Peaks and Valleys

Church in a Russian Branch

2010-06-20T08:19:00.000-07:00

I already wrote today about an experience that I had at church here in Russia but I forgot to tell about what little I saw of church here today. The branch is very small, maybe forty people. They meet in half of a building (the other half is a beauty salon) which has been renovated. There is a long narrow room where we meet for Sacrament meeting. Then the Relief Society gathers their chairs in a circle and meets in the front of this room for Relief Society. (They do a 2-hour block here. They simply do not have the manpower to staff all the auxilliaries.) Today my mother was called to be a Primary Teacher. These little children will be so blessed. She will have a translator we think. She says, "I will prepare it completely and find visual aids. Then I will do whatever the leadership wants me to do." She doesn't know what age group, it may be all of the children (There aren't many) or it may be just one. I love the faith of my mother. I love her willingness to serve in whatever way, in whatever capacity, whenever and wherever she is needed. What an incredible example she and my father are to me.

Here is a picture of the chapel.

Here is a picture of the stairs that go up to the primary room and one other classroom

Sunday - Miracles

2010-06-20T06:54:00.000-07:00

I was part of a miracle today and it touched me deeply. I was reminded again that the Lord knows the names and needs of all of His children and occasionally, when we're very lucky, He allows us to be part of a miracle. Such was my experience today.

To get to the branch my parents serve in takes about 90 minutes. Walk, metro, walk, more metro, walk and you have arrived. 90 minutes! We arrive shortly before church begins. I am excited to visit a Russian branch of the church. I am particularly interested in attending Relief Society as I currently serve in the Relief Society of my home branch and want to be able to tell the Peterborough sisters about it. There is a young man at church who is visiting for the first time. He speaks limited Russian because he is from Cuba. Spanish is his native tongue. I served my mission next door to his country in the Dominican Republic on the island of Hispaniola. I once spoke Spanish fluently but not now. I have forgotten so much and have lost the confidence it takes to speak well. But today there is a young man who needs to know about the restored church, who doesn't have access to it in Cuba where the church is not allowed yet, and I agree to translate the meeting for him. This means that an American missionary translates the meeting from Russian to English for me, and then I translate the meeting from English to Spanish for Ivan - my young friend from Cuba. I pray silently and fervently that Heavenly Father will grant me the gift of tongues so that I can communicate again in this language from my mission. And my prayer is answered. While there are several important words that I simply cannot remember, the language comes flowing back into my mind and out of my mouth. "Do you understand me?" I ask Ivan in spanish. He assures me that he does and I can tell by the questions he is asking that he and I are on the very same page. This is one of the miracles. One of the speakers mentions a living prophet. Ivan turns to me with excitement. "You have a prophet?" "We do." There is a little talk about Elder Scott who was in Russia 3 weeks ago. I explain that Elder Scott is one of twelve apostles. More amazement. "You believe in apostles?" he asks earnestly. "Yes," I tell him - just like in the days of Christ." He is holding a copy of the Book of Mormon in Spanish which the sister missionaries have given him. He keeps gesturing througout the meeting to the subtitle Another Testament of Jesus Christ. He loves the idea that this book is not intended to take the place of the bible but rather, is an additional witness of the Savior.

After sacrament meeting the sister missionaries teach the gospel principles lesson in Russian. My dad and I invite Ivan to another room with us and invite him to tell us a little about himself and ask any questions that he may have. This is the story he tells us.

He was born in Cuba. Nine days after his birth his mother died due to complications related to a Ceserean section. He and his siblings were raised by their father who he described as a good man. He was very active in the apostolic church in Cuba. One thing in their doctrine puzzled him. He shows us that in the book of Ephesians, chapter 4, verse 11 it talks about prophets and apostles and evangelists and pastors and teachers. He says his church doesn't believe in apostles. This has bothered him. He feels that the true church would believe in all of these priesthood offices - that the true church would definitely have apostles. He continues to study. He doesn't remember how this happened but during this time in Cuba he came across 2 videos that have an impact on him. My father takes out the Liahona and shows him pictures of the members of the First Presidency. He points to President Monson and says, "This man was on one of the videos. I recognize him. He was standing in front of a large, beautiful building with lots of flags." He tells us that he felt good about the things the prophet said. Then he goes on. "Several years ago," he says, "I had a dream. In the dream I was well-dressed and I was standing in front of a very large congregation teaching about Jesus Christ. When I woke up I knew that the Lord had called me to be a missionary." He tells us that he leaves Cuba and comes to Russia. From there he is going on to Ecuador to teach. He produces a document from his minister in Cuba, a letter of recommendation, which he carries with him. I ask him why he chooses to come to Russia. He explains that for Cubans it is easy to come to Russia (and also to Ecuador) because you don't need a visa to travel between these three countries. He feels called to Russia and so he packs his bags and says goodbye to his father. He considers himself an ambassador of the Lord. He wants to preach about Jesus. He speaks no Russian when he comes and lives in an apartment with so many, many others trying to make ends meet. He studies Russian. Somehow he becomes acquainted with a christian family who are quite wealthy. They own a business making beautiful Russian coats for women. They invite him to come and live at their offices and in exchange for living there he cleans and takes care of the offices. He is soooo grateful for this living arrangement where he pays rent with work instead of rubles. During this time the Jehovah's Witnesses find him and teach him. He says that they are very persistant. One doctrine that is confusing to him is that they believe that Jesus Christ is just a man (this is how he explained it to me.) One night as he was studying his bible he felt the Holy Ghost say to him, "Jesus Christ is not just a man. Jesus Christ is God." He told me, "The Lord revealed to me that this church was not the right one." He is very well-versed in the bible because he studies it often. He tells my dad and I that the Holy Ghost often reveals things to him. He shares some examples and I am amazed that he understands doctrine of the church without ever having been a member.

Then he meets the sister missionaries on the metro. They introduce themselves as missionaries. He introduces himself to them as a missionary also, using his limited Russian. The sister missionaries tell him a little about The Book of Mormon and promise to find one for him in Spanish. They invite him to church on Sunday and get his phone number. Later in the week they call him on the phone. They are able to communicate enough to give him details about the church and where and when it meets. He comes. (We later learn from the sister missionaries that one of the missionary apartments was recently closed. The sister missionaries living there were sent to different areas to serve. As they sorted through the books to be returned to the mission office they found a Book of Mormon in spanish. They gave all the extra books to the office and kept just one. The Book of Mormon in Spanish. Why? The sister who brought it with her doesn't speak Spanish - both she and her companion are Russian. And so when Ivan needs a Book of Mormon in his mother tongue - they just happen to have one. Another miracle.

Ivan tells dad and I that he feels good about the things he is learning. They make sense to him. He says, "I believe I have found the true church." I ask him if he would like to be baptized and he says, "Yes." He wants to know if we believe in miracles. I ask him, "Do you think it is a coincidence that both you and I are here today?" For the first time he realizes that I don't live in Russia, that I am only visiting. "I wasn't here last week," I say, "and I won't be here next week but this one week, your first week at church in Russia, we are both here at the same time. You speak Spanish and I speak Spanish. Yes, my friend, I believe in miracles. I also believe that Heavenly Father is very interested in you and your life. I can absolutely see you as you saw yourself in your dream, preaching the gospel to a large congregation in a white shirt and tie. I feel that Heavenly Father has wonderful plans for you and I am so grateful to have played a small part.

Tomorrow Renee, Kaylyn, and my aunt Sher are flying to St. Petersburg. Originally, I was planning to go, too. But when it came time to purchase our tickets I found that I didn't want to go. I just wanted to stay here in Moscow with my parents. I find it miraculous that I am here and available to translate tomorrow for Ivan's first missionary discussion until the missionaries are able to find someone else in the Europe East Area that speaks spanish.

Do I believe in miracles? Do I believe that the Savior cares about us individually and sometimes orchestrates our lives in wonderful ways? As they say here in Russia, "Da!" (Yes!)

When my sisters and my aunt began planning this trip I had no intention of coming. Jay and I just bought a house and we didn't have money for me to make this trip. My parents invited me to come and they would pay for my ticket and help me with expenses. Gratefully, I came along.

My sisters are joking today that the Lord said (think about this next sentence in a deep man voice), "DeVere and Arva, Bring your daughter to Russia." Pause. "No, not those two!" (Referring to Kaylyn and Renee) "The other one!" And as an afterthought, "Alright, the rest can come as tourists."

I am grateful to have been an instrument in the hands of the Lord today.

Saturday - Russian outdoor tourist market

2010-06-20T06:53:00.001-07:00

Coming soon with photos.

Friday - Exploring, Borsch, and Folk Dancing

2010-06-20T06:51:00.000-07:00

This post and photos are upcoming.

Thursday - St. Basils, The Kremlin, and Russian Ballet

2010-06-20T06:49:00.001-07:00

Watch for this post coming soon.

How do you say bathroom in Russian?

2010-06-19T08:33:00.000-07:00

One thing I love about this trip is that my parents actually live here and some of the things we do with them are not typical "touristy" kinds of things. The following is an example of a mormon missionary outing for the couple missionaries that went terribly wrong.

One of mom and dad's senior couple friends learned that we could visit a traditional porcelain making factory in the blue and white style that we see everywhere. We agreed to meet on one of the metro platforms at 9:45 a.m. and all would leave together from there. Two darling sister missionaries lead our group.

