as you can get.  But the real reason turning 45 seems like a watershed moment for me is because of a story told and retold by my Grandfather Edwards.

William Foster Edwards was named for the father he would never know.  His mother was widowed a few months before his birth.  He was almost orphaned too.  His mother was so sick from childbirth, that the extended family huddled nearby and were whispering about who would take on the care of her three little boys provided that she passed on.  At this point, my great grand-mother didn't just ask in prayer to get well, she essentially demanded: "Heavenly Father, you took away my parents, and my husband, and you are not going to take me too.  Let me live and raise my boys in the gospel!"  It worked, so William grew up very poor but very loved by his mother.  While she made and sold hats at the millinery, the three little boys played in the back room of the store, or huddled around the stove when it was cold, or made a little money themselves thinning beets for a neighboring farmer.  My grandfather kind of miraculously managed to earn enough to go to Brigham Young Academy, working all sorts of odd jobs during the summers and while at school : barn painting, taxi driving, hotel cleaning, etc.  All of this work and study unfortunately didn't leave a lot of time for church.  During the young adult stage of life, William definitely identified with the church but could be considered semi-active.  After he married my grandmother, Catherine Eyring, she influenced him to grow in his faith and continue in his studies.  They settled in the great city of New York, where he earned his doctorate from NYU and built a great name for himself on Wall Street as a much in demand and respected adviser of finance.  When Ernest Wilkinson asked my grandfather to serve with him in the bishopric while William was still finishing graduate school, he accepted the calling and vowed to be totally faithful in all of his church duties from that day forward.  Later, I'm not sure if it was before of after his call to be stake president, grandfather decided it was about time to receive his patriarchal blessing.  He received the blessing well, and took a very proactive approach to the effect it would have on his life.  He regarded the content as a challenge to live up to the promises and possibilities outlined, which prompted Grandfather to make a short list of defining determinations that would put him in the temporal as well as spiritual condition to best qualify himself for the hinted at opportunities revealed in his patriarchal blessing.  The self-imposed deadline for Grandfather's lofty goals:  age 45.  By age 45, these were my Grandfather's objectives:

1.  To know how to be and to have established the reputation of being a good, exemplar member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

2.  Through faithful understanding, teaching, and loving have each of our children strong or potentially strong in the gospel.

3.  To be trained in the ways of the world to the extent that I can properly counsel and instruct others wisely.

4.  To have saved from the earnings of my own labor sufficiently that if a good manager and frugal, I can support myself and family to the extent of being able to accept any assignment or work that appears desirable regardless of compensation.

5.  And then at that point in life, make a careful survey and make all changes that will let me render the greatest service.  This is my road to happiness.

So did he do it?  What happened?  Six months before my grandfather's 45th birthday, Ernest Wilkinson was in his office with another invitation to serve, this time asking him to come and be the dean of the BYU school of commerce.  Grandfather was prepared to say yes, as well as say goodbye to his potential future earnings and the life they had built up on the East Coast.  Talk about watershed moments.  I suppose there were other ones leading up to the bigger one:  choosing to got to college, accepting the call in the bishopric, deciding to go for his doctorate instead of just a masters, and getting his patriarchal blessing.  These are easier to recognize in hind sight, perhaps when we are reading the personal history of someone who died over two decades ago, but how do we make sure we don't miss them in our own life?  I think, like grandfather, we need to be prepared to serve and that halfway through life just may be a wonderful time to gear shift from qualification and accumulation to service and giving back.  The shift may not be as dramatic or dramatically reflected on our bank accounts as was grandfather's, but it could be at least a mindset.  It is a good time as any to make that "careful survey" to "render the greatest service."  Of course, the Savior did it all before the age of 33, and Joseph Smith fulfilled his missions on the earth by the time he was 38.  For me, it may simply be to step up the missionary and family history work mentioned in my patriarchal blessing, but whatever the offering, whatever changes, I'm glad to keep the comfy knowledge that I am a wife and mother first and forever.      

