Disclaimer: This post is rated PG-13. Parents, be forewarned: This post is not for youngsters.
That said, this Christmas we told our 9-year-old the "truth" about Santa. When my parents broke the news to me, I wept. At least that's how I remember it. So I agonize about when and even if we should have "the talk." Should we just let them keep believing in the midst of all their scoffing friends throughout their teenage years or should we break their hearts? What a dilemma.
In my family growing up my parents came up with a way of lessening the blow. When you graduated to "knowing" status you became an elf. The job of an elf was to wait until all the younger children are fast asleep and then, with supervision from mom and dad, fill the stockings. It was great fun and after the initial shock that first year, I loved it.
We have done the same thing. Topher, our oldest, has been an "only elf" for the last several years but this year he had a sidekick. Ronan took the news in stride. Jay asked him, "Ronan, who do you think Santa Claus really is?" Long pause. With hesitation, "You and Mom?" "You're right, Ronan. You've shown mom and I that you are mature enough now to help us guard this wonderful secret and we would like to extend to you the calling of 'Junior Elf.' " Then we went on to explain his new duties. He was excited. Very excited.
He currently shares a room with his 6-year-old sister, Lacey Grace. Even though she wasn't asleep he kept creeping out of bed to ask questions about the assignment. This made it almost impossible for Lacey Grace to go to sleep. Finally, I moved her into my room and sat on the bed beside her. Even then our Junior Elf came creeping in to check and see if she had drifted off and I had to gesticulate wildly, pointing firmly to the exit of my bedroom until he took it.
Since performing his duties on Christmas Eve he has begun to make statements that take my breath away. On Christmas evening he declared to his little sister and the whole family that he had seen Santa in the wee hours when he came downstairs to go to the bathroom. She began to press him for details while Jay and I exchanged nervous looks. She wanted to know exactly what he looked like and if any conversation had taken place. After Ronan had described Santa to her satisfaction I quickly stepped in and assured Lacey that Ronan had quickly climbed the stairs to bed without Santa seeing him so there "was no conversation, right Ronan?" "Right mom," said Ronan. He may have even winked.
Then tonight, as we stood around the kitchen island eating our traditional beefstick with sweet hot mustard he suddenly proclaimed, "Daddy met two of Santa's elves last night, didn't you, dad?" "Really, daddy? You really did? What were their names?" Lacey Grace was thrilled. Jay, thinking fast, said, "It was a few years ago that I met them and elves never use their real names." "Well, what were their pretend names?" she pressed. I stood at the sink listening. "Mmm....Bob and...Snuffleophagous (uh, sp?)." We all started laughing; Jay and I relieved to have dodged the bullet again.
We just keep wondering, what will this Junior Elf say next? When will he say it? What will we say? We cautioned him when we had "the talk" that his most important duty as elf was to keep the secret safe. We never imagined that he would begin to augment our Santa tradition with eye-witness Santa sightings of his own and tales of Jay getting chummy with North Pole folks.
While we have no idea what wild claims he may next make about himself or his father there is one thing we do know. It's simply this. When Easter comes, Jay and I are keeping our mouths shut.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Gifts
For Mother's Day this year I received some outstanding gifts. From my 11-year-old son, Topher, I got a colorful hand-sculpted leaf that I can use to hold paperclips or my wedding ring. It could be used as a paperweight or simply be admired as a work of art. It was wrapped and labeled in his hand with a caligraphy pen. I love this gift and love that he was so pleased to present it.
From Ronan I received a 2-dimensional bouquet of flowers. Each flower can be removed and on the back of each is written something that Ronan will do for me. Ronan cracks me up because once before I received coupons from him that entitled me to Watch a movie with Ronan or Eat candy with Ronan or Play video games with Ronan. You get the picture. The coupons this year entitle me to 1. Cleaning my room (his, not mine), 2. Rinsing the dishes only (his exact words), and 3. A trip to the library with Ronan. For the record, he already cleans his room every day and while he occasionally rinses he also wipes down the table, takes out the trash, puts leftovers in tupperware, and helps to dry the dishes. Rinsing is the job everybody wants and the youngest child, Lacey Grace, almost always gets. Hmmm...... Going to the library is definitely a fun and rewarding way to spend time with Ronan except that I usually also have to take 20-month-old Lincoln as well to this place where everything is in alphabetical order and also at his eye level. I am, contrary to what you may think after this paragraph, a very big fan of Ro's coupon gifts, mainly because in giving them, he gives me a wonderful gift he has no knowledge of, the gift of laughter.
Lacey Grace gave a plethora of gifts this year. From school she brought a butterfly feeder and some sugar water to put on the front lawn.
In addition I had a little card made by her. When she saw how delighted I was with this gift other gifts came pouring in: a little paper crown with carefully cut knobs on top that we were to share, I would wear it on Mother's Day and she would wear it on her birthday, a nativity scene made out of paper and glued like a diarama in a cardboard box for my bedroom, a paper charm strung on nylon string to be worn as a necklace, and a recipe card written with her best handwriting and spelling that said, "I will giv inethie to mack you hape," (I will give anything to make you happy. Lacey Grace, you just did.
These are the kind of gifts I have been waiting all my life to receive. How is it that a semi-garish ceramic leaf, a coupon bouquet, and a misspelled note can mean so very much to this heart of mine? This year, my cup runneth over.
From Ronan I received a 2-dimensional bouquet of flowers. Each flower can be removed and on the back of each is written something that Ronan will do for me. Ronan cracks me up because once before I received coupons from him that entitled me to Watch a movie with Ronan or Eat candy with Ronan or Play video games with Ronan. You get the picture. The coupons this year entitle me to 1. Cleaning my room (his, not mine), 2. Rinsing the dishes only (his exact words), and 3. A trip to the library with Ronan. For the record, he already cleans his room every day and while he occasionally rinses he also wipes down the table, takes out the trash, puts leftovers in tupperware, and helps to dry the dishes. Rinsing is the job everybody wants and the youngest child, Lacey Grace, almost always gets. Hmmm...... Going to the library is definitely a fun and rewarding way to spend time with Ronan except that I usually also have to take 20-month-old Lincoln as well to this place where everything is in alphabetical order and also at his eye level. I am, contrary to what you may think after this paragraph, a very big fan of Ro's coupon gifts, mainly because in giving them, he gives me a wonderful gift he has no knowledge of, the gift of laughter.
Lacey Grace gave a plethora of gifts this year. From school she brought a butterfly feeder and some sugar water to put on the front lawn.
In addition I had a little card made by her. When she saw how delighted I was with this gift other gifts came pouring in: a little paper crown with carefully cut knobs on top that we were to share, I would wear it on Mother's Day and she would wear it on her birthday, a nativity scene made out of paper and glued like a diarama in a cardboard box for my bedroom, a paper charm strung on nylon string to be worn as a necklace, and a recipe card written with her best handwriting and spelling that said, "I will giv inethie to mack you hape," (I will give anything to make you happy. Lacey Grace, you just did.
These are the kind of gifts I have been waiting all my life to receive. How is it that a semi-garish ceramic leaf, a coupon bouquet, and a misspelled note can mean so very much to this heart of mine? This year, my cup runneth over.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Hill children
Tonight was Lacey Grace's school concert - her very first. She was so proud to be on the risers and later told us, "I've been waiting a long time to go up on that stage." During the last song of the evening we made eye contact and held each other's gaze for the majority of the song. For me, it was a powerful moment. I thought to myself, "I can't believe that such a sweet, strong little girl is mine - that out of all the people at this concert, she wants to sing to me." I remembered holding her in my arms as an 18 month old baby and in a rare moment of stillness gazing at her and she back at me as we did tonight. I felt then and again tonight, the great honor and responsibility of being the mother of such a daughter. I have felt that way about all of the children Heavenly Father has given me in quiet moments shared between mother and child. What a beautiful gift to be a mother in Zion.
On the lighter side, Lincoln has finally learned to say the word "daddy." It's very cute and he says it with such joy when he sees that glorious being coming through the door after a day away at work. I confess that there is a little part of me that is sad about this progress. Prior to this I did a lot of giggling when Lincoln's big, manly daddy would come striding toward us and my baby would run into his arms and cry out enthusiastically, "Momma!"
About Ronan - I have a friend who ties a grocery bag around the bathroom plunger. It always looks so sanitary sitting there next to the toilet that I decided to try it. Shortly after this improvement I heard Ronan call from the bathroom, "Dad, the toilet is clogged. Can I use the plunger?" To my dismay, Jay said yes. As the mother, I knew this little affair would not end neatly. Ronan has never plunged the toilet before and has never had proper technique modeled to him. I tried to ignore lots of splashing from the bathroom. With relief I heard the toilet flush and then Ronan said, "Mom, should I take the plastic bag off now?" Yes, he had successfully and swimmingly plunged the toilet with the bag still tied around the plunger. Now tell me that this child doesn't have determination.
One more thing about Ronan - At his parent teacher conference his teacher told me, "Ronan loves to read and always has a book at the ready. When I am teaching and pause for breath he whips his book open and reads until I resume." I can't tell you how glad that makes me.
And finally, Topher. Topher likes to come into bed and lay on Jay's side when Jay is working late. He reads his book and I read my book and I love it. Since he is almost 12 I doubt this sort of thing will continue for much longer but I love the fact that my son still likes to be with me.
With all my heart, I love being a mother.
On the lighter side, Lincoln has finally learned to say the word "daddy." It's very cute and he says it with such joy when he sees that glorious being coming through the door after a day away at work. I confess that there is a little part of me that is sad about this progress. Prior to this I did a lot of giggling when Lincoln's big, manly daddy would come striding toward us and my baby would run into his arms and cry out enthusiastically, "Momma!"
About Ronan - I have a friend who ties a grocery bag around the bathroom plunger. It always looks so sanitary sitting there next to the toilet that I decided to try it. Shortly after this improvement I heard Ronan call from the bathroom, "Dad, the toilet is clogged. Can I use the plunger?" To my dismay, Jay said yes. As the mother, I knew this little affair would not end neatly. Ronan has never plunged the toilet before and has never had proper technique modeled to him. I tried to ignore lots of splashing from the bathroom. With relief I heard the toilet flush and then Ronan said, "Mom, should I take the plastic bag off now?" Yes, he had successfully and swimmingly plunged the toilet with the bag still tied around the plunger. Now tell me that this child doesn't have determination.
One more thing about Ronan - At his parent teacher conference his teacher told me, "Ronan loves to read and always has a book at the ready. When I am teaching and pause for breath he whips his book open and reads until I resume." I can't tell you how glad that makes me.
And finally, Topher. Topher likes to come into bed and lay on Jay's side when Jay is working late. He reads his book and I read my book and I love it. Since he is almost 12 I doubt this sort of thing will continue for much longer but I love the fact that my son still likes to be with me.
With all my heart, I love being a mother.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
I'm still alive, just have been a little busier than usual these past few weeks. Don't give up on me.
I set a goal to post every rejection letter I get when I submit my writing for publishing. I just got my second official rejection letter. It's from the Ensign (my first was from The Friend about this time last year) and it's very gracious as you'll soon see. My Friend rejection crushed me a little. To say it was concise is a gross understatement. It was one sentence long. After that initial blow, I've toughened up a bit. My friend, Mindy Johnson, encouraged me by telling me that an author she admires got over 100 rejections on the same manuscript before it was finally accepted. So I've decided in the spirit of Inigo Montoya that I must relish rejection, rejoice in rejection, revel in rejection because every rejection brings me closer to success. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. (Remember how saying, "Hello, My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!" over and over again gave that plucky swordsman courage?) But for Pete's sake, I've got to work harder and faster to get my 100 rejections. At the rate I'm currently going I'll be 139 years old before anyone considers publishing anything that I write. (The millenium, maybe?) Anyway, here it is.
Dear Author:
Thank you very much for sending us your submission. It is a pleasure to see new material. Every piece received is individually reviewed by the editorial staff.
Unfortunately, we will not be able to publish your work. Because of limited magazine space and the increasing number of such submissions as the Church grows, the Church magazines are able to publish only a very small percentage of the many good items received. We regret that the time it takes to process hundreds of incoming submissions does not allow us to make comments about each one individually.
Please accept our thanks for the time and effort put into your work. We know that submissions like yours are goodwill offerings in support of the Church. We hope the work that has gone into this one will be a benefit to you and your family.
Sincerely,
Ensign Editorial Staff
I set a goal to post every rejection letter I get when I submit my writing for publishing. I just got my second official rejection letter. It's from the Ensign (my first was from The Friend about this time last year) and it's very gracious as you'll soon see. My Friend rejection crushed me a little. To say it was concise is a gross understatement. It was one sentence long. After that initial blow, I've toughened up a bit. My friend, Mindy Johnson, encouraged me by telling me that an author she admires got over 100 rejections on the same manuscript before it was finally accepted. So I've decided in the spirit of Inigo Montoya that I must relish rejection, rejoice in rejection, revel in rejection because every rejection brings me closer to success. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. (Remember how saying, "Hello, My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!" over and over again gave that plucky swordsman courage?) But for Pete's sake, I've got to work harder and faster to get my 100 rejections. At the rate I'm currently going I'll be 139 years old before anyone considers publishing anything that I write. (The millenium, maybe?) Anyway, here it is.
Dear Author:
Thank you very much for sending us your submission. It is a pleasure to see new material. Every piece received is individually reviewed by the editorial staff.
Unfortunately, we will not be able to publish your work. Because of limited magazine space and the increasing number of such submissions as the Church grows, the Church magazines are able to publish only a very small percentage of the many good items received. We regret that the time it takes to process hundreds of incoming submissions does not allow us to make comments about each one individually.
Please accept our thanks for the time and effort put into your work. We know that submissions like yours are goodwill offerings in support of the Church. We hope the work that has gone into this one will be a benefit to you and your family.
Sincerely,
Ensign Editorial Staff
Monday, April 13, 2009
Day 1 and 2 in the Dominican Republic
My sister-in-law asked our family to write down a missionary experience to be sent to Dalin, my nephew and the first missionary in the Joan and Larry Hill family. This is not an inspirational experience. I have some of those, too, and intend to record those as well, but as Dalin is a new missionary I thought it might be nice for him to laugh over my first few days in the Dominican Republic. Maybe the hard things he's experiencing will be lightened just a touch after a good belly laugh.
