Update on the Newlyweds

Aubrey was released from the hospital on Thursday. They came to our house where they opened their presents and watched a video of their reception. Each guest spoke to them and offered them condolences and congratulations.
Aubrey smiled and said, "Oh now I almost feel like I got to be there."
On Friday they cut their cake surrounded by their family and made a toast to each other with sparkling cider. Then they drove down to LA together so Kyle could be back to work at the hospital on Monday.
Aubrey is getting a little better day by day.
They went for a walk on the beach yesterday.
True love truly is the only thing that lasts and the greatest miracle of all.

A Wedding Day of Miracles

There’s a couple I know spending their honeymoon in the LDS hospital in downtown Salt Lake City right now. The nurses on the surgery floor have taped two felt hearts, a large golden bow and a banner that reads, “Honeymoon Suite” across the hospital room door. They moved the couple to the far end of the wing so they could get a little more privacy and at least hold hands on their wedding night. The bride is in one bed recuperating next to another bed the nurses rolled in for the groom so he wouldn't have to be too far from his bride.
The doctors and nurses who work in the emergency room said it was the first time they’d seen a patient arrive in the ambulance wearing their wedding dress.
As you can guess, this wedding day didn’t turn out quite as expected.
Aubrey and Kyle waited 31 years to find each other. After struggling through school on a dime with crowded apartments and tight budgets they are both doctors now. Aubrey has a PhD in Anthropology and Kyle is a resident anesthesiologist in LA. How they ever found each other is a miracle. They were born a few days apart but on different sides of the United States . . . Aubrey in a small town in Utah and Kyle in a small town in Pennsylvania.
They both attended BYU but never met each other. He went on a mission to Spain and she finished her master’s degree. Then she accepted a scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania and he went to medical school at Penn State. They never crossed paths. Sometimes it was hard to keep believing they would ever find each other.
Aubrey was living in Washington DC when she was invited to a birthday party in Philadelphia. Kyle was invited too. That was the first time they saw each other and something clicked. They found ways to get together even with extremely busy schedules as she finished her dissertation and he finished his first year of rotations. Then he started a three year residency in LA and she started a job at the Metropolitan Museum in NYC.
They decided they didn’t want to live without each other any longer. They choose Valentines Day, called the Salt Lake City temple and the plans began . . . red roses and Dutch irises to decorate the hall for the reception and red velvet cupcakes and chocolate dipped strawberries for refreshments. On a special date Kyle served Aubrey chocolate dipped strawberries just before their first kiss followed by dancing, a love song and a poem.
They decided to take pictures at the temple on Wednesday because a big storm was forecast for Saturday. Aubrey got sick late Thursday night but she brushed it off as food poisoning or the stomach flu. Then there was the wedding supper with both families on Friday night. On Saturday morning she felt weak and crampy but excited for the big day. On the ride to the temple she complained of pain in the lower abdomen but hoped it would go away.
Once inside the temple, her mother had to dress her because it was too painful for her to stand. Right before the ceremony she raced to the nearest bathroom. The vomiting and pain were intense. Then there was a small break in the most extreme pain. Her father called for a wheelchair while her mother asked the workers to adjust the temple alter as quickly as possible.
The feeling in that sealing room was electric as these two beautiful souls made covenants to God and each other. Rings were exchanged and a short trip to the celestial room was made. Then the pain became so intense the paramedics were called, the ambulance arrived and she was carried out on a stretcher with her groom at her side.
They talked about not wanting to miss the reception while tests were run in the emergency room but the surgeon on duty told Aubrey and Kyle they wouldn’t be attending their own reception that night. Aubrey would need to be rushed into surgery as quickly as possible. She had a ruptured appendix and the situation was serious.
The reception went on without the bride and groom. Each guest was video taped and friends and family took lots of pictures so Aubrey could see the elegant red rose and purple Dutch Iris bouquets that decorated the hall.

A ruined day? No.
There were miracles everywhere.
The marriage still took place!
They planned to fly out the next morning after the wedding to Spain for their carefully planned honeymoon. This emergency could have happened on an airplane or in a foreign country.
AND they had pictures because of the storm warnings.

There are no ruined days – there are only miracles.