The Theory of Everything

For our 21st anniversary, we went to dinner and a movie.  That doesn't sound very special, but it was a very amazing dinner at a local Brazillian steak house and as some reviewers have said, a "sublime" movie:  The Theory of Everything.  The Theory of Everything is an unconventional love story about Steven and Jane Hawkings.  The title comes from Stephen's continued quest to marry the theory of relativity to quantum physics and somehow find one "simple and elegant theory" which could explain the genesis and functionality of nothing short of everything in the universe.  The emotional gravitas of the movie comes from the exceptional struggles, sacrifices and successes of the young and determined pair of great minds and good hearts who are Steven and Jane, but the backdrop of Steven's quest is likewise compelling.  It made me think of a scripture from The Book of Mormon.  A Christmas scripture, that includes what I propose as a sort of Theory of Everything:

And it came to pass that I saw the heavens open; and an angel came down and stood before me; and he said unto me: Nephi, what beholdest thou?  And I said unto him: A virgin, most beautiful and fair above all other virgins.  And he said unto me: Knowest thou the condescension of God?  And I said unto him:  I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things.

In the same breath that Nephi admits to not knowing the meaning of everything, he cites a theory which if fully explored could very well unlock the hazy "meaning of all things." I suppose Nephi wouldn't call it a 'theory', in that, as Nephi states, "[he] (already) knows that [God] loveth his children..." but could the simple yet active, responsive and relentless existance of God's love work as rather a template or key to the meaning of everything else?

There is another scene in the movie, when Steven proposes a landmark/although later disproven by himself/ theory on the origin of the universe. His mentoring professor tells him "brilliant!...and now, go to work!" In other words 'get busy' doing all the mathematical equations required to back up your case. Even though I also already know that God loves me and I believe all of his children too, it takes some going to work/ can even be a lifelong quest to understand/draw the lines between the love of God and the face of all the inequalities and injustices, drudgeries and tragedies of life --  but what if the key to "the meaning of all things" can only be arrived at by never letting go of such?  In addition, what if God's love brings along enough meaning on it's own, so that it's not so much unlocking the meaning of everything, (although it does do that) as it is presently embueing our everythings with meaning...almost like He can't help himself?  On top of it all, what if God's love can be a catalyst so transformative that those things which are the hardest to work out or justify today or even from our past, can one day be retroactively altered to a pure state beyond the limits of finite time and space as we know it..  The story of Christmas.  John 3:16.  What a simple & elegant thought, and better still...true.  

His and Her Trees

My husband is an artist.  He is a podiatric surgeon by trade, but he possesses the eyes and vision and skills of an artist.  He is deliberate and inspired in the act of creation whether he is making an omelette for breakfast or sketching plans for a painting he hopes to tackle one day or suturing up an incision after a successful bunionectomy.  There are no Frankenstein-looking scars for his patients. And you should see his Christmas tree -- talk about a work of art!  I say "his" Christmas tree, because in our house we have his and her Christmas trees. I guess it's like that old saying about handkerchiefs: "one for show, one for blow."

Let me explain,  it's not that we have a super independant sort of marriage. Carlos and I share a lot -- bank accounts, our big king-size bed (with or without a post-nightmare little visitor,) the responsibility to love and care for our children, our dreams and hopes and toothpaste,...but Christmas trees are another matter.  We just can't agree about the tree, so we've given up on sharing.  He has his tree in the two-story living room (aka home teacher visit room) and mine is in the family room along with the piano, cozy fireplace, and squishy blue couches.

Carlos' ideal Christmas tree and my ideal Christmas tree are about as opposite as can be.  His was born in his imagination years ago as a symbol of future happy Christmases and family life in general -- born in the wake of some complicated teenage years following his parent's divorce. The concept of a themed, even professionally decorated tree for a home was introduced to him by a family in his neighborhood.  He admired the two-story glittering wonder and couldn't wait until he had the opportunity to recreate such a vision of loveliness in his own future foyer.  It had to do with being enabled to create a future more beautiful than the rough patch he was struggling through at the time. The seeds of that vision lay a little dormant during our early impoverished years.

How well I remember our very first tree together.  It was a hand-me-down.  We were married the week before Christmas -- during the break between BYU semesters (of course, why else would someone make their anniversary at the same time of year as Christmas?)  Carlos had been working security at the Canon Center.  When it was time to take down and dispose of the tree by the reception desk as the students were all going home for Christmas, Carlos asked his boss if he could have it.  As a surprise, his boss, who was also a good friend, drove it up to my Grandparent's cabin in Provo Canyon where we would arrive on Christmas Eve, just off of our honeymoon.  We were so happy to have a tree at all.  The next few lean years, we decorated our trees together with paper mache red, green, and gold ornaments, scottish plaid ribbons, and sometimes a string of popcorn and cranberries as garland.   These were often skinny tree lot specials. One year I remember we didn't bother tying the tree to the roof because it was light enough to hold out the window and carry along as we drove down University Avenue.