My mission – The beginning
My first day in the Dominican Republic was a shock to the system, to say the least. What I most remember, besides initial shock over the ramshackle huts thrown together and made from whatever was at hand, is my own naivete’. At the home of some members I asked to use the bathroom. My stomach was in complete upheaval and I was afraid it would do just that, up-heave-all I had consumed to date in this new place. Either that or what the Hill Family refers to as “bad news”. (Use your imagination, there are some words referring to distasteful bodily functions that I choose to allude to rather than spell out.) My hostess looked surprised by my request and quietly took me to a bedroom separated from the main room by a curtain. She handed me a large bowl and shutting the curtain behind her she discretely left the room. I stood frozen. Surely she didn’t mean for me to …. ?In the pretty painted bowl..? Mercifully, at that point my bowels (another distasteful word, sorry) seized up. Stage fright? I’m not sure but that is what I most remember about my first day in the D.R.. (Speaking earnestly for a moment, I think the offering of that pretty bowl is indicative of many of the Dominican people I met. Incredibly generous and gracious, offering the best they had for the comfort of their guests. Thank you, Dominicans. I learned so much from you.)
What I remember most about my second day in the mission field is that when I got up in the morning, my shoes had shrunk. I felt like an ugly stepsister trying to squeeze my foot into Cinderella’s little slipper - except that I was Cinderella. It was, after all, my slipper. My petite Dominican companion and my other petite American companion (but I’m not bitter) suggested that we go to the store to purchase a new pair of shoes. I was dumbfounded. What had happened to my shoes overnight? Before I go on let me just say that when heaven was passing out the common sense I was in the ladies room. I sorely lament that. I also missed out on a sense of direction and several other useful endowments. I was there with bells on when they passed out impetuosity, upturned noses, and strange-looking toenails. But I digress. I limped along with my companions to the shoestore and a helpful salesman approached. “Zapatos nuevos, por favor?” I inquired in my best Spanish. The saleman retrieved his foot measuring thingee from the front counter and I sat down. I held out my foot. The man drew back in shocked admiration. He stared at my foot. For the first time all day I looked carefully at my feet. Suddenly, I was mortified. My shoes hadn’t shrunk overnight. Rather, my feet, ankles and calves had swollen to monumental proportions. They were huge! How had I not noticed this? “Un momento, por favor,” stammered the salesman and without measuring my feet he hurried to the back of the store. I heard hushed whispering and then the clerk came rushing out followed closely by another male employee. I shrank back into my seat in shame. The other man looked at my swollen limbs and said with reverential appreciation, “Que gordotas son!” Even a brand new missionary could easily pick out the reference to gorda (fat). And the particular word, “gordota” doesn’t just mean fat, it means fatter-than-fat; it means the fattest ever! I wanted to reply in voice of withering scorn but I didn’t know any insults in Spanish and frankly, I’m just not a scornful person. Instead, I meekly selected and paid for new shoes and walked out of the store completely demoralized, conscious of two men with feet half the size of mine staring after me in open-mouthed appreciation. (An aside, I was a size 10 shoe my entire mission. One week after returning home, I had lost 15 pounds and my feet, ankles and calves returned to their pre-mission size. Water weight – but then again, maybe that’s where everything goes when you're holding it.
My mission – The beginning
My first day in the Dominican Republic was a shock to the system, to say the least. What I most remember, besides initial shock over the ramshackle huts thrown together and made from whatever was at hand, is my own naivete’. At the home of some members I asked to use the bathroom. My stomach was in complete upheaval and I was afraid it would do just that, up-heave-all I had consumed to date in this new place. Either that or what the Hill Family refers to as “bad news”. (Use your imagination, there are some words referring to distasteful bodily functions that I choose to allude to rather than spell out.) My hostess looked surprised by my request and quietly took me to a bedroom separated from the main room by a curtain. She handed me a large bowl and shutting the curtain behind her she discretely left the room. I stood frozen. Surely she didn’t mean for me to …. ?In the pretty painted bowl..? Mercifully, at that point my bowels (another distasteful word, sorry) seized up. Stage fright? I’m not sure but that is what I most remember about my first day in the D.R.. (Speaking earnestly for a moment, I think the offering of that pretty bowl is indicative of many of the Dominican people I met. Incredibly generous and gracious, offering the best they had for the comfort of their guests. Thank you, Dominicans. I learned so much from you.)
What I remember most about my second day in the mission field is that when I got up in the morning, my shoes had shrunk. I felt like an ugly stepsister trying to squeeze my foot into Cinderella’s little slipper - except that I was Cinderella. It was, after all, my slipper. My petite Dominican companion and my other petite American companion (but I’m not bitter) suggested that we go to the store to purchase a new pair of shoes. I was dumbfounded. What had happened to my shoes overnight? Before I go on let me just say that when heaven was passing out the common sense I was in the ladies room. I sorely lament that. I also missed out on a sense of direction and several other useful endowments. I was there with bells on when they passed out impetuosity, upturned noses, and strange-looking toenails. But I digress. I limped along with my companions to the shoestore and a helpful salesman approached. “Zapatos nuevos, por favor?” I inquired in my best Spanish. The saleman retrieved his foot measuring thingee from the front counter and I sat down. I held out my foot. The man drew back in shocked admiration. He stared at my foot. For the first time all day I looked carefully at my feet. Suddenly, I was mortified. My shoes hadn’t shrunk overnight. Rather, my feet, ankles and calves had swollen to monumental proportions. They were huge! How had I not noticed this? “Un momento, por favor,” stammered the salesman and without measuring my feet he hurried to the back of the store. I heard hushed whispering and then the clerk came rushing out followed closely by another male employee. I shrank back into my seat in shame. The other man looked at my swollen limbs and said with reverential appreciation, “Que gordotas son!” Even a brand new missionary could easily pick out the reference to gorda (fat). And the particular word, “gordota” doesn’t just mean fat, it means fatter-than-fat; it means the fattest ever! I wanted to reply in voice of withering scorn but I didn’t know any insults in Spanish and frankly, I’m just not a scornful person. Instead, I meekly selected and paid for new shoes and walked out of the store completely demoralized, conscious of two men with feet half the size of mine staring after me in open-mouthed appreciation. (An aside, I was a size 10 shoe my entire mission. One week after returning home, I had lost 15 pounds and my feet, ankles and calves returned to their pre-mission size. Water weight – but then again, maybe that’s where everything goes when you're holding it.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Four little monkeys
Before Topher was born Jay and I used our tax return to buy a new bed. Not just any bed- a King size lodgepole pine canopy bed that is so high off the ground I can’t get into it without climbing up on one of the pine poles that runs the length of the mattress. We chose this particular bed because we loved the way it looked but we had practical intentions as well – at least that’s what we told ourselves. Jay and I had very strong views on whether or not to have our children sleep with us. Never! was the oft-spoken word when the subject of co-inhabitation of the bed came up. We chose the high bed assuring each other that it would be impossible for our future youngsters to scale this alp of a bed. Ha! Ha-ha! Hee-hee-hee-ha-ha! Ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha-hee-hee-ha-ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha. Ahem! Not only can the children get up onto the bed, they love to climb about and swing like monkeys from the canopy poles which run all the way around the top of what is intended to be a restful place. We didn’t purchase a bed, we bought McDonalds’ playland. Even the baby can climb up by grabbing two handfuls of blanket and walking up the side of the bed like a rock climber.
After the initial shock we’ve discovered we enjoy the Saturday morning snuggles that occur when the children wander in – warm-bodied and groggy – wanting to be close to us. In addition to this pleasure, many interesting and energetic games have been invented on the family bed. In one wrestling match between Topher and I when he was 4 years old I pretended he had pinned me and ceased my struggling. Raising a fist in a gesture of triumph he proudly cried, “The Lord has delivered you into my hands!”
One of our most popular games is called “Marshmallow Monkey.” I have no recollection of how this name came about but there it is. The game consists of me, positioned in the center of the bed, trying to grab, pin, tickle, kiss, zurbert or any combination of the above while the “monkeys” dive screaming and throwing themselves from one end of the bed (base) to the other (also base). When one monkey is trapped and undergoing the tickling/kissing torture it is not uncommon for another monkey to come to the rescue by flinging his body on the attacker and tickling the tickler. In a particularly exuberant version of this game each of the boys had their own terry cloth tie knotted over the canopy poles. These ties assumed the role of vines and the boys swung out in gallant fashion. I speak in the past tense of these vine accessories because they no longer exist. In an unbelievable twist of fate both vines broke on the same day within fifteen minutes of each other and have never been replaced. Sadly, they both expired on the outward swing sending their urban Tarzans off in a most distressful manner.
Topher is eleven now with two younger brothers and a sister and the bed is beginning to show signs of wear. Even the smallest swinger causes the bed to sway gently from side to side and so we’ve put the Kaibash(sp) on swinging and climbing on the bed. And strangely, contrary to my strong preparenthood ideals, I feel a little sad that there’ll be no more monkeys jumping on the bed.
After the initial shock we’ve discovered we enjoy the Saturday morning snuggles that occur when the children wander in – warm-bodied and groggy – wanting to be close to us. In addition to this pleasure, many interesting and energetic games have been invented on the family bed. In one wrestling match between Topher and I when he was 4 years old I pretended he had pinned me and ceased my struggling. Raising a fist in a gesture of triumph he proudly cried, “The Lord has delivered you into my hands!”
One of our most popular games is called “Marshmallow Monkey.” I have no recollection of how this name came about but there it is. The game consists of me, positioned in the center of the bed, trying to grab, pin, tickle, kiss, zurbert or any combination of the above while the “monkeys” dive screaming and throwing themselves from one end of the bed (base) to the other (also base). When one monkey is trapped and undergoing the tickling/kissing torture it is not uncommon for another monkey to come to the rescue by flinging his body on the attacker and tickling the tickler. In a particularly exuberant version of this game each of the boys had their own terry cloth tie knotted over the canopy poles. These ties assumed the role of vines and the boys swung out in gallant fashion. I speak in the past tense of these vine accessories because they no longer exist. In an unbelievable twist of fate both vines broke on the same day within fifteen minutes of each other and have never been replaced. Sadly, they both expired on the outward swing sending their urban Tarzans off in a most distressful manner.
Topher is eleven now with two younger brothers and a sister and the bed is beginning to show signs of wear. Even the smallest swinger causes the bed to sway gently from side to side and so we’ve put the Kaibash(sp) on swinging and climbing on the bed. And strangely, contrary to my strong preparenthood ideals, I feel a little sad that there’ll be no more monkeys jumping on the bed.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
April Fool's Day
As I mentioned last year, I love to play April Fool's jokes on my children. This year I was running low on creativity so I turned to one of my favorite magazines, Family Fun, and chose one of their simple ideas.
I made a batch of jello and poured it into glasses with a straw so it looked like Kool-Aid. After it set up I put the glasses on the table with homemade pizza on each plate and called the children in. Lacey came down the stairs eagerly and after the blessing tried to take a long sip from her straw. She tried harder. Then she started giggling and said happily, "So that was your trick, mommy!" The boys, good sports that they are, tried to sip and then looked dubiously at their pizza and each other. Tiny nibbles by all. "Phew!" said Toph, "We were a little concerned about the pizza, mom."
That's it. I'm glad that very simple things still delight.
I made a batch of jello and poured it into glasses with a straw so it looked like Kool-Aid. After it set up I put the glasses on the table with homemade pizza on each plate and called the children in. Lacey came down the stairs eagerly and after the blessing tried to take a long sip from her straw. She tried harder. Then she started giggling and said happily, "So that was your trick, mommy!" The boys, good sports that they are, tried to sip and then looked dubiously at their pizza and each other. Tiny nibbles by all. "Phew!" said Toph, "We were a little concerned about the pizza, mom."
That's it. I'm glad that very simple things still delight.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Mystic Connecticut Aquarium
Grammy is in town visiting and today she treated our family to our first aquarium visit. We packed a lunch and drove from New Hampshire, down through Massachusetts and into Connecticut. We are staying the night at a hotel here and currently Lincoln is asleep in our room while Grammy, daddy, and the big kids swim in the hotel pool.
I loved going with my family to the aquarium today and I wanted to record some of the memories of the day while they are fresh in my mind. My very first memory of the aquarium is the inside of the family bathroom where I was changing Lincoln's soggy diaper. I'll spare you the details of that.
As I caught up with my family, there was a great deal of excitement. "Mom, you have got to see this!!" We stood outside a huge enclosure where 10 Beluga whales were swimming and calling to each other. I started to cry behind my sunglasses. I felt incredible reverence and gratitude to the Maker of these unbelievable animals. I'm not sure what it was about the whales and dolphins in particular that was so awe-inspiring. I mean, I have never looked at a cow and burst into tears unless that cow happened to be standing on my foot. Wandering through the incredible exhibits and seeing for the first time so many animals that I have never before seen caused me to feel reflective and grateful. Maybe that is the difference between the cow and these aquatic animals - simply that you just don't see animals like this every day. I felt honored and privileged to simply see them with my own eyes.
A couple of funny sidenotes:
1. Lincoln hated the hotel swimming pool and screamed the entire time he was in the water except a 30-second span during which he drew breath.
2. Lacey Grace was constantly touching Lincoln; hovering over him, holding his hand, taking toys and snacks away from him that she didn't think he should have, and in general, driving him crazy. In response, he screamed. And wailed. And screamed. You parents in the audience may be able to relate to the horrific, ear-splitting, constancy of an 18-month-old screaming every 7-8 seconds and what it can do to even the calmest parent. At one point in the hotel stay, Jay called out in agony, "Lacey Grace, please don't touch the baby EVER again!" I laughed out loud for a very long time. Lacey looked offended, then puzzled, then burst into laughter as well, as if to say, "Good one, dad!"
