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.    

Angels Unawares

I don't know why I've been thinking about angels a lot lately.  I suppose partly because my parents are angels, partly because I pray for angels to attend my missionary daughter, and mostly because in seminary I've been teaching about the restoration of the gospel which involves a whole cast of angels.  The most comprehensive doctrinal dissertation on angels seems to be Elder Holland's October 2008 "The Ministry of Angels."  His broad definition of angels includes those living and dead who minister to the needs of others.  I remember one living angel in particular.  I never knew his name or really very much about him at all; I'll just call him my New York City angel.

When I was a little girl, my family lived in a Connecticut village about a 40 mile train ride to Grand Central Station.  My parents were pretty intrepid about taking their enormous brood into town at least a few times a year.  This was the 70's when you never entered Central Park without mug money (you could hide the bigger bills in your shoes,) the subways were covered with graffiti, and Time Square had almost as many X rated theaters as it did Broadway theaters.  Still, from the time we walked into Grand Central's cavernous Main Concourse and looked up at the ceiling twinkling with constellations, until we sleepily dozed off in our parents lap on the trip home -- we were in awe.  That is overall...of course sometimes our feet hurt from all the walking, and the boys complained about the amount of time spent at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but still they had the Yankee and Shea stadium to be excited about and my Mother had Bloomingdales and Madison Avenue, and my Father...well, he was in his element -- NYC was his boyhood home.  I remember one night my little sister and I were all dressed up standing with our mother outside of the Metropolitan Opera House.  Our parents had treated their two youngest to a special jaunt to see Hansel and Gretel.  It was early December and the city was decked out in all it's Christmas finery.  This time we had driven in.  Father was bringing the car back and we were waiting out by the fountain.  Just then some fluffy snowflakes began to fall as if on cue. Magical.  I silently vowed to live in this city full of wonder and surprises at least one time in my life.

Flash forward about a dozen years.  Summer 2001.  Dream come true -- my little family and I were headed to New York City for my husband's three year podiatric residency.  Sure, we would work and live on Staten Island instead of Manhattan -- but we were just a ferry ride away.  With three children in tow and the prospective three years ahead of us, we made a deposit on a fixer-upper but sturdy post-war townhouse across from a park aptly named "skyline park."  If we couldn't live in the heart of town, at least we could look at it!  We dubbed our little townhouse "light on a hill" and looked forward to loving it up and making it a home.  I couldn't wait to bequeath my inherited joy of discovery and excitement towards The city to my little ones.  Then, reality set in.  Hard reality.

The previous tenants of our townhouse were squatting and wouldn't leave.  We were homeless until some sort of agreement could be brokered.  Our kind bishop mentioned that the church owned a property which was awaiting demolition for a new chapel to be built, and until that time, for security reasons, it was good to have a family stay there.  In fact, a family in residency had been staying there the past few years and just had to leave.  This sounded like a win-win situation for the interim.  We couldn't afford to pay for a hotel for who knew how many days or weeks.  Thanks bishop!  We didn't know that two other families from the ward were also in a state of transition, and had taken up residence in the big old house as well.  They had recently immigrated from Ecuador.  They were very sweet and each family sort of took a story of the three-story house.  It was a roof over our heads and it was temporary.  We were grateful, and I could manage to muster and share some magic as I watched the children explore the overgrown garden as if they were characters in a Frances Hogdson Burnett novel.  Needless to say, however, we couldn't wait to have our own space.  So almost the day the previous owner finally succeeded in paying off the squatters, we moved in.  Home sweet home.

We had known it needed work, but somehow it seemed worse than we remembered.  We'd moved out early to have time to work on the house, but that time was now passed and my husband's first day of work was upon us.  The trips to home depot were fun at first:  picking paint colors and carpet samples...Our friendly neighbors lent us the perfect tool to scrape off the old linoleum.  I had the easier job of cleaning, painting and playing with the children.  Carlos was burning the midnight oil cutting tile, hanging cabinets, bombing cock roaches, and changing out light fixtures.  One night we were working together trying to remove decades of dust and random treasures from in between the slots of our steam radiators when you could see the rose colored dawn at the horizon.  Carlos had to be at work in a couple hours, and he hadn't yet slept a wink.  Then on a hot Saturday, when it seemed there weren't enough gatorades in a costco palette to quench our thirst, some set-back occurred with our renovation.  I don't even remember what it was, but my husband was reasonably irritable and to give him space, I took the children across the street with me to play at one of the main reasons we picked this townhouse in the first place -- skyline park.  