Before going any further let me just say that the amount of walking a person does in this country is staggering. First you walk from your apartment to the metro. In the case of my parents, this walk takes about 20 minutes. Next you board the metro which deserves an entire post in itself on another day. To make a long story short, when you are on the metro you must never, NEVER meet the eyes of another person. Never smile. Stare off into space or straight ahead. This can be particularly awkward if the metro is very crowded. If you have the luxury of finding a seat, congratulations. Now people will squeeze on and hold the bar directly over where you are sitting and all around you. This makes staring off into space incredibly difficult. Instead you find yourself staring at peoples belt buckles or belly buttons, neither of which seem socially acceptable in metro culture. Simply close your eyes. That's your only option. Sorry. If you didn't get a seat you must stand. The personal space that even I, warm-hearted American farmgirl, require is severly compromised. I recently found myself standing bum to bum with the person behind me. I don't mean close. I mean my bottom was actually touching a complete stranger's and we had to ride along that way for some time. And at the same time the person sitting on the bench in front of me was staring at my belt buckle. Awkward.

Finally, get off the metro at your stop. Now it's time to walk. For a long time. Again. In the case of this outing with the couples we are going to board a train that will take us out into the country. One of the couples is late and we miss the train. Because the next train won't arrive for 3 hours the sisters suggest that we take a different train that leads us a little closer to our destination and then catch a local taxi to the pottery factory. It is a long way from the train station to find a marchuka (taxi-van) to take us to the factory.
We happen by a McDonald's as we walk and stop in for bite to eat and more importantly, a bathroom. The manager graciously allows all of us to sit in the little room reserved for children's birthday parties. It feels like a party.
These people my parents serve with are a blast. Anyway, thank goodness for that bathroom. It was the last one we saw for the rest of the day.

More walking and finally we arrive at a bus station. We hire the "marchuka" and get in. We drive for a while and the driver pulls over. We get out and look around. We are in the middle of nowhere. There is more discussion between the sister missionaries and the driver while all of the senior couples participate in a chinese fire drill (not really, but we later wished we had). Soon we all pile in again and drive some more. When he stops this time we find ourselves in front of a small shop advertising pottery. This is definitely not a factory. Where is the factory? No one seems to know. The taxi-van drives away.

My sister Renee has a very small bladder and looks around for a place to use the restroom. Nowhere. There are very few public restrooms in Russia. In the pottery shop the senior missionaries are rallying their spirits after the dissappointment of not finding the factory. We have been in transit so long now that even if the pottery factory does, indeed, exist we don't have time to look for it. We must content ourselves with buying some of the pottery.

Inside the shop there are many lovely things to buy - from table service and dolls to clocks and animals.
Everyone enjoys choosing. Now you would think that after many rich (relatively speaking) americans come into your store and spend many rubles and one of those customers (my sister, Renee) needs a bathroom desperately you would try to help. The proprietor does exactly the opposite. She seems shocked and even a little offended by the question. She insists that there is no bathroom in the back of her shop. Renee keeps holding it.

After making our purchases we begin to walk back to the station where our original train would have dropped us off had we not missed it. It is raining and we walk for 45 minutes. This walk is enjoyable for everyone except my sister Renee who, in addition to struggling with bathroom withdrawal, steps down in a deep hole and covers one foot and shoe completely with mud. Oh, man. We have lots of time to look at the little summer cottages called dotchas (rhymes with gotcha) and their complex gingerbreading and beautiful gardens. This is a time to see the Russian countryside and talk to the missionaries. Even though my feet are killing me and I'm worried about my sister who keeps muttering things like "Doesn't anyone here ever need to go to the bathroom?" and my mom who is very tired I have to say I still enjoyed the walk. The sisters explain that this is a typical Russian experience. And this is exactly what I was hoping to have here in Russia. While I definitely want to see their beautiful tourist attractions, I care more about meeting the people and catching a glimpse of life as they experience it. And this lack of any bit of convenience while enjoying their beautiful countryside is a real taste of life here. So are the yummy tomatoes and cucumbers we buy from a woman selling them from her backyard. When asked about a bathroom she shakes her head but then, with great kindness, she explains that her neighbor who lives next door is out of town and that my sis can go to the bathroom in THE NEIGHBOR'S BACK YARD. Think about the last time you left town and ask your neighbor to watch over your house. I'm telling you, you never know what you may have missed. Renee thanks her and holds it.

We arrive at the train station. This is a picture of a large snail near the train station. All things considered, I think it may have arrived at its destination first.
We take the train back to the metro, and the metro back to the street corner that is 20 minutes away from my parent's apartment. And then we walk. Again. Toward my parent's home here and a real indoor bathroom. Exhausting, frustrating, wet, wonderful day.

P.S. When we arrived home Renee made the mistake of going into the family room to put her bags down. I beat her to the bathroom.

Coming Tomorrow

2010-06-15T14:30:00.000-07:00

Russian toilets and a visit to a porcelain doll-making factory.

Family. Here.

2010-06-15T12:33:00.000-07:00

I love being here in Russia with my sisters and parents. My sister Renee is busy mother of 4 active (She sometimes even uses the word "wild") children ranging from 11 yrs. to almost 2. My sister Kaylyn is a nurse working the night shift in Salt Lake City and being supportive auntie to 23 nieces and nephews. We rarely have uninterupted time together. My own supportive auntie, my mother's sister Sheralee, only a few years my senior is also with us. I am soaking up these women who make me laugh and who contribute to the richness of my life.

Today was such a full day. We began by leaving Moscow and heading to a much smaller city/town? in the countryside. We were traveling in the mission van with a driver and an interpreter, Ana, to visit a hospital where with funds from church humanitarian aid 13 windows were purchased and installed. We arrived at an ancient building complex and were welcomed by the chief of staff, a woman. She and my parents and the local branch president sat down together and chatted briefly. My father, acting as voice, thanked them for the opportunity to partner together on a project. He expressed the wish that the church could have done more and a hope that perhaps in the future they could work together again. He explained that the windows were paid for by small contributions made by members of the church throughout the world. My mother expressed exuberantly her admiration of the hospital staff who work so hard to care for others, especially in conditions that were often difficult. The chief of staff acknowledged that her work and the work of the nurses was more like a calling than a job. Then we put up our umbrellas and walked outside and across lush and slightly unkempt grounds to the maternity ward where the new windows had been installed. We could see from the outside of the building the spots where new windows stood out from many old windows still waiting for a chance to retire. Entering the building we could see peeling paint, leaky and separated ceiling, and worn linoleum floor which reminded me of the linoleum in the attic bedrooms of my paternal grandparent's home. We walked past a small group of nurses standing quietly in their long white jackets. We smiled. They smiled. The set of windows we looked at were in the delivery room. I won't describe it as I am including a picture but let me just say that having delivered 5 babies of my own in very plush maternity wards my heart beat a little faster when I thought of my Russian sisters delivering their babies in such an austere situation.

Kaylyn also snapped a photo of the operating room nearby.

As we left Renee expressed her admiration (through our translator) to the little grouping of nurses. She told them how caring and courageous they must be to work and help others in the way that they did. They told us that until they had gotten their new roof they sometimes carried umbrellas through the halls because the water dripped in when it rained. We thanked them for allowing us to visit. They thanked us and we walked back out into the rain leaving modern Florence Nightengales to their important work.

The local church member who helped arrange for the partnership between the hospital and the church is named Vladimir. Unfortunately his last name is Pumpkin (in Russian of course). As we leave the hospital he leads us up the road to the local bath house which I suppose could be compared to a Russian spa. We later learn that he had cleared the premises (he manages this complex) for our little group and that we were invited to bathe there but my mother declined. This is why.

Here is a picture of the women's "locker room." This is the place where everyone disrobes. Did I mention entirely?

After a shower, please walk (naked) into the sauna to be steamed. Stay as long as you like.

Next, and here is the most interesting part of the whole process, lay (yes, still naked) across these wooden benches.

A friend or if you prefer, one of the employees now beats you "gently" with switches made of birch branches. This is to draw the toxins in your body to the surface. Steam. Beat. Steam. Beat. As many times as you like. Stay for one hour or five. When you are ready to leave soap yourself up all over and rinse off (or an employee can do this for you). And the cost for all this pampering? About $5.

Our young guide, Ana, tells us that as a child she had a bathhouse in her home and once or twice her grandmother took the switch to her to get her really clean. Lacey Grace, how about it?

After a meeting with local government officials we pick up the branch president's wife, Natalya from the place where she works. She looks to be in her mid-fifies with light blond hair and a modest suit. Her fingernails are painted and she is wearing a slightly tarnished gold necklace and earrings. She is very feminine. You know that place in the Book of Mormon when the people are so overjoyed they clap their hands? Picture that. When we greet each other she expresses her joy at being able to spend time with other church members. It is not just talk. She is earnest. We have never met until this very minute but she loves us like an old friend or a lost family member with whom she is meeting for the first time in years. I am completely arrested by her warmth. I am not alone. We enter a lovely new-looking restaurant on the second floor of the bathhouse. It is the closest thing to American that I have seen here besides the modern Moscow mall. We are shown to a private room and platters of fresh sliced vegetables and cold meats (including tongue with horseradish) are brought out. As we eat we talk. We learn that Vladimir and Natalya moved to this town from Ukraine when their only child was a young boy. They came because their former home was close to Cherynobyl where the terrible nuclear accident occurred and the doctor told them that for the health of their son they needed to leave the area. In the branch where they live there are only 8 members and their family (their son has now married and he and his wife have a daughter) are five of those eight. They went through terribly lean times during the first years after their move. Though they were working, salaries weren't always paid. People kept working even with erratic pay in order to keep jobs that were scarce. They grew a garden and that helped. They payed their tithing and somehow, with the Lord's help, they survived. As they talk both are wreathed in smiles. I am not exaggerating. Wreathed. We mention this and explain that we haven't met many smiling Russians during our stay here. They grow serious. Natalya explains that their country is going through a very difficult time as they emerge from the shadow of communism. Times are very tough. People don't have enough. She tells us,"We smile because we have the gospel and that gives us hope." Looking at them, comparing them and the other church members we have met here in Russia so far to the people we see in the subway and on the streets and I see for the first time in my life, the power of hope. I see it written in the crow's feet around Vladimir's eyes. I feel it in the clasp of Natalya's hands. I sense it pumping in and around and through them. I look at my sisters, my parents and my auntie sitting around me at the table. And I feel like these two are part of our family. A line from the scriptures comes to my mind as I write this, "...and there were no strangers among them." Family. That's how it felt.