Congratulations Aubrey and Kyle.
I love you.
MOM

Winter Stillness

In the northern hemisphere winter is normally viewed as the season to get through as quickly as possible – a sort of white knuckled hang in there and grit your teeth through this lousy time of the year. After the anticipation of Christmas is over and the New Year celebration is so much left-over confetti, the rest of the long dark cold winter stretches before us with no quick end in sight.
Perhaps because I was born in the winter and maybe because I always like to stick up for the little guy who no body likes and everybody picks on – I want to give you my take on the least appreciated season of the year. For I have learned to love winter.
I believe we can be thankful for anything if we are paying proper attention. For example, soon after I was born I discovered I was in for a lot of dish washing - for the rest of my life! I hated washing dishes. Then I decided I didn’t want to spend an enormous part of my existence doing something I loathed. So I decided to teach myself how to enjoy doing the dishes. After all, what we enjoy is a choice.
So I began noticing the comforting way the warm water in the sink soothed my chills in the winter or how the cold water cooled me off in the summer. I watched rainbows bubbles pop in the suds while I made dirty pots and pans shine. While scrubbing, I transformed the fork into a bad guy, the knife into a gallant knight and the spoon into a princess as I created fantastical stories. When I finished cleaning up in the kitchen I always looked back for a moment to appreciate the beauty and order I’d created from the mess and earlier chaos. Now I love doing the dishes.
Winter used to be my least favorite time of year. So I decided if I could love doing the dishes, I could love winter. I began by paying better attention. I noticed mosquitoes were never pestering me in the winter. Because I didn’t have to spend time working in the yard, I appreciated the extra time to focus on in-house projects. Rousing basketball games were everywhere. The days were short so the nights were long and deep - perfect for reading a good book next to the fire. I relished the calm quietness of snow, the way it covered the bare tress and gardens and transformed a bleak grey world into a magical shimmering land of white. Noxious weeds become jeweled orbs and spider webs become glistening lace. Because of winter, I’ve learned how to wait for spring with trust and patience. So now I can wait for God to reveal the meaning and purpose in personal times of grief and loss.
So when you are tempted to complain about winter, don’t. Walk outside on a star-lit night and feel the stillness. Breathe deep before the morn. If you find no joy in winter, you find no joy in pain. If you find no joy in pain you have not learned. Trust. All that lies beneath the snow will someday return to living and the time for believing without seeing will be over. For now - welcome the stillness and be at peace.

Being and Sharing our Best

When my children were small they had an uncanny way of knowing when I was about to leave the house.
“Where are you going Mommy?” one of my children would always ask before I told them I was leaving.
“Why do you think I’m going somewhere?” I answered.
“Because you have lipstick on,” my child said.
That’s when I realized I always put on lipstick before I left the house. That comment got me thinking. Why do I try to look my best for strangers and not my own family? I rarely fixed myself up or wore my nice clothes at home. I decided to change my habits. Eventually the children stopped asking me where I was going when I put lipstick on because I wasn’t going anywhere.
This change of heart also helped me notice I was saving my best linens, bath towels and dishes for special holidays or when house guests were staying in my home. I decided the people who actually live at my house certainly deserve to enjoy our nicest things. So I began using my best sheets, towels and dishes for everyday. Yes, sometimes those nice things got stained, broken or ruined but I could always replace them. I couldn’t replace the time I had with my husband and children. I stopped waiting for special occasions or house guests. Enjoying and using my best all the time reminds me to value myself and the members of my own family. When I live this way, every day is a special occasion and each person in my home is treated like an important guest.
When my mother-in-law died her daughters divided up her only set of nice china and gave one place setting to each surviving child. I asked my sister-in-law why I’d never seen those beautiful dishes or eaten off them.
“Mom was afraid they’d get broken and she wouldn’t be able to buy new ones.”
We all tend to put off using or sharing our best things. We protect and save until we die. Then nobody ever gets to eat off our nice dishes or see us in our fancy dress or nice suit – not even us! We wait too long to delight in what we already have. We collect and store instead of use or give away because we harbor some illusive fear that our good things will be ruined. Perhaps the real ruin is in hoarding. If we don’t offer our best to those we love today, the opportunity may be lost forever.
“You and your husband are good savers,” an older woman told me once. “But don’t forget to enjoy your money as you go along. My husband and I never went on vacations or bought each other nice gifts because we were responsibly and dutifully saving for retirement. That’s when we were going to start enjoying our lives together. Well my husband died the day before he retired and now I am left with all our savings but no companion to share it with and no fun memories to keep me warm at night.”
There is no tomorrow – but only today. Life is short. The day to buy that special gift, go on that dreamed about vacation or use your best china is today. None of us know if we have a tomorrow and by then the opportunity has past. Those closest to us deserve our best every single day.

