Old-school parenting

Because we’re now in our mid-40s, we obviously grew up with 70s and 80s parenting.  I doubt—seriously doubt—our moms talked about any of this with their other mom friends.  When I went visiting other women with my mom, how to parent never came up.  Even when they thought I wasn’t listening.  The last thing in the world our moms would’ve done is analyze their performance as a mom or read books about it.  My mom was too busy reading The Thorn Birds and other thick romance novels, and Todd’s mom barely had a second to herself with all those kids.  They were just living their lives, doing what came naturally (or whatever came to mind).  And that’s probably where Todd and I get it. I’ve read quite a bit about what makes people tick, and I wholeheartedly subscribe to the natural consequences philosophy (as in Parenting with Love and Logic), but I really believe we can rely on our intuition a great deal more than we do.  So no, I don’t usually have parenting books on my nightstand, but yes, I’m also a product of 90s parenting and so I’ve read my share.

Growing up, our parents’ job was to go to work to earn money to support the household (or stay home and take care of the work in the home).  Our job as kids was to go to school and get an education; our parents never talked about this with us when we were kids, it was just the way it was back then.  We're kind of the same, as long as things are ticking along, we’re all good.  Just as I don’t try to tell Todd how to run his vet practice, I assume my kids know more about what goes on in school than I do and I trust them with their stewardship.  However, when Todd has an issue at work he’ll need a sounding board for, I’m happy to hear what’s up and talk through it with him; and, likewise, we always want to hear from the kids when something’s amiss or unusual at school.  Of course we’ll help with homework on occasion or hear about an altercation among classmates, but basically they handle things on their own.  

Just as we did.  Because I know they can deal with it.  The minute I take ownership of a problem, I’m telling them they can’t handle it.  I’m also taking responsibility away from them and making more work for myself.  I’ve already done 6th grade; it’s their turn.  We had to figure out hard teachers, Dodge ball, strained relationships, embarrassing situations, and consequences of procrastination.  We failed tests, got B’s, braved our share of injuries and illnesses, and endured braces, glasses, and jr. high p.e.  We simply don’t believe in padding the way for our kids or shielding them from real life.  It’s their job to bring their planners and papers to us to sign; as a younger mom I wasn’t going to dig through five backpacks every afternoon to figure out what was going on.  No, I don’t know how many more AR points they need, and I have no idea if they’ve practiced; that’s all between them and their teachers.  We of course like to know how they’re doing and are always interested in their progress reports.  But we’ve never signed in online to see what their grades are, in elementary school or high school; that’s just not us.  In our mind, they need to know we truly trust them to take care of their school affairs themselves,  just as they leave the mortgage and car repairs to us. 

We have encouraged them to take the harder route whenever it’s an option like with honors and AP classes; we discuss the merits and added responsibilities but then allow them to decide.  One son opted (against the advice of his teachers) to take two honors science classes at one time as a sophomore, and we supported that decision without reservation.  A daughter felt like forgoing honors math classes, so we listened to her reasoning and supported her decision as well.  We encourage them to take the ACT multiple times, to try a variety of activities, and to sign up for classes that interest them (rather than sticking with what they’re friends are taking).  But we completely let them choose.  I suppose if they were taking all art and cooking classes and library aid on the side then we’d have an issue, but basically we talk a lot about future goals and how to get there; they realize quickly that the lifestyle they want to have someday depends a great deal on what they do right now.  And then we let them figure it out.

It’s not that we’re trying to take the easy way out.  Any parent knows it’s a million times easier to do it yourself.  Anything.  Dishes, feeding the dogs, scholarship forms, packing lunches, making beds, scouts.  But I guess we just always go back to our overarching goal for our kids.  We are doing everything we can to help them gain skills, to teach them responsibility and self sufficiency and to take care of themselves so that they can confidently and successfully do it all on their own someday.  What better environment to learn about how clothes shrink or why the cookies spread out too much or why you can’t drive on a flat tire or how to assure the sheets stay tucked in or why it’s important to refrain from gossiping than with a mom or dad right beside you to explain it all?  We love the chance to talk about failures and disappointments and what we can do next or better.  That’s just good learning.  We have our own stories from when we were kids and even in our current everyday adult lives to share with them as well.

But to the observer, it might look like we don’t care.  It’s not that at all.  We try in every way possible to help our kids avoid heartache and discomfort, we really do.  But we believe in allowing disappointment for the greater good of teaching a lifelong lesson.  So we talk about what to bring on a camping trip for scouts when they’re 11, and Todd will check their bags at first.  But there’s no way we’re doing that more than a couple of times.  We’ll make suggestions, You might want a hat and maybe an extra blanket, do you think that will be enough food, what if they don’t have a fire? and we do require basics like a coat and real shoes.   But beyond that, they will learn much better if they have to experience a cold or hungry night of sleep than if we pack everything for them.  They won’t die from one night without a pillow or gloves, but that memory will be indelibly printed in their minds, a hard-learned but valuable life lesson.  Same with packing for vacations and overnighters and school.  You wouldn’t believe how young they can start doing things for themselves.  So it's not that we don't care.  Ask Todd, I always worry that my boys are warm enough when they're camping in the snow and we have no idea if they packed everything.  I worry what they'll eat when they refused to take extra food for a long after-school activity.  But we advise.  And we let it go.