Our driver and our translator were part of all this felicity and shared our meal. Our driver is a man about my dad's age, I would guess. I spent a lot of time looking at his face in the rear view mirror from the back seat of the van. I think the best way to describe it is jolly. In spite of this, I don't think the deep wrinkles across his forehead were made by laughing. I study them wondering what kind of expression he wore to achieve those award-winning lines. He tells us that he joined the church when he was about 55 years old. 55 years without the gospel. That answers my question. Looking at him smiling and mischievious I have a hard time imagining a time when life may have been different. I especially watch him during some rather harrowing driving escapes, a few causing several of us to gasp and once or twice, scream quietly. (Yes, quietly. It can be done and we have no wish to offend.) Through it all he looks benevolent. ">

Ana, our translator, is serene. She is young, ready to leave on her mission in a few months. She is accomplished. I sit behind her in the van watching her smooth ponytail bob up and down when she nods and says, "Mmm," which indicates that she is listening. She speaks well and can translate even very obscure conversations about proteins in cow's milk. (Don't ask.)

What I see with such clarity here in Russia is the power of the Lord in people's countenances. If the spirit could be seen and not just felt it might look like Russian saints. I'm not saying that everyone is happy all the time. I'm simply saying that the contrast between those who are actively living the gospel here and those who don't have it is staggering. I wonder, am I filled with the power of God in such a way that it shines out of my countenance? Do I exude the same powerful hope and peace that these people do? When people look at me do they see that I have one bottom tooth that is slightly crooked or do they see my heart? Do they see that I recently colored my own hair or can they see that with every "fiber of my being" (to coin a church phrase that makes me laugh)I believe in the Savior? Because this is what I see when I look at these people.

When we leave we visit two monasteries and two military sites. I need to look them up to learn more because I have very few details and the signs say very little. At the monastery, there are no signs. Both monasteries are functioning but unfortunately we don't see any monks.

Joseph Monastery

Decorated war memorial to the 11? soldiers

New Jerusalem Monastery

Open Museum with statues depicting WWII and tanks and weaponry from WWII

Thank you, Russia, for another beautiful day in your country. Thank you, Heavenly Father, for family I didn't know I had.

Quotes for Monday

2010-06-14T11:39:00.000-07:00

Renee: Where are the kids? (We have seen hardly any children since we have been here.

Mom: Someone put a bottle of red hair color in the brown hair color box!

Sheralee: The park was beautiful and so well-cared for.

Sweetz: Is that me that smells like an onion? and What is this piece of meat doing here?

Oh, my aching feet

2010-06-14T08:26:00.000-07:00

I am in Russia visiting my parents on their mission. My sisters and auntie are here, too. I feel so blessed.

Today we went to an enormous park - enormous. Getting there was half the fun. My parents live on the 16th floor of a large apartment building. In a tiny office in the lobby of the building sits a little old woman, sometimes several. They visit with each other and monitor the comings and goings of the tenants. It is a job. My sister Renee says that she could overpower one or all in about 2 seconds. Based on this observation,I'm guessing these little women aren't here as security. Also sitting on the run-down couches in the lobby are a variety of animals. Large. Stuffed. I wonder to myself, "What if a person, a tenant for example, wants to sit down before they carry their groceries upstairs?" Do they pick up the tiger and hold it on their lap during the sitting? Do they place it on the floor? What will the little old ladies say? These are some things I wonder about.

Outside we walk down paths between trees. Metal bottle caps litter the ground around the lamp posts. Very fat pigeons strut around everywhere. They are the only living Russian thing I've seen that are fat. Each apartment building we pass has a small colorful play area for the children. We take the scenic route winding through shaded grassy areas. We walk for about 20 minutes. As we get closer to the metro the streets are lined with shallow glass fronted shops. Each shop features a different ware. Bread, produce, toys, candy. The shops are too small to admit any customers. They can barely accomodate the proprietor. One looks through the window and makes the selection. The proprietor collects your purchases and hands them out through the door or a small window. Dad says he once saw a pigeon sitting inside a peanut bin with the peanuts. This is why the pigeons are fat. This is also why we don't buy anything from these shops unless wrapped.

When we reach the metro I admire the tiled walls. It feels old. The noise is deafening when a train comes in. This happens right as we are introducing ourselves to the young couple, friends of my parents, who have agreed to meet us for a picnic and tour of the park. A 30 minute ride into the center of Moscow and we arrive at an enormous park. Legend has it that Vacili III (1400's) had a beautiful church built for himself and spent the summers. We can see the Moscow River and across it the city skyline including some blue onion-topped roofs associated with the Russian Orthodox Church. We can't enter Vacili's cathedral so we admire its white-plastered walls and mossy foundation from outside. We do, however enter 2 other churches in the park. All of the women wear scarves on their heads while inside. Reverent people stand quietly in front of pictures of Saints light skinny candles. One shriveled little lady kneels after crossing herself thrice. I look away trying to give her privacy to worship in this very public place. Another well-dressed middle-aged man looks at a picture of the madonna holding baby Jesus. He, too crosses himself 3 times and then kisses the feet of both the mother and babe, you guessed it, 3 times. I am fascinated by a room barred by folding wooden barricades. Inside are more pictures of saints. Three wrinkley ladies wear blue workdresses and scarves. They rub the wax off brassy candleholders. One carries a metal scrub bucket. They talk quietly and work. I wonder how far they have walked today on their ancient legs to perform this menial task.

In the churchyard of another small cathedral we find tiny sarcophogi, lots of them, mossy with grass growing up around them. I wonder if this is a graveyard for children? Or elves? No information about what they are or contain is posted. Darnit.

Later we go to a large store a little like a Super Wal-Mart. We buy eggs, milk for cooking, and a few other things. We choose carefully because we must carry our grocery bags all the way to the train station and from there - home. I think about this as I carry my bag containing two bottles of water. Would I shop the same way at home if I knew I had to carry my groceries all the way home? Definitely not. I would never buy watermelon.

We meet the other Senior couples at a very modern mall for dinner. I am struck as couple after couple come in, gray-headed and vibrant. Through the course of the meal I feel awed by the power and goodness radiating from 8 sixty-something couples. I wonder about the different lives they've led. Collectively they seem VERY happy. This seems in such contrast to the many sober-faced people I see walking along every street and on every corner. I wonder if the Russians I see are as sober as they look. Do they not smile because I am an American and my country has a reputation for arrogance? Are they a collectively sad people as they try to leave behind the weight of communism? These are other things I wonder about. I wish they could feel my admiration for them with their worn-out sneakers and colorful high heels. Inside my head I am calling out, "Keep going! Your country is lovely. I like your faces. I can feel your strength. Keep going!"
This is my mom with red hair. Quote of the day from mom, "Somebody switched the bottle of hair color in my box. The picture on the front was BROWN!"

The soup was ordered by Renee. It is chilled milk soup with bits of eggs, potato, and tons of dill floating on top. We ordered this from a Vietnaumese shop in the mall. No Russian food was available.

The candy bar I discovered in the large supermarket. Nestle for Men? Jay, I'm bringing one home for you. Of all men you deserve it for being home with our kids and allowing me this opportunity. Thank you.

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Praying

2010-03-28T04:29:00.000-07:00

Just so I don't forget what it's like to be the mother of young children I want to quickly record what sometimes happens when I try to pray.

If I kneel down to pray in my bedroom with the door shut I find that two sentences into my prayer my name gets called. I ignore it and continue praying. This is difficult because my name is still being called and with increasing urgency. "I just need one more minute," I say to Heavenly Father. I feel completely distracted and can't seem to focus my thoughts. The door bursts open and a relieved child runs in. If they are big (Toph or Ronan) they wait quietly but somehow just knowing they are there causes me to feel pressured and lose my train of thought. If it is Lincoln he comes right over and angrily demands, "Mom, open your eyes! Mommy? Mommy!!" Often he trys to climb up on the chair where I am kneeling. He steps on or crawls across my hair and trys to lift my head. If Lacey Grace hears him she comes quickly in and says, "Lincoln. Mommy is saying her prayers." Lincoln doesn't care. He whines. She comes closer and tells him again. It is not uncommon for both children to be right by my head, one crying for my attention and the other shushing him loudly.
"Mommy!"
"Lincoln, be quiet. Mommy is saying her prayers!"
Repeated over and over again. Increased volume at every repetition.
Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I get grumpy. Always I say, "Heavenly Father, you see me trying. Please help me today."