STATES OF GRACE

I once watched a professional stoneware artist working at the wheel, throwing pots. I asked him questions about the formation of the outer walls and how he made the varied shapes he was forming. He told me he only pays attention to the center and the outside walls take care of themselves.
Too often our attention is directed to our outer walls, or the way we appear to others. We find ourselves worthy only if we match up well against everybody else. We compare and compete then find ourselves lacking, never convinced we’re good enough. If we pay attention to our own personal journey, how we compare to others won’t matter any more. We don’t have to be perfect. We don’t have to be the best. We don’t have to compete with others. We have only to be better than we were yesterday.
I remember a day when the parents of the students in my daughter’s ballet class were invited to attend a performance demonstration to see the progress of the dance students. There were obvious differences in the levels of ballet technique and performance competency as the girls followed the teacher’s commands and performed a choreographed dance for us.
My daughter had struggled with shyness for years, along with learning to cope with legs that were several inches different in length. Taking ballet was her idea. She’d found the courage to take classes as a beginner with other girls who had been taking ballet for ten or more years.
Watching her dance that day was amazingly beautiful to me. It didn’t matter how she compared to the other girls. Even her teacher could not possibly know what she had overcome to get to this personal level of grace. Someone attending that class as an observer could not possibly make a judgment that was accurate about her competency or accomplishments. Then I realized only a parent who truly knows and loves their child can accurately assess their progress. So it is with God; only our loving heavenly parents can accurately assess our progress.
As I watched my daughter turn a pirouette that day, my heart caught the very instant she stopped, stood still and smiled at me. Time stopped and she was the only ballerina on the dance floor. That shining moment of grace still dances in my heart to remind me that we all have a parent in heaven watching us with great love like I watched my daughter that day.
The time between our entrance and exit on the stage of life is fleeting and precious. Those around us are dancing as fast as they can but generally no one notices. We all need an audience who knows how hard we’re trying and how far we’ve come. Instead of looking out there for applause we need to look up there. The master potter is at work and is lovingly placing the soft clay of our souls into the hot kiln of life so we can each emerge the unique shining vessels we can become.

Calling Jesus

One Sunday the children in my class of three-year-olds at church were having a heated debate. During the course of most Sunday lessons I am called many different names by my young students including Mommy or Hey You. I am comfortable with all of these names but the children often feel they must educate their fellow students about my “real” name which happens to be the one they like to call me.
One tiny thin-boned little girl took a deep breath, placed one hand on her hip, pointed the other at her rowdy male classmates and stated emphatically, “Her name is Sister Baadsgaard!”
“No she’s not,” a boisterous little boy answered jumping to his feet with his fists forming punching machines ready to defend his claim. “Her name is Grandma!”
Another little boy with big blue eyes and long eye-lashes who rarely spoke whispered, “Her name is teacher.”
That day at church we sang, I’m trying to be like Jesus by Janice Kapp Perry. The words welded those children to my heart as I sang, “I’m trying to be like Jesus; I’m following in his ways. I’m trying to love as he did in all that I do and say.”
The children in my class didn’t know the words to that song and they didn’t appear to be watching the chorister. One boy poked his neighbor. One child crawled out the back of the folding chair and another started disrobing. Though it appeared they weren’t listening, they were. It occurred to me that these children were already like Jesus. I was the one who needed to live the meaning of that song.
During his ministry Jesus often asked for the children to be brought to him. Then he told the adults to behold them with new eyes and become like a child – humble, submissive, teachable and quick to love and forgive. Jesus always had the time to love and bless people one by one; each soul received his individual time and attention.
When all my children were small, I could never find baby Jesus in the nativity set during the holiday season. I usually located the tiny porcelain babe in a manger tucked away under my daughter’s pillow or hidden under my son’s bed. I finally understood that each of my children wanted baby Jesus for themselves. So I purchased a nativity set for each of them.
When my children are young they call out to me in the blackness of their bedroom for comfort and reassurance when they feel lonely and scared. As adults my children call me on the phone when life is hard and they feel sad or afraid. I try to tell them what Jesus would say if he were on the other end of the line. Yet I always feel inadequate and limited in my ability to bless.
That’s why each of us needs our own Jesus. Christ gives hope to a confused world and to us. Because of Jesus we know love conquers fear and the meek will eventually inherit the earth. It doesn’t matter what we call him but if we call him. Whether we call him Savior, “Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6) or simply friend – if we call him, we’ll never be alone or comfortless again.