Basically I think we—like our parents—figure our kids have what they need to handle age-appropriate responsibilities.  Todd’s mom started them on laundry by age 8.  Kids these days can program all sorts of electronics; they can certainly run a washing machine and dish washer.  They can make their own lunches, do dishes, mow, clean bathrooms, trim, whatever.  My nephew’s had a lawn mowing business since he was 9 or 10.  And my sister’s three boys have been doing their own laundry since they could reach and read the dials.   They only know what they can do from our cues.  If we tell them they can, they think they can.  No, the execution’s not perfect, but it improves over time.  In our minds, this is where true confidence comes from: developing real life skills and knowing who they are.

I loved reading Randy Pausch’s thoughts in The Last Lecture before he died, and I remember how much his parenting philosophy resonated with me.  He expected his kids to do anything they were capable of; he even encouraged his babies to hold their own bottles as soon as they could. I felt so validated, that maybe I wasn’t being mean, but maybe I was teaching. I’m a little inconsistent sometimes and help them out every now and then.  I remember zipping up one of our kindergartner’s coats one cold morning and Todd asked what I was doing, as if I had breeched a contract!  It’s not very often, but we sometimes make up a bed with warm sheets from the dryer or help with a lunch if it’s been a crazy morning. It’s not like we aren’t concerned for our kids’ well-being, not at all.  But we know they will be better off knowing how to solve problems for themselves.  They will eventually make the connection (even though we give them hints all the time) that zipping their coats will keep the warmth in. They understand that if they need a uniform or special pair of jeans for tomorrow—and they want it to be clean—there’s only one way to make that happen (of course they can throw in something with ours on occasion).  I knew growing up in an apartment that laundry would only be done Tuesday and Friday mornings, so I had to plan accordingly.  My mom and dad both worked full-time and we had to leave early to get to school; there was no way in this universe she was going to do the laundry at 5:30 in the morning at the laundromat around the corner, get herself ready and have time to make us breakfast or pack lunches for three girls, just not happening, I can’t even imagine it. I can’t fathom them walking me through college admissions or federal aid or scholarship forms; they didn’t even know what classes I was taking in high school and neither one went to college.  But did it faze us or make us feel like they didn’t care for or love us?  It was so matter of fact that we never questioned it.  And that’s probably why we’re the same with our kids.  We want them to know how to run their lives, to figure out how to feed themselves if they’re hungry, to look online to figure what’s wrong with the trimmer or to learn about installing the new dishwasher or brake light, to know how to get a job.  My parents made us call people on the phone, visit strangers, and entertain ourselves.  I think they intuitively knew this would all strengthen us.

And so Todd and I carried this feeling of independence with us to college.  His parents dropped him off at the airport in Chicago to go to college in Utah.  He had two suitcases.  And he did great.  I was a little less prepared, I got homesick after a month or so, I needed help once for rent, I’d never had a real job (I just had my own cleaning business), and I had no idea how to cook.  But it never crossed my mind to ask my parents for help doing my taxes.  Or for a car.  Or to call a professor who’d been mean or who gave out too much homework.  Sounds simply laughable, but you know the reality these days.

Kids feel secure knowing their parents have covered the basics.  Likewise, just because kids are younger than us doesn’t mean they can’t handle much of their own care, decisions, and even stresses.  Just as I don’t expect them to worry about if I’ve read my scriptures for the day or made dinner, I let them take care of their worksheets they need to finish up and pace themselves in the novel they’ve been assigned to finish for English.

We of course talk about all this.  Just as they’ll ask how their dad’s day was and what surgeries he had, we’ll ask how that chemistry test went or how that project’s coming along or how he feels about band.  The kids might ask how much we pay for the house or car insurance out of curiosity, but it’s not keeping them awake at night.  And we don’t stress if they need to work things out with a friend or grade.  We don’t go through each class with them every night and assess what homework they have or where they are with every acquaintance.  We do follow up with concerns they’ve expressed, we offer insight and advice, we answer questions, we share our experiences, and we really do try to pay attention to overall feelings we have about each of the kids.  But basically, our philosophy mirrors a wise man's, “I teach them correct principles, and they govern themselves.”

A caveat.  It’s not anywhere near perfect.  We could never be on a talk-show for raising incredible kids.  Even if I wanted to, I’d hesitate to practice as a family counselor until we see how it how pans out.  Only two of our five kids play an instrument, and they’re still just in the learning stages.  They’ve all done cross country, but no one’s ever come in first.  No one’s on track to be a valedictorian.  We’re not the family of class presidents or Most Popular or Most Likely to Succeed.  They’ve just had regular jobs.  No, they haven’t paid their own way for everything (that’s a whole other blog).  They’ve had their issues and my heart’s been broken, deeply severed.  We’ve missed a lot.  We have regrets.  Definitely.  And we’re not sure how it’s even going to all turn out.  We’re not guaranteeing anything.

All we know is that this feels right to us regardless of how flawed we seem and how messy it looks on the outside.  When I wonder about how to manage something in life, I look to God.  He gives us commandments (expectations), he sends us mentors (parents, church leaders, teachers), he gives us agency (choices), and he allows consequences (natural results of decisions) to teach us.  As young parents, we had no idea how to do any of it.  But it seemed natural to raise our kids the way we saw him parenting us.