This is why it is not uncommon to find me kneeling behind the kitchen island where no one can see me for just a minute later in the day. This is also why I talk in my mind to Heavenly Father all day long - sometimes right out loud. Because I can't seem to find a single chunk of time sufficient to access my Father. I just talk to him while I'm washing the dishes, while I'm driving the car, and especially when I'm looking for my keys. And I'm glad he can hear me through all the noise.

On Santa and his "elves"

2009-12-26T19:01:00.000-08:00

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.

Gifts

2009-05-17T19:25:00.000-07:00

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.

Hill children

2009-05-13T18:35:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-30T19:05:00.000-07:00

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

Day 1 and 2 in the Dominican Republic

2009-04-13T19:57:00.000-07:00

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.

Four little monkeys

2009-04-06T20:05:00.000-07:00

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.

April Fool's Day

2009-04-02T19:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Mystic Connecticut Aquarium

2009-03-17T18:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Life lesson #4

2009-03-16T19:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Snippets

2009-03-07T18:18:00.000-08:00

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.

MTC

2009-02-25T17:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Life Lesson #3

2009-02-21T13:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Virtual Valentine's Day

2009-02-15T18:19:00.000-08:00

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!

Lacey Grace and Romance

2009-02-13T05:31:00.000-08:00

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.

The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane

2009-02-11T13:45:00.000-08:00

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?

Spelling Bee

2009-02-10T16:27:00.000-08:00

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.

Mom

2009-02-06T18:33:00.000-08:00

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!

Dad

2009-01-28T04:47:00.000-08:00

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!

On turning 40 #2 (Jay)

2009-01-23T14:25:00.000-08:00

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?

On turning 40

2009-01-21T06:03:00.001-08:00

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.

Interjections!

2009-01-20T15:00:00.000-08:00

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!"

Now I know

2009-01-11T18:48:00.000-08:00

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?

Mission!

2009-01-09T05:11:00.001-08:00

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!

Angelic Whirlwind

2009-01-08T08:48:00.000-08:00

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!"

Lights Out

2008-09-27T05:10:00.001-07:00

Jay and I have no E-Mail at home right now. In Ruralville where we live we have only Internet option A and Internet option B and I have almost lost what is left of my mind trying to deal with A. Hopefully on to B in October. I'm posting from Jay's school this morning in hopes I can buy myself some time and that my 2 remaining readers won't give up entirely.

We had a tremendous rainstorm yesterday. No thunder or lightning, just steady rain all day long. In the evening we invited some friends over for chowder and cornbread. The Garcia family from our branch are good friends with whom Jay and I can practice our Spanish with no fear of scorn or mortification (I'm the only one who need worry about scorn and mort - Jay can still hold his own quite nicely). Also in attendance was out good friend, Francis Lizotte, who is a mentally challenged fellow about Jay's age whom our family has adopted. We had a nice dinner and later Jay and Fernando (Garcia father) left to take Francis back home. While they were gone the electricity went out and we were plunged into pitch blackness. Because this is not a terribly rare occasion I knew exactly where the flashlight was and we all cozied up in the family room. Cozying up anywhere in our house is easy because we don't have a single room in our entire house as big as JeNeale's master bathroom not including shower and closet. I brought out a fairy tale book that my mom used to read from when I was a child and we read in the dark The Six Travelers, Thick-Headed Jack, and The Twelve Dancing Princesses. When the daddies returned Fernando threatened to do what they do in Ecuador. They tell the children scary stories so that they are afraid to get out of bed. Hmm...I like it. Lacey Grace was downright terrified at the very mention of such an idea and may never trust Fernando, one of the nicest men I know, again. When it was time to go, Ryan, one of their teenagers asked to stay a little longer. The ultimate compliment - a teenager wanting to spend more time with a middle-aged couple and their young family. All of our children said as we were getting ready for bed that night by lantern light, "That was so much fun!" I couldn't agree more.

Favorite quote from Francis Lizotte, a devout Catholic on the issue of me not having developed film with pictures of him that he was eager to see, spoken with deep disappointment and with courage, "That's alright. I'm gracious, generous and merciful." Thank goodness because I still have some mission film I need to develope.

Don't give up on me

2008-08-13T07:53:00.000-07:00

We are back in New Hampshire - home from a wonderful month spent with family and friends in Idaho. I have so much to write about but our internet is currently down and will be until a repairman comes to our home hopefully this week. I look forward to reading your Blogs and will be back online hopefully very soon.

Life lesson #2 - The Kiss

2008-06-25T06:29:00.000-07:00

Jay and I met at church. On the day he reported his mission my family was sitting far in the back and my mother leaned over and said to my dad, “Now that is a boy I could let my daughter marry.” He was very impressive. But I was almost to go on my mission and felt very focused on that goal at the time. I heard him speak at Stake Conference and thought he was just so darn likeable. I spoke to him after church shortly thereafter congratulating him on a successful mission. He said, “Hey, we should get together sometime,” and I agreed. We got together that very night and had a great time talking. We seemed to become instant best friends. On the day of our first official date my mission papers were sent to Salt Lake. There was never any doubt as our relationship progressed that I would go, in his mind or mine. The Lord had made it very clear the previous year that I was to go and I wanted to. Jay wanted to have a little time for college and fun and didn’t feel the time was right for him either so he didn’t try to persuade me to stay.

I went and had a life changing 20 months that I am so grateful for as it shaped the rest of my life. Thank you, Jay for supporting and encouraging me during this time of great growth. More about that another time.

On my flight returning from the Dominican Republic I was almost as eager to see Jay as I was my own family. There had been a change in my itinerary that very day and Jay did not get the message that I would be coming in an hour earlier . As a result when I stepped off the plane he was not among the family and friends who were there to greet me. I cast my eyes about furtively hoping he would suddenly appear but he didn’t and I didn’t ask. But he called from the airport about an hour after we arrived home and came over. It was winter and I had just spent a year in the tropical sun and I remember thinking he was the whitest guy I had seen in a long time. But he looked great white!

I hate to confess this, but the thing I was most excited and terrified about was kissing him. I was pretty positive that he’d had a little practice while I was gone and I most certainly hadn’t and…well, it was a predicament. So when we came into the driveway of my parent’s home after our first post mission date and while the car was still rolling to a stop, I leaped out, ran into the house and shut the door. Leaning against it I suddenly thought, “What have I done????” I quickly opened the door. Jay was sitting in his car looking a bit bewildered and I called out, “Will I see you tomorrow?” “Your call,” he said. Thank goodness! “Then, yes. Yes! I will see you tomorrow. Goodnight!” I closed the door.

It went on like this for about 2 months as I recall. Mind you, Jay was living 5 hours away in Rexburg and we didn’t get to see each other all that often but I was thoroughly smitten and completely terrified that I might ruin everything with a less than perfect kiss. Each time we were together and he tried to kiss me I would suddenly jump up or turn my head and change the subject and it was all very miserable. I tried kissing a guy I knew who had just returned from his mission just to get the tiniest bit of practice. Bad, bad idea. Not even the tiniest bit of chemistry. A total waste of a good kiss – for him as well as me, I’m sure. So I was back to square one. What to do?

I planned a visit to Jay in Rexburg. I would stay with his FHE sisters and we would hang out (he and I, not the sisters) and I would let him kiss me. We would just get it over with and hopefully he would still like me as much as I knew I would still like him. Don’t get me wrong. I wanted to kiss him. My heart started racing any time I even thought about it – I was just afraid I would ruin everything. For one week we spent every waking minute together but something was terribly wrong. Jay didn’t try to kiss me. Not once. One day went by, then two, then three, then a week had gone by and no attempt. Had he given up? It seemed he had. That left the responsibility squarely on my shoulders. I would have to be the initiator. I would have to be the kisser and not the kissee. And there was not a moment to spare because I was going home the next day.

That night when he dropped me off at his sister’s apartment we stood outside the door. He turned to go and I knew that it was now or never. I grabbed his hand and pulled him back to me. His face came right to mine. We were eye to eye, nose to nose, almost mouth to mouth and then… And then he turned on his heel and started to laugh. He walked and laughed and I stood and watched him go. And then I started to laugh. I went home from Rexburg unkissed but wiser and much less tense. It’s a story we still laugh about today.

I learned that you shouldn’t dish it out if you can’t take it.

I learned that laughing is the very best way to ease a tense situation.

I learned that the man I was destined to marry had serious will power and was capable of doing whatever he set his mind to. It remains one of his best qualities.

Life Lesson #1 - Bullies

2008-06-11T12:27:00.000-07:00

When I was in elementary school there was a bully on our bus. Carlos Aroyllo. He was several years older and several heads taller and several degrees meaner than anyone I knew. He specifically picked my younger brother, Paul, to bully and positioned himself in the seat behind Paul on the bus each morning. Paul was very short, very scrawny and had front teeth two different sizes because he'd been hit in the teeth with a baseball bat at a young age by my aunt who was clearly going for a homerun. Oh, and his ears stuck out. So, you see, he obviously deserved to be thumped by Carlos's hand all the way to school. "Thump! Thump! Thump!" went the bully's hand against Paul's head morning after morning.