3. Jay and I were driving in the van to get swim diapers (What a waste of money!)and talking about how dangerous it is to judge other people's children and their parenting skills. A few hours later while standing outside an exhibit at the aquarium we heard the tour guide emphatically state, "Please do not dangle things over the exhibits...even cameras...even if you are trying to get a really great picture!" I looked at Jay and stated, "That's one of our children irritating the guide." "I know," he sighed. We hurried toward the enclosure hoping we were wrong and saw the tour guide. Standing right next to her was our son, looking very happy and energetic (or "hypergetic", as he refers to himself as a toddler and we don't have the heart to tell him that even though he's nine, nothing has changed). He was holding his brother's camera and looking very pleased with himself.
I loved going with my family to the aquarium today and I wanted to record some of the memories of the day while they are fresh in my mind. My very first memory of the aquarium is the inside of the family bathroom where I was changing Lincoln's soggy diaper. I'll spare you the details of that.
As I caught up with my family, there was a great deal of excitement. "Mom, you have got to see this!!" We stood outside a huge enclosure where 10 Beluga whales were swimming and calling to each other. I started to cry behind my sunglasses. I felt incredible reverence and gratitude to the Maker of these unbelievable animals. I'm not sure what it was about the whales and dolphins in particular that was so awe-inspiring. I mean, I have never looked at a cow and burst into tears unless that cow happened to be standing on my foot. Wandering through the incredible exhibits and seeing for the first time so many animals that I have never before seen caused me to feel reflective and grateful. Maybe that is the difference between the cow and these aquatic animals - simply that you just don't see animals like this every day. I felt honored and privileged to simply see them with my own eyes.
A couple of funny sidenotes:
1. Lincoln hated the hotel swimming pool and screamed the entire time he was in the water except a 30-second span during which he drew breath.
2. Lacey Grace was constantly touching Lincoln; hovering over him, holding his hand, taking toys and snacks away from him that she didn't think he should have, and in general, driving him crazy. In response, he screamed. And wailed. And screamed. You parents in the audience may be able to relate to the horrific, ear-splitting, constancy of an 18-month-old screaming every 7-8 seconds and what it can do to even the calmest parent. At one point in the hotel stay, Jay called out in agony, "Lacey Grace, please don't touch the baby EVER again!" I laughed out loud for a very long time. Lacey looked offended, then puzzled, then burst into laughter as well, as if to say, "Good one, dad!"
3. Jay and I were driving in the van to get swim diapers (What a waste of money!)and talking about how dangerous it is to judge other people's children and their parenting skills. A few hours later while standing outside an exhibit at the aquarium we heard the tour guide emphatically state, "Please do not dangle things over the exhibits...even cameras...even if you are trying to get a really great picture!" I looked at Jay and stated, "That's one of our children irritating the guide." "I know," he sighed. We hurried toward the enclosure hoping we were wrong and saw the tour guide. Standing right next to her was our son, looking very happy and energetic (or "hypergetic", as he refers to himself as a toddler and we don't have the heart to tell him that even though he's nine, nothing has changed). He was holding his brother's camera and looking very pleased with himself.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Life lesson #4
To my friends of other faiths: As a devout member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I often write about experiences I've had as a member of said church. The following is such an entry. When I refer to my "calling," I'm referring to service that we, as Mormons, feel is a "call" from God. Our church has a lay (unpaid) ministry and all members work together to meet the needs of the congregation. Our "callings" are extended by the priesthood leader of the congregation. A release from a call to serve is also extended by the priesthood leader who speaks for Heavenly Father. I'd be happy to answer any questions if you leave me a comment.
To my friends who are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I'm posting this experience not to be boastful, (because as you will see, I was insecure and proud while Heavenly Father was teaching me) but because it was meaningful and reminded me again of how much The Savior loves all of us - how He can reassure us in the specific ways we long to be reassured, - how service can be so beautiful for the one trying to serve. (That's such a long run-on sentence that I'm breathless just writing it. And please, let's not even talk about how I'm actually supposed to punctuate it.) If you choose to comment, I'm not looking for pats on the back. I just wanted to share.
I’ll never forget the Sunday evening I was released from my calling as the Young Women’s President in our branch. I had served only eleven months and the release came as a complete shock. I’d expected to serve for three or four years. I had just returned from Girl’s Camp excited and happy and the news caught me completely off guard. I felt like I had not met the expectations of my priesthood leader and I was ashamed and sorrowful. My mind was flooded with the things I had not done as well as I would have liked. Soon after the Branch President left I knelt down in tears. I needed to know if the service I had rendered was acceptable. I knew I hadn’t been perfect but had I done what He wanted me to do in the short time I’d had? I had the distinct feeling that the release was part of Heavenly Father’s plan and that He was pleased with the small things I had been able to do. I felt comforted and grateful.
Over the next two days I reflected on the people I had spent my time and energy on. I thought about the twelve faithful girls I saw every Sunday and at mutual on Wednesday night. Just one week prior we had been together for a special evening at camp during which I greeted them as they reached the end of the “iron rod” and were led to the “tree of life.” It was powerful and profound.
I thought about my counselors and the things I’d learned from our successes and failures as a Presidency; the sometimes wonderful and sometimes difficult hours as four very different women worked together on the Lord’s errand.
I thought about Haley Wolton, my little less-active Beehive who had moved into our area just prior to receiving a double lung transplant. I remembered the first time she was well enough for me to visit her. Two of the young women from our branch came with me and when she asked us why she had been anointed with oil prior to receiving a priesthood blessing we told her about the atonement – how just as an olive releases its oil when pressed by a heavy weight, so the Savior’s blood came from His pores when the weight of our sins and sorrows pressed upon Him; how consecrated oil has healing power because it represents the Savior’s healing blood. I remember the way her hands trembled because of her medication as I looked into eyes that were steady and believing. As we left her home the two faithful young women who accompanied me kept exclaiming, “That was so cool! That was amazing!”
I thought about Teyha Bouchee and Sirena Yin, also from families who were not active in the church. I hoped Teyha would remember ice-skating with me on a cold January day or the day I brought a bag of gummy lifesavers to the door. I hoped Sirena would remember sitting across from me at the pizza parlor where she worked and talking about the future.
I thought about Tiffany Reeves, the high school Senior who physically recoiled when I introduced myself and told her I wanted to be her friend. I remembered cheering her on at her high school swim meet just after Christmas and how surprised and happy I felt when she came and sat beside me in the stands after her race was over. Later, when she was in a devastating car accident she knew she could look to me for support. I cherish the times my phone rings and it is Tiffany, just wanting to talk.
I thought about Ashleigh and Stacie Ballard, sisters without a mother who hadn’t been inside a church since they were little girls. I remembered one of the evenings they came to our house for dinner with their father and brother – the way Stacie, the oldest, had eaten only the diced up potatoes in her Mexican Chowder. I remembered the family home evening lesson when we made two pans of brownies – one with a recipe and one without – and talked about how much better things turn out when we follow the Lord’s plan. I remembered watching Ashleigh cheerlead at a junior high basketball game and that Stacie’s favorite snack was Cheez-It crackers. I doubted I would see those lonely girls again after their family moved to a large town an hour away and when I went to their house to say goodbye they had already gone. I was devastated that I hadn’t gotten their forwarding address.
Yet, in spite of these good memories and my Sunday prayer, the next days were spent fighting off feelings of frustration and sorrow and shame. I reminded myself of His answer again and again but I was so preoccupied with my own doubts that I couldn’t remember the feeling. A close friend and her husband, a member of the bishopric, felt inspired to drop by my home. Their family offered to help me with some projects around our new house. They swept and dusted and carried boxes but mostly they listened. I felt grateful for their inspired visit.
My husband, Jay, embodies the righteous priesthood leader who “reproves betimes with sharpness, when moved upon by the Holy Ghost.” Jay is never loud or angry. Rather, his “sharpness” is more like a surgeon’s scalpel, precise and careful. He was kind and honest when, after consoling me he gently suggested that perhaps my pride was standing in the way of my peace. I knew he was right and because of the quiet way he spoke his words didn’t sting when they sunk in.
That evening, on our way to a picnic with the missionaries, our family stopped at a drive-up pharmacy to pick up a prescription. As the pharmacist assisted my husband, who was driving, I noticed a group of teenagers crossing the parking lot in front of us. Suddenly, one of the girls left the group and hurried over toward our van. It was Stacie Ballard, in town visiting friends for the day! We hugged each other while her friends watched from a distance. I asked about her new home and her family and got her address and phone number. Then we hugged again and our family drove off in one direction and she and her friends walked in another. I sat very still in the passenger seat holding the paper with Stacie’s new address and feeling the love and reassurance of a kind Father in Heaven. My husband looked in my direction and quietly said, “Now do you believe that you’ve done a good job?” And I responded simply, “Yes.”
Looking back now I realize that both my call and my release were inspired. Five of the six less-active girls I befriended during that brief time either graduated from high school or moved away from the branch within a month of my release. Sadly, the sixth girl, my little friend Hayley passed away later due to complications related to her transplant. I didn’t know it at the time but those precious eleven months were all I had to show Heavenly Father’s love to six young girls. I am so grateful for the things I learned from them and from my Father during the time they were briefly in my stewardship.
To my friends who are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I'm posting this experience not to be boastful, (because as you will see, I was insecure and proud while Heavenly Father was teaching me) but because it was meaningful and reminded me again of how much The Savior loves all of us - how He can reassure us in the specific ways we long to be reassured, - how service can be so beautiful for the one trying to serve. (That's such a long run-on sentence that I'm breathless just writing it. And please, let's not even talk about how I'm actually supposed to punctuate it.) If you choose to comment, I'm not looking for pats on the back. I just wanted to share.
I’ll never forget the Sunday evening I was released from my calling as the Young Women’s President in our branch. I had served only eleven months and the release came as a complete shock. I’d expected to serve for three or four years. I had just returned from Girl’s Camp excited and happy and the news caught me completely off guard. I felt like I had not met the expectations of my priesthood leader and I was ashamed and sorrowful. My mind was flooded with the things I had not done as well as I would have liked. Soon after the Branch President left I knelt down in tears. I needed to know if the service I had rendered was acceptable. I knew I hadn’t been perfect but had I done what He wanted me to do in the short time I’d had? I had the distinct feeling that the release was part of Heavenly Father’s plan and that He was pleased with the small things I had been able to do. I felt comforted and grateful.
Over the next two days I reflected on the people I had spent my time and energy on. I thought about the twelve faithful girls I saw every Sunday and at mutual on Wednesday night. Just one week prior we had been together for a special evening at camp during which I greeted them as they reached the end of the “iron rod” and were led to the “tree of life.” It was powerful and profound.
I thought about my counselors and the things I’d learned from our successes and failures as a Presidency; the sometimes wonderful and sometimes difficult hours as four very different women worked together on the Lord’s errand.
I thought about Haley Wolton, my little less-active Beehive who had moved into our area just prior to receiving a double lung transplant. I remembered the first time she was well enough for me to visit her. Two of the young women from our branch came with me and when she asked us why she had been anointed with oil prior to receiving a priesthood blessing we told her about the atonement – how just as an olive releases its oil when pressed by a heavy weight, so the Savior’s blood came from His pores when the weight of our sins and sorrows pressed upon Him; how consecrated oil has healing power because it represents the Savior’s healing blood. I remember the way her hands trembled because of her medication as I looked into eyes that were steady and believing. As we left her home the two faithful young women who accompanied me kept exclaiming, “That was so cool! That was amazing!”
I thought about Teyha Bouchee and Sirena Yin, also from families who were not active in the church. I hoped Teyha would remember ice-skating with me on a cold January day or the day I brought a bag of gummy lifesavers to the door. I hoped Sirena would remember sitting across from me at the pizza parlor where she worked and talking about the future.
I thought about Tiffany Reeves, the high school Senior who physically recoiled when I introduced myself and told her I wanted to be her friend. I remembered cheering her on at her high school swim meet just after Christmas and how surprised and happy I felt when she came and sat beside me in the stands after her race was over. Later, when she was in a devastating car accident she knew she could look to me for support. I cherish the times my phone rings and it is Tiffany, just wanting to talk.
I thought about Ashleigh and Stacie Ballard, sisters without a mother who hadn’t been inside a church since they were little girls. I remembered one of the evenings they came to our house for dinner with their father and brother – the way Stacie, the oldest, had eaten only the diced up potatoes in her Mexican Chowder. I remembered the family home evening lesson when we made two pans of brownies – one with a recipe and one without – and talked about how much better things turn out when we follow the Lord’s plan. I remembered watching Ashleigh cheerlead at a junior high basketball game and that Stacie’s favorite snack was Cheez-It crackers. I doubted I would see those lonely girls again after their family moved to a large town an hour away and when I went to their house to say goodbye they had already gone. I was devastated that I hadn’t gotten their forwarding address.
Yet, in spite of these good memories and my Sunday prayer, the next days were spent fighting off feelings of frustration and sorrow and shame. I reminded myself of His answer again and again but I was so preoccupied with my own doubts that I couldn’t remember the feeling. A close friend and her husband, a member of the bishopric, felt inspired to drop by my home. Their family offered to help me with some projects around our new house. They swept and dusted and carried boxes but mostly they listened. I felt grateful for their inspired visit.
My husband, Jay, embodies the righteous priesthood leader who “reproves betimes with sharpness, when moved upon by the Holy Ghost.” Jay is never loud or angry. Rather, his “sharpness” is more like a surgeon’s scalpel, precise and careful. He was kind and honest when, after consoling me he gently suggested that perhaps my pride was standing in the way of my peace. I knew he was right and because of the quiet way he spoke his words didn’t sting when they sunk in.
That evening, on our way to a picnic with the missionaries, our family stopped at a drive-up pharmacy to pick up a prescription. As the pharmacist assisted my husband, who was driving, I noticed a group of teenagers crossing the parking lot in front of us. Suddenly, one of the girls left the group and hurried over toward our van. It was Stacie Ballard, in town visiting friends for the day! We hugged each other while her friends watched from a distance. I asked about her new home and her family and got her address and phone number. Then we hugged again and our family drove off in one direction and she and her friends walked in another. I sat very still in the passenger seat holding the paper with Stacie’s new address and feeling the love and reassurance of a kind Father in Heaven. My husband looked in my direction and quietly said, “Now do you believe that you’ve done a good job?” And I responded simply, “Yes.”