Licking Honey Off a Thorn

I finally went to the doctor. I’d been experiencing pain in my shoulder for a couple of years and it kept getting worse. I don’t like to go to doctors. I believe most pain goes away if you give it enough time. I’ve learned - sometimes it doesn’t. Pain, doctors tell me, is the way our body signals that something is wrong and needs attention. If we couldn’t feel pain, we’d leave our hand on the hot stove.
Emotional pain is like that. Sometimes we ignore our pain hoping it will eventually go away; but buried pain never dies. One woman told me she was depressed, bitter and angry for years. Her husband had abused her then left her for another woman. She said one day it dawned on her that God had not abandoned her; she had abandoned God. She was going it alone even though her Heavenly Father was there, willing to help. A realization came to her one night when she looked up at the stars.
“Where are you, God?” she asked defiantly.
As she gazed into the night sky, she suddenly and powerfully felt the love of God. She realized the stars in the heavens were always there, even during the day; but their light and beauty were revealed only in darkness. In a similar way, she understood God was always there but only in the black times in her life did the absolute perfection of divine devotion reveal God's most brilliant and ennobling love.
Childbirth can be described as an ocean of pain that ebbs and flows like waves. At the crest of each wave, the labor pain is at the peak - then it gradually subsides. There is a small break between waves, where the laboring mother is allowed to regroup and then brace herself for the next pain. The closer she gets to actually giving birth, the closer the waves of pain come together. When the mother is actually delivering a new child, the pains don’t have any break between them. That’s when the mother wonders if she can hold on any longer. But she does - and because she does, new life is born.
We all need to be reborn, given new life through pain, whether emotional or physical or both. When we develop a new heart and rebirth of purpose, it follows the difficult times, the peak of pain when there is no let­up, when we think we can’t go on. But we do. So we are reborn many times in life, reborn to joy - all following great pain.
Each life has meaning and purpose under any circumstance. We are asked to find that purpose and meaning through pain. God invites us to choose betterment over bitterness, growth over self-pity, and inner peace and joy over jaded attitudes. Hell is self-absorption. Heaven is other-absorption. So we choose.
The doctor I went to ordered physical therapy and medication. I learned to stretch and exercise my tendons and muscles in new and healing ways. The calcium deposit in my shoulder won’t go away but I can better deal with it by facing the truth, educating myself and maintaining new healthy routines. In a similar way, many problems in life don’t go away. We will keep becoming more than we were if we face the truth, educate ourselves and maintain new healthy routines. I heard someone say once that life is like licking honey off a thorn. Without pain we would not experience the fullness of joy. Without joy we would not discover the meaning and purpose in pain.

Lessons from the Farm

One of the great things about living on two acres is there is room to grow a garden, tend a mini fruit orchard and raise animals. Our family knows from personal experience that eggs don’t come from cartons at the grocery store and apples often have worm holes. When we are personally acquainted with the natural world, we learn perfection in nature or ourselves is more a process that a product. We can cut out the worm hole and still enjoy the rest of the apple. We can accept our humanness and still be happy.
Growing a garden certainly teaches us that we literally reap what we sew. Though we never get corn where we planted potatoes; we sometimes do get volunteers from previous plantings and some very interesting combinations of present plantings. We have harvested squashes and melons that have cross-pollinated forming totally unique varieties like canta-watermelons or crookneck zucchinis. Buried seeds from a previous year will sometimes grow into a new seedling without being purposely planted again. If we keep planting and working with hope our lives will often produce a harvest we did not expect. The magic and mystery is that we never know for sure what unexpected gift is coming.
There is another part of the law of the harvest no one talks about. We can labor very hard tilling, planting, weeding and watering but sometimes a sudden frost or storm will destroy all our hard work. This turn of events often requires that we hang on until we can plant again next spring. Sometimes children walk into forbidden paths, illness strikes or the people we love die. Eventually we reap what we sew– but sometimes it takes more time than we thought to see the return on our investment.
Our mini farm has also taught us about the law of the jungle or survival of the fittest. The birds in our neighborhood know the exact morning we plan to pick our cherries. The night before, these birds swarm our tree, strip it of every single piece of fruit and leave piles of pink poop under our deck railing to taunt us. Sometimes we’ve been tempted to eat green cherries just to get our share. Finally we decided to call our crop a free will offering. Likewise, when people steal from us, we can eat bitter fruit and become sour like them or consider our bounty a gift - and move on.
Gophers tunnel into our garden and devour the root vegetables. My husband sets traps but they keep coming. Raccoons strip the leaves off our corn and devour every kernel on the cob before it makes it to our barbeque. Foxes and stray dogs think our pigeons, rabbits and ducks make a tasty supper. There are predators out there. Bad things happen to good people and hearts are broken by tragedy or betrayal. We don’t always get what we deserve but we are invited to learn from both the bitter and the sweet, trusting that God will someday make sense of it all.
Nature and life is not always a boundless harvest; sometimes it hails and destroys our crop or death comes too soon. Life is hard; yet life is also sweet. In the end it is not the gardener with the flawless garden who wins but the one who has overcome the most without giving up hope. Who we become is our ultimate harvest.