I'm a non-violent person. I don't like to see anyone hurt. When I have to remove even a small sliver from the foot of a child I do it at night so the child isn't concious of pain. Immunizations? My worst nightmare. I could never be a nurse or a doctor or anyone remotely involved in the necessary pain that accompanies health and healing. I walked out of the new Joseph Smith movie because the thought of seeing the young Joseph enduring that bone surgery was more than I could bear. To a certain extent, it's debilitating to have such a tender heart and I wish I were a stronger and could be more useful when people, especially children, are hurt.

The point is that this bullying of my brother made me sick. I dreaded getting on the bus and seeing him abused. My parents tried speaking to the bus driver and then to the parents of Carlos but apparently, bullying is genetic. Finally my mother said, "Lauralee, it's up to you. You'll have to thwart the bully." She packed my metal lunchbox and filled my thermos (which was also placed inside my lunchbox) and told me the plan. When Carlos sat down behind Paul, I was to sit across from him and when he began to thump I would hit him in the head with my lunch box as hard as I could. I, the girl who had one day run frantically down the lane toward the departing bus with a white flag in my hand (a cloth diaper, clean thank heaven, that I'd been in the process of delivering to my mother when I'd heard the honking of the bus) was to declare war on Carlos the Bully. Terror is not a strong enough word for what I felt as I boarded the bus that morning and took my seat across from and one seat back from Paul. Carlos was at least predictable and moved immediately to sit behind my brother. Thump! Thump! Thump! Carlos's hand and my heart were thudding together. I wound up, which isn't easy when you're shorter than the seat and I swung. You will all be very sorry to hear that Carlos The Bully had eyes in the back of his head. He saw his life flash before those eyes as he was ducking. At that very moment Paul turned around to see why the thumping had stopped. Grand Slam! Into the wrong face! As I write this it occurs to me that maybe the reason Paul's other baby tooth never fell out to make way for his adult tooth had nothing to do with my aunt and the baseball bat. Oh well, water under the bridge and thank goodness for good dentists.

I cried. And cried. And cried. The rest of the bus laughed and laughed and laughed. Paul just sat there looking dazed and confused. When I got off the bus I still hadn't run out of tears. Halfway through the school morning they were still flowing freely. Teacher called me out to the hall and we had a talk. Then we took a walk down to Mr. Taylor's classroom. Mr. Taylor was infamous for two reasons. He was The Bully's teacher and he was the owner and wielder of the fearsome "JAWS."
I don't mean he had scary teeth, I mean he owned a paddle that occasionally took a bite out of the behinds of Paul Elementary School miscreants. That day Carlos got a taste of Thump! Thump! Thump! As I walked back to my classroom with
Teacher I heard those three thumps, covered my ears with my hands, and felt like I might be sick.

The moral of this story is: Things don't always turn out the way you planned. But that's O.K. because even though things sometimes go terribly haywire they usually work out. After that day Carlos never again even glanced at my brother or at me.

Moral #2: Families stand together. When someone picks on one member, they pick on the whole lot of us. Loyalty! Loyalty! Loyalty! Hurrah!

Moral #3: Sometimes moms do counter-intuitive things. For many years I thought my mother had a lapse of judgement. You know, fighting never solves anything and all those sayings. One day much later I asked my mom about it. She said that she and dad had tried everything they could think of and that her "plan" came about as an answer to prayer. While I was riding the bus that fateful morning she was on the phone with the school telling them what she had instructed me to do and why and then on her knees praying for my success.

Every so often I intend to do a life lesson post about a lesson I learned from my own experiences. I'd love to read about a life lesson from your childhood as well. So, tag - you're it all of y'all. I can't wait!

Remember the Pinewood Derby post?

2008-06-02T18:11:00.000-07:00

The following day Lacey Grace was playing at a friend's house and Lincoln took a long nap and I wrote about that experience in the form of a story and submitted it to The Friend magazine. Immediately I got an e-mail back asking if the story was true and I responded that very day. A month passed and I heard nothing. I hate checking my E-Mail but I checked it so often that Jay asked me if I was addicted to the computer. I know that none of you think it would be exciting to have something published in The Friend but to me it represents so much more. I want to write and don't have any idea how to do it or where to start and so this tiny effort represents the courage I have been trying to build for so long to try and keep trying in the face of lots of rejection.

I have submitted two articles in the past to other magazines. One to Family Fun Magazine and one to the Ensign. The Ensign wrote back to say that it would be about eight weeks before they made a decision. That was two years ago; haven't heard a word. Family Fun magazine was mute. Each time this happens it takes about a year for me to have the guts to try again. I have heard that most writers get about one hundred rejections before they ever get anything published and those are the lucky ones. Well, in three years I've only submitted three articles and I'm 39. At this rate things aren't looking very promising. And I don't know if I can even count those first two as rejections because I didn't receive even so much as an "Um, thanks anyway," or "You must be insane!" It's all very disheartening.

To make matters worse I recently sent JeNeale my favorite book and I inscribed it in pen. Reading back over it I noted that I had not only mispunctuated but had also used poor grammar which wouldn't be so mortifying except that JeNeale is an editor and the book was about puntuation. I had a brief flash of insight into the feelings of Mormon who, as he abridged the Book of Mormon made his mistakes on golden plates. At least only JeNeale, who loves me anyway, sees my mistakes as opposed to people by the billion all over the world throughout many generations of time. (Feeling a little better now - Phew!)

By now all ten of you who read this are probably on pins and needles wondering, "What did The Friend say?" Well, 69 days after I submitted the article (in other words, today) I got a response to my recent inquiry in which I succintly stated, "The suspense is killing me!" The response? "Did you submit an article? We have no record of any article submitted by a Lauralee Hill." And so I ask you, "Is that a rejection? Does that count? Are they trying to let me down nicely? easily?" I honestly think I would have preferred the reference to insanity.

I'm not looking for a show of support. What I'd really love to see are your ideas of a great rejection. What should the Ensign, the Friend, and Family Fun have said had they been more responsibly brutal? Maybe if they're really good I can count them toward my one hundred.

Kites on the Beach

2008-05-28T18:35:00.000-07:00

We loved having Jared and Maren and Preston (or "Presty" as Lacey Grace calls him) here. I think my favorite thing was just sitting around the table or in our teeny family room talking. I love being with family on Sunday especially, enjoying a quiet day and a little dinner together; I've taken that for granted in the past.

Other fun things we did: (Pictures up when Jay can get to them)

1. Painted ceramics at a pottery shop in Peterborough (Preston and Lacey Grace painted cereal bowls and the fellas painted dragons.

2. Went for a little ice cream at a fun seasonal ice cream place called Kimball's in Jaffrey.

3. Celebrated Maren's Birthday with a cake covered in nuts (Brilliant!)

4. Jared and Jay and the boys played Bocci and 500 outside our house.

5. Flew kites at Hampton Beach - one of the few beaches on New Hampshire's small seacoast and a place I love to go. Preston had no interest whatsoever in kites but lots of interest in sand and water. It was chilly and windy and we've never taken Lincoln before so that was exciting but, all in all, a fun time.

Mostly, it was just comfortable and so happy to have some of our family here with us. Thanks, Jared and Maren, for coming so far and loving us even though our bedrooms were messy, we had ants, and one of you had to sleep under a U of U blanket. We LOVED having you here.

Dancing with the Stars

2008-05-13T07:04:00.000-07:00

Don't you all think that Jared is secretly appearing on Dancing with the Stars under the stage name Christian de la Fuente?

Good morning! Yes, indeed.

2008-05-07T17:54:00.000-07:00

I have a vague and fond recollection of sleeping late and waking up of my own accord. Perhaps someday I'll have a vague (and fond?) recollection of being woken up by happy children and so, to remind my future self of how it really is I record a typical spring awakening as the mother of four.

Clap! Clap! The first sound I hear in the wee hours is often Clap! Clap!. This is the sound of Lincoln's chubby hands applauding the entrance of another New England morning; specifically a New England morning because in the spring the sun is fully up by 5:30 a.m.. (I know Jared and Maren are excited to hear that as they will be here in 10 days!!!!!!but who's counting?) I admit that I have never once leapt out of bed and leaned happily into the crib to pick that little guy up. I sometimes feel more like bursting into tears; but I'm too tired; so I roll over and wait for the cooing to begin. Phase II of Lincoln's wake up ritual is a cooing cacophony; squeals, nonsense syllables, gurgles, and occasional giggles getting progressively louder while I pray for the strength to get out of bed and brush my teeth. When I do get out of bed I have to slide stealthily off our high bed and creep into the bathroom because if Linc sees me and I don't immediately greet, the cooing turns to heartbreak and that is no way to start a morning. All this baby song wakes up the next little person, Lacey Grace, who shares a bedroom with Ro and she comes prancing in (yes, prancing) and sings back. Every morning I say, "It's still very early. Why don't you try to go back to sleep or curl up with your human blankie (daddy) and rest a little while longer?" Four days out of seven she curls up with Jay for 5 minutes. Three days out of seven she insists that she wants to stay up with Lincoln and I and she does with great joy, gusto, vigor, and volume. One day out of seven she actually goes back in and lays down. Zero days out of seven she falls back to sleep.

Because Jay has been working so late I usually change Linc's diaper and we leave the room so he can rest a little while longer. Occasionally I give Linc a bottle and he falls back to sleep but the odds of him returning to baby dreamland are about the same as LG's, nil. ( I actually have never written the word nil before and haven't the foggiest how to spell it. Was that right?) And besides, what's the point, Lacey is awake and now, none of us will sleep. One morning when I told her to look at books so I could sleep just a few more minutes she did. I think she read all 12 words of the book, "No, David" before she returned and with her mouth pressed to my ear very quietly and insistently whispered, "Cock-a-doodle-doo" which, by the way, is very funny when Jay is the cockadoodle dude but less so when it's happening on my side of the bed.

