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