However humble, Carlos still made sure that our trees looked very nice.  I would help too.  We would be aware of symmetry and bald spots and our decorations would be color coordinated,,.  One Christmas, we splurged on a bigger tree because my in-laws were coming for the holidays.  We didn't have enough ornaments to cover it properly and so I supplemented with my mother's antique doll collection.  It was a themed-tree that year and I thought it was charming.  This was all before two things:  before we were home owners and before the children had started school and were bringing home sundry homemade ornaments made of clothes pins and gold-sprayed macaroni and rainbow colored beads.  You see that would mess up our color coordination.

My ideal tree was the tree of my childhood:  a voted-on by the whole family usually bushy real pine tree covered with a gaudy mishmash of ornaments including the homemade variety as well as old and new glass bulbs (because we were always breaking some.) The scant retro survivors from my parents earlier married years were my favorites:  they exhibited a long-lost craftsmanship:  some had carved out greetings in the glass and others looked like the glass had melted into itself to form a kaleidescope-like pattern of color.  This was in addition to yards of multi-colored lights, thick gold tinsel, fake apples, fancy ribbon made into bows, and finally, to top it off:  hair-like silver tinsel cascading a few at a time over everything:  a vacuuming nightmare, but mother always gave in anyway. The reason I loved those trees had as much to do with the nostalgic meanderings inspired by the process of decorating the tree as it did with the garish finished product.

When our children were still little, we had not accumulated too many of the treasured homemade ornaments yet.  I kept them together and displayed them on a bough either over the fireplace or hanging on the wall over the couch in our little townhouse in New York, still showing them off and yet leaving the artistic integrity of the tree intact at the same time.  Meanwhile, we had moved up to glass bulbs in addition to our original paper mache finds and our trees were getting taller by the year.

Flash forward to our move to Texas.  In Texas, we were able to purchase a home with a two-story living room that was screaming for a Texas-sized Christmas tree.  Carlos found an arificial 14 footer on sale and began making his dream of the ideal Christmas tree a reality.  To my credit, I think I inspired him.  In New York, when we were renovating our town house and I was shopping for light fixtures, I saw a box of leftover chandelier crystals laying in the shop.  I thought 'how beautiful!' there must be some use I could think of for these:  I could turn any light fixture into a chandelier with these, or I could hang them in the windows and catch rainbows...I asked the gentleman at the counter if the crystals were for sale.  "The crystals?  They are just leftover, extras...I don't even know how much to ask you for them.  What do you want them for?"  I was sort of embarrassed to ramble on about my whimsical plans,...as I hesitated the man intuited, "You know what.  You can just have them."  As he handed me the box, he shook his head and added,  "I have one of you at home."  "Thank you, Thank you!"  I said, and thought it was too bad I couldn't thank his wife too for helping him be so understanding.  A month later I realized -- wouldn't these look amazing sparkling on the tree-- like winter ice!  Now Carlos had a theme:  a winter white Christmas tree accented with silver and crystal.  The tree itself wasn't flocked, but all the ornaments would be either white, clear glass, silver, or mercury glass.  That's his Christmas tree.  It really is stunning, and every year only gets better.

My Christmas tree is the in the family room.  It is a fresh one that we pick out with the children.  I have done away with the gaudy gold tinsel; it usually has more of a country feel, but there are plenty of homemade ornaments from grade school and primary parties and home projects.  One year I added mittens, another year plastic red pears.  I use the big white old fashioned-looking teardrop shaped lights and gold and plaid bows, of course.  The children have fun seeing their old creations, and I have fun remembering too.

I used to think that my tree was better; and maybe Carlos thinks his is better too; although we both sincerely respect and value each other's trees.  There have emerged sort of two camps in the family:  Ainsley, Miles, and Blake prefer the big fancy tree while Chloe and Weston wax more sentimental.  Weston, being the most adamant that mine is the only real tree in the house...But when I really think about it, both trees have their place -- and it isn't really accurate to simply categorize them as "one for show, one for blow."  Carlos' tree is not just for show.  It is an embodiment of his perennial hope in a brighter future and his willingness to work for it (his tree is a lot of work!)-- and my tree is not just useful or pedestrian -- it has it's charms:  in fact it's old fashioned and charming on purpose as a nod to old comforts and remembrances of the past.  Put them together and voila!  Isn't that the recipe for the best present Christmas: to both reminisce about the good old days and look forward and make plans for a sparkling future all while making new memories?  Granted, you probably don't have to decorate two Christmas trees to do it.