So maybe we appear detached.  Lazy.  Lackadaisical.  Like we’re out to lunch.  Like we don’t care.  Distracted, clueless, naive.  And I can see that.  But don’t we sometimes accuse God of the same things?  It may seem like he’s far away, like he doesn’t care, like he’s not involved.  But by this point in our lives we all recognize how much God does love us. So much that he trusts us to learn from our failures, to develop empathy through disappointment, to feel the thrill of handing a tough situation.  We know he is always, always there, anxious to help us if we need him for anything at all.  That’s how we want to be for our kids.  But we have confidence in their abilities, we know they are capable of so much.  Most kids are eager to be independent.  In a world where we need strong, creative, confident problem solvers, citizens, parents, and friends, we encourage our kids to get on it.  They’ve got a lot to learn, may as well start young.

Feeling fall

It starts early, maybe even as far back as early August, I can sense the shift when the school supplies start showing up right after the Fourth of July actually.  I’m giddy walking up and down the aisles of crayons and pencils, a little disappointed that we are still overstocked from last year, but still intoxicated by colored pencil and marker options, the tiny erasers, the 3x5 cards and sticky notes. Memories from school days of yore fill my mind as I recall cigar boxes in lieu of these plastic colored types.  I remember new crayon and water color paint sets presented to us on day one, the thrill of finding out where my desk was and seeing my name in print (spelled with a C) on that thick strip of card stock with the the faint dashed blue line across it to separate the lower and upper-case letters.  I can hardly contain my enthusiasm as I note that fall is officially on the horizon.  It’s kind of the Thursday of seasons.  Most people would say Friday and Christmas are their favorites, but I like to back up just a titch and enjoy the anticipation of the Big days and savor the time before.  And just like that, over the years Friday and Christmas have been relegated to the back row and Thursday and fall have become my front seat companions, hands-down my favorites.

I’m the mom who gets out the buckets of fall decorations the first week school goes back, even when it’s not even September yet.  I can hardly suppress my smiles when I lift off the lid and inhale the cinnamon-scented candles I’d tucked away and remember the pillows I made that will line our couches.  I’m welcoming back old, familiar friends like a kid from high school whose picture flicks on Facebook, your memory surges with recollection; I’m thrilled at our reunion! Each item greets its fellow bedmates and they all chime in, beckoning me to remember why I love this season more than all the others. For the record, I’m not into holidays and forget to make a big deal about most of them until I see what all you folk are doing.  I know.  I would love to be that kind of mom, but I do make up for some of it with my enchantment for fall.  The leaves, the oranges and browns, the yellows and reds, the Indian corn and the apples, the pumpkin everything—from Life cereal to lip balm, the leaf-lined lawns and streets, the sound of tractors collecting their harvests, I inhale it all. 

I love the way the mornings turn on a dime.  One day I’m sending the kids out in their leftover summer shorts and then suddenly I’m reminding them to maybe take a sweatshirt for the morning.  We switch on the heating on the way to school.  Even when it’s still 70 during the day, mornings are a frosty 35.  But I’m loving it, the new crispness signals a change and awakens my senses.

I’m all of a sudden hearing geese gather.  I watch them glean the last bits from the fields across the road.  I can’t help but recall a talk I once read about the v-shape of Canadian geese flying, and the application teaches me again that we all take turns out in front and then in bringing up the rear.  I love the way they speak to each other, communicating in code specific to and understood by their friends.  I marvel, I can’t help myself.

It’s fire.  Not the summer wildfires that choked out our blue skies and made everyday hazy and unhealthy, but controlled wood burning in neighboring fireplaces.  As well as our own.  Even though it’s only in the 30s and 40s, there’s nothing more comforting and that says home more clearly than a cozy living room with the fireplace alit, warming both our bodies and souls. 

The leaves seem to shed a smell as they lose their grasp on their paternal branches and flitter downward. It’s the corn harvest in the fields nearby.  It’s just a difference in the air, a subtle concoction of familiar and remembered aromas that add to the ambience of fall.

It's the bluest of all skies.  Clear.  No clouds to maintain warmth or to block our view to endlessness.  The sky itself is a sign of fall, the most perfect backdrop for the vibrant colors that abound.

Our magazines start to take on an orange, burnt red hue. Leaf-littered country home walkways lead us to sheltering porches that boast a bounty of pumpkins and gourds, hay bales poised yet casual, and corn stalks clinging tightly to wooden posts.  Oh, the thrill of anticipation as I think of fresh flannel sheets, contacts out, and duties hung on the proverbial coat rack for the evening.  Todd will inevitably join me, as this is a treat neither can indulge in fully without the other.  We often tease if one starts to peruse one of our magazines without waiting.  It is a succulent tradition, perhaps a little old for our age, but one that brings us immense satisfaction.  I love the new cupcake and dinner recipes, the way they create new ideas of the same materials they've had to draw on for years.  I love the mantles, the themed parties they walk us through step by step, the ideas for streamlining our Halloween celebrations.  But most of all we just love meandering through beautiful homes at our leisure, discussing details we'd love to incorporate, others we can't believe they're trying to sell us. Such a cozy way to end the day.

It’s the requests and follow-throughs for soup and bread.  It’s thick slices of tall white loaves or rosemary French or oatmeal-whole wheat with sunflower seeds and flax seed.  It’s hearty elk stews with garden potatoes and onions, old favorites like creamy chicken with pasta and new tries like the lasagna variety from last year.  It’s our raspberry peach jam.  It’s lingering at the table because the night is already upon us, slowing our momentum and asking us to pause a little longer.  It’s apple crisp and apple pie.  It’s hearing the whir of our dehydrator and smelling the warming apples on its trays.  It’s dad’s apple juice and apple sauce that makes the most of even the most pitiful apples.

