Almost 23 years ago, Jay and I had our first baby - London Nicole.  She was beautiful and perfect.  And she was stillborn.  We held her and loved her and grieved over her premature death.  I think about her often but especially I think of her on her birthday, May 30th, and on Mother's Day.  Over the years, I've been blessed by the friendship of many incredible mothers, many of whom have lost one or more of their children.  This lullaby is for all of these mothers, friends I've met and friends I haven't, who are celebrating Mother's Day without one of their children.  I honor you for your courage and vulnerability in the face of wrenching loss.  I honor you for the power you show when you wrap your arms around another mother who grieves.  I believe our children honor us, too, even though they are not here to give dandelion bouquets, or sticky kisses, or homemade cards.  I wrote this song, Lullaby, as a gift from these children - no longer with us - to their mothers.  I believe that there have been moments since their loss, when they have held and comforted us, the way we once held and comforted them.

My youngest son, Lincoln, is the singer. He and I did a fair amount of crying while he learned this song and while we practiced it together.  Thank you, Linc, for being brave enough to sing a hard song in order to give a voice to other children who are silent for now. I am positive that we will see our sons and daughters again, that they will be ours to love and laugh with, and that the Savior will be with us in their absence.

Special thanks to Coray McClellan who did the videography for this project.  https://vimeo.com/coray

My Mother's Day Gifts - 2015

I love the Mother's Day cards and gifts my children make.  Lincoln is a prolific gift giver and this year I received over 20 tiny hearts with messages, cards, pipe cleaner bracelets, and lego creations.  He is, at this very moment, still creating and just announced, "Mom, I don't think you can ever get me to stop making things for you on Mother's Day."  Last Mother's Day he did the same thing.  He said, "I just love mom SO much today!"  The love of a child is so beautiful!

          Mother's Day 2015 - My Mom

Here are a few memories of my mom.  We weren't distant when I was growing up but as a teenager I felt we were very different.  I didn't always value my mother's ideas.  I wouldn't say that I considered her my friend; my parent who loved me but not someone with whom I would choose to share my secrets.  A few experiences changed that relationship.  One was the night before I left on a mission for the LDS church.  As I contemplated not seeing my family for a long time I began to cry in my bed.  I couldn't stop.  I felt so bereft.  Then I felt my mother lay down on the bed beside me and her arms went around me.  I cried myself to sleep with her arms around me.  She felt like my friend that night.

After my mission I got married.  My first baby was born 4 years later and because of an accident in the womb with the umbilical cord she was full term and stillborn.  It was a very painful time.  My parents came.  They held our baby.  They held us.  Then my dad went home and back to work but my mother stayed.  She stayed with me for 6 weeks!!!  I sustained some injury during the birth and was weak physically and emotionally.  She helped me in and out of the bath when my husband was gone for school. She helped wrap my breasts when the milk came in to ease the pain.  When I was ready she helped me pack up the nursery.  I wrote in my journal, "My mother is the friend I never knew I had."  

One of the best compliments my mom ever received was from a friend who was visiting who remarked to my mother, "You are the only woman I know who can sit down in the middle of a mess and cut out paper dolls with her children."  My mother recognized those words as the compliment they were intended to be and has cherished them.  And so have I.  

Dad

Father's Day 2014 - My dad

When I was a toddler I got a tiny tea set for Christmas.  I carried one of the little cups into the bathroom where our tub had a leaky faucet and filled it for my daddy, who drank it.  So I brought him another cup and another and another.  It was a joyful and, according to my dad, delicious game we were playing together.  When my father had drunk enough "bathroom tea" he got up and followed me into the bathroom to discover that I wasn't getting his tea from the leaky faucet...

When I was 14 my dad made me a special gift for Christmas.  A beautiful hinged 3-way mirror.  I have seen pictures of myself from this time period and they aren't pretty.  My sisters once said after looking through some family pictures, "Wow!  Puberty hit you hard."  Yes, it did.  A sucker punch right to the gut.  I had a pair of large glasses tinted pink at the top with a little apple decal down in the corner.  A helpful aunt had given me my first perm and frizzy is not a strong enough adjective to describe the outcome.  Maybe fried.  Or nuked.  At any rate, I was not a pretty mid-range adolescent.  I have sometimes wondered why he spent time making a beautiful mirror for his not so beautiful daughter...

When I was 23 I returned home from a  18 month mission to the Dominican Republic for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  I was physically and emotionally spent.  But I felt I should get right to work looking for a job - getting on with my life.  My dad quietly said, "Don't worry about taking a little time to rest right now.  There is plenty of time to get a job later."  I think I slept for almost 2 weeks straight.  I didn't realize how exhausted I had been but my dad's permission to rest was such a gift to me.

When I was 37 our family moved to New Hampshire.  My dad drove with Jay to haul our belongings to New England.  My mother flew out with the children and I.  My parents stayed for a little while to help us get settled and then we drove them to the airport.  I was so sad to see them go.  After we hugged goodbye at the airport my dad came around to my side of the car to give me one last hug and kiss.  He whispered in my ear, "Sink your roots down deep here."  That was not my intention at that very moment.  My intention was to bide my time with my family until we could return to the West.  I shared his counsel with Jay and we made a conscious decision to follow his advice.  Our time in New Hampshire was not always easy but it was very growth promoting and beautiful.  I am so glad dad said, "Sink your roots down deep" when as a parent I would rather say something like, "Come home soon."  

When I was 41 we flew home for a summer visit.  On the morning we were to depart 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.

Mother's Day 2014

Recently I made a new friend.  One day she asked me, “You seem to be able to see the best in people.  Why?”  The answer came instantly and even startled me a little as it came out of my mouth. “My mother,” I said.  “My mother taught me how to see people.”  My mother is not perfect, but there are parts of her that are close.  This is one of them.