The children looked happy, but I was worried and frazzled.  This was not what I expected.  We were going over budget and the sleep deprivation had taken it's toll.  Was this really a good spot?  A good investment? Were we going to be able to find some happiness here?  I almost didn't notice the gentleman sitting on the bench behind me at first.  Because of the fantastic view of downtown complete with the towering world trade center, some people frequented the park just to gaze. At first, I didn't know if he was talking to me, or muttering to himself (some people do that in the city, you know.)  Then I turned and smiled.  My New York City angel was a 50-something casually dressed African American with a shining white smile and kind eyes. He said something like, "Amazing isn't it?  This city?"  I must have had an "I'm new here" sign plastered on my forehead.  "I'm from Georgia myself.  One day I'll go back home.  But this place teaches you things that you can take with you,...I mean where else can you get on a ferry for free and walk less than a city block to a world-class museum which is also absolutely free.  The Smithsonian's National Museum of the Native American is steps from the ferry terminal and it is a beautiful place.  Think of the opportunities, amazing!..." That did it.  He brought the magic back.  His recommendation resurrected the attitude I had lost.  It was a ministration of sorts.  He started speaking to me in an understanding tone and then crescendo-ed with an infectious enthusiasm.   Angels are out there.

Of course, I took the children to said museum shortly thereafter.  As far as the house goes, we never could afford to make all the improvements we had dreamt of, but it cleaned up nicely.  Carlos hung up new shutters and flower boxes which made for a cheerful welcome.  We were home.

Then, tragedy struck that September.  The gloss of the city was more than smudged.  I wondered if the magic was shattered for good.  It would take longer this time, but in new ways, I saw that my angel's assessment stood.  We don't need to let other people steal away our willingness to wonder and explore this great world, and to share that wonder with our children...whatever city we live in.  The magic could be resurrected, eventually.  I'd seen it done before.

That Moment When...

That moment when....you cry at the sound of "O What A Beautiful Morning" being sung on the radio.

There I was in the parking lot of my grocery store, losing it to one of the most cheerful ballads Rodgers and Hammerstein ever composed.  It's been 9 years this week since my father passed away and Oklahoma! was a favorite musical of his.  It's the last play they saw as a family on Broadway before he, his parents, and five siblings moved away from their childhood home on Long Island and headed westward.  My father was not a bashful singer and he would break out into this song often on Saturday or holiday mornings -- whenever the mood struck him or if Mother Nature was showing off so the sentiment readily applied.  Fortunately, he was a good singer as well  -- not formally trained, but possessing a robust tone and perfect pitch to boot. Whatever he did, including singing, he performed whole-heartedly -- singing from his toes through his chest and out of a jolly rounded mouth:  the BYU cougar fight song, When It's Springtime in the Rockies, Shortin' Bread, There Was a Desperado,and... "O What a Beautiful Morning."  

The singer on the radio stopped and began advertising the current production of Oklahoma! at our local outdoor theater. So what did I do?  Dried my tears and convinced my husband to go.  A few days later, we were sitting on a rocky hillside under the branches of ancient oak trees while the stars were teasing their way into the night sky.  The opening strains were great -- worth the lumpy seating conditions. The play actually went downhill from there, but still all in all we enjoyed a pleasant date night.  After the last curtain call, I was grateful for the echo of my father's fortissimo singing.  The memory made me want to dig deeper to muster a little more enthusiasm.  I vowed to live a little larger even while doing the small things like Saturday morning chores or waking the boys up to brush their teeth.  Too bad for my children that my voice doesn't sound anything like Shirley Jones.

"As we engage in the work of the Lord, He will increase our capacity as we increase our desire."  