It’s those craft stores.  One of my favorite indulgences as a stay-at-home mom, a little pit-stop under the pretense of needing bobbins.  I’ll linger.  Even though heaven knows I’m certainly not going to craft.  I’m just here to take it all in.  To inhale the cinnamon pinecones, to handle the leafy fabrics, to check out the candle section.  I consider the fall napkins, occasionally—but rarely—indulging.  I feel the runners and tablecloths and marvel at the current trends for home decor (wondering to myself how long till it will all show up at Good Will but loving it all the same).  I admire the creations displayed on tack boards by talented women, funny little quilted pieces, pillows, (have I seen vests?) and assorted holiday-themed tableware.  I’m enraptured with the aisles of leaf garlands, tiny versions of pumpkins and acorns in what are called “picks” for wreaths.  Fascinating, so much variety, so much fodder for the imagination.  I take it all in, creating in my mind settings for various pieces in my own home but reminding myself I have plenty.  It’s a marvelous excursion for my senses and I offer this field trip to myself often throughout the season, kind of like other women’s chocolate stashes hidden in the back of desk drawers.

I like how the early dark draws us in, like a hen gathering her chicks.  I ‘m grateful for how I don’t have to say a word, the opaque night does my talking for me.  I shrug with mock disappointment that Todd will just have to work inside tonight, so sorry he’ll have to leave the fencing for another Saturday afternoon.  The caulking isn’t dry yet?  Bummer.  Nonchalantly I’ll meander to my country harvest puzzle, silently encouraging him to join me.  Before long he’ll make the fire.  The kids will bring their homework and reading down to cuddle in front of our fireplace.  Someone will make some hot chocolate.  The dogs will find their cozy spot beside us.  I caught a glimpse of  heaven just this week as four of us were reading in just this manner late one night.  I made an indelible print in my mind to save for later.

And so, I welcome the north breezes.  After a demanding summer, I’m ok with putting the garden to bed for a rest for awhile.  I’m good with coming in, with focusing on inside projects for a season.  I’m eager to try new soups and breads.  I’m anticipating fall gatherings with friends and family who bear pumpkin spiced desserts and will indulge me in quality conversation by our fire.  I’m excited to dig into to my book pile that’s been waiting patiently like a dear friend in a cafe when you’re running late on a blustery afternoon.  I’m craving my extended family’s company, I love creating a respite for them and other visitors as well as my in-home family, a cozy reprieve from the winds and cares of the world.  So yes, fall is in the air.  And in our home.  And deep in my heart.  In my mind, it’s the most wonderful time of the year.

Letting go of the how

One of the first days after discovering we were pregnant with our first baby, I was desperate to find Todd on campus.  We were 23, young, still a long ways from being done with our schooling, poor, and so naive.  I cried and cried to him.  I had no idea how we’d afford a baby.  Initially the little lines on the stick overwhelmed me with excitement I could hardly contain.  But when reality sank in, all I could think about was how we’d pull it off.  Shouldn’t we feel older, more ready, more mature, more settled in our careers if we were thinking of having a baby and becoming responsible for its welfare?

But I went back to what I knew.  I knew we were solid in our faith.  I knew we loved each other and had a strong marriage.  I knew we’d been trying to get pregnant for several months.  I knew we wanted a big family.  I knew I was healthy and strong (mostly because I was young!) and that we were doing everything we could think of to make it work.  We both had jobs, I was nearly done with school. What I knew more than anything was how amazing it felt to think about being a mom!

What I didn’t know was how we’d find a doctor we could afford.  How we’d be able to buy everything a new baby would need.  How we’d know how to be parents. How we’d make it to vet school and juggle finishing up school while working and packing up our house on our own with no parents around to help us out.  Or how it would be to move across the country and start a life in an unfamiliar city just two weeks after giving birth while I would still be recovering.

But one of my favorite scriptures has always been, “Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?”  And that’s what I kept going back to, the confirmation that this felt right.  And because we felt peace about it, we knew somehow things would work out.  One of my favorite men in the world has famously said, “It isn’t as bad as you sometimes think it is. It all works out. Don’t worry. … If you do your best, it will all work out. Put your trust in God, and move forward with faith.” (President Hinckley)  We have clung to that promise ever since.

When we just do whatever we can and exercise even a sliver of faith, somehow (that’s the part we don’t need to stress about) he figures out the how for us.  We’ve lived our lives and raised our kids on this scripture, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them they may accomplish the thing which he hath commanded them.”  And so we, like so many of you, just plow ahead tackling the hard things in life with this promise in mind, knowing that God will take care of the particulars.

Consider what he asks of us, so contrary to what we’d consider common sense. Even though we felt to do so, we got married when the odds were against us.  Divorce rates had never been higher, we were 22, we still had years of school ahead of us, I had no idea how to make a relationship like this work.  But we trusted God’s promise that he would walk beside us, helping us with the how.  Same with having kids.  I have a friend who felt to have another baby when they were unemployed.  I’ve learned over and over and over to believe and trust his methods.  “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.”  So we continued to have kids even though it didn’t make sense.  We continue to do all sorts of things that don’t seem rational or that feel too complicated or difficult for us; I think that’s how many of us travel through life, full of questions while at the same time full of faith.