If it's a school morning Topher and Ronan are very tired and beg for extra time (I actually have found that if I carry Lincoln in and put him on the bed beside each one, respectively, they wake up in a good mood because the first thing they see is a drooly, happy, little chubster who is delighted to see them) but if it's a weekend and especially if Lincoln has gone back to sleep, they spring forth from their beds instantly. Then a party begins on the bed Jay and I bought before we had children; the very high lodgepole pine canopy bed we purposely chose so the children couldn't climb in with us. We now grimly joke that we didn't buy a bed, we purchased an indoor jungle gym. What fun!

On these Saturday mornings Lacey is already snuggling with her daddy and Ronan comes and climbs in between Jay and I. He wrestles around a bit adjusting the pillows and cheerfully greets Lacey Grace in the loudest whisper possible. Very occasionally he doesn't come in but lays in bed and sings. I've never heard an actual drunken sailor singing but I think I have a pretty good idea... However, he only sings on the mornings that Lacey Grace has not woken up early and gotten out of bed. On these mornings, laying beneath him in the lower bunk, she gets a taste of her own medicine. And then they both come into our room.

Being quiet is relative. To an adult, quiet means quiet. To a child it means small segments of stillness punctuated by loud shushing, giggles and scuffling. Even talking out loud is completely acceptable to a child being quiet if what he/she has to say is important enough. "Stop touching me!", "I'm so hungry!" and "Give it to me!" are examples of important statements to a child. Other examples include "My baloney has a first name," and "O-di-lay-di-hoo!"

Topher is ten. He comes in less frequently in the early mornings. This is because he barely left our bed. When Jay works late Topher comes in and sleeps in his daddy's spot. Then when Jay gets home at 1 or 2 or 3 a.m. he herds Toph back into his own bed by way of the bathroom. Speaking of drunken people, this is a sight to see. He bobs and weaves like a champ which makes him, I believe, a drunken boxer.

Because Toph likes to stay awake late and read he is less likely than the others to come in the following morning. He is growing up. Which is why I need to record all of this; because they're all growing up and I never want to forget
The Rooster, The Coo-ster, The Sailor or The Champ and what it feels like to be their mother at 5:30 a.m..

JeNeale

2008-04-30T12:59:00.001-07:00

I love all my sisters-in-law (how lucky can a girl get?) but today I am thinking about one in particular - JeNeale. We met for the first time right after Cassie was born if I remember correctly. I had just returned home from my mission. I don't remember a lot about that initial meeting because I was so ga-ga over Jay but I remember her little toddler, Dalin, with his ice blue eyes and big smile, and her chubster baby, Cassie. I remember that after our wedding we stayed and opened all our gifts before leaving on our reception because she and Brent would be returning to Arizona before we got back and we wanted her to be able to share that with us. The very next morning we called her from our hotel because we had forgotten our coats and she and Brent met us in the parking lot. I felt then that both she and Brent were happy for us and loved us deeply.

Our first Christmas she gave us a cookbook with handwritten recipes. Some were recipes she and Brent enjoyed and many were recipes she and Jay had grown up with in mom's kitchen. I have since acquired many cookbooks but that first one is still the one I most often reach for. Two weeks ago the back cover fell off and recipes that I had slipped into pockets on the back came spilling out all over. I picked everything back up and rubber-banded the book together. Some things just can't be replaced. Some of our favorites have been tater tot casserole, mom's chicken enchiladas and her hot fudge sauce. I have made them hundreds of times.

Since then I have received many gifts from her. One birthday she gave me a book called Simple Abundance and a gratitude journal inscribed by her. Most recently I received a white long-sleeve T-Shirt that I wore 3 of the 7 days of the week during the winter and early spring. She seems to innately know what I like. I remember going to a clearance sale at Old Navy with her during a time when money was very tight. I was going simply for the company. As we headed to the register she quickly turned back and with a "don't give me any nonsense" look that only mothers possess she picked up a skirt she had seen me admiring and bought it for me. Many things have been bestowed upon our family by her bounteous hand. My children have received the most wonderful care packages from Aunt JeNeale with candy, small gifts, "real" golden dollars, cards and clothing. She is one of the most generous people I have ever known.

When I have gone through those times in my life that have been very painful she is one with whom I have shared my deepest sorrows. After London died she was the one who pointed out that I might be going through clinical depression and the one who urged me to get help. She was the one I called and still call when I have questions or concerns about this illness.
She came with other family members and held our baby and cried and wrote both Jay and I individual and deeply personal letters of encouragement that we still treasure. She even had a grandchild named London (Cassie's doll). :) During another profoundly difficult time in my life she listened quietly and became an advocate for me and the decisions I sometimes made that didn't appear to make sense.

She does not judge me for the foolish things I've done or the unkind or downright absurd things I have said like the time right after my mission to a third world country when my heart was broken over the poverty of those great people and I wildly stated that mothers shouldn't rub expensive Bath and Body Works lotion on their daughters when other mothers didn't even have milk for their babies. I still want other mothers and children to have what they need and try to be aware and helpful but, I confess, sometimes Lacey Grace smells a little like a human grapefruit proving that JeNeale is kind enough to love and forgive even a complete hypocrite. She always gives me the benefit of the doubt.

She loves my children and my husband and wants our family to succeed. I feel that. She laughs at our jokes and compliments budding talents. Last year when Topher performed his very rudimentary tap dance for our family I had tears come to my eyes. I looked around at all the family noting their encouraging and amused smiles and and saw that JeNeale was looking at me. No words were spoken but in that moment I felt her vicarious love of my son and her tender sentiment toward me - an inordinately pleased mother.

She loves the work that Jay does and values his skills. She gives genuine compliments to him and to me and to our children. Once, after speaking at a funeral and completely losing my composure I found a note which I still have tucked away in my scripture journal. Among other things it said, "I am blessed to be your sister."

That is exactly how I feel. Blessed.

Things I love

2008-04-25T18:00:00.000-07:00

1. The feeling of a 22 pound baby boy snuggled up against me as I go downstairs. The sound of his babbling and the way he reaches for me everytime he sees me. When he sees the piano he makes little wimpering sounds until someone sits down with him and lets him play.

2. Hamburgers or anything else fresh off the grill

3. The sound of croaking coming from all the ponds and swamps nearby. When I hear this for the first time each spring I roll down all the windows and listen in rapture. This is the song of spring after a long New England winter.

4. Topher's new glasses - red frames with thick black temples. Very hip. He is his father's boy.

5. Homemade pretzels hot from the oven and a houseful of little friends eager for a bite. Rolling them out with my good friend Jen who can do anything and noting that, amazingly, there is one thing I can do that she can't.

6. Talking with Jay. About art and music and children and our friends, the Devlins, who are taking the discussions. About books and writing and general conference and his job. About sticks and stones. But not about the cost of gasoline, or the fact that the missionaries are coming over for dinner and confirmed with him and not with me, or that he caught an older gentleman who stood up in Sacrament Meeting and fainted while I sat 3 chairs away, totally engrossed in a talk and didn't see. (I only learned that this happened tonight from another church member who observed the whole thing from several rows behind and the opposite side of the chapel!!!)

7. Emergency lullabies composed spontaneously by LG when Lincoln starts crying with words like, "Don't cry, my little candy heart," repeated over and over very softly to random melodies.

8. Sleeping through the night

9. Ronan's love of children and his attention to their needs. I call him "The friend of children" like Joseph Smith was sometimes called because he is. I love this tender side of a tough little boy.

10. My children's giggles when I read from the Dragonslayer's Academy series at night. The way they are understanding the scriptures and feeling the love of the Savior. Their courage to stand alone in a school where there are only 4 other members of the church. Their kindness.

Sticks and stones

2008-04-20T17:51:00.000-07:00

My children's favorite playthings are sticks. Our front porch is covered with walking sticks, swords, spears, and lances, and wands. I remember being a little bit surprised that a close friend of mine, the mother of many boys, had so many pretend weapons for her sons to play with; swords, guns, etc.. I gave in when my boys started biting their toast into the shape of pistols and sword fighting with bananas. We made the rule that the fellas couldn't point the guns at each other but had to shoot wild beasts or dangerous monsters and other such creatures. Is that rule realistic? or is it absurd? I don't know. But that's how it is at our house.

Slaying imaginary dragons with stick swords only brings so much satisfaction, though. They don't really make very challenging opponents. So dueling occurs in earnest in the forest around our house. It's not just our boys, it's all the boys and some of the girls in our neck of the woods. For the most part it's good natured fighting (did I really just write that?) and the worst injuries sustained to this point have been grazed knuckles. The clacking of weaponry outside our house is as familiar to us here as the croaking of frogs.

Recently our neighbor, Jenn, who grew up in Colorado wondered out loud, "What is it with our kids and sticks? I don't remember ever playing with a stick when I was growing up. Jay matter of factly reminded, "What sticks? We had no trees." Oh, yeah.