PLAYING IN THE SYMPHONY OF LIFE

There are times in all our lives when we feel alone and discouraged. There are days when we question whether anyone understands or cares – when we can’t remember the melody or find the will to sing it. At times like these I believe it helps to join in the strength of those around us.
I play second violin in an orchestra. The other members of the group who play in that section sit in front, behind and on both sides of me. When I lose my place in the music I listen carefully to the musician next to me while I scan the notes on the page to locate where we are in the score. Before long I can jump back in and start playing again. The player next to me can’t stop playing to instruct me without losing their place. So when they can tell I’m lost, they will whisper the number of the measure we’re on.
We can’t always solve the problems of others but we can listen carefully so we are aware when someone around us has lost their place. We can learn to be more in tune with the needs of those around us and we never know what positive influence we have. For example, one day after I’d given a talk at BYU Education week, a woman approached me and said, “You don’t know me but when I was a teenager I read something you wrote that helped me more than you’ll ever know. I was going through some awful things and had decided to end it all. Then I read the article you wrote in the New Era called ‘Holding On’. So I did. Those words literally saved my life.”
Though we are often unaware, those around us are starved for attention and compassion. We can’t always stop our life and rush to save them; but we can in effect whisper the number of the measure we’re on by offering a kind smile or a gentle word of appreciation, affection or encouragement. Before long, they will be able to find their place in the music and start playing again. A symphony simply does not have the same power without every instrument playing their part.
When our orchestra is playing disjointed and out of tune during rehearsals, our conductor will make us stop, memorize a few bars and then ask us to close our eyes and play the music without looking. He will further instruct us to listen to those next to us and also across the orchestra so we can hear how our part fits into the whole. It is amazing how much better we all sound when we do that. When we are focused only on our part and our eyes are glued to the sheet of music in front of us we are too concerned with self – unable to play the notes together as beautifully as we could.
If we want to get in tune with those around us we have to occasionally get our minds off ourselves long enough to truly listen. Then we will notice subtle expressions of need and hear the silent cries of those across the way. When all of us listen this way, we can play the score of life with infinitely more harmony and grace.
So, at those times when we feel abandoned, we need to glace around us. We are not alone; we are surrounded by caring people. When we are lost, they will help us find our place in the score and when they are lost we will help them. If we listen carefully with our hearts and glance up to the master maestro, the melody is never far away. There is love all around and inside us. All we have to do is listen.