Looking back now I realize that both my call and my release were inspired. Five of the six less-active girls I befriended during that brief time either graduated from high school or moved away from the branch within a month of my release. Sadly, the sixth girl, my little friend Hayley passed away later due to complications related to her transplant. I didn’t know it at the time but those precious eleven months were all I had to show Heavenly Father’s love to six young girls. I am so grateful for the things I learned from them and from my Father during the time they were briefly in my stewardship.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Snippets
I teach singing to the children who go to my church. My official title is Primary Chorister. (What we call Primary is similar to Sunday School in many other faiths, I believe.) Recently I had one of those moments a teacher dreams about having. I was standing in the front of the room looking down into my book of songs when my peripheral vision caught a paper airplane making its way to the front of the room. It was coming straight at me. Without looking up, I reached out, caught it, and tucked it behind my book. I haven't felt so cool since I was 18!
And speaking of being 18, when I was a Senior we moved and I went to a new high school partway through my Senior year. I was in a drama class with lots of sophmore boys and very few girls. Our teacher ask us to pair up and a 15-year-old boy rushed to my side. We were supposed to go to different parts of the room (all the partnerships simultaneously) and find each other by listening for the other person's voice. The only word we could say was "cookie." (What this has to do with drama escapes me. Comedy, on the other hand...) When my partner heard the instructions he said with swashbuckling volume, "I don't need to hear my partner, I can smell her!" I don't need to tell you that the room erupted with laughter, my partner murmured something about perfume, and another young man sturdily affirmed, "She'll never speak to you again."
This is a completely random post but I have missed writing and wanted to get something up so none of you would give up on me.
And speaking of being 18, when I was a Senior we moved and I went to a new high school partway through my Senior year. I was in a drama class with lots of sophmore boys and very few girls. Our teacher ask us to pair up and a 15-year-old boy rushed to my side. We were supposed to go to different parts of the room (all the partnerships simultaneously) and find each other by listening for the other person's voice. The only word we could say was "cookie." (What this has to do with drama escapes me. Comedy, on the other hand...) When my partner heard the instructions he said with swashbuckling volume, "I don't need to hear my partner, I can smell her!" I don't need to tell you that the room erupted with laughter, my partner murmured something about perfume, and another young man sturdily affirmed, "She'll never speak to you again."
This is a completely random post but I have missed writing and wanted to get something up so none of you would give up on me.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
MTC
My first nephew checked into the Missionary Training Center today and I have been thinking about my experience entering the MTC nearly 18 years ago. Leaving on my mission was a thrilling and difficult thing.
As mentioned in a previous post, I was in love with Jay before I left on my mission. Saying goodbye to him was torturous and not just in the way you might expect. I'll explain. Jay bought a tiny little Volkswagen beetle when he returned from his mission and we dated in that car. I have sentimental feelings about those early rides but the car proved disloyal. On the weekend before I left for my mission Jay along with his brother, Cash, drove down (if you can call it that, but I'm not bitter) to Utah to attend the welcome home of his twin cousins. His car broke down over and over again on the way there but luckily he'd left two days before the Sunday meeting so he did manage to arrive in the nick of time. Then he, Cash, and his cousins worked feverishly to get the car up and running so he could drive back to see me before I was set apart as a missionary on Monday night. I was to report to the Stake President at 7:00 and Jay came roaring back into town at about 6:00. This was the last time we would see each other for 18 months and time was precious. I raced over to his house and we sat down in the living room together looking forward to tender conversation (right, Jay?). We no sooner sat down than an old acquaintance knocked on the door. He brought with him an even older acquaintance (I can't in good conscience call either one of them friends and you'll soon see why) whom I had not seen in some time. Little did they know that every second they stayed was one less second for "tender conversation". I was in agony. Would they never go? Get out your hankies. You'll need them when I tell you that they stayed the entire time! Jay and I had enjoyed precisely two and a half minutes of privacy and now I was leaving for a very long time. I felt on the verge of tears. Jay offered to drive me to my appointment with the Stake President and I accepted with unabashed relief. We talked quietly in the car about nothing as we drove the 3 miles. We kissed just once over the gear shift. Then I went in and Jay drove away. (This will really lessen the pathos but I did see him again the next morning. My dad, knowing the situation, invited him over to visit for 15 minutes before the family left for Salt Lake City. We sat on the front lawn and his face, his conversation, his company was like chocolate - sweet, smooth, and soothing.)
Then it was off to Salt Lake. The night before I entered the MTC we stayed with my aunt and uncle. At this point my thoughts turned to my family and as evening fell my heart grew heavier and heavier. Don't be misled, I wanted to go on a mission. I felt absolutely certain that a mission was the path Heavenly Father wanted me to take and I was enthusiastic about it, but looking at my siblings and parents that night before I was to say goodbye left me physically ill. I tried to put on a brave face until I went to bed but then the tears began to flow. At some point my mother came in and laid beside me on the bed with her arms around me. I cried off and on until the wee hours of the morning with my mother beside me holding me.
The next day as we went through the formalities of checking in and sitting in a large meeting with other missionaries and their families, I had mixed emotions. I felt both elation to finally be a missionary and dread over the impending goodbyes. When the time came I hugged and kissed each member of my family. About 250 other missionaries did exactly the same thing. I had heard the legends about the missionary going through one door and the family going out the other and I knew what to expect but still it was deeply personal and painful. I walked through the assigned door without looking back. Sitting right outside the door was a person handing out missionary name tags, the black badges with white lettering that would identify us for many months. She found mine quickly and as I pinned it on and saw my name, Hermana Burton, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I felt a rush of pure joy. This feeling escalated quickly and dramatically. I don't know how to even record the feelings I had except to say that I recognized that I was experiencing my own personal miracle. I "felt" the Savior keeping his promise, gladly yoking himself to me, recognizing that by walking through that door I'd given my very best, feeble though it was. I felt Him step in quickly to do the rest. He swept away all the sorrow I had felt only moments before and a feeling of utter rightness and joyfulness filled the void grief had carved. While the love and appreciation I felt for my family increased throughout my mission, I never again felt homesick. Not once.
Missions are full of miraculous events and each missionary is given those personal experiences that will bring maximum growth and happiness. For me, one of those miracles took place the very instant I demonstrated my commitment to Jesus Christ. I've never forgotten it.
As mentioned in a previous post, I was in love with Jay before I left on my mission. Saying goodbye to him was torturous and not just in the way you might expect. I'll explain. Jay bought a tiny little Volkswagen beetle when he returned from his mission and we dated in that car. I have sentimental feelings about those early rides but the car proved disloyal. On the weekend before I left for my mission Jay along with his brother, Cash, drove down (if you can call it that, but I'm not bitter) to Utah to attend the welcome home of his twin cousins. His car broke down over and over again on the way there but luckily he'd left two days before the Sunday meeting so he did manage to arrive in the nick of time. Then he, Cash, and his cousins worked feverishly to get the car up and running so he could drive back to see me before I was set apart as a missionary on Monday night. I was to report to the Stake President at 7:00 and Jay came roaring back into town at about 6:00. This was the last time we would see each other for 18 months and time was precious. I raced over to his house and we sat down in the living room together looking forward to tender conversation (right, Jay?). We no sooner sat down than an old acquaintance knocked on the door. He brought with him an even older acquaintance (I can't in good conscience call either one of them friends and you'll soon see why) whom I had not seen in some time. Little did they know that every second they stayed was one less second for "tender conversation". I was in agony. Would they never go? Get out your hankies. You'll need them when I tell you that they stayed the entire time! Jay and I had enjoyed precisely two and a half minutes of privacy and now I was leaving for a very long time. I felt on the verge of tears. Jay offered to drive me to my appointment with the Stake President and I accepted with unabashed relief. We talked quietly in the car about nothing as we drove the 3 miles. We kissed just once over the gear shift. Then I went in and Jay drove away. (This will really lessen the pathos but I did see him again the next morning. My dad, knowing the situation, invited him over to visit for 15 minutes before the family left for Salt Lake City. We sat on the front lawn and his face, his conversation, his company was like chocolate - sweet, smooth, and soothing.)
Then it was off to Salt Lake. The night before I entered the MTC we stayed with my aunt and uncle. At this point my thoughts turned to my family and as evening fell my heart grew heavier and heavier. Don't be misled, I wanted to go on a mission. I felt absolutely certain that a mission was the path Heavenly Father wanted me to take and I was enthusiastic about it, but looking at my siblings and parents that night before I was to say goodbye left me physically ill. I tried to put on a brave face until I went to bed but then the tears began to flow. At some point my mother came in and laid beside me on the bed with her arms around me. I cried off and on until the wee hours of the morning with my mother beside me holding me.
The next day as we went through the formalities of checking in and sitting in a large meeting with other missionaries and their families, I had mixed emotions. I felt both elation to finally be a missionary and dread over the impending goodbyes. When the time came I hugged and kissed each member of my family. About 250 other missionaries did exactly the same thing. I had heard the legends about the missionary going through one door and the family going out the other and I knew what to expect but still it was deeply personal and painful. I walked through the assigned door without looking back. Sitting right outside the door was a person handing out missionary name tags, the black badges with white lettering that would identify us for many months. She found mine quickly and as I pinned it on and saw my name, Hermana Burton, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I felt a rush of pure joy. This feeling escalated quickly and dramatically. I don't know how to even record the feelings I had except to say that I recognized that I was experiencing my own personal miracle. I "felt" the Savior keeping his promise, gladly yoking himself to me, recognizing that by walking through that door I'd given my very best, feeble though it was. I felt Him step in quickly to do the rest. He swept away all the sorrow I had felt only moments before and a feeling of utter rightness and joyfulness filled the void grief had carved. While the love and appreciation I felt for my family increased throughout my mission, I never again felt homesick. Not once.
Missions are full of miraculous events and each missionary is given those personal experiences that will bring maximum growth and happiness. For me, one of those miracles took place the very instant I demonstrated my commitment to Jesus Christ. I've never forgotten it.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Life Lesson #3
For better or worse, I have a very tender heart. For the most part, it is a good thing. But every once in a while I get myself into embarrassing predicaments because my heart overrides my head. Recently while attending a school play it happened again. At the end of the play one of the students asked if the audience had any questions. No one did. He waited. We all waited. They had worked so hard and it seemed as if they really expected someone to ask them something so with absolutely no question in my head I raised my hand. All eyes turned to me. "What are you doing?!!" my brain demanded. My heart just beat wildly and I spluttered out, "Was Francis Scott Key really the scoundrel you portrayed him to be?" Blank stares from the students. Embarrassed silence from the crowd. Furious blushing by me. "What?" the student finally responded in confusion. The teacher took over. "Did you mean Sir Walter Scott?" she asked me. "That was who this play was about - Sir Walter Scott. Is that who you meant?" I knew that it was about Sir WS. I really did. It was because I spoke without thinking that I just plugged in the first old Englishman that came to mind. I felt like I had just dropped my lunch tray. I was so glad Jay wasn't there although it would have been such a comfort to spread the embarrassment betwixt the two of us. But the poor man has had to endure enough at my hands.
When we were first married people from my past kept popping up all over - at the grocery store, at the university, at the movie theater. The problem was that they WEREN'T people from my past. They were total strangers who resembled people I had known. But my heart always went charging enthusiastically in. Time after time I rushed up to a long lost friend only to learn that the only thing long lost was my pride, oh, and Jay's. The worst was when I raced over to this man after church and exclaimed, "Remember me?" (Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!) The poor fellow racked his brain. I helped out, "We dated. You took me to...." More racking while his wife looked me over suspiciously. "I'm sorry," he finally said, "I think you may have me confused with someone else. My name is..." Sure enough. Wrong name. Acute embarrassment and blushing by me. His wife continuing to look unamused. Jay quickly leading me away and later asking me earnestly, "Can we please, PLEASE, not do that again?"
There are so many of these unfortunate little examples. My head aches just remembering. But recently my son gave a wrong answer in primary and even though the correction was done very gently he felt mortified. I could see the tears welling up in his eyes. And I remembered a similar feeling from my college days - my worst heart-rushing-in experience. This is the story I later shared with him.
After London died I went back to school briefly. One of the classes I took was a private piano lesson with Dr. Bonnie Winterton. I loved her and learned a great deal from her. For part of my grade I had to play before a jury of my peers - other music majors. So every Wednesday afternoon we all met in a small hall to listen to each other - piano players, singers, and every other kind of musician. We were trained to confidently introduce ourselves and the music we would be playing and when we were finished, to bow. I had done two years of college before my mission but as a newly declared music major I was a middish twenties freshman surrounded by younger and far more gifted performers than I.
One day a young saxophone player stood up to play and informed us that his accompanist was sick. Was there a piano major among us who would accompany him? Silence from those of us in the audience. He looked around hopefully. So did I. Surely one of the more gifted pianists would step forward but no one did. My heart, traitorous thing, began to thump. "You should help him. After all, you are a very good sightreader," my heart said. My brain replied stiffly, "Yes, but this is not your Auntie Lou Lou's church solo. This is Bach!" The boy in front smiled a little and said, "Come on, someone, please!!!" Still nothing. Heart: "Look at the poor fellow. You can't just leave him standing up there." Brain: "Oh yes, you can and you'd better. Let's be conservative, just this once." But the boy in front didn't need conservative. He had a room full of conservative. He needed foolhardy. He needed impulsive. He needed rash. I raised my hand.