Rocks are right up there. I rarely turn on the dryer without hearing thudding sounds. I know instantly that the rocks I just cleaned out of the washer weren't the only ones left in pockets. Every day when I find rocks on the counter I open the front door and throw them back out into the driveway. This works well as long as no one is sword fighting in that precise location. Occasionally one of the children will rediscover a rock that they had previously brought in for their "collection" and bring it in again. This astonishes me. "How can you be sure it is the very same rock?' you may be thinking. One day we put rocks in the oven and when they were very hot we drew with crayons on one side of them. When the children weren't looking a few days later I chucked those guys (the rocks) back out into the driveway. Within days the children had found all of the crayon rocks and another that didn't have crayon but was shaped like a heart and they had been returned to their home on the kitchen island.

My Easter Talk

2008-04-09T07:49:00.000-07:00

I gave a talk on Easter Sunday that I'd love to share but it's way to long and way too personal to put on my blog. If anyone is interested leave me your E-Mail. I feel a little embarrassed soliciting readership but I share it because I learned so much and because I love you guys - my family. I'd love to read any of your talks since I never am there to hear them and learn from you in person.

Wintry walk

2008-04-09T03:51:00.000-07:00

Two days ago I took the kids for a walk/bike ride - our first of the season. It was 43 degrees and there is still snow everywhere but I couldn't help myself. I wrapped Lincoln in multitudinous blankets and he promptly fell asleep. I pushed my baby in the stroller and Lacey Grace pushed her baby in her's while the boys pedaled up and down the road. After we had walked up the driveway and onto the road where we live Lace was ready to stop for a snack. From underneath her doll she produced a bag of potato chips and a lemon yogurt with a spoon. Each brother was given four potato chips and a bite of yogurt. She helped herself to a few bites and then the chips went back into the stroller. The yogurt and spoon were left on a nearby wall to wait for our return and on we went. I tried to make chit chat with Lacey asking the name of her baby (Crystal Diamond Flower) and pretending that we were two mothers out on a walk with our babies but she soon set me straight. She was my daughter and her baby was actually a doll so that was that. The boys stopped their bikes at a small marshy area where we always stop on this particular walk and found a felled tree, skinny but surprisingly long, that they took turns toppling into the swamp. At this point there was a little arguing about so-and-so tossing the tree too far on purpose so the other couldn't retrieve it and so-and-so denying that it was true and then we carried on. There is an idyllic little neighborhood not far from where we live that is paved (we live on a dirt road - welcome to New Hampshire) and it's a great place for walks. There was nothing spectacular about the outing. In fact, on the way home we stopped so many times to warm Lacey's cold hands that I felt like a school bus. Ronan, by contrast, was riding maniacally and had shed his sweatshirt so we used that to wrap LG's hands. Topher complained once that Ronan had cut him off (shocker) and "put them in danger" (which he had) but for the most part there was much laughter, attention to rule following (not going to far ahead and circling back to check in, stopping at intersections (there's only one - again, welcome to NH)), and plenty of enjoying each other's company. It was a joyful outing. I just want to try to be more grateful for moments like this and remember the details of ordinary days.

P.S. Lacey Grace has a friend boy playing over this morning and I just overheard a bunch of talk about a kiss they had seen on a movie. The highlight:
LG: ...and then she had a true love kiss, from, not her prince, but....
Friend boy Aaron Johnson: Yes, but that was just gross!
Ah, the differences between little girls and little boys.

One other conversation recently heard between Lacey Grace and her doll Strawberry Shortcake:
Strawberry Shortcake: She started it! (referring to another doll)
LG (patiently but firmly): Strawberry Shortcake, soap and time out. (This means that Strawberry has to have soap in her mouth and have a time out which I felt was a little extreme but I'm not the parent...)
LG: I'm sorry, darling. (sound of squirting - we use soft soap at our house)
Strawberry Shortcake: Gagging sounds
Me: hushed giggling

Withdrawals

2008-04-04T13:50:00.000-07:00

I have logged on to various blogs of certain people related to me over and over and over again and no change! No new post! Nothing! One blog in particular has not been updated since March 20th!!! Another since Easter! I think you should know that I'm starting to tremble and break out in cold sweats.

April Fool's Day

2008-04-02T14:24:00.000-07:00

April Fool's Day was never a huge holiday around our house and this is why. One year when my youngest brothers were very small my mother bought several boxes of sugared cereal which was a big deal. She replaced the Froot Loops and Lucky Charms with our usual, corn flakes, and waited and watched. When Kelly, expecting manna, poured corn flakes into his bowl he burst into tears. That was the end of my mother's April Fool's antics.

I, however, still long each year for a harmless little family joke. Our children's favorite was the year Jay and I served up ice cream for breakfast. My favorite was 2004 when Lacey Grace was just shy of one year old. From my journal: I played my first April Fool's joke on my children this year. Topher is 6 and Ronan is 4 - old enough to be included in the hallowed April Fool's tradition of Gotcha!. I undressed Lacey Grace and with a red marker I made little dots all over her body like Chicken Pox. When I completed my art project I carried her into the bathroom where Ronan was a shriveled raisin (of the golden variety) in the bathtub. Promptly, he played into my hands by saying, "Mom, why does Lacey have red spots all over her?" "Oh my," I gasped in mock alarm, "Lacey has the Chicken Pox!" Topher came racing in from doing homework at the kitchen table. He looked at Lacey quizzically and then said with one eyebrow cocked, "Mom, it looks like someone has drawn all over the baby with a red magic marker." "What?!!!" I spluttered. "How could you tell?" So much for bluffing. A poker face has never been my strong suit. We all laughed a little (Ronan remaining fairly bamboozled at the idea that on one day of the year it's O.K. to draw on the baby) and I went in to help Topher with his homework. I heard a series of splashes from the bathroom and not long afterward Lacey Grace came scooting out of the bathroom at record speed wearing a 50 pound diaper. There was only one red dot remaining at the top of her left cheek. Ronan had put his sister in the tub with him and "washed her off." This April Fool's Day the joke is on me.

For $

2008-03-30T17:42:00.000-07:00

Magic

2008-03-29T15:44:00.000-07:00

And I was expecting cattle and armadillos in Texas! I also saw lions, moose, badgers and a host of other wildlife.......on my first trip to Cabella's.

I visited Kaylyn in Austin, Texas over her 30th birthday. My parents and Renee came, too and we had a grand time eating Texas BBQ, visiting the Alamo and the riverwalk in San Antonio, and shopping at the huge outlet malls somewhere between Austin and San Antonio. Another highlight for me, I'm sorry to say, was going to Costco. I confess, I love Costco. All that bulk stuff makes me feel rich and the only thing I actually bought were fiber pills (no comments on that, please).

On the way home I got stranded at the airports, several, and when I finally arrived home 32 hours later it felt a little magical. I mean, when was the last time I saw 50 dirty baby food containers in the sink and teared up? With happiness, I mean. Maybe the magic had something to do with the fact that I had started to doubt that I would survive to see home again. I almost spent the night at LaGuardia airport in NYC (more details on that later), took a taxi from New Jersey to Brooklyn (way better than any rolller coaster I've ever ridden), and survived a windy landing in New Hampshire that, during one huge dip, made the retired army guy sitting across the aisle from me scream. When I stepped off the plane Jay looked better than he did on the day I married him! He did a great job with the kids and the house. He had even cleaned our bedroom and not one of you can fathom what a monumental effort that was. I feel so grateful for his selflessness. I often tell him he is a better homemaker than me and fortunately I'm not threatened by his efficiency. (Carry on, honey. Please.) I'd like to send him on an escape with his brothers next March and I'll stay with the kids. Cash, Jared, Brent, what do you say?

It's finally happened

2008-03-16T11:53:00.000-07:00

There are lots of things I have been looking forward to for a long time - a new couch, a flat stomach, a housekeeper, a college degree, rice cakes that taste like Snickers, and the list goes on. And so I ask you, why couldn't one of those things have finally happened. One of those things would have brought great joy and satisfaction. Instead another first occurred only minutes ago - one of my children cut their own hair.
Lacey Grace now has bangs, lots of them, all shapes and sizes. She came proudly into the kitchen where I was cooking pudding on the stove and showed me her handful of hair. "I just wanted to see what I would look like," she told me.

In the past I've made the daring and foolish comment, "Not one of my children has ever cut their hair." I haven't meant this in a self-righteous way, I was just stating a fact and one I felt very grateful for, too. Just days before Lincoln's birth I stated another fact. "I have got the laundry under control." This was not bragging. This was simple truth. You know how there are some things that are always true, always have been, always will be and then there are other less permanent kinds of truth? Well,...
With these and other rash statements in mind, I would like to publicly withdraw a recent remark, "To this point I've never had a child that colored on the wall." I really said that. Out loud. To a witness. I take small comfort in the fact that I did say "to this point," but I didn't really mean it. Today I'd like to humbly ask that those words be struck from the record.

the laundry as it currently stands (or sits)

the bottom of the pan the pudding was in when Lacey Grace came in with her new haircut

Branch Talent Show

2008-03-15T15:08:00.000-07:00

The branch talent show was lots of fun. Our family was last on the program. We did a piano quintet. Lacey Grace walked to the piano first and played a D over and over again. Ronan was next and played the melody Skip to My Lou while Lacey continued playing her D. Topher came in next and played a bass accompaniment, Jay next with more in the Bass Clef and then I came last with a jazzy treble part. All five parts sound great together and it's fun to hear them built. Then one by one we went out as we had come in starting with me while the others continue playing on down to Lacey. When only Lacey Grace is left she plays her solitary D several times and then stands up and does a magnificent curtsy. Everybody did a great job! If any of you are wondering if I wrote this number I regretfully confess, "No, I didn't. But I wish I had." My brother Kelly saw it performed on his mission, written by one of the moms in the ward in Canada and memorized all the parts so his family could one day perform it. So, thank you Sister from Manitoba. You are brilliant and we had fun. Pictures forthcoming. Also, there are now some pictures posted on my pinewood derby entry. (Thanks, Jay!)