LIFE GOES ON

Sometimes when I crawl in bed at night I can’t go to sleep because I mentally rehash every trouble or concern in my life until each muscle in my body it so rigid I can’t relax. Then I worry that I’m worrying too much. Before long, I’m checking the clock again noticing another hour has passed. Eventually I have to tell my mind, “Stop thinking! You can not solve one single solitary problem in your pajamas while you’re in bed in the middle of the night. Let the day go. Face tomorrow when you wake up.”
Sometimes this personal reprimand works and sometimes it doesn’t. If it doesn’t I close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting alone at the beach on the Oregon coast watching the waves roll toward my bare toes wiggling in the sun warmed sand. Then I begin a relaxation game. First I become aware of each muscle in my body beginning at the top of my head and working down. I tighten each muscle then release. Next I imagine my arms and legs dissolving like sand into the sea. If I have another worry thought and tense up again, I have to start all over.
Once I’m relaxed I listen for my inner rhythms, the steady beating of my heart - the constant rise and fall of breathing. If I turn off my worry thoughts long enough and allow myself to simply experience the moment, my tension dissolves and I feel as though I’m floating. This gentle cadence of pre-sleep relaxation takes me back to when I was a child and had the simple faith to drift comfortably into slumber knowing God was watching over me.
Like the waves on the beach, like the beating of our heart, life is continual motion. We can not hold on to yesterday any better than we grasp a wave in the palm of our hand. Nothing is still; nothing is unchanging. There is no way to stop the constant pulse of the cosmos. Yet the Master of the Universe mercifully allows each day to end so we can regroup and refresh before the next wave.
There are times when unexpected challenges come at us like sudden storms at sea. When we feel most adrift or afraid, it helps to take a deep breath and go deep. Somewhere anchored inside each of us is stillness. Like the eye of the storm, this private quiet center allows us to be at peace even during the height of the tempest or against the stiffest wind. Hope and gratitude allow us to ride out the storm until the dark clouds part and sun shines through again.
So, when we’re lying in bed at night worried about the storms in our life, we have to tell ourselves, “Stop thinking and start listening. We can not solve one single solitary problem while we’re looking outside ourselves for the answer. Take a deep breath, go deep and feel the stillness.”
Storms come and storms go. The tide comes in and the tide goes out. If we are searching we’ll find hidden treasures in the quiet tide pools among the rocks when the tide is out and we never know what new gift the next tide will wash up on the shore. No matter what happens to us – life goes on. Sometimes we are on the beach watching the waves roll in and sometimes we have to get up and dance in the rain.

That Fat White Cat in the Windowsill

The other day my daughter boarded the school bus that stops in front of our house and sat down. The boy in the seat behind her tapped her on the shoulder.
“Hey, what’s with that big fat white cat in your windowsill every morning?”
At first my daughter was confused. She looked back at our house as the bus pulled away trying to see what the boy was talking about. Then she realized what the boy was looking at.
“That’s not a fat white cat,” Alisa answered. “That’s my mother.”
The couch in our living room is level with the windowsill and I usually slouch down so the kids on the bus can’t see my white bathrobe. I guess I didn’t slouch down quite enough.
John, Alisa and I do a lot of waving back and forth before they board the bus each morning. As a matter of fact - while they stand on the street in front of our home waiting for the bus to arrive - we wave, blow kisses and send hands signals back and forth about how much we love each other for minutes on end.
It won’t be long until John and Alisa are too self-conscious to show me so much affection in front of their peers. Junior high school has the well earned reputation for gobbling up free spirited affectionate elementary school children and turning them into don’t-embarrass-me-in-front-of-my-friends tweens (youngsters stuck self-consciously between childhood and adolescence).
I have learned that you have to savor children while you still have them. You can’t take anything for granted because childhood doesn’t last. Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into years. One morning you wake up, look outside your living room window and nobody is there blowing you kisses any more. You have to appreciate unbridled affection while you still can.
One of the reasons I write is so I can savor life times three. Once just isn’t enough. I write so that I can savor my life first while I’m living it, second while I’m thinking and writing about it and third while I’m re-reading and remembering. I have learned that life goes by so much faster than I thought it would and if you don’t notice how blessed each day is and really relish the moment – your life becomes a blur. You have to throw open up your heart, wrap your arms around your loved ones and embrace each other with gusto every single day. There will be a last time my son and daughter blow me kisses at the bus stop.
John and Alisa are my last two elementary school age children. I am not in a hurry to see them grow up and leave. I have a feeling that fat white cat in the windowsill will still be waving when they leave for high school and college. And she will still be in the windowsill with her nose pressed against the glass when they come back home with their own little ones for me to hold.