--L.Tom Perry

My Own Version of "You Never Know"

There has been a lot of backlash about the Mormon message entitled "You Never Know."  Mothers I know were touched or they were bothered.  Some felt it was an over glorification of self-sacrifice and that the examples were not true to life; others wept in recognition and felt spirtually washed over by Pres. Hinkley's encouraging postscript.  Right now the season of my life is no longer the season depicted in the video.  I actually have segments of time and energy with which I must ponder how to best spend or consecrate (or how to best justify delaying the laundry) instead of living in the crisis to crisis / never a moment alone phase of a mother of small children -- how I miss those days!... but that's a posting for another time.  Now, I still have my fair share of crazy afternoons and evenings after the children come home from school, but I think the time of my life which most mirrored the video may have been when I was a 30-something new bishop's wife with four little one's at home.  Usually the hardest day of all for me was none other than the sabbath.  I was wont to locking myself in my own bedroom for a little mommy time-out after church, until something changed and I proactively turned our sabbaths and my attitude around.  The Lord helped me.  Here is my journal entry from May 1, 2006.

Sometimes it's hard being the bishop's wife.  Sometimes you feel like you're not always on the forefront of your husband's mind.  He gets consumed.  He feels for the people.  Sometimes he calls them 'his people' sometimes 'our people.'  It's not about ownership, it's about stewardship, but it's such a large stewardship that it kind of owns him.  

He has worries and concerns, but he can't usually discuss them with me.  So I support.  I don't always know when he'll be home on Sundays -- so I should be actively patient and prepared at all times.  If I don't bend -- if I never wait -- if I and the children always do our own thing without him --we won't seem like 'we' anymore -- and then the sacrifice will be too great.

I understand that Mormon women have a history of being strong and standing on their own feet -- whether it was because their husbands were on missions or in the case of my parents -- occupied by supporting the family and fulfilling leadership callings and all that comes with that.  

I know I've got that kind of strength in me -- it's in my blood -- and there's some form of freedom to it even. However, to make it work,... I need to feel willing to work without resentment.

Yesterday I began to resent.  I'd had a busy weekend of going on a camp-out with the girls for girl scouts, then going to the opera for our date,...consequently not a lot of cleaning or sleeping happened Friday or Saturday.  Saturday night, I was told we were hosting a bishop's fireside the next day.

Sunday mornings are hard -- always have been, always will be as long as the adversary has anything to do with it -- kind of like temple trips...Anyway, after a particularly horrid Sunday morning where I screamed at my pre-teenager for spending 45 minutes in the bathroom, I went to church.   After church, my 5 year old would not come with me to the car.  Instead he was racing through the halls at clip speed.  When a counselor in the Stake Presidency 'caught' him -- he still fought and squirmed.  I got him and my boy kicked me all the way out the door.  Needless to say, after a bite to eat, I needed a little nap.  While trying to nap the girls were fighting over the computer, my 8 year old was freaking out about a spider, and her little brother wanted to play something.  I finally just asked for 5 minutes of quiet.

During those 5 minutes I thought about the sacrifices our family was asked to make -- not having a husband/dad around on what used to be a family day (the most prominent in my mind) as well as my sacrifice of personal space as a mother and all that still had to happen to feed my family and make the house presentable before 7 o'clock.  

Then I began to pray.  I had asked for my daughter's forgiveness and tried to repent of losing my temper over the sacrament but it hadn't been the most spiritual day.  It had been fraught with conflict.  But as I pondered about Sabbaths and sacrifice during my begged-for few minutes of silence, I realized -- we're not giving it up -- we're not throwing it away -- we're giving it to a greater purpose than self-gratification.  We're giving ourselves to our children, to the Lord -- we're not putting our time, personal space, comfort, and convenience in a garbage can or on a shelf to collect dust -- we're channeling it for God's purposes -- and if it's something to lay on an altar to be burned -- it's still an investment -- the Lord's glory is what grows -- and we don't diminish either.  So why feel deprived of my lusts?  My time and talents aren't being shipped off without a return address once I take on another name -- even if my roles always seem the supportive kind...The Lord wants me to be creative (God-like) in using my role to teach my children, to magnify my calling, to make the world a better place every day.  

Back to...blogging

I was away all of August, and have spent the first part of September adjusting to the new school year. It was a rushed adjustment, but I admit sometimes flying by the seat of my pants makes me feel more alive; that is except when you are going on less than 3 hours of sleep some nights.  However, it takes time and visits to counselors and discernment and trips to the dentist and retooling and attending four different student open houses... for all of the commitments and carpools and schedules and simply my chosen distribution of energy to get sorted out each Fall.  When our vision of the new school year finally distills, even the children appreciate the process of getting back to responsible living after having guiltily viewed one or two too many Full House or Harry Potter marathons.  The pool is less inviting than it was; while still pretty to look at.  Perhaps we all begin to crave a reason to feel proud and accomplished again.  Don't get me wrong -- I love the rhythm of having a lazy summer.  We do enriching things in the middle of it so the children's brains don't totally atrophy, but the beginning and end of our summer are full of many unplanned playtimes and at least one weekly adventure -- with or without the teenagers.  I'm keenly aware that these summer days are numbered, and the days of having little ones eager to go on adventures is numbered too...and so we pretend they aren't numbered.  We don't think about it ending...until we kind of want it to.