We went maple sugaring today. Our Branch President's operation was named Best Maple Sugaring in New Hampshire by Yankee Magazine. The kids got to carry buckets of sap from trees to the sugar house, got to ride in the tractor-pulled wagon to collect the sap from huge containers in the woods, got to hang out in the sugar house (if heaven has a smell I think it must smell like maple sap being boiled down), and got to taste the original sap and then the finished syrup. It was a wonderful afternoon. Each child came home with their own little bottle of syrup and the family has a larger bottle.

You might be a redneck

2008-03-13T18:24:00.000-07:00

Whenever I change a diaper I put it in a grocery bag, tie it up and chuck it across the garage, over the van and into our enormous pile of garbage waiting for Jay to make a run to the "transfer station" (fancy word for dump except they haul the garbage away). Occasionally my aim is a little off and the diaper ends up on top of the van. I leave it there knowing that I will certainly see and remove it before I go anywhere. Sadly, this doesn't always happen and I drive around with a diaper on the roof. It never blows off because we have a luggage rack that keeps it securely in place. Today, while babysitting my friend's little boy I changed a very, very, very, infinity stinky diaper and tossed it in the direction of the garbage pile. It, of course, landed on top of the van and I of course, forgot and drove to a friend's house. Upon exiting the house, I saw the "baggage" and took it off the roof, placing it inside the car on the passenger seat until we got to the store where I could dispose of it. About one minute into the trip the smell was so overpowering that I stopped the car in the middle of the road (this is the country, you know). "What are you doing, mama?" queried Lacey Grace. Wordlessly, I grabbed the "diaper bag,"
stepped out of the van, and chucked it back on top of the roof.

Tag

2008-03-12T08:30:00.000-07:00

10 Years ago: Jay and I were living in the Governor's Mansion in Salt Lake City with our baby boy, Topher. Jay was working at his first Ad Agency, Blaine/Olsen/White/Gurr, and we thought our dreams were beginning to come true. We were right.

Things on My ToDo List Today: Call my sister, Kaylyn, to wish her a happy birthday, bring in a load of wood for the stove, help Lincoln practice sitting up (he's almost got it!), bring in another load of wood, watch my friend Jenn's little boy while she teaches preschool, work on an upcoming talk for church, wood, exercise, play Polly Pockets or princesses with Lacey Grace, help the kids practice their parts for the branch talent show (a comedic family piano number), listen to Topher and Ronan read "Who's on First" (Abbott and Costello) which is hilarious - the actors as well as the script; how much WOOD would a woodchuck chuck if...., buy bar soap for the tub because Jay's is tired of using Johnson's Baby Soap

What would I do if I suddenly became a billionaire:
1. I'm not simply copying JeNeale, I really would love to do this - pay off the houses of my siblings and Jay's siblings.
2. Go with Jay and my children on fun adventures, a beachhouse for a week, Disneyworld, the Dominican Republic on a family service mission, a ski lodge with lessons for everyone, swimming with Dolphins in the Florida Keys, a cruise, etc.. I'd also love to do this with extended family members.
3. Build Jay an incredible studio over the garage where he could work and play and be inspired. (I think this would be my number one favorite thing to do.)
4. Pay off our student loans.
5. Publish my music - not necessarily for anyone else, just for my family.
6. Contribute more that $5 to the Perpetual Education Fund and the Humanitarian Fund.
7. Establish a scholarship fund in the name of my grandparents or my parents at BYUI or Iowa State.
8. Invest (not nearly so fun as the other stuff but important)
9. Give someone a $500 dollar Wal-Mart gift card (O.K. Cash and Jay, it doesn't have to be Wal-Mart) when they really need it like someone once did for us.
I think I just spent that billion dollars in five minutes. Can I have some more?

Bad Habits
1. Biting my lips
2. Eating candy (even if it belongs to my children and I haven't asked permission. I'm currently eating Ronan's Reese's and telling myself, "It's O.K.. I'll buy him another before he notices."
3. Losing my keys
4. Losing my cell phone

Places I've lived
1. Paul, Pocatello and Boise Idaho
2. Iowa
3. Dominican Republic
4. Salt Lake City
5. New Hampshire

Jobs I've Had
1. Video store customer service (3 times!)
2. Nanny
3. Governor's Mansion caretaker and manager.
4. Hotel maid (HATED this!!!)
5. Testing Center Proctor (Ricks College - fun place to meet boys)

Things people don't know about me
1. My feet are so flat that when I walk barefoot they make little suction-cup sounds.
2. I'm very scared of sharks
3. I'd love to go to cooking school.
4. I love cemetaries.

Post-pinewood derby happys

2008-03-09T14:14:00.000-07:00

Very Serious Warning: If you have not read and responded with your opinion to my previous pinewood derby entry you are forbidden go any further. Go directly to pre-pinewood derby jitters. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200 dollars.

That said, here's what happened at the pinewood derby. Topher's group, Webelos 1, raced second. His car was very fast. The computer program flashes the speed and placement of each car in each race. Jay had helped another boy from Toph's den with the wheels on his car and Jeremy's car was also fast. Topher won first place in his den and we could gage by looking at speeds in the following races that his car would be a contender for first place. I was incredibly conflicted. I approached Topher with the possibility of withdrawing from the grand championship race to give someone else a chance to win. I told him that I wasn't sure what was right or wrong but encouraged him to make the decision himself. When Ronan's Wolf group raced it was clear that Ronan had a very fast car too, and he won his division. The Tiger Cubs raced last and I checked in with Topher to see what he had decided to do. I confess, I really wanted him to withdraw from the race and I think he sensed that, but I also voiced my support of his ability to make a decision and that I would stand behind whatever decision he made. Just before the championship races were about to begin Topher quietly withdrew. Our very gregarious cub master called him to the front and asked him to publicly state what and why. I felt anxious and then so well-pleased when my son simply said that he had won before and felt like someone else should have a chance. The lady standing next to me looked at me and we both started to cry. We were not the only ones.

It was a rewarding experience for me as a mother. I felt like my son had done a selfless thing, a hard thing and that he had made a positive impression on many people. More rewarding was hugging my boy away from the action and seeing the tears in his eyes and sensing that they weren't tears of sorrow.

Ronan went on to win the championship with Jeremy in second. Let me also state that I was so proud of Ronan. He was a very gracious winner and a good sport and he made me happy. What a privelege to raise such sons!

Pre-pinewood derby jitters

2008-03-08T04:31:00.000-08:00

Today is the boy's pinewood derby. They belong to a local cub scout pack that consists of about 50 other cubs. When we moved here 2 1/2 years ago we learned that the pinewood derby was traditionally held on Sunday and with regret explained that we couldn't participate on Sunday because of our religious beliefs. I volunteered to head up the pinewood derby if our group would consider changing the day to Saturday. That exchange took place at the sign-up in September and I doubted anything would come of it because we were new to the area and had no connections or loyalties established. To my delight, when the pinewood derby was announced the following January it had been scheduled for a Saturday. I volunteered again to chair the event and ended up with brownie-baking duty. (Phew!) That year Topher won the pinewood derby.

Last year Topher's car won it's first race by quite a distance. (Just for the record, I have been interrupted seven times since I began writing this. Journaling used to be so therapeutic.) Back to the derby, I was concerned (another interuption, Ronan, showing me that his wart is finally falling off) let's see, I was concerned that Topher's car might win the championship again (interruption) and I want these people to like us. I literally was praying that his car would lose. (Interruption - Lincoln is now awake) He ended up taking third place overall. I felt O.K. except that they race in dens and then the winner of each den goes on to the championship race so for two years in a row Topher's car has won in his den. I don't want him to win the den this year. I'd like another boy to have a chance.

I spoke with Jay about my concerns. I don't want him to sabotage Topher's car per se (interruption), I simply want him to make sure it doesn't win (ahem). Jay doesn't seem to feel the same level of anxiety over this and the car looks darn fast. What do you people think of this dilemna? Opinions please.

Ronan's car, on the other hand, I'm really excited about. He's named it The Dart, (interruption) it's painted green with a silver windshield (interruption), and I'd (interruption, I'm not kidding) love to see it win.

P.S. You're all thinking, "Why doesn't she put a show on for those ill-behaved children to buy herself a little time?" and I'll tell you why. Today is Saturday morning. Job morning. Torture morning. (telephone interruption) Putting a show on before jobs is never advised and I had to send this into cyberspace before the race. There. Done. Off to help with toilet cleaning.

"I'm very excited and scared to be here."

2008-03-02T17:17:00.000-08:00

Name that movie.

Scared because:
1. I feel an ulcer coming on every time I even walk by the computer.
2. I have been pretending for years to have all my ducks in a row and I'm about to reveal the truth.

Excited because:
1. I love to write. It helps me find perspective and joy.

I'm falling asleep writing this. These first 50 words have just taken me 45 minutes to compose. That's roughly one minute per word! I'd like to write something truly brilliant, this being my first official entry and all, but my brain just went on strike.

Off and running...

2008-03-02T16:56:00.000-08:00

I have just set Lauralee up to go. Watch out everyone!