A non-extraneous Day

Now I normally loathe laundry.  I inherited the dislike from my mother, although she had more right to hate the task than I do.  She was doing laundry for 14! (except for the years Grandma lived with us and took on or tamed the dirty laundry beast in our household.)  But, yesterday evening, as I was putting the last load in the dryer and eyeing the neatly folded stacks of play clothes on my bed, I had a strangely satisfied feeling.  It wasn't the head rush from all the bending over into the front loader or the pleasant wafting smell of the bounce dryer sheets.. no. I distinctly felt a solid, 'we should have more evenings like this' feeling.  What was it about our evening that was different?  Nothing.  I mean it wasn't any THING but rather the absence of extra things to do.  Last night there was no rushing to appointments or rehearsals or interviews or ball games. Blake had finished his ball game before supper, Ainsley had stayed home and prepared supper for us before we got there, Weston set the table, and Carlos came home just in time.  After dinner the little boys practiced their instruments, the teenagers did homework, I cleaned the kitchen with Ainsley's help and attacked the Kilamanjaro of laundry. Carlos after a grueling day of work, actually sat down and leafed through a magazine.  It was a very Norman Rockwall evening.  Now I'm not saying it was picture perfect.  There was the time I lost my temper, followed by apology, followed by frank forgiveness;  there was some teenage moodiness in the mix;  there was some misrepresentation by one who won't be named in an effort to avoid practicing; there was some creative procrastination by another of getting to work on his homework.  But, we worked that all out too.  It was a night of basics -- each of us pulling his or her load, (laundry or otherwise) and fulfilling our duties: tackling the mundane 'shoulds' that we're sometimes lucky to get to in the cracks and crevices of our normally busier evenings peppered with the extra-curricular...and it felt good.

If I could just have faith that I'll feel that good about doing laundry every day, maybe I'll stop letting it accrue on what my husband calls the most expensive laundry basket he ever bought (that is the white velvet couch in our master.)  It helps to read a poem my mother wrote.  She likewise had an epiphany about the home-y duties we all like to put off, and how by facing them we are actually taking steps down the road to our divine inheritance.  Wise woman.


An Unfinished Woman by Jaroldeen Edwards

Here am I, Lord,
The dishes barely done and night long since fallen,
The children would not go to bed
And would not go and
Would not go --
And now they are gone.
Gone to places of their own with children of their own
Who will not got to bed and will not go...
And I have taught them what I could and
They have learned the things they would
And now they've gone their way alone to learn the rest
Most on their own.

And I remain, not half spent.
And I remain, not yet content,
So much to do, so much to learn,
So much to feel, so much to yearn.
My past mistakes make stepping-stones,
Not millstones great around my neck but
Stones to guide my searching feet --
And I must search; I'm incomplete.

I watch my years go tumbling by
And I must use them better, I
Have yet so much to learn and do
Before I can return to You.

The hour is late.  The night comes on,
My celestial self I would become.
Ah!  What wisdom thou gavest to mortal life --

I,
As sister, mother, daughter, wife--
In earthly roles have seen Thy face.
In my womanly life Thy heavenly place
Is taught through humble tasks and pain.
So, if royal robes I would obtain,
To wear as all Thy glories burst--
I'll need to do the laundry first.

  

A Holy Night

When I visited my oldest daughter at the dorms her first semester of college, a flood of happy flashbacks came to me: deja vus of late night talking about boys and overly creative cookie creations and singles ward socials.  I called up my old roomate then and there to see if we could some how meet up.  I felt pangs of regret that our friendship had dwindled to annual Christmas cards and even less frequent phone calls.  How pleasantly surprised I was to hear that she was moving to my same state!  Now, Texas is a big state (to everyone but Alaskans) and we wouldn't be in the same city, however, we could work out a way to get together which wouldn't overly interrupt our busy family lives for sure.  Anna called it. She suggested we meet up for a Ragnar.  Did I know what that was? and the very first Ragnar in Texas was taking place this year.  I knew what a Ragnar was thanks to my fit younger sister.  It is a 120 or so mile relay race: a team of 8 runners take turns running 3 legs of the trip running sequentially all through an afternoon, night, and the following morning -- a 24 hour feat! This was starting to feel familiar too.  I remembered Anna and I used to go running together in college as well. On the spur of the moment my roomate would say "let's go running around the temple" and it always sounded like a good idea.  Then, she would run, and I would huff and puff and jog behind her all the way home.  Deja vu -- Anna was asking me to run with her and I knew she was still in way better condition than I was, but I also knew I would say "yes" and feel good about it when it was all over.  It had all happened before.  But this time, I might add was a little more intense.