So, they are back to school, and I am back to writing my mother's history and back to lesson planning for early morning seminary and back to the gym and back to making copies for Blake's teacher and back to making my boys practice piano and back to Book club and back to pta and booster club meetings and back to daytime temple trips and... I guess that means I'm back to blogging too.

 

Happy Pioneer Day

Today is Pioneer Day.  I sort of idolize my pioneer ancestors, especially the mothers.  They were amazing or as Wallace Stegner famously said, "[those] women were incredible."  I want to meet all of them -- Polly Barber Child who took the dying David Patten in the back of her wagon so he could say his farewells to his family;  She had a gift of caring for the sick and would ride over to anyone who needed help even in a storm on their only horse (the mobs stole the other half of their team.)  I want to meet Caroline Smith who climbed in and out of the second story window of her employer's home to sneak away and be baptized in the middle of the night, only to be caught wet-haired upon reentry.  I want to meet Hannah Maria Child who never lost a mother or child in all of her years of midwifery sometimes guided by dreams about complicated procedures.  I'm fascinated by the heart of the Englishwoman, Elizabeth Gaskell Romney who supposedly never ventured beyond the gate of the old house after her Miles died.  Seven years later, her final words: "Thee's been a long time coming."   I feel for Catherine Petty who buried four of their little ones along the way:  Lydia and Eliza in Far West and Mary Ann and John Ralph at Winter Quarters.  Mariah Edwards also perished in Winter Quarters, and at the loss of his wife, Elisha didn't have the heart to continue on the valley just yet. He reportedly lent his team to Brigham Young's vanguard company and made the trek just a few years later.  I know they weren't all perfect.  I know that beyond the grave, they may be shaking their heads at all the superlatives we attach to them.  My Great Aunt Beth told me that rumor had it, Emma Crofts Criddle often grumbled and complained about her husband being sent away on his mission while she stayed home tending all the children.  Which is worse -- that she did that, or that the other women repeated that about her after she and her baby tragically drowned before her husband's return? Yes, they were all human. But that just serves to inspire me all the more by their grit, usual optimism, and ingenuity.  They made do with very little.  They maintained grace with the gleanings of civilization.  Caroline Anderson always kept a vase of artistically arranged wildflowers, grasses, and grain stalks on top of her chest of drawers.  Anna Williams made hats for her children from jettisoned wheat stalks.  She soaked them and braided them over a tin bucket. Both women were weavers and wove beautiful fabrics for carpets and curtains and clothes.  Mary Bommeli Eyring was also a weaver and the earnings from her work on her loom bought her way to America and helped support her young family in the early years. She made it independantly and despite obstacles such as spending a night in jail for bearing her testimony of The Book of Mormon when that was against the law in Germany.  These are my Utah mormon pioneers.  They didn't all stay in Utah -- they heeded calls to Old Mexico and the Canadian prairies.  They were medicine women and midwives and gleaners and weavers and writers and artists and scriptorians but most of all mothers.  They cared for more than their own, and because they cared so effectively, I have the gospel in my life -- which not only supports me in caring for my spouse and children, but gives us all something to care about more than life itself.        

Love life!

I'm not feeling insightful, but I am feeling inspired.  I recently reread from "Death Be Not Proud a Memoir" by John Gunther.  It is a sad, but beautiful tribute to this man's teenage son who lost a brave battle with a brain tumor.  In the end of the book, however, the author gives us a gift.  He doesn't drag the reader down with thoughts about the unthinkable (ie. surviving one's child) but encourages parents everywhere to love life and love their children more.  In fact he proposes that loving life more is the way to love your children more...but I will let him speak,

Today, when I see parents impatient or tired or bored with their children, I wish I could say to them, But they are alive, think of the wonder of that!  They may be a care and a burden, but think, they are alive!  You can touch them--what a miracle...Exult and sing.