But no place is this harder than when it pertains to matters of the heart.  To forgive when someone we trusted with our hearts breaks that bond and hurts us to the core, we wonder how on earth we can ever feel normal again.  But I know he heals us and allows us to move forward when we put his promises to the test.  When we pray for our enemies and those who despitefully use us, when we turn our heartaches over to him, when we do our small part in asking for charity and humility that we don’t even want to ask for in the first place, he comes through.  I’ve experienced this miracle over and over, and I know you have too.  But somehow he manages to numb the very real pain, like an Ibuprofen.  He takes my mind off the situation and distracts me, most often by helping me notice ways to serve others (which should be annoying but is actually cathartic).  He helps me see inside another’s heart when all I care about is how my heart is hurting.  He helps me take one moment of the day at a time.  And lets me cry.  I don’t know how this all works, and how he manages to take a heart that’s in shreds and makes it beat again is beyond me.  It’s like magic. 

We’ve seen this play out when early on we had to test our faith as Todd became a part business owner.  It was so scary to take on that much more debt when we already had thousands in school loans to worry about.  But, as always, once we received confirmation that it was a good move, we could securely leave the hows in God’s hands.

We did this all through college as we put aside our studies on Sundays. Todd’s classmates were incredulous, but he made it through vet school relying on God to work out the details. We have likewise always encouraged our kids to not study on Sundays, telling them if they do their best to work hard the other days, he will bless their efforts to keep the Sabbath day holy.

We have also encouraged them to always go to their youth meetings and activities, no matter what it is, no matter what they have going on.  Obviously they’ve missed their share, but we really believe they will be blessed in their school work and lives when they are where they are supposed to be when they’re supposed to be there, doing what they’re supposed to be doing.  He has set up these programs for their good, and even when we can’t see how a scavenger hunt with a small group of girls could possibly be more important that geometry homework, we know he does something like squish time or open her mind to make concepts clearer, but I don’t have a clue how he does it.  I do know that when we put our faith in things like reading scriptures when we don’t feel like we have one extra second in our day, for instance, he somehow works miracles, allowing us to get way more done than we could’ve on our own.  We simply don’t have to worry about the how.  We just believe him when he gives us a commandment or idea.  Our job is to obey, to trust; his promise is that he will “cause the heavens to shake for [our] good.”

So many times over the years we’ve regressed, forgetting that we don’t have to worry about the how. We stress, we close the door on an idea, we lose hope, we fail to move forward simply because we can’t see how things could possibly work out.  Our fears tend to paralyze us and stunt our progress.  I feel like this situation is the one to finally stump God.  I have thoroughly done my homework and I simply cannot come up with any remedy to our plight.  But even then, I’m absolutely in awe when he comes in from a completely different angle, presenting a solution that wasn’t anywhere on my radar.  And it’s always the perfect, simplest solution.  And I wonder again why I ever doubted or worried about how things would work out.

Todd wanted a little hobby farm for years.  But I’d always put him off, it scared me to think of investing so much money, a larger mortgage payment, how it would stretch us.  It had nothing to do with adding to our workload, it was all about money (and a little bit about mice).  My entire life I’ve longed for financial security and stability. I don’t need fancy.  In fact, I sort of hate fancy.  And even though a farm wouldn’t be elaborate, for us it would be expensive.  And we were just fine the way we were; I didn’t want to strain our resources any further.  But we couldn’t deny that it felt right when we came to look at this little unassuming piece of land last fall.  I cried.  You know that.  But I desperately prayed for direction that I would be able to understand.  My answer was I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  And when we visited it again a few days later, I felt calm, like this could be ours, like this was actually a generous blessing.  But I balked inside, I couldn’t see how we could swing it. But we decided to go forward, constantly praying for guidance, for confirmation that we were doing the right thing in spite of not knowing how it would all work out.  Scarier still was that we’d have to put our house up for sale and buy the new one regardless of whether or not our old one would sell; there was no contingency clause.  We continued to feel peaceful about it even though financially it didn’t make sense.  And I guess there was more than money at play, I hated to leave our neighbors, I thought we had a good thing and was confused as to why He would take us out of our beautiful situation.  But as we moved forward with faith in what we’d felt, we saw the hows fall into place.  We secured a bridge loan to help us out for the days between the two sales.  Our old house sold within three days.  Our new payment is a mere $200 more than our old mortgage.  We are still close friends with our old neighbors and continue to get together and build relationships. I don’t know how God managed to orchestrate the details, but it’s all worked out.  We’re slowly becoming more self-sufficient as we’ve been able to plant trees, get cows and chickens and grow our garden, which was the whole reason we wanted a hobby farm in the first place.  I am completely overwhelmed with gratitude and often pause when I’m driving or looking out at the land just to thank Him in awe, with unbelievability that this all came to be.  I am stunned.  And humbled beyond words.

I know He’s in the details of our lives.  He’s not just powerful, he’s all-powerful.  Omniscient.   He’s the God of the Universe.  And our Father.  He’s real.  And he can somehow make things work.  Even when we’re positive—absolutely certain—this one’s beyond him.  Not true.  He can make things happen in ways we can’t even imagine.  He is truly a God of miracles.  All he asks is that we trust him.

Only moderately healthy

Since my blog is mostly just for myself and my family (hopefully my kids will be interested someday in what their parents were thinking back in the early 2000s), I thought I’d take a moment to record where we stand in the middle of the current health craze. 