He beamed at me as I walked to the front and took my seat at the piano. As I began to spread the music out in front of me, I knew I was in trouble. "Idiot!" cried my brain. The music was made up almost entirely of 16th notes- no wonder his pianist was ill- and the tempo markings indicated a rollicking pace. We made eye contact and played the first note together and then he was off, screaming through the stanzas while I blinked at the music in front of me wondering if we were looking at the same song. Where had he gone? What the heck was he playing? Every so often I thought I might have found my place and I tried to re-enter the race. Those were painful moments. Soon I decided that my only hope was to turn to the last page of the song and wait for him to get there. When he finally arrived in a flurry of notes I very adeptly played the last chord and sat stunned and breathless at the piano waiting for the moment I could slink out the side door and run. But it was not to be. He bowed deeply while everybody clapped and then, "Oh, no!" I saw it coming. Oh, no. Oh, please no, he wouldn't, would he? He gestured to me. In a dreadful rush I remembered the protocol. He was, quite properly, acknowledging his accompanist. Reluctantly I stood and with my last shred of dignity and every ounce of courage I could muster I, too, complied with protocol - and bowed!
I have said and done thousands of foolish things and felt shamed and humiliated so often I should be accustomed to it but this was the Queen Bee of anguished embarrassment. All I wanted was a millstone to hang about my neck and a very deep pond.
Twelve years later Ronan and I laughed together about how difficult it is to make mistakes in front of peers and he seemed to feel better but I admit that this experience still haunts me a little. Later I spoke with Jenn Horne, dear friend and confidant, and told her that I still cringe when I think of my failure that day. She said something that brought comfort. I'm still wondering about it. "I don't think you were a failure. I think that moment was your greatest triumph," she said thoughtfully. "Whatever can you mean?" I asked. "I believe I played two correct chords the entire song - the first and the last. How can you call that a triumph?!" "You were the only one who had the courage and the compassion to try," she responded.
Maybe she's right and maybe she's wrong but as a result of her perspective I've moved on.
One of you recently commented that I have had lots of funny things happen to me over the course of my life. It didn't feel like a put down, nor did it feel like a compliment, it was just a statement of fact. And it's true. I've been thinking that over for a while wondering why it is that my life has been chuck full of odd occurrences. I've come to the consoling conclusion that probably everybody has a bunch of stories to tell and are just not remembering or knowing where to start. The other conclusion is much less comforting, in fact it's downright worrisome: fools rush in. But then again, maybe that's not so bad after all.
When we were first married people from my past kept popping up all over - at the grocery store, at the university, at the movie theater. The problem was that they WEREN'T people from my past. They were total strangers who resembled people I had known. But my heart always went charging enthusiastically in. Time after time I rushed up to a long lost friend only to learn that the only thing long lost was my pride, oh, and Jay's. The worst was when I raced over to this man after church and exclaimed, "Remember me?" (Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!) The poor fellow racked his brain. I helped out, "We dated. You took me to...." More racking while his wife looked me over suspiciously. "I'm sorry," he finally said, "I think you may have me confused with someone else. My name is..." Sure enough. Wrong name. Acute embarrassment and blushing by me. His wife continuing to look unamused. Jay quickly leading me away and later asking me earnestly, "Can we please, PLEASE, not do that again?"
There are so many of these unfortunate little examples. My head aches just remembering. But recently my son gave a wrong answer in primary and even though the correction was done very gently he felt mortified. I could see the tears welling up in his eyes. And I remembered a similar feeling from my college days - my worst heart-rushing-in experience. This is the story I later shared with him.
After London died I went back to school briefly. One of the classes I took was a private piano lesson with Dr. Bonnie Winterton. I loved her and learned a great deal from her. For part of my grade I had to play before a jury of my peers - other music majors. So every Wednesday afternoon we all met in a small hall to listen to each other - piano players, singers, and every other kind of musician. We were trained to confidently introduce ourselves and the music we would be playing and when we were finished, to bow. I had done two years of college before my mission but as a newly declared music major I was a middish twenties freshman surrounded by younger and far more gifted performers than I.
One day a young saxophone player stood up to play and informed us that his accompanist was sick. Was there a piano major among us who would accompany him? Silence from those of us in the audience. He looked around hopefully. So did I. Surely one of the more gifted pianists would step forward but no one did. My heart, traitorous thing, began to thump. "You should help him. After all, you are a very good sightreader," my heart said. My brain replied stiffly, "Yes, but this is not your Auntie Lou Lou's church solo. This is Bach!" The boy in front smiled a little and said, "Come on, someone, please!!!" Still nothing. Heart: "Look at the poor fellow. You can't just leave him standing up there." Brain: "Oh yes, you can and you'd better. Let's be conservative, just this once." But the boy in front didn't need conservative. He had a room full of conservative. He needed foolhardy. He needed impulsive. He needed rash. I raised my hand.
He beamed at me as I walked to the front and took my seat at the piano. As I began to spread the music out in front of me, I knew I was in trouble. "Idiot!" cried my brain. The music was made up almost entirely of 16th notes- no wonder his pianist was ill- and the tempo markings indicated a rollicking pace. We made eye contact and played the first note together and then he was off, screaming through the stanzas while I blinked at the music in front of me wondering if we were looking at the same song. Where had he gone? What the heck was he playing? Every so often I thought I might have found my place and I tried to re-enter the race. Those were painful moments. Soon I decided that my only hope was to turn to the last page of the song and wait for him to get there. When he finally arrived in a flurry of notes I very adeptly played the last chord and sat stunned and breathless at the piano waiting for the moment I could slink out the side door and run. But it was not to be. He bowed deeply while everybody clapped and then, "Oh, no!" I saw it coming. Oh, no. Oh, please no, he wouldn't, would he? He gestured to me. In a dreadful rush I remembered the protocol. He was, quite properly, acknowledging his accompanist. Reluctantly I stood and with my last shred of dignity and every ounce of courage I could muster I, too, complied with protocol - and bowed!
I have said and done thousands of foolish things and felt shamed and humiliated so often I should be accustomed to it but this was the Queen Bee of anguished embarrassment. All I wanted was a millstone to hang about my neck and a very deep pond.
Twelve years later Ronan and I laughed together about how difficult it is to make mistakes in front of peers and he seemed to feel better but I admit that this experience still haunts me a little. Later I spoke with Jenn Horne, dear friend and confidant, and told her that I still cringe when I think of my failure that day. She said something that brought comfort. I'm still wondering about it. "I don't think you were a failure. I think that moment was your greatest triumph," she said thoughtfully. "Whatever can you mean?" I asked. "I believe I played two correct chords the entire song - the first and the last. How can you call that a triumph?!" "You were the only one who had the courage and the compassion to try," she responded.
Maybe she's right and maybe she's wrong but as a result of her perspective I've moved on.
One of you recently commented that I have had lots of funny things happen to me over the course of my life. It didn't feel like a put down, nor did it feel like a compliment, it was just a statement of fact. And it's true. I've been thinking that over for a while wondering why it is that my life has been chuck full of odd occurrences. I've come to the consoling conclusion that probably everybody has a bunch of stories to tell and are just not remembering or knowing where to start. The other conclusion is much less comforting, in fact it's downright worrisome: fools rush in. But then again, maybe that's not so bad after all.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Virtual Valentine's Day
Jay and I had such a fun Valentine's date last night. We went to a little restaurant in Keene for sushi. I had a yummy sweet potato avocado summer roll and Jay had his favorite roll - spicy tuna and a fabulous bowl of hot and sour soup. The food was real but the rest of the evening was make-believe and lots of fun.
We went to Border's Book Store for an evening reminiscent of college days.
Challenge #1 - Virtually dedicate the perfect song. We each had 10 minutes to go through the C.D.'s and find THE perfect song. Then we listened to the first 1/3 of our respective songs (that's all you get) on those little listening machines.
Jay's dedication to me - Kenny Chesney's You Save Me
My dedication to Jay - Michael Buble's version of How Sweet It Is
Challenge #2 - Virtually take each other on a romantic getaway. We had 10 minutes to find a picture representing the destination.
Jay's trip for me - Greece (We've always wanted to go there)
My trip for Jay - The Tetons where we spent our honeymoon and many subsequent anniversaries. We haven't been there for 5 or 6 years now and we miss those trips.
Challenge #3 - Virtually buy each other a fabulous gift. You guessed it - 10 minutes to find a picture of the gift we'd most like to give.
Jay's gifts for me - (He cheated and gave me three virtual gifts so I looked very cheap - virtually) Gift 1: Tickets to see the Broadway musical Wicked. Gift 2: A trip to the Dominican Republic where I served my mission. Gift 3: A trip to Greece (We had so much fun the first time we decided to go back right away.)
My one, solitary gift to Jay - A gorgeous fully-restored 1950's cadillac
If I had virtually bought another gift for Jay I would have chosen a Mac Notebook (the new Macintosh laptop is definitely something to drool over). I would have built him a virtual studio/office over our garage but I already gave him that for his 40th birthday, (virtually, of course). And, oh, alright, I would also have bought him a great big drooling virtual bull mastiff since he has that studio over the garage where he can keep him.
For me, this was such a fun night. It was so cool to realize that Jay still knows exactly what I most love and I hope I made good virtual choices for him. Extravagance without a price tag was so much fun last night. And the company was great, too.
I'm putting my request in for our 17th anniversary right now - a digital Baby Grand, if you please, honey!
We went to Border's Book Store for an evening reminiscent of college days.
Challenge #1 - Virtually dedicate the perfect song. We each had 10 minutes to go through the C.D.'s and find THE perfect song. Then we listened to the first 1/3 of our respective songs (that's all you get) on those little listening machines.
Jay's dedication to me - Kenny Chesney's You Save Me
My dedication to Jay - Michael Buble's version of How Sweet It Is
Challenge #2 - Virtually take each other on a romantic getaway. We had 10 minutes to find a picture representing the destination.
Jay's trip for me - Greece (We've always wanted to go there)
My trip for Jay - The Tetons where we spent our honeymoon and many subsequent anniversaries. We haven't been there for 5 or 6 years now and we miss those trips.
Challenge #3 - Virtually buy each other a fabulous gift. You guessed it - 10 minutes to find a picture of the gift we'd most like to give.
Jay's gifts for me - (He cheated and gave me three virtual gifts so I looked very cheap - virtually) Gift 1: Tickets to see the Broadway musical Wicked. Gift 2: A trip to the Dominican Republic where I served my mission. Gift 3: A trip to Greece (We had so much fun the first time we decided to go back right away.)
My one, solitary gift to Jay - A gorgeous fully-restored 1950's cadillac
If I had virtually bought another gift for Jay I would have chosen a Mac Notebook (the new Macintosh laptop is definitely something to drool over). I would have built him a virtual studio/office over our garage but I already gave him that for his 40th birthday, (virtually, of course). And, oh, alright, I would also have bought him a great big drooling virtual bull mastiff since he has that studio over the garage where he can keep him.
For me, this was such a fun night. It was so cool to realize that Jay still knows exactly what I most love and I hope I made good virtual choices for him. Extravagance without a price tag was so much fun last night. And the company was great, too.
I'm putting my request in for our 17th anniversary right now - a digital Baby Grand, if you please, honey!
Friday, February 13, 2009
Lacey Grace and Romance
With Valentine's Day approaching I thought it appropriate to speak of love and things romantic. The very word, love, makes Ronan lean over into heaving position and Toph (age 11) is beginning to clam up about his feelings on the subject. So today the focus falls squarely on Lacey Grace and two recent experiences.
Recently, while playing at the Johnson's house (the whole family, not just Lacey Grace)LG came running from the room where she'd been playing with Ethan and Aaron. She was distressed in a flattered kind of way. "Ethan tried to kiss me on the..."(here she stopped and pointed emphatically at her lips). She flung herself into my arms and with her face buried she finished, "and Aaron (the older brother) ENCOURAGED him!"
When she was again calm and had left, Nate Johnson (father of these two passionate boys) revealed the following: The previous week he and his boys and our boys had been sitting on the couch looking through a manly book about swords when out of the blue, Lacey Grace entered the room and said, "You boys are going to have to learn to kiss sometime!" That was all. Then she marched out.
Looks like Ethan was just trying to follow her advice.
Recently, while playing at the Johnson's house (the whole family, not just Lacey Grace)LG came running from the room where she'd been playing with Ethan and Aaron. She was distressed in a flattered kind of way. "Ethan tried to kiss me on the..."(here she stopped and pointed emphatically at her lips). She flung herself into my arms and with her face buried she finished, "and Aaron (the older brother) ENCOURAGED him!"
When she was again calm and had left, Nate Johnson (father of these two passionate boys) revealed the following: The previous week he and his boys and our boys had been sitting on the couch looking through a manly book about swords when out of the blue, Lacey Grace entered the room and said, "You boys are going to have to learn to kiss sometime!" That was all. Then she marched out.
Looks like Ethan was just trying to follow her advice.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane
I just put down the best book I have ever read. Hands down. I am desperate to talk to someone about it but I have a feeling that if I call someone now, I'll just start crying and embarrass myself.
I've seen this book sitting on the library shelf in the children's section but the cover is unappealing to me and I've never picked it up. Recently, I saw the book at the home of my friends, Mindy and Nate Johnson. I was not feeling well and picked it up to read quietly while resting. It was new. It would have been in very poor form to ask to borrow it when they'd only just gotten it, but I was sorely tempted. After reading the first 50 pages or so in that initial sitting I just had to know what Edward Tulane learned and how he learned it. It was checked out at the library so I put it on hold and finally picked it up today. I read every word. I thought to myself, "This is a lovely book for children but it feels like it was written just for me, an adult."
I'm so grateful I had occasion to stop judging a book by its cover and crack it open.
I was reminded that loving and being loved is the most courageous thing I have ever done or will ever do. Thank you, Kate DiCamillo. What a beautiful story!
I'm curious to know if there are any books that have had particular impact on you, my friends. If you choose to comment on this post, will you please tell me about a book that meant the world to you?
I've seen this book sitting on the library shelf in the children's section but the cover is unappealing to me and I've never picked it up. Recently, I saw the book at the home of my friends, Mindy and Nate Johnson. I was not feeling well and picked it up to read quietly while resting. It was new. It would have been in very poor form to ask to borrow it when they'd only just gotten it, but I was sorely tempted. After reading the first 50 pages or so in that initial sitting I just had to know what Edward Tulane learned and how he learned it. It was checked out at the library so I put it on hold and finally picked it up today. I read every word. I thought to myself, "This is a lovely book for children but it feels like it was written just for me, an adult."
I'm so grateful I had occasion to stop judging a book by its cover and crack it open.