All parents who have lost a child will feel what I mean.  Others, luckily cannot.  but I hope they will embrace them with a little added rapture and a keener awareness of joy.

I wish I had loved Johnny more when he was alive.  Of course we loved Johnny very much. Johnny knew that.  Everybody knew it.  Loving Johnny more.  What does it mean?  What can it mean, now?

Parents all over the earth who lost sons in the war have felt this kind of question, and sought an answer.  To me, it means loving life more, being more aware of life, of one's fellow human beings, of the earth.

It means obliterating, in a curious but real way, the ideas of evil and hate and the enemy, and transmuting them, with the alchemy of suffering, into ideas of clarity and charity.

It means caring more and more about other people, at home and abroad, all over the earth.  It means caring more about God.

I hope we can love Johnny more and more till we too die, and leave behind us, as he did, the love of love, the love of life.


So, I tried to love life a little more yesterday and on the spur of the moment took my little boys fishing.  I didn't really know what I was doing, but the lake is only a 20 minute drive and we found a shady spot on the dock and listened to the water and braistormed about birthday parties and saw some minnows and got our toes wet...We didn't have a single bite, and I'm sure I threaded the poles incorrectly because they wouldn't cast properly, but it was a lovely pause.  Two hours later, we stopped for frozen yogurt on our way back, and still got home in enough time to straighten up our messes, make dinner, and set the table before Carlos returned a little world-weary and hungry.  He felt better though after supper and an evening swim with the boys, and when family night was over and the kitchen was clean, I turned off the tv and broke open Jules Vern's Journey to the Center of the Earth which is finally picking up the pace for my boys' interest. Blake fell asleep in our bed, and I read to my husband the above quote.  Love our life, love our children...
A happy burden.  

Au revoir Chloe

It's been exactly a week since I dropped my oldest daughter, Chloe, off at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, UT.  I will not see her or hug her for 18 long months while she serves the people of Northern France. It's easy and it's hard to be sad.  Come on...Paris!  She has dreamt of a French address since she was a little girl and I taught her little phrases and we would act out scenes from Madeline.  I'd go along as Madame Clavel and speak in rhyme with a really exagerrated Parisian accent.  But of course Chloe is going to Paris! She's worn berets with her winter coats for years.  Also for years she carried around this little black poodle beanie baby we named Pierre who could only understand French.  I found loveworn Pierre as I was going through Chloe's old things yesterday; maybe he should go to Paris with her where he belongs. I remember when she and her little sister, Ainsley helped make a special french dinner and then decorated our kitchen like it was a French cafe -- "Cafe Pamplemousse" is what we dubbed it (it means grapefruit cafe, but we called it that just because pamplemousse is so fun to say.)  Ainsley painted on a moustache and was the "garcon" who waited on us.  Classic.  Ainsley wishes she could go too.  They both have been to Paris when they were young teenagers -- barely emerging the tween years.  All that sumptious visual beauty changed the way they viewed the world a bit.  I don't think it ruined them for regular life, but it increased their artistic vocabularies and by association, made them feel a little more beautiful themselves.  I hope.

So we commemorated (I don't know if celebrated is the right word) the news of Chloe's mission call in a few different ways.  One Sunday evening, we had some cousins over for a French dinner.  I didn't rename the dining room Cafe Pamplemousse or The French Laundry this time, but I did look up on-line Thomas Keller's recipe for cassoulet.  My newlywed niece and her husband who are early risers were my sous-chefs.  Tanner was in charge of cooking the kind-I-never-buy, really good, really thick bacon.  When he asked if he should put it in the big pot along with the other meats and good things beginning to simmer, I explained that the bacon was just a garnish for the top -- all that trouble for a garnish? his raised eyebrows seemed to say to me -- perhaps Tanner had uncovered a key to the french appetite for delicacies -- the effort spent on even the seemingly smallest details, probably makes it all taste better.

There's a french idiom that's slightly different than our counterpart in English.  It is -- ca vaut la peine. It essentially means, "It's worth the hardship." In English we typically just say, "it's worth it" , without really defining what the "it" is, but in French, they clarify, "Ca vaut la peine."  "La peine" can mean sorrow, grief, effort, trouble, or difficulty.  So...are finishing touches and beauty and good craftsmanship,...worth the sorrow, grief, effort, trouble, or difficulty?  That's the French way.   And does the effort, difficulty,...create or at least supplement the value of the object of our sacrifice?  I wonder.