Todd and I grew up in the 70s and 80s.  I remember leg warmers and seeing Jazzercise on tv.  My mom occasionally went through a funny stint of me holding her feet while she’d do sit ups in her bedroom.  Kind of amusing to think back on.  We had p.e. every single day.  We rode bikes, roller skated, jumped rope, walked on the beach, rode our boogie boards and ran.  Todd swam every day during the summer weeks.  Kids were naturally outside more it seemed; but it wasn’t trendy, it was just how we lived.

As far as food, the only person I remember eating anything sort of trendy was my friend’s mom.  She used carob chips instead of real chocolate chips, which was interesting and a little weird to me.  And she had these thick malted wafers loaded with what I can only assume were vitamins.  I just liked to snack and so I was indulgent when I went to play even though her treats were a different than what we had at home.  Other than that, I’m not really sure what other people ate.  I knew what my grandma had (not much that was exciting, radishes from her garden I remember, gross), but we never really went to anyone else’s house, so I have no idea.

That same grandma, along with an aunt and a cousin, was always really careful with what she ate. They were tall and slender, whether because of their habits or genetics, I don’t know. I loved looking up various foods in my grandma’s little calorie counter book just for trivia’s sake.  My grandma was always watching her cholesterol, and my aunt would make us delectable treats and have only a bite herself.  They were full of self-discipline, and I must’ve always subconsciously admired that.  Other than these family members and my friend’s mom, no one I ever knew talked about what they were eating or doing.  Not like today.

And maybe the adults in my life were talking about it back then and it’s only because I’m an adult myself that I’m privy to these conversations now.  Or maybe it’s that we’ve become alarmingly unhealthy as a nation (world?) that we need to make a major overhaul and people are becoming noticeably more health-conscious.

I’ve written it all before, I’m not an all or nothing kind of gal.  I believe in slow, steady, consistent habits that are sustainable for an entire lifetime.  I’m not into diets, fads, hard-core workouts, excluding certain (natural) foods, or obsessing about any of it.  And so I’m the least qualified person to write about what’s healthy.  We simply aren’t buying into the hype.  And yet, we really do try to be mindful as we create a healthy environment for our kids, of course we do; everyone I know is trying to do the same.  I love and admire so many friends for their steadfast ways, they inspire me to implement their ideas and to keep upping our game.  But just in case our kids are curious about in where we fit in… 

We believe in walking.  As much as possible.  Hiking, through the city streets, in parks, along lakes, around the neighborhood. I believe in going for walks with my girlfriends and with my family. I believe in cross-training.  At least five days a week.  And using weights.  But I also believe our bodies are our best gyms and that we don’t need fancy exercise-wear or gym memberships to create a circuit-training environment of our own.  We can wear cut-off sweats and use weights that are fifteen years old; it all works just fine.  I don’t believe in working out for hours a day, I have a million other things to do; working out is a tiny sliver of my day—like taking a shower—not the main attraction.

I believe in going to sleep and waking up about the same time everyday.  10 p.m. to 5:30 or 6 a.m. is optimal for me.  We cheat on the weekends a little, but I know we all feel better when we stick to a routine.  And I believe in power naps.

One thing I’m horrible at and am always trying to do better with is drinking water.  I see women (not ever men for whatever reason) with their bottles as guarded as their purses.  The real reason I don’t is I hate wasting time going to the bathroom several times a day.  My strength and weakness being efficiency.  Plus I’m never really thirsty.  Maybe a couple times a week I’ll feel a little like taking a big drink, but not very often at all.  I definitely need to keep working on this developing this habit.  Although I have to point out, growing up no one was tethered to a water bottle.  We stopped at a drinking fountain when we got thirsty (which is something I do try to do).  I’m not sure why we can’t still do that?

As far as eating, I don’t really scrutinize it all that much. Like working out, what I eat is only a tiny piece of what I think about during the day; I don’t want to stress about it or spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about it.  I’m thinking along the lines of a college girl who is anxiously trying to find a husband.  How does that usually work out?  I believe good things happen as we naturally go along just living instead of obsessing.  Mindful, doing our best, but then relaxing.

I remember what we ate growing up, and maybe your life was similar.  We had tacos, tostados, roast, spaghetti, pizza, BLTs, canned peas and beets, frozen corn, Scotch broth and vegetable soups, cereal, oatmeal, toast, grapes, apples, just really, really average American food from the 70s and 80s.  My mom cooked from scratch and made us treats.  I never remember having broccoli (except when it was mixed with cream of mushroom soup and chicken) or squash or anything like that.  But we also didn’t have sugared cereals (it was always boring brown ones like Cheerios or Grape Nuts).  It wasn’t what we’d deem a healthy diet by today’s experts’ standards, but it wasn’t the worst.  I think it was pretty standard for families back then.

Today most of us are lucky enough to have access to more nutritious foods and to know what’s healthy, and I’m even more fortunate than my mom was in that I don’t have a full-time job to run home from every night.  I have ample time to cook, and I feel like I have access to an amazing assortment of fresh and healthy foods.  She grew up in Scotland and simply wasn’t familiar with so many of the fresh fruits and vegetables we have access to here in America.  She never even had many until she came here as a grown up.  