I was reminded that loving and being loved is the most courageous thing I have ever done or will ever do. Thank you, Kate DiCamillo. What a beautiful story!
I'm curious to know if there are any books that have had particular impact on you, my friends. If you choose to comment on this post, will you please tell me about a book that meant the world to you?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Spelling Bee
Topher competed in the school spelling bee today with 14 other contestants. I sat in the audience by myself sweating and muttering under my breath in the agony only a mother whose child is under pressure can understand. Jay stood, as cool as a cucumber, in the back with the video camera and Lacey Grace and Ronan sat on the floor near the front where they could see better. Sitting in the seat next to me was Tom Bennett, father of Shannon, who was also competing. He, like Jay, sat placidly looking on. It was all I could do not to grab his arm and squeeze like crazy when Topher stood to spell.
This is not the first time I have experienced distress of this nature. Two years ago Toph had to do a solo tap dance at his year-end dance recital. This was not because he was a fabulous dancer or even because he was the only boy. It was because not another soul had signed up for his class that year and, as the children dance by class, he was a solo act. When he came out onto the stage to perform I began to writhe in my seat. At a crucial part of the number he forgot a few steps and looked puzzled. I began to pummel Jay in the thigh with my fist. After a 4 beat eternity, Topher came back in and flawlessly finished. I was exhausted. Jay was bruised. Topher was exhilarated.
Topher came in 3rd place this year. I am proud of him. And tonight I will sleep like a baby, worn out from the strain of sitting very, very still, full of maternal tension and having no one beside me to pummel or squeeze.
This is not the first time I have experienced distress of this nature. Two years ago Toph had to do a solo tap dance at his year-end dance recital. This was not because he was a fabulous dancer or even because he was the only boy. It was because not another soul had signed up for his class that year and, as the children dance by class, he was a solo act. When he came out onto the stage to perform I began to writhe in my seat. At a crucial part of the number he forgot a few steps and looked puzzled. I began to pummel Jay in the thigh with my fist. After a 4 beat eternity, Topher came back in and flawlessly finished. I was exhausted. Jay was bruised. Topher was exhilarated.
Topher came in 3rd place this year. I am proud of him. And tonight I will sleep like a baby, worn out from the strain of sitting very, very still, full of maternal tension and having no one beside me to pummel or squeeze.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Mom
You knew this was coming, didn't you? My mother left for home on Wednesday and I miss her very much. There is something so wonderful about being cared for by your mother after you've grown up. It's a little like going back home and finally knowing what it means, what it has always meant, to be there.
My childhood home was a small farmhouse in Paul, Idaho. We had a long lane lined with purple Irises and fields full of sheep. Sometimes, when my mother needed a little time to herself she would drive to the top of that lane, turn off the car, and read a book. Then she would drive back down and fix dinner, sew on Scout patches, wash clothes (including cloth diapers, ugh!), check homework, sweep floors, rock babies, you get the picture. One of the coolest compliments ever paid my mom by an acquaintance was, "Arva, you're the only person I know who can sit down in the middle of a mess and cut out paper dolls." And she could. I love that about my mom.
In our farmhouse we had a boy's bedroom and a girl's bedroom which were side by side and shared a hallway. My mom sat on the floor in the hall outside our bedrooms each night and read to us. This was my favorite time. The dinner dishes were left until later, the children were bedded down, and my mother sat in the hall and read and read and read. I loved this peaceful way of ending the day and felt my mother's love through these stories. (In case you're wondering, my favorites were fairy tales which my mother read often. I loved Thick-Headed Jack, Snow White and Rose Red, The Brave Little Tailor, and The Twelve Dancing Princesses among others.) Incidentally, several years ago my siblings and I and our children had gathered at my parent's house for a weekend. My mother began reading a story out loud to some of the grandchildren and I watched all of my siblings drift into the room and take a seat. Even as grown-ups, we still love to hear my mother read.
When I was eight years old I began piano lessons. We didn't own a piano at the time so my mother drove me to my great-grandparent's house about one mile up the road to practice. Everything about those early years of piano was difficult. My mother, who loves to sing and played flute in the high school band, knew a little and could help. She stood behind me during those excruciating practices clapping and counting out the rhythm. I hated it. When struggling through these sessions we yelled back and forth at each other in whispers. All the frustration and passion were there, only the volume was missing. She wouldn't let me quit. She occasionally remarked, "Someday you'll thank me for this," to which I would sniff and reply tartly. I'll simply say that, discounting those early years, music has been one of the great loves of my life. It blesses me, my family, and I believe, many others regularly. I'm so glad she made me stick it out.
I tried out for cheerleader when I was in the 8th grade. I practiced for weeks and had every expectation of making it. But I had huge glasses and frizzy hair, I didn't know how to do back handsprings,and I looked terrible in those little skirts cheerleaders have to wear. My mother agonized. Should she discourage me? Should she save me from the pain of certain failure? The tryouts came. Teresa Helms flip-flopped all over the gym, Lacey Ann Warren had perfect hair and no glasses and Heidi Harding looked very sweet doing a cheer about 10 little Warriors in her tiny skirt. I was devastated. I held the tears in until I got home and then I cried and cried. So did my mother. But after a few days I felt better and when it was time to choose class officers I decided to try again. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen? Oh, yeah, failure. But hey, I'd already tasted that and the bitterness was fleeting. Learning not to be afraid of failure was a much richer gift to me than safety from temporary pain (or, for that matter, a year on the Freshman cheerleading squad). I am so grateful my mother had the courage to let me find that out.
When my mother heard Jay give his homecoming talk after returning from service in Argentina as a missionary she leaned over and said to my father, "Now there is a boy I could feel good about my daughter marrying!" Need I say more about her impeccable taste and good judgment?
When London was born (stillborn) my mother came and stayed. We buried her in Boise and then moved home for the summer to be near family and heal. We had many quiet conversations. I sometimes refer to my mom as my plain-speaking Jethro. She has a way of seeing past all the fluff and getting to the heart of the matter and helping me to get there, too. I don't remember what I said one day but I remember her response very clearly. She said, "Lauralee, you're finding out that you need the Savior just like the rest of us." And I knew she was right. All my life spiritual things had come so easily for me and now, suddenly I was facing death and oh, so much heartache. My mother's comment led me to visualize the Savior tenderly reaching out toward his lost lamb, and suddenly realizing that the lamb he was drawing toward him was me.
There are so many other things flooding into my mind as I write this. But it is late, I am tired and my children are gathered in the upstairs room waiting for their bedtime stories. Tommorrow I'll wash clothing, sweep floors, sew on Scout patches, change diapers, check homework, and hope to creep away by myself for a short read where no one will interrupt me. And if my children are really lucky, I'll make time to sit down in the middle of a mess and cut out paper dolls.
I love you very much, mom!
My childhood home was a small farmhouse in Paul, Idaho. We had a long lane lined with purple Irises and fields full of sheep. Sometimes, when my mother needed a little time to herself she would drive to the top of that lane, turn off the car, and read a book. Then she would drive back down and fix dinner, sew on Scout patches, wash clothes (including cloth diapers, ugh!), check homework, sweep floors, rock babies, you get the picture. One of the coolest compliments ever paid my mom by an acquaintance was, "Arva, you're the only person I know who can sit down in the middle of a mess and cut out paper dolls." And she could. I love that about my mom.
In our farmhouse we had a boy's bedroom and a girl's bedroom which were side by side and shared a hallway. My mom sat on the floor in the hall outside our bedrooms each night and read to us. This was my favorite time. The dinner dishes were left until later, the children were bedded down, and my mother sat in the hall and read and read and read. I loved this peaceful way of ending the day and felt my mother's love through these stories. (In case you're wondering, my favorites were fairy tales which my mother read often. I loved Thick-Headed Jack, Snow White and Rose Red, The Brave Little Tailor, and The Twelve Dancing Princesses among others.) Incidentally, several years ago my siblings and I and our children had gathered at my parent's house for a weekend. My mother began reading a story out loud to some of the grandchildren and I watched all of my siblings drift into the room and take a seat. Even as grown-ups, we still love to hear my mother read.
When I was eight years old I began piano lessons. We didn't own a piano at the time so my mother drove me to my great-grandparent's house about one mile up the road to practice. Everything about those early years of piano was difficult. My mother, who loves to sing and played flute in the high school band, knew a little and could help. She stood behind me during those excruciating practices clapping and counting out the rhythm. I hated it. When struggling through these sessions we yelled back and forth at each other in whispers. All the frustration and passion were there, only the volume was missing. She wouldn't let me quit. She occasionally remarked, "Someday you'll thank me for this," to which I would sniff and reply tartly. I'll simply say that, discounting those early years, music has been one of the great loves of my life. It blesses me, my family, and I believe, many others regularly. I'm so glad she made me stick it out.
I tried out for cheerleader when I was in the 8th grade. I practiced for weeks and had every expectation of making it. But I had huge glasses and frizzy hair, I didn't know how to do back handsprings,and I looked terrible in those little skirts cheerleaders have to wear. My mother agonized. Should she discourage me? Should she save me from the pain of certain failure? The tryouts came. Teresa Helms flip-flopped all over the gym, Lacey Ann Warren had perfect hair and no glasses and Heidi Harding looked very sweet doing a cheer about 10 little Warriors in her tiny skirt. I was devastated. I held the tears in until I got home and then I cried and cried. So did my mother. But after a few days I felt better and when it was time to choose class officers I decided to try again. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen? Oh, yeah, failure. But hey, I'd already tasted that and the bitterness was fleeting. Learning not to be afraid of failure was a much richer gift to me than safety from temporary pain (or, for that matter, a year on the Freshman cheerleading squad). I am so grateful my mother had the courage to let me find that out.
When my mother heard Jay give his homecoming talk after returning from service in Argentina as a missionary she leaned over and said to my father, "Now there is a boy I could feel good about my daughter marrying!" Need I say more about her impeccable taste and good judgment?
When London was born (stillborn) my mother came and stayed. We buried her in Boise and then moved home for the summer to be near family and heal. We had many quiet conversations. I sometimes refer to my mom as my plain-speaking Jethro. She has a way of seeing past all the fluff and getting to the heart of the matter and helping me to get there, too. I don't remember what I said one day but I remember her response very clearly. She said, "Lauralee, you're finding out that you need the Savior just like the rest of us." And I knew she was right. All my life spiritual things had come so easily for me and now, suddenly I was facing death and oh, so much heartache. My mother's comment led me to visualize the Savior tenderly reaching out toward his lost lamb, and suddenly realizing that the lamb he was drawing toward him was me.
There are so many other things flooding into my mind as I write this. But it is late, I am tired and my children are gathered in the upstairs room waiting for their bedtime stories. Tommorrow I'll wash clothing, sweep floors, sew on Scout patches, change diapers, check homework, and hope to creep away by myself for a short read where no one will interrupt me. And if my children are really lucky, I'll make time to sit down in the middle of a mess and cut out paper dolls.
I love you very much, mom!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Dad
I said goodbye to my father this morning as he flew out of New Hampshire and back to Idaho. In April he and my mother will leave on their mission to be directors of welfare in Russia and Eastern Europe. (Mom is staying on one extra week to help me here.) Knowing that I won't see him for two years makes me teary and reflective.
My dad has always been my friend - even through my teenage years. In my opinion his greatest characteristic is his ability to listen non-judgmentally and love.
Some of my favorite memories of time spent with my dad revolve around the Minidoka County Fair. My brothers and I were each given a lamb and a pig to take to the fair in the summer. We were supposed to care for our animals and train them so they could be shown and later sold at the fair. I didn't do a great job of either the caring or the training so about one week before the fair I would get very serious about trying to get my now-grown lamb to walk around mildly on a lead. I confess, I despised working with my pig and spent even less time in the pigpen than with my lamb. Arriving at the fair with our camper which was stocked with food for meals and snacks we carefully washed (this was a soapy, soggy lot of fun) and groomed (dad did much of this while I "helped") our animals. With our 4-H club we had decorated their pens and now we were free to enjoy the fair until it was time to show our animals.
I showed my lamb and pig in two categories, quality (was the animal built properly and had it been cared for and fed to enhance it's physical traits?) and fitting & showing (had I trained the animal to respond to my cues and did I know how to best present the animal to the judge?). A purple Grand Champion ribbon was up for grabs in both categories.
I took a pig to the fair for 4 years. Each year I felt like something catastrophic happened during the showing of my pig. (Based on my effort I don't know what I expected.)
YEAR 1: My pig had a propensity for fighting with other pigs. (Supposedly if you spray hairspray on the pig's snout and they can't smell each other they don't fight. Also an extra person is stationed in the ring at all times and if a fight breaks out between porkers he separates them with a large, square board carried for that very purpose.) It is with regret that I inform you that my pig was very combative that year. So much so that one man was assigned just to cover me and my pig every time we were in the ring while another handled all the rest.
YEAR 2: My pig was clearly exhausted from all the excitement and as the judge was studying him he simply laid down in the ring. No amount of coaxing, pleading, or desperate praying seemed to appeal to his sense of decency and he laid there most of the round. When it was time to go back to his pen he rose and sauntered out.
YEAR 3: This pig apparently became nervous while being scrutinized by the judge and pee-peed down the leg of my white pants (customarily worn for showing animals in my 4-H days lest you think I was idiotic for wearing white)!
YEAR 4: This crafty swine managed to get by me (not hard) and also between the barrel and the wall of the judge's booth (next to impossible!) and up into the judge's stand where all the helpers were watching, keeping records for the judge, and handing out ribbons. Some of these good folks climbed up on their chairs. (After all, they had seen Pee-Pee pig from year 3.) Others managed to shoo him back out into the ring where I stood, mortified and defeated.
I never showed another pig and I take shameless delight in a good pork chop.