As I was boxing up some of Chloe's old mementos yesterday, deconstructing her old message board and emptying desk drawers so her 14 year old brother can claim his new territory (ie. her old room) I came across an old scribbled assignment from one of her young women's classes probably years ago.  It was a personal written pledge of all the things she would do, penned in her 12 year old handwriting, so that she could make it to the temple one day -- the typical Sunday School answers:  pray and read, have pure thoughts, don't put herself in situations on temptation, clean media, clean language,...In today's world, she had to go out of her way to accomplish these goals.  She had to stand up for her higher standards in front of her classmates and her teachers and her employers who weren't always understanding.  But she did it!  Ca vaut la peine Chloe!  And she made it!  That's what we ought to truly commemorate -- not where she is going, but why and how she got there.  I am so proud of her!  Now she is going to testify to others that living the gospel is worth whatever hardship, whatever sacrifice.  The Lord compensates, and it will all be worth it. Even saying goodbye to your 19 year old hero for 18 months...but it still hurts.

Starfish for Breakfast

My mother, Jaroldeen Edwards, was an author and motivational speaker in the years after her twelfth child began kindergarten until she passed away almost five years ago.  She was and still is (in that her spirit and influence live on) a wife and mother first and foremost; but she had more to give than that, and what she gave and what she felt she received from her own parents were eyes to see the true prizes of her chosen life of selfless family centeredness.

In her personal essay, entitled Starfish for Breakfast, she reminisces about a sleepy morning after a day at the beach when my older brothers and sisters thought it would be funny to create a lovely table setting showcasing their inedible oceanic finds.  I'll let Mother tell the rest,

It was a splendid prank.  As I looked at each ingenious plate- tantalizing despite the pungent smell- I could not believe how resourceful the children had been.  I could imagine them as they came up with the idea, whispering and urging one another on until the joke had flowered into something unique and inventive.

All this work, all this creativity, all this delicious secrecy, just to make me smile, I thought.  And it did.  It made me smile from inside out, from top to bottom.

Such a delightful, intimate, unexpected moment as I stood there in the rosy dawn in that sparkling room and looked at a masterpiece of inventive love.

Then I looked at my plate.  At the head of the table, surrounded by a bed of kelp sat the treasure of the day.  It was a dead starfish that the children had discovered in a clump of driftwood.  They had thought that finding it was a triumph, and now it sat, squarely in the place of honor, in the middle of my breakfast plate.

This blog is my attempt to train my eyes to see as my Mother's saw -- to see inside my children's intentions and hopes.  To see a plate of stinky sandy seaweed and dead organisms as the unexpected gift that it was meant to be.  I wonder what my natural response to this scenario as a mother would  be; probably something like, "very funny, very funny, let's take a picture... -- now who's going to clean up this big mess!"

Fortunately for me, at the end of her essay, my mother outlined a formula (you could say) for at least starting on the road to having those eyes to see.  Her words:

It seems to me, if we believe in what we are doing; if we try to love and care for the people around us; if we fill our days with the best of what is in us and work hard if we learn to recognize and treasure what is wonderful and let the rest have no power over us; if we love children and beauty and this great flawed world, we will have these brief moments when everything will come together in a sweet and perfect harmony and in a sudden glimpse we will know it is all better than we could ever have imagined.

If we are wise enough to see them, such moments will be there.

I counted them and there are 6 if's. Now I'm not being like my Mother at all.  I'm being more like my Father, but I'm going to abbreviate the 6 if's as:

1. BELIEVE
2. LOVE AND CARE FOR
3. WORK
4. LOOK AND LET GO
5. ROLL WITH IT
6. PAUSE

I think in future blogs, I'll think about these 6 ifs some more.  It's true if I am a grumpy Mom I am probably in the act of not excelling in at least one of these areas.  I am lately getting better at catching myself and turning around the situation, however, I must say my mother eventually got quite proficient in them all.

Mostly in my blog, I want to share my "brief moments when everything [came] together..." and I knew that my family life was "better than [I] could ever have imagined."  Finally, I would like to invite others to share their "starfish for breakfast" experiences as well.  They are there, but sometimes there is a lapse or a dearth and remembering and sharing a past golden moment keeps us floating till the next one washes ashore.