I of course had no garden growing up (we lived in an apartment), and so everything I know about gardening I learned from Todd and his family.  We’ve had one from the very first year we were married, wherever we rented an apartment and then in every home we’ve owned.  It’s brilliant to me, watching food grow right outside: tomatoes and peppers, cilantro and green onions, carrots and corn, pumpkins and squash, berries and cherries, plums and grapes, potatoes and carrots.  It’s magical, absolutely breath-taking, to harvest bags and bags of raspberries every week, to have rows and rows of dried onions that last us until the Spring.  It’s a miracle every single season, and I feel blessed beyond measure to have such an abundance, to have access to such fresh and healthy food.  And so, like many of you, this is what we eat. Most of our friends also hunt or have friends who raise cattle.  We’re lucky to have access to good (what city-folk would call “organic” or “free-range”) meat.

Even so, we still eat pretty much like we did when we were growing up, chili, enchiladas, soups and breads, omelets, just regular, everyday food.  But I do think most of us have stepped it up a little, adding more salads and fresh vegetables, smoothies, more whole grains.

I guess I just have a million other things that take up room in my head.  I worry about the refugees and the kids who have lost parents.  I wonder how to help my kids access God.  I think about the people who are lonely and need a friend.  I want to spend my time learning and mingling with people.  I don’t want to use precious energy analyzing everything I eat too.

And yet, it’s important that once we know better, we do better.  And so I’m like most everyone I know these days, we’re all eating a lot of salads.  And plenty of vegetables.  That’s just where most of us are right now, it’s the culture; it just makes good sense, everyone knows that.  But I also don’t believe in excluding certain foods. I believe fruit is valuable (not juice, but real, whole fruit with lots of fiber).  I’m ok with milk on my cereal and having cottage cheese with my grapes.  I’m all about sandwiches and toast (I remember asking my sister if she still ate bread and she was incredulous, “What else would I eat?”).  I still eat peanut butter with my apples and have a banana and blueberries on my cereal. 

Although I’d like to say nutrition is my number one value when I’m making dinner for my family, if I’m honest, I just want us to be together.  So yes, while I want to be healthy and I want our kids to love healthy food, we also consider our other values at play.  And here’s where I get all mixed up. Our top priority as far as dinner is that we do it, that we sit down together.  Ideally, I’d love it to be punched with nutrients.  I try, but I’m simply not cooking everyone a separate meal to make that happen.  It’s more important that we’re all eating the same thing together, so I do wiggle a little on our nutrition. For instance, even though I’d like minestrone soup on soup night, that doesn’t fly well with anyone in our family and so I’ll make wild rice or sausage or stew to mix it up.  Even though I prefer brown rice, I mix it with Basmati every so often so they can’t tell.  I like spinach salads, they like iceberg; we do a mix of Romaine and spinach and other mixed greens.  I prefer meatless dinners and love lentils and beans; so I add beans to our taco meat and occasionally have spaghetti with tomatoes from the garden sans ground beef.  I like nutty, seed-packed breads while the kids would prefer Great Harvest plain white—or worse yet, that soft squishy white stuff—hands down; I compromise here too, I buy medium-grainy types for them.  I’m trying to teach them better choices, and yet we don’t believe in being too extreme, in letting this kind of stuff consume us.  We still have soda with pizza and plenty (plenty) of treat options throughout the week. And when it comes to lunches, we’re really not that great.  Avery is our top performer here, packing salads and yogurts and eggs and cucumbers, she amuses me to no end.  But we’ve never made their lunches for them, even though I know we could send them with much better options.  Here again, our desire for self sufficiency trumps healthy.  Which may seem like madness, but here’s what happens.  They throw it away or trade it.  They refuse to take sandwiches most days.  Today Callum had grapes, a banana, and pretzels.  Ridiculous.  But if I’d made a tuna sandwich with cucumbers and peppers, where would it have gone?  Wouldn’t even have made a trade.  So while we wish things were like the internet families who post their lunch boxes full of colorful, nutritious fare that the kids really eat, our life is nothing like that.

In our quest to be healthy, we’re like you in that we make our kids go outside to play, to go on a bike ride or a run, to shoot hoops, to work on the treehouse.  But we also let them use the computer and encourage them to read.  We want them to be healthy, obviously; we all do.  But I also believe there’s a facet to health we tend to overlook.  And maybe it’s a mix of a bunch of things, but something along the lines of mental/emotional/spiritual health.  And so I don’t believe in making them stressed and crazy by zeroing in on any one dimension of “health” so intently that they become tormented if they skip a day of exercising or if they have a sundae with a friend. I’d rather have a family full of less-than-ideal body shapes (what is that anyway?) than with a misshapen view of who we really are.  And I’m not saying it’s got to be one or the other.  But if I had to choose a piece of the health pie, I’d pick the mental/emotional/spiritual one every time.  Because that’s the one that will last.  When our muscles deflate and sag, when we can’t run, when all we can eat is mush or liquid protein drinks, we can still have a super strong sense of who we are and what our purpose is.  And so that’s why we’re ok if we fudge a little on the other stuff now and then.  We can’t keep all the balls in the air all the time.

We’re intentional in what we strive for as a family, but we’re pretty realistic.  We’re aiming for self-sufficiency, confidence, security, a well-balanced approach to life.  So yes, we’ll continue to introduce new, healthy foods (quinoa, chia seeds and Greek yogurt were all there once); we’ll keep our Sunday walk tradition (27 years strong), and we’ll try to keep tabs on what they put in their brown lunch sacks.  But we’re simply nothing more than moderately healthy.