But back to memories of dad and I. As much as I loathed showing pigs, I loved showing sheep. My lamb and I got blue ribbons in both Fitting & Showing and Quality and it was lots of fun. My most memorable year was the year I was 14. I won my class in Quality and was in the ring again waiting for the judge to pick the grand champion out of all the lambs who had won in their individual weight divisions. I was excited and nervous, with layered permed hair and tinted glasses with an apple decal. (My sisters recently told me that of all the girls they've seen, puberty hit me the hardest. Sadly, they were right.) When the judge motioned for me to take my animal to the front of the line and handed me the purple ribbon I looked at my dad who always stood off to one side quietly watching. When our eyes met, I started to cry. I'm crying again as I write this just remembering that moment shared with my dad. (I forbid any of you to mention anything about puberty or, much worse, menopause in your comments.)
At the end of the fair each 4-Her could choose one animal to sell if they desired. I always sold my pig and used some of the money to purchase my school clothes. This year I sold my lamb knowing that the Grand Champion sheep always brought between four and five hundred dollars. When I came out with my lamb and the auctioneer began the bidding I watched my dad's face trying to get an idea of how things were going. He was completely unreadable and I couldn't understand a thing being said. But the bidding went on for a long time. When the auctioneer finally banged his gavel and yelled "Sold!" a cheer erupted from the stands. Dad came forward as I left the ring and now he was smiling. Really smiling. I sold my lamb that year for a whopping $1011 dollars. What a great memory with my dad.
You may have fallen asleep by now but I want to record one other memory from two years ago that was so meaningful to me. Our family had flown home to Idaho for the summer to visit and now it was time to return to New Hampshire. My dad had to leave early in the morning for an engagement so he came into the room where I was sleeping to say goodbye. I sat up groggily in bed and he hugged me and kissed me. Then he looked at my face and hugged and kissed me again. I found I couldn't go back to sleep after he left. I just laid there amazed that after all the years of successes and failures, of foolish mistakes and happy memories my dad STILL loved me very, very much. I was still his girl. What an incredible feeling it is to be loved so unconditionally.
In my family growing up we had a silly tradition of standing in the doorway and waving goodbye with a handkerchief (or if one of those couldn't be found, a dishcloth) in hand. I don't know when this started (perhaps with my sister, Renee) but it made all of us laugh and seemed to ease the pain of goodbye. In our little family here in New Hampshire we have carried on the tradition when friends and family have left after visits. Today as Jay drove away with my dad toward the airport the children and I stood at the door waving white kleenexes and I was struck suddenly thinking about another time when I stood waving a white handkerchief and rejoicing over the dedication of the Nauvoo temple. (For anyone reading who is a member of another faith I'll explain. At the completion of an LDS temple a special dedicatory celebration is held culminating in the joyful waving of white handkerchiefs.) On the day of the Nauvoo dedication I had a very personal and sacred witness of the eternal nature of families and I felt the interest of generations gone by in me, my life, and my family. I felt that same assurance again this morning as I watched my dad go down the driveway and out of sight. I was reminded that he is my dad forever, not just for today, and that gives me courage to let him go for now.
I love you very much, dad!
My dad has always been my friend - even through my teenage years. In my opinion his greatest characteristic is his ability to listen non-judgmentally and love.
Some of my favorite memories of time spent with my dad revolve around the Minidoka County Fair. My brothers and I were each given a lamb and a pig to take to the fair in the summer. We were supposed to care for our animals and train them so they could be shown and later sold at the fair. I didn't do a great job of either the caring or the training so about one week before the fair I would get very serious about trying to get my now-grown lamb to walk around mildly on a lead. I confess, I despised working with my pig and spent even less time in the pigpen than with my lamb. Arriving at the fair with our camper which was stocked with food for meals and snacks we carefully washed (this was a soapy, soggy lot of fun) and groomed (dad did much of this while I "helped") our animals. With our 4-H club we had decorated their pens and now we were free to enjoy the fair until it was time to show our animals.
I showed my lamb and pig in two categories, quality (was the animal built properly and had it been cared for and fed to enhance it's physical traits?) and fitting & showing (had I trained the animal to respond to my cues and did I know how to best present the animal to the judge?). A purple Grand Champion ribbon was up for grabs in both categories.
I took a pig to the fair for 4 years. Each year I felt like something catastrophic happened during the showing of my pig. (Based on my effort I don't know what I expected.)
YEAR 1: My pig had a propensity for fighting with other pigs. (Supposedly if you spray hairspray on the pig's snout and they can't smell each other they don't fight. Also an extra person is stationed in the ring at all times and if a fight breaks out between porkers he separates them with a large, square board carried for that very purpose.) It is with regret that I inform you that my pig was very combative that year. So much so that one man was assigned just to cover me and my pig every time we were in the ring while another handled all the rest.
YEAR 2: My pig was clearly exhausted from all the excitement and as the judge was studying him he simply laid down in the ring. No amount of coaxing, pleading, or desperate praying seemed to appeal to his sense of decency and he laid there most of the round. When it was time to go back to his pen he rose and sauntered out.
YEAR 3: This pig apparently became nervous while being scrutinized by the judge and pee-peed down the leg of my white pants (customarily worn for showing animals in my 4-H days lest you think I was idiotic for wearing white)!
YEAR 4: This crafty swine managed to get by me (not hard) and also between the barrel and the wall of the judge's booth (next to impossible!) and up into the judge's stand where all the helpers were watching, keeping records for the judge, and handing out ribbons. Some of these good folks climbed up on their chairs. (After all, they had seen Pee-Pee pig from year 3.) Others managed to shoo him back out into the ring where I stood, mortified and defeated.
I never showed another pig and I take shameless delight in a good pork chop.
But back to memories of dad and I. As much as I loathed showing pigs, I loved showing sheep. My lamb and I got blue ribbons in both Fitting & Showing and Quality and it was lots of fun. My most memorable year was the year I was 14. I won my class in Quality and was in the ring again waiting for the judge to pick the grand champion out of all the lambs who had won in their individual weight divisions. I was excited and nervous, with layered permed hair and tinted glasses with an apple decal. (My sisters recently told me that of all the girls they've seen, puberty hit me the hardest. Sadly, they were right.) When the judge motioned for me to take my animal to the front of the line and handed me the purple ribbon I looked at my dad who always stood off to one side quietly watching. When our eyes met, I started to cry. I'm crying again as I write this just remembering that moment shared with my dad. (I forbid any of you to mention anything about puberty or, much worse, menopause in your comments.)
At the end of the fair each 4-Her could choose one animal to sell if they desired. I always sold my pig and used some of the money to purchase my school clothes. This year I sold my lamb knowing that the Grand Champion sheep always brought between four and five hundred dollars. When I came out with my lamb and the auctioneer began the bidding I watched my dad's face trying to get an idea of how things were going. He was completely unreadable and I couldn't understand a thing being said. But the bidding went on for a long time. When the auctioneer finally banged his gavel and yelled "Sold!" a cheer erupted from the stands. Dad came forward as I left the ring and now he was smiling. Really smiling. I sold my lamb that year for a whopping $1011 dollars. What a great memory with my dad.
You may have fallen asleep by now but I want to record one other memory from two years ago that was so meaningful to me. Our family had flown home to Idaho for the summer to visit and now it was time to return to New Hampshire. My dad had to leave early in the morning for an engagement so he came into the room where I was sleeping to say goodbye. I sat up groggily in bed and he hugged me and kissed me. Then he looked at my face and hugged and kissed me again. I found I couldn't go back to sleep after he left. I just laid there amazed that after all the years of successes and failures, of foolish mistakes and happy memories my dad STILL loved me very, very much. I was still his girl. What an incredible feeling it is to be loved so unconditionally.
In my family growing up we had a silly tradition of standing in the doorway and waving goodbye with a handkerchief (or if one of those couldn't be found, a dishcloth) in hand. I don't know when this started (perhaps with my sister, Renee) but it made all of us laugh and seemed to ease the pain of goodbye. In our little family here in New Hampshire we have carried on the tradition when friends and family have left after visits. Today as Jay drove away with my dad toward the airport the children and I stood at the door waving white kleenexes and I was struck suddenly thinking about another time when I stood waving a white handkerchief and rejoicing over the dedication of the Nauvoo temple. (For anyone reading who is a member of another faith I'll explain. At the completion of an LDS temple a special dedicatory celebration is held culminating in the joyful waving of white handkerchiefs.) On the day of the Nauvoo dedication I had a very personal and sacred witness of the eternal nature of families and I felt the interest of generations gone by in me, my life, and my family. I felt that same assurance again this morning as I watched my dad go down the driveway and out of sight. I was reminded that he is my dad forever, not just for today, and that gives me courage to let him go for now.
I love you very much, dad!
Friday, January 23, 2009
On turning 40 #2 (Jay)
Turning 40 means I've had 18 years (16 of them married) to learn about this fascinating man I married. They have been great years filled with much laughter and a few tears. The following are some memorable moments from our life together:
Making a snowman at midnight after returning from I don't remember where. Magical.
Being bad household managers together. When we were newlyweds we both worked and neither one of us liked cleaning very much. We knew exactly how many days we could go without washing glasses. One night when we had waited until the last possible minute to do dishes we washed almost everything we owned and stacked it carefully and precariously on and around the drainer. In the middle of the night the pile came crashing down and frightened us badly.
Going to Jackson Hole, Wyoming on our honeymoon and every anniversary for many years afterward. Some years when we were in school we were so poor we gave blood plasma to save up the money we needed for a few days away together. I love the Tetons because they remind me of Jay and happy times.
Disagreeing about a purchase we'd made - a throw. Jay thought it should go on the floor, you know, a throw rug. I thought it belonged on the back of the couch - a throw blanket. We finally compromised and put in on the couch for one week, the floor the next and so forth and so on...
Losing our first daughter and finding out that there was steel in both of us, that Heavenly Father always keeps His promises, and that we could count on each other and so many other people who loved us to get through difficult times.
Living in the Governor's Mansion, loving the Leavitt family and their children and attending hundreds of events (working capacity, of course but still fun)while there. My favorite? The three annual Christmas parties for families. Very informal and fun. Yummy food, too.
Eating roast beef in our bathroom - Jay and his brother Cash, that is, while I laid on the couch in the family room pregnant and thoroughly nauseated by the smell. Why didn't I go into the bedroom and allow them to eat at the table like civilized men? Because I was in my 20's as opposed to my 40's and also because Jay was incredibly kind.
Wondering why people thought marriage was so hard. What was the matter with them and their marriages?
Having our first son, Topher, and doting on every smile, every move, every breath. Doing that all over again when Ronan, Lacey Grace, and Lincoln were born. Our children have brought us great joy and growth.
Wondering why we ever thought marriage was so easy. (Notice that we started wondering this immediately AFTER we had children.)
Taking walks together.
Reading good books together. The first book we read together was a Louis L'Amour called Bendigo Shafter. Jay read it out loud to me. Then it was my turn to choose a book and we read it out loud together. (I can't remember what I chose but I do know that Jay may be one of the only men alive to have read the book Jane Eyre). We finished those early books quickly. Now we have 4 children and we've been reading the same book, Truck;A Love Story, for about 8 months. Every time Jay starts reading I fall asleep and not because it's boring. (He would want me to qualify that.)
Talking. This has been tricky, I'll be honest. I may say to Jay, "What do you think we should do about this problem with our child?" Silence and waiting for 3 seconds. "Well?" I ask. "I'm thinking," he replies. I wait longer. I wait a very long time. "Do you remember the question?" I ask. "Yes," he says, "I'm still thinking." You get the picture.
Learning Christlike attributes like patience, forgiveness, and love by practicing and practicing and practicing with each other.
Moving together to new places - I'm sorry to tell you that four of these moves have occurred on Jay's actual birthday (August 30) and the packing for the moves on our anniversary (August 29). We've never been great planners. The flip side of that is that neither one of us gets mad about things not being perfect on these days. We just roll with the punches and hope that next year will be more fun.
This is just a tiny sampling of life with a very complex and wonderful man. What will we find out about each other this year?
Making a snowman at midnight after returning from I don't remember where. Magical.
Being bad household managers together. When we were newlyweds we both worked and neither one of us liked cleaning very much. We knew exactly how many days we could go without washing glasses. One night when we had waited until the last possible minute to do dishes we washed almost everything we owned and stacked it carefully and precariously on and around the drainer. In the middle of the night the pile came crashing down and frightened us badly.
Going to Jackson Hole, Wyoming on our honeymoon and every anniversary for many years afterward. Some years when we were in school we were so poor we gave blood plasma to save up the money we needed for a few days away together. I love the Tetons because they remind me of Jay and happy times.
Disagreeing about a purchase we'd made - a throw. Jay thought it should go on the floor, you know, a throw rug. I thought it belonged on the back of the couch - a throw blanket. We finally compromised and put in on the couch for one week, the floor the next and so forth and so on...
Losing our first daughter and finding out that there was steel in both of us, that Heavenly Father always keeps His promises, and that we could count on each other and so many other people who loved us to get through difficult times.
Living in the Governor's Mansion, loving the Leavitt family and their children and attending hundreds of events (working capacity, of course but still fun)while there. My favorite? The three annual Christmas parties for families. Very informal and fun. Yummy food, too.
Eating roast beef in our bathroom - Jay and his brother Cash, that is, while I laid on the couch in the family room pregnant and thoroughly nauseated by the smell. Why didn't I go into the bedroom and allow them to eat at the table like civilized men? Because I was in my 20's as opposed to my 40's and also because Jay was incredibly kind.
Wondering why people thought marriage was so hard. What was the matter with them and their marriages?
Having our first son, Topher, and doting on every smile, every move, every breath. Doing that all over again when Ronan, Lacey Grace, and Lincoln were born. Our children have brought us great joy and growth.
Wondering why we ever thought marriage was so easy. (Notice that we started wondering this immediately AFTER we had children.)
Taking walks together.
Reading good books together. The first book we read together was a Louis L'Amour called Bendigo Shafter. Jay read it out loud to me. Then it was my turn to choose a book and we read it out loud together. (I can't remember what I chose but I do know that Jay may be one of the only men alive to have read the book Jane Eyre). We finished those early books quickly. Now we have 4 children and we've been reading the same book, Truck;A Love Story, for about 8 months. Every time Jay starts reading I fall asleep and not because it's boring. (He would want me to qualify that.)