Parent School

A few months ago I watched my daughter march into the stadium with hundreds of graduates. The wind was blowing, flags brilliant, music rousing and faces radiant. My daughter had spent many long years earning her degree. After all the pomp and circumstance of that commencement ceremony what touched my daughter most occurred before she entered the stadium. Faculty and alumni lined the streets leading to the stadium clapping and shouting their congratulations with comments like:
“You’re the hope of our future!”
“Way to hang in there, work hard and never give up!”
“We’re so proud of you!”
As I sat in the bleachers that chilly day in Philadelphia, I realized society doesn’t recognize or reward parents. We neglect to give the most necessary members of our society any kind of diploma after they’ve spent many long years taking care of the human race. Yet I also realized that even if we held graduation ceremonies I don’t think many parents would attend.
Parents don’t do what we do so someone will give us a diploma to hang on our wall or so we can earn more money. We don’t do what we do because others will admire or praise us. We do what we do because we love our children and eventually everybody’s children. Parents may be largely invisible to society - but not to God. Each scraped knee we tend and each night of sleep we sacrifice is a personal purification process. For parenthood is God’s school. The graduation ceremonies are unique for each man or woman.
Parents pass through educational ranks something like this: When we quit feeling sorry for ourselves we graduate with the Associate of Amateurism degree. When we stop being so hard on our self we graduate with the Bachelor of Blunders degree. When we finally learn to rely on God to clean up our messes we are awarded the Master of Muddling degree. When we understand we need to keep learning for the rest of our life we graduate with our Doctorate of Humility degree.
Graduates at universities add to their cap and gown costume as they get advanced degrees. They start out wearing simple black caps and gowns then progress to colored hoods placed over their shoulders and finally velvet stripes down their arms. Graduates from parent school start out wearing fashionable clothing, progress to maternity or work clothes then wear anything that allows them to get down on the floor and play.
After all we’ve learned, lived and loved we seasoned parents need to line the streets applauding new parents marching toward selflessness shouting things like:
“Way to hang in there, work hard and never give up!”
“You’re the hope of the future!”
“We’re so proud of you!”
Then we can all throw our tasseled caps into the air together, take pictures and keep on doing what we love forever. The most prestigious letters we can have printed after our name are M.O.T.H.E.R or F.A.T.H.E.R.

What Matters More?

Lots of people ask me how I find time to write when I have ten children.
I tell them, “I don’t find time to write. I make time to write. I’m afraid if I stop, I’ll forget all the good parts of my life.”
Writing about being a parent is also my personal attempt to give honor to vital work that is often unappreciated and unheralded. Ordinary activities like fixing a meal, sweeping the kitchen floor or changing a diaper are often overlooked when it comes time for recognition. In our society we give adulation and millions of dollars to individuals who can dunk a basketball, walk down a runway in a bikini or pretend they are someone else for a movie camera. Taking care of children seems to be too common, boring and ordinary to garner societal attention or remuneration. Yet it is in those vital relationships we form at home where all the qualities of human greatness are neglected or nourished - like love, compassion, forgiveness, patience, kindness and charity.
So, I write and write and I can’t stop writing because the events and relationships that are happening in my family and your family will only happen once in the history of the universe. If we don’t observe, contemplate and gain insight from the profound uniqueness of our own life and relationships we form, they will be lost forever.
I remember a day when my daughter Ashley called me to the west window to see a sunset. I was busy and told her I’d be there in a minute. By the time I walked into the dining room and looked west, the sunset was gone - the day ended. I was too late. I don’t want to feel that way at the end of my life – too busy doing anything less important at the price of what was truly significant.
Somewhere deep inside of me I have been given an absolute personal conviction that being a person who loves and cares for others is incredibly important. I also know that we become role models much more quickly than we think. Little eyes look to us to see how human beings behave in this world.
History teaches us that battlefield victories fade, leadership changes and the flames of fame are quickly snuffed out. At the end of the day there has to be someone to go home to. A man or woman who feels peace and joy at home has accomplished the greatest feat in life. Yes, family life has ups and downs, twists and turns, triumphs and failures. Yet learning to forgive, love and cherish those in your own home is the truest measure of a life well lived.
The most exciting journey we take in this life is the one that invites us to discover the capacity of our heart. That is a journey we best take at home. When we truly love someone, it changes the way we see ourselves, the world and each other. There is a deep sustaining sustenance that feeds those who serve. How we take care of those who can not care for themselves is the test of a nation, state, community and an individual.
What matters more - How many people know our name or how many people know we love them? How many possessions we have, or how many possessions we have given away? How much talent we have or how much we’re used our talents to bless the lives of others?