Our last few days

It’s not like we haven’t done this before, this is our second son who’s heading out this week.  He’s already done a year at college, but letting him go on his mission for two years is kind of a step up, just a little more intense away-ness.  A lot of you know what it entails, two years of emails and handwritten letters, a phone or Skype visit on Mother’s Day and Christmas.  Thousands of families do it every year, and it’s honestly one of the greatest stints of a young person’s life.  Our family has cherished the experience and we’ve actually missed having a missionary out and look forward to starting up again.

I loved our email exchanges, writing back and forth on Monday mornings.  It thrilled me to see a handwritten letter from our son in our mailbox every Friday.  We anticipated Mother’s Day and Christmas like never before and became shy all of a sudden when faced with a phone and familiar but unseen voice.

I think our family was exquisitely blessed by having a missionary out in super subtle but real ways.  It felt like a shroud of peace was draped over our family, sort of like when your mom comes in your cold room early in the morning and covers you up with the warm blankets you’ve kicked off during the night, just that comforting feeling of serenity and security and warmth.  It’s not like our lives became necessarily peaceful in the traditional sense, we still had a lot going on.  But we felt our relationships soften.  We felt a lot of love and warmth in our family.  Things just worked out.  Our kids showed a closeness I didn’t see before, I feel like we become tighter as a family. 

Andrew learned and changed in incredible ways during his time away from us as he served and studied and focused on other people.  It was the best learning experience of his life, to step away from us and to have the time and space to really delve into what he believed, to figure it out for himself.  After nearly twenty years with us, all it took was two years away from us to solidify all the things we were trying to teach him.  Best investment ever.

And so we’re stoked.  We can’t wait for Mitchell to get going and to start hearing his experiences.  And yet, we are going to miss him like crazy.  Thankfully, the months he spent away from us at college have prepared us for his pending absence.  But it is definitely not the same as getting a random phone call on the way to class or on Sunday nights.  We will miss the holidays with him watching movies and playing games and discussing politics and the news of the world.  We will miss hugging him and dancing with him, his laugh, his vast knowledge, his presence.

But we have been soaking it all up for a few months now and have cherished our unexpected extra time together, especially heartwarming when Andrew was here for a couple of weeks and our family was all together again.  It was surreal, I couldn’t believe all five of our kids were with us again.  I was surprised by how much more work it was with larger meals and keeping tabs on all their comings and goings and shopping for school/college/mission clothes.  Money flew out of our hands, hundreds, just like that.  But it was a time in our family that I will cherish forever.  Some of my favorite memories this summer were at the temple with the kids.  Once I took just Andrew and Mitchell, a little mom in between her two grown up boys.  Another summer morning Mitchell came with me and all the littles.  I know this happens all the time, but there really is just nothing like being in such a sacred place together.  Those few times together in the temple are forever etched in my mom memory.

On the more everyday days of summer, Mitchell spent a significant amount of time working at Great Harvest, mowing, and chopping wood for us.  He worked out a bit, stayed out late with his one friend who was left, and watched random videos for hours and hours.  He read thick books and engaged us in political, social, and space talk.  He did dishes and cleaned the bathroom.  He played games and ran our errands for us.  He worked at the temple, we shopped for clothes.

It’s such an unusual period of time, just a couple months in limbo, not really here or there, just sort of biding time.  All his friends are at school or serving missions of their own and so we became his people, his entertainment, his audience, his sounding board, his social life.  I’ve loved having his company during the long quiet days with the kids in school.  I love having a friend to run errands with and to shop with, and I’m going to miss our comraderie.

But as nice as our little vacation from normal life has been, we all sense it’s getting to be time.  Young adults can’t thrive at home for long.  They need to be actively engaged in pursuits of their own.  They do best when they’re with other young people, when they’ve got a schedule and a plan, a purpose for their life.  It’s not enough to wake up just to work a few hours with little else of substance to fill in the day.  Thankfully, we sense that it’s time to move on, that although our time together has been a welcome respite and gift, we all need to get back to work and real life.  He’s anxious to move into the next phase of his life, and I’m ok with getting back into the swing of what I normally do since I’ve sort of put things on hold as much as possible, just wanting to savor our last few weeks and days together.  While we’re sad to see this precious time together come to an end, we’re more than ok with it.  We know there’s really nothing more we can do for him here at home.  We’ve taught him what we know, and now we can hardly wait to hear about what happens next.

The days after

I was a little surprised at all of us standing around looking at each other after our initial hugs at the airport, greeting our oldest son after two years apart.  I guess we never thought about what would happen next.  Thankfully we had a task before us that helped ease the awkwardness and we located his luggage.  With nothing more to do at the airport, we loaded up and headed home.

We immediately found his totes we’d stored and moved in the garages, and he began the digging process, trying to find regular clothes and shoes to wear.  We only had about an hour before we had to go get him officially released as a missionary.  After returning home we had a quick dinner on the patio and spent some of the evening at Scheels and Kohls, visiting with some friends on the way home.  We stayed up talking till about 11.  And that was his re-entry.

I asked him what he was thinking, how it felt.  Like a dream.  Like I’m just home from college.  Like it never really happened.  I wondered if we needed to get him someone to talk to.  But then I started asking our friends what their returning reaction was.  Exactly the same!!!  I think that was validating for all of us.

I asked him outright because I wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep talking about it or if he wanted to move on.  I didn’t want to keep