Talking. This has been tricky, I'll be honest. I may say to Jay, "What do you think we should do about this problem with our child?" Silence and waiting for 3 seconds. "Well?" I ask. "I'm thinking," he replies. I wait longer. I wait a very long time. "Do you remember the question?" I ask. "Yes," he says, "I'm still thinking." You get the picture.
Learning Christlike attributes like patience, forgiveness, and love by practicing and practicing and practicing with each other.
Moving together to new places - I'm sorry to tell you that four of these moves have occurred on Jay's actual birthday (August 30) and the packing for the moves on our anniversary (August 29). We've never been great planners. The flip side of that is that neither one of us gets mad about things not being perfect on these days. We just roll with the punches and hope that next year will be more fun.
This is just a tiny sampling of life with a very complex and wonderful man. What will we find out about each other this year?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
On turning 40
I may be in the minority, but there are some things I love about growing older. While I'm a little dismayed by the changes in my metabolism and skin, I figure those things are trade-offs for much better gifts. Over the next little while I want to consider some of the things I've traded my youth for and remember to be glad.
The thing I love most about getting older is the rich association I share with so many great people. When I was 18 I had a handful of friends and family members who enriched my life. When I turned 40 last week I realized I am blessed with a great multiplying of that number. I have a husband I nearly always adore, children of my own, brothers and sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews, a mom-in-law whose friendship I cherish, and hundreds of dear, dear friends met along the path of life in the various circumstances and places I have found myself. These people are in addition to my parents, siblings, grandparents, and the childhood friends of my late teens and early twenties. How could I ever exchange these people and the rich memories of their love and friendship for my youth? I love the memories made on my mission in the Dominican Republic walking down dusty streets and teaching by lantern-light people who were my spiritual equals and in many cases, my superiors. I loved my courtship and subsequent marriage to Jay and fondly remember our years in the student wards. The gang of friends we made and loved there helped support us through the loss of our first daughter and after all these years I still value and sometimes crave their companionship. All the family members who have come into the Burton family and the Hill family since and during our marriage have brought their own share of joy, comradery, and love. I think of them one by one as I write this and feel so grateful. The neighbors and ward members in Boise, Salt Lake City, and New Hampshire have contributed so much to the richness of my life. I almost hate lumping everyone together in such broad categories because I think of all these people in a most individual way and remember the personal ways they have touched and improved my life. Truly, how could I ever long to be 19 again? Things are ever so much more beautiful now.
The thing I love most about getting older is the rich association I share with so many great people. When I was 18 I had a handful of friends and family members who enriched my life. When I turned 40 last week I realized I am blessed with a great multiplying of that number. I have a husband I nearly always adore, children of my own, brothers and sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews, a mom-in-law whose friendship I cherish, and hundreds of dear, dear friends met along the path of life in the various circumstances and places I have found myself. These people are in addition to my parents, siblings, grandparents, and the childhood friends of my late teens and early twenties. How could I ever exchange these people and the rich memories of their love and friendship for my youth? I love the memories made on my mission in the Dominican Republic walking down dusty streets and teaching by lantern-light people who were my spiritual equals and in many cases, my superiors. I loved my courtship and subsequent marriage to Jay and fondly remember our years in the student wards. The gang of friends we made and loved there helped support us through the loss of our first daughter and after all these years I still value and sometimes crave their companionship. All the family members who have come into the Burton family and the Hill family since and during our marriage have brought their own share of joy, comradery, and love. I think of them one by one as I write this and feel so grateful. The neighbors and ward members in Boise, Salt Lake City, and New Hampshire have contributed so much to the richness of my life. I almost hate lumping everyone together in such broad categories because I think of all these people in a most individual way and remember the personal ways they have touched and improved my life. Truly, how could I ever long to be 19 again? Things are ever so much more beautiful now.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Interjections!
Remember those old Schoolhouse Rock cartoons that came on each Saturday morning like Conjunction Junction, I'm Just a Bill, Unpack Your Adjectives,and so many more? Jay and I have enjoyed watching those again with our kids. Now that I'm a grown-up they seem so profoundly clever.
This week I'm thinking of one called Interjections! during which at one point a cartoon guy shouts, "Hey! That's not fair! Givin' a guy a shot down there!" right as the Doctor gives him a poke on his posterior. Last week I underwent surgery and spent a few days in the hospital and am still recovering. I planned during the recovery to organize my journals and recipe files and read several books. I had no idea that recovery time is actually needed for well, recovery. Five days after surgery I finally finished the last 60 pages of the book I had planned to finish that first night in the hospital. I haven't even glanced at my journals. My doctor was professionally vague about the recovery saying that I would be a little green on the first day but that I would be very bored by the rest of my hospital stay. I took him at his word but now I know better and I join that little cartoon guy interjecting, "Hey! That's not fair!" Encouraging me to set such unrealistic goals. I have another interjection for my doctor. "Hmph!"
This week I'm thinking of one called Interjections! during which at one point a cartoon guy shouts, "Hey! That's not fair! Givin' a guy a shot down there!" right as the Doctor gives him a poke on his posterior. Last week I underwent surgery and spent a few days in the hospital and am still recovering. I planned during the recovery to organize my journals and recipe files and read several books. I had no idea that recovery time is actually needed for well, recovery. Five days after surgery I finally finished the last 60 pages of the book I had planned to finish that first night in the hospital. I haven't even glanced at my journals. My doctor was professionally vague about the recovery saying that I would be a little green on the first day but that I would be very bored by the rest of my hospital stay. I took him at his word but now I know better and I join that little cartoon guy interjecting, "Hey! That's not fair!" Encouraging me to set such unrealistic goals. I have another interjection for my doctor. "Hmph!"
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Now I know
When Topher (now 11) was 5 or 6 his older cousin Shaina began taking violin lessons. She graciously agreed to play for our family on Christmas Eve. As she played Topher leaned over and whispered, "Mom, why did Uncle Brent and Aunt JeNeale buy Shaina such a squeaky violin?"
Fast forward 5 or 6 years and now we find Topher, already a promising young pianist playing tenor sax with the elementary school band. I am astonished at how quickly he is learning to play this instrument and in addition, the sheer volume of the practice sessions has cleared our home of common household pests! Sometimes when he is practicing he makes extraordinary high-pitched sounds in the middle of a well-known melody such as, say, Good King Wenceslas. These jarring nuances send him and our whole family into fits of irresponsible, irrepressible, irreproachable laughter.
On Friday night we attended the Rindge Memorial School concert. Ronan and the other 3rd graders sang some wonderful Christmas songs (I know it's January, I'll explain in a future post) and Topher and his band played. The band consists of 2 alto saxaphones and Topher's tenor sax, 2 drummers, 1 trombone, 1 trumpet, and 700 flutes. When the band began to play I had an epiphany. Do you ever wonder about the origin of certain words, words like waft, seizure, or for that matter, epiphany? Who makes these words up? Who says them the first time and then who uses them over and over until they finally achieve dictionary status? In that 10 minutes of elementary musicality I pictured another parent much like myself sitting at her child's first band concert. Now I know how the word cacophony was born.
P.S. Can anyone tell me why all those parents bought their children such squeaky instruments?
Fast forward 5 or 6 years and now we find Topher, already a promising young pianist playing tenor sax with the elementary school band. I am astonished at how quickly he is learning to play this instrument and in addition, the sheer volume of the practice sessions has cleared our home of common household pests! Sometimes when he is practicing he makes extraordinary high-pitched sounds in the middle of a well-known melody such as, say, Good King Wenceslas. These jarring nuances send him and our whole family into fits of irresponsible, irrepressible, irreproachable laughter.
On Friday night we attended the Rindge Memorial School concert. Ronan and the other 3rd graders sang some wonderful Christmas songs (I know it's January, I'll explain in a future post) and Topher and his band played. The band consists of 2 alto saxaphones and Topher's tenor sax, 2 drummers, 1 trombone, 1 trumpet, and 700 flutes. When the band began to play I had an epiphany. Do you ever wonder about the origin of certain words, words like waft, seizure, or for that matter, epiphany? Who makes these words up? Who says them the first time and then who uses them over and over until they finally achieve dictionary status? In that 10 minutes of elementary musicality I pictured another parent much like myself sitting at her child's first band concert. Now I know how the word cacophony was born.
P.S. Can anyone tell me why all those parents bought their children such squeaky instruments?
Friday, January 9, 2009
Mission!
My parents got their mission call last night. They have been called as welfare missionaries to Moscow, Russia. My dad, who spent 6 weeks in Russia 12 years ago, is thrilled. My mom - is terrified. I am jealous. They are going to speak with the fellow in charge of welfare missions today and will be able to learn more about their assignment and then I'll know more. They leave April twenty-something and will serve an 18 month term. Hooray for them!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Angelic Whirlwind
Today Susan called. She asked what I was doing. I looked around at dirty dishes and piles of laundry. "I'll be here at home," I demurely responded. "Well, I'm coming over. You have two and a half hours of my time this morning. I'll help you clean your house before your parents come." I quickly hid the underwear pile waiting to be folded on the couch and checked to make sure there weren't any others on the bathroom floor. I ran to the basement to clear a path to the Christmas boxes and brought up as many as I could so Susan would have absolutely no reason to go down there. I took out some trash and sorted through recycling because, heaven forbid, she might otherwise venture into the garage. I shut my bedroom door. I brushed my teeth. All the while I was asking myself, "Why is it so scary to let my friend see that life happens around here and doesn't always get cleaned up? Why is it so hard to be the receiver in this way?" I recently shared a very personal entry from my journal with her and that was easier than accepting her generous cleaning offer. Why is that?
When she arrived we took down the Christmas tree. She wrapped each ornament in paper and labeled it! We took down the Christmas village and boxed up the little trees, people and houses. While we worked we talked. I learned a little about her parents and we talked about our hopes and fears for our children. I wanted to say something profound and helpful when she asked my opinion on something she worried about but couldn't really think of anything. I remembered the time I'd been sick and she came with dinner and a family home evening lesson (it was Monday night) and even treats for afterward. Not to mention the time she learned that I had lost something very valuable and called offering to replace it with something valuable of her own. How do you repay someone who is, in every way, an angelic whirlwind? I don't even have time to write a thank you note for the previous kindness before another is extended.
There are other such friends. Friends who have seen our family fall down and get back up again and again. Friends whose gifts of love are too sacred and precious to record publicly. While our family is a strong and happy family, we have experienced some challenging things together in the last few years. All my life I have been trained to be the giver, not the receiver. I felt like I was the one who could make life a little easier for someone else. But in these last few years, I have been the receiver of physical, spiritual and emotional support over and over and over again.
I remember once hearing someone say, "I don't accept charity." The person speaking made it seem that it was dishonorable to be indebted to anyone for anything. In the past I loved feeling like I was strong enough to meet all the needs of my family by myself. But that was the long ago past. I have since learned that I do need charity. I need a lot of it. I hope I am learning to accept charitable offers with humility and grace and in so doing, remember again how very much I need the Savior and His charity. And I hope that by being the receiver again and again I am learning to be a better giver - more generous and Christlike in my service, in my conversation and in my opinions. I hope that by finding myself in a humbler state as I have these last years, I might now turn my eye upon others trying to see them as the Savior sees me; with all my flaws, blemishes and weaknesses (things as they truly are)but with the ability to focus on what is best and most beautiful.
At some point during Susan's visit baby Michael, the youngest of her six children, needed his diaper changed and Susan asked to borrow wipes. I courageously led her upstairs to my bedroom and opened the door. There was the stack of unfolded underwear on my unmade bed; there was the changing table piled high with various and sundries that have nothing to do with changing a baby; there was the ironing board and 3 baskets full of wrinkled things; there was the stack of books and videos waiting to be organized and put away; there were all the dirty socks on the floor and the wet towels hanging over the bed rails to dry; there it all was. Susan reached for the wipes and said, "What a cute bed!"
When she arrived we took down the Christmas tree. She wrapped each ornament in paper and labeled it! We took down the Christmas village and boxed up the little trees, people and houses. While we worked we talked. I learned a little about her parents and we talked about our hopes and fears for our children. I wanted to say something profound and helpful when she asked my opinion on something she worried about but couldn't really think of anything. I remembered the time I'd been sick and she came with dinner and a family home evening lesson (it was Monday night) and even treats for afterward. Not to mention the time she learned that I had lost something very valuable and called offering to replace it with something valuable of her own. How do you repay someone who is, in every way, an angelic whirlwind? I don't even have time to write a thank you note for the previous kindness before another is extended.
There are other such friends. Friends who have seen our family fall down and get back up again and again. Friends whose gifts of love are too sacred and precious to record publicly. While our family is a strong and happy family, we have experienced some challenging things together in the last few years. All my life I have been trained to be the giver, not the receiver. I felt like I was the one who could make life a little easier for someone else. But in these last few years, I have been the receiver of physical, spiritual and emotional support over and over and over again.
I remember once hearing someone say, "I don't accept charity." The person speaking made it seem that it was dishonorable to be indebted to anyone for anything. In the past I loved feeling like I was strong enough to meet all the needs of my family by myself. But that was the long ago past. I have since learned that I do need charity. I need a lot of it. I hope I am learning to accept charitable offers with humility and grace and in so doing, remember again how very much I need the Savior and His charity. And I hope that by being the receiver again and again I am learning to be a better giver - more generous and Christlike in my service, in my conversation and in my opinions. I hope that by finding myself in a humbler state as I have these last years, I might now turn my eye upon others trying to see them as the Savior sees me; with all my flaws, blemishes and weaknesses (things as they truly are)but with the ability to focus on what is best and most beautiful.
At some point during Susan's visit baby Michael, the youngest of her six children, needed his diaper changed and Susan asked to borrow wipes. I courageously led her upstairs to my bedroom and opened the door. There was the stack of unfolded underwear on my unmade bed; there was the changing table piled high with various and sundries that have nothing to do with changing a baby; there was the ironing board and 3 baskets full of wrinkled things; there was the stack of books and videos waiting to be organized and put away; there were all the dirty socks on the floor and the wet towels hanging over the bed rails to dry; there it all was. Susan reached for the wipes and said, "What a cute bed!"
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