Woman-Oh-Pause

It has always bothered me that menopause isn’t called womanopause. I mean who’s doing the pausing here? I’ve heard about all the hot flashes, night sweats and mood changes that accompany the loss of fertility. Why doesn’t anybody talk about the pause part? I think pause should mean – pause - stop and ponder.
Growing older is not what I expected. I mean I used to think old people were old people. We’re not. Older people are just regular people in old bodies. We stay pretty much the same inside as the years go by but the body goes south. Life is so much shorter than I thought it would be. I think we’re more likely to learn something along the way if we take the time to contemplate what our experiences have taught us.
Once I was sitting next to Emily Watts at a Deseret Book Time Out for Women. We were both on the program and waiting to speak to a large gathering of women.
“They’ve got me billed as the one who’s giving the mother talk,” I said turning to her. "I’m not comfortable appearing to be some kind of expert. I mean, what to I know? I don’t feel like I really know anything about being a mom.”
“Yes you do,” she answered. “Think about it.”
And so I did.
Thinking about it is the part I’m interested in. By the time we hit our fifties, most of us are inching up on the tail end of the crowded years. For the first half of our life we hurried around like Martha taking care of all the needs in our family and the universe. Now it is time to be more like Mary and choose more carefully the better part. Raising a family is a lot of hard work interspersed with moments of indescribable joy. If we don’t take the time to share our dear and not so dear motherhood experiences, the younger moms coming up through the ranks will think they are alone. When new moms lock arms with old moms we are a formidable force for good and much cheaper than therapy.
We spend the first half of our lives acquiring and accumulating. We spend the last half unloading and thinning out. We come to understand less is more. We spend the first half of our lives wishing everybody would leave us alone so we can get something important done. We spend the last half of our lives trying to get those same people to come back because we realize they are the important part.
Menopause ushers us from a fertile time for our bodies into a fertile time for our minds. We are given our bodies back, though a little wider and sporting a C-section scar or two. Now we’re asked to see what we will do with a seasoned heart. That’s why we’re called grand mothers. We don’t have to give birth any more or be the disciplinarians – just the lovers. That’s what makes grand parenting so grand.
Motherhood follows the same cycle of life as in nature with spring time, summer, autumn and winter – each following the other in an eternal round. Whether we’re starting out or ending up, we all have something valuable to offer each other. We start out feeling like we’re giving up something more important to raise children and end up realizing raising children is the important part. We start out thinking we’re sacrificing our personal development and end up realizing the process of learning to love someone is the ultimate road to personal development. We quite literally find our self when we lose our self. In the end we come to know that everything that matters most is sitting around our kitchen table. And that’s something to pause and think about.

The Echo Of Their Laughter

I remember the years when I was basically home bound with many young children. Sometimes I wondered if I should be doing something more important “out there.” On my hard days I had moments when I wondered if I was throwing myself away for children who didn’t seem to appreciate anything I was doing for them. When we are mothers of young children we are generally young ourselves or at least new to being a parent. It is not easy to painstakingly extract our selfishness. So we hang on as long as possible, hoping someone will eventually appreciate all we do. One day it dawns on us – the eyes God see everything and that’s enough.
Most of our behavior with our young children is a private experience even they won’t remember – consciously. Yet there is another memory of the heart – a deep personal feeling we carry inside that tells us if we are loveable or unlovable, safe or unsafe and whether or not we can trust others. We learn these things from our parents and we take those feelings with us when we leave home.
On those hard days when the baby is screaming, the toddler paints his entire bedroom in petroleum jelly, and the preschooler gouges the new sofa with a butcher knife it’s hard not to feel like you’re going to go crazy. Feeling overwhelmed is a chronic parenting condition. It’s not easy to work very hard every day without pay, recognition or reward for little people who throw up all over us, scream in our face and throw things at our head. It’s not easy to fix nutritious meals that mostly wind up on the floor. It’s not easy to clean a house that is being destroyed even as we work. It’s not easy to be romantic with our spouse when we haven’t even had a chance to take a shower all day. It’s not easy to be a parent of young children. It takes years to grow into our role.
We know we’re making progress when we finally stop feeling sorry for our self. We’re ready for the next school in parenthood when our life becomes less about us and more about them. Our perspective shifts. We realize being a child isn’t easy either. Hey, it’s not easy being three. Try climbing up on a commode that is twice as big as you are. When we begin to look at our children the way an educated art patron in a museum looks at Michelangelo’s David or the Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, we will see them as the masterpieces they really are.
Taking care of those who can’t take care of themselves is a mission – a calling and worthy our best effort. If we work very hard and give our all to our parenting career, our children might turn out well and they might not. We are an important part of our child’s life, but we can’t realistically take all the credit or blame for the adult our child becomes. We only have to take the blame and credit for how we turn out.
No matter how many battles we fight on the home front, our name will not appear on a monument. We will work our whole life for something we never see finished. But if we make the necessary sacrifices, parenthood will be a personal cure for self-centeredness and an anecdote for false pride. The primary relationship we have in this life is with our self. There is nothing like parenthood to make us face our self and seek divine help. Then when we lay our head on our pillow at night, we may not see the dream of CEO printed on our office door or visions of mansions and luxury cars. We will see the radiant faces of our children and hear the echo of their laughter.