So I drafted a training schedule and taped it to my bathroom mirror.  I recruited a good friend in my ward to sign up for the team too and we would do our long runs and some hill work together.  Without her encouragement, I wouldn't have been half as ready.  Still life happened, early morning seminary happened, good old fashioned procrastination and rationalization happened, and I couldn't honestly check off all of the squares on my training chart.  Well, after my friend Jenny and I completed our second long run of over 10 miles two weekends in a row, I began to feel that I could do this.  I mean, the longest leg was under 8 miles, and with the breaks in between I could rest up.  It didn't sound as hard as the half marathons I had run in the past.

I was right, it wasn't as hard as the half marathons -- it was harder!  As Jenny and I drove further west into the heart of the hill country, we could see that this part of Texas was aptly named.  At the ranch where the race was being held lovely Tuscan-looking hills crested all around the communal campsite.  I knew this was not a road race but a trail race.  I didn't know that these trails were not paved with concrete or crushed granite or shredded bark or little pebbles. These trails were skinny mountain bike-created ruts of clay littered with big limestone rocks and protuding tree roots interrupted by accending and descending natural stone steps and other rock formations.

Jenny went first.  She and about 8 other runners missed one of the small markers and got off course.  She ended up running an additional 3 miles before arriving at the transition tent where I donned the belted bib number and was off!  Now early afternoon had become mid to late afternoon -- the hottest time of day!  I started pretty strong: running all the holy cow this is hard hills.  The mental concentration of having to strategically place every step in a safe place and the heat were both extra energy-taxing.  There were no mile markers except the (1 mile left!) sign in the unknown distance and ignorance was not bliss.  I had studied the elevation chart to know that after I crested the biggest hill of the run, I would then be treated to a final two miles of down hill running. Others were walking up the incline, and after the first couple of miles or so, I gave in to peer pressure.  Sure enough, the end was easier than the beginning and I finished steady if not strong.

When it was Anna's turn she sped through her leg faster than any of us suspected.  We needed to make up for lost time, and she was good for it.  Still, I could tell my second leg would be in the dead of night:  just before midnight.  I didn't want to fall asleep and miss my turn, so I waited up and stood out by the big bonfire all through Jenny's second run with a view of the finish line.  I had no idea what her pace was because our previous estimations were out of whack, but now with the heat out of the way, I figured our times would return to something more typical.  I was right.  Jenny made good time.  But wait a minute, it was almost midnight and I was running in the dark of a moonless nights on a rocky rolling Texas trail -- Alone. Spooky.  My training didn't prepare me for this! At home I was too nervous to take the garbage out at night because of the racoons and possums and other sundry rodents and reptiles that called the forest behind our house home.  Well, the adrenaline would do me good.  So I started running.  Surpisingly, this leg started with a swath of wide trail.  Nice.  A wide, expansive trail with a wide expansive sky above me.  It was so dark and quiet and....beautiful and pleasant and peaceful!  I wasn't spooked at all.  I kind of liked being alone, and I could tell the other runners who passed me (I did pass one) were almost reverentially quiet as well.  At one point I was on a ridge with a rare smooth stretch of trail ahead.  I could afford to look up without the fear of face planting.  WOW.  What a gift!  I had never seen a sky as star strewn.  I prayed in gratitude and praise.

Anna did have a good idea.  Sometimes, unless we are willing to do something we have never done before, unless we push the limits of our comfort and ease, we will never see the unlimited expanse of God's power. That night it was visual.  The next morning, I felt it.  The longest leg was my last.  I was spent, and not yet half way done.  I prayed for added power and He helped me endure and push on.  When I thought I would never see the "1 mile left" sign -- there it was only 100 yds. in front of me.