I grew up in a rural farming community.  I had a wonderful childhood.  Even as a child, however, I noticed that some families in our community seemed a little different from the majority of the farm families around us.  They didn’t fit in as easily as more typical families did.  But I noticed that they “fit in” with our family.  Their children were invited to our home and became our playmates and we went to their homes.  I remember overhearing my mother on the telephone with a mother from one of these families.  My mother was calling her “Kid”, (mom’s pet name for her good friends) and laughing, truly enjoying the conversation with this woman toward whom some other mothers were less friendly.  I noted that in my home, every person was valued.  You didn’t have to be witty or smart or exceptionally talented.  You could even have annoying quirks or a dirty face or tell bad jokes.  Your value simply “was”.  You didn’t have to earn it with my mother.

I find myself looking at people the way my mother did, using what I call “Christ’s light”. I picture a lantern powered by the love of the Savior.  When I look at someone I try to hold this lantern up and look at them using this love-powered light. Under its glow the things about others that seem different or weak fade into shadow and the things about them that are eternal and beautiful shine.  Everyone has value.  Everyone has beauty.  You don’t have to earn it.  It just “is”. This is one of the great legacies handed down to me from my mother, Arva Merrill Burton.

What about you?  What legacies are yours because of mothers or mother figures in your life?

Money:Weakness to Strength - Installment 1

Over the next several weeks I will be sharing the experience Jay and I have had as Heavenly Father has helped us begin to make a weakness into a strength. This process isn't over yet for us but much progress has been made. The story is very personal but with Jay's permission I share it in the hope that it might bring courage to someone else who is struggling with a weakness and wonders if the Lord has power to heal.  He does.

Money:Weakness to Strength - Installment 1

Just over 10 years ago my husband Jay and I decided we wanted to work together and be on the same page with regard to the care and use of our money. We wanted to know when to spend it and when to save it and have the discipline to stick with our decisions. We wanted to develop the generosity to give enough that it required some measure of sacrifice from us - not so much that we ruined our temporal future and not so little that we ruined our spiritual future. We had tried to do this on our own during the first ten years of our marriage but continued to feel week in this area.

As we talked together over the course of several weeks we knew that we needed the Lord's help to make these changes together. Don't misunderstand – we had been praying during the previous ten years – but we didn't seem to have made much progress and we certainly weren't united in our thinking about money. One evening, referring to Ether 12:27 where the Lord promises that “... if [men] humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” I asked my husband, “Do you believe, after all this time and all these prayers, that the Lord really will make a weakness a strength as he promises?” After careful consideration he replied, “Yes.” Shortly thereafter we knelt in prayer and told Heavenly Father that we surrendered ourselves completely to His judgment and care in this matter and together we asked Him to make us mighty in the area of finances within our marriage. Almost immediately, all “heaven” broke loose in answer to this prayer. Now, ten years later, we wonder if we would have the courage to offer the same prayer if we had known what the path would be that led us to what finally, would be a gift and a blessing. In my naivete, I believed that Heavenly Father would answer that prayer swiftly, that our transformation would take place in six months (a year at most) and we would be made strong just for the asking with perhaps, a little tutoring. I had no idea that surrendering our will to His in this matter would be a very lengthy process, that there would be extreme mental and spiritual anguish and many, many tears before He was able to strip away the old and make us “new creatures in Christ”. Unexpectedly, his tutoring also helped us address some of the other weaknesses we shared as a couple. Pride, for example, was addressed (and neither one of us thought we had any real problems with that!). We began to realize that we each had multiple weaknesses that in one way or another, were connected with our use or misuse of money. Heavenly Father was not content healing one little part of our weakness. He was intent on healing us completely. I have just one word to describe this process: Ouch. And two words to describe the outcome which is still not complete but seems close: Worth it! This is the story of our ten years of tutoring, what he taught us and how he is transforming us.

Within weeks of our prayer it became clear that Jay's job was at stake. What had been a promising small company when we had hired on three years previously suddenly started laying off employees until they were down to one third of their original workforce. Miraculously, Jay was not laid off but it looked inevitable that the company would eventually close its doors. We began to formulate plans A, B, and C. Ultimately, plan C became plan A and we made the decision to go back to school to pursue a graduate degree with the intent that Jay would be a professor of Graphic Design. This would give him more time with us and greater flexibility. We felt great peace over this decision and made the necessary preparations which included leaving the home we were buying in a good neighborhood close to family in Idaho and moving back into an apartment in Salt Lake City near the U where my husband could attend school. I remember driving away from our home and shedding the first of many tears. I shed the next when we pulled into our new home, a second floor apartment in an old house. It was close to midnight and I was tired. I had three little children including a two month old baby who were all asleep in the car. We had made arrangements to stay the night with friends. My mother, who had accompanied us, suggested that she and I go to the home of our friends and put the children to bed. Jay's mother, who had also come to help, said she would stay with Jay and help direct traffic at our new home as the men who had assembled to help us unloaded our truck. I was so grateful to these two women. As we drove I cried quietly. My mother encouraged me. I had great confidence in my mother's words because she, too, had sold her home and gone back to school with my father except, in her case, she had seven children and together they had driven away from family and halfway across the country to a new home and life. I remembered that their sacrifice had brought great blessings to our family and I was heartened.

Church in a Russian Branch

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

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

Coming soon with photos.

Friday - Exploring, Borsch, and Folk Dancing

This post and photos are upcoming.

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

Watch for this post coming soon.

How do you say bathroom in Russian?

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

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

Family. Here.

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

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

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!"

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

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"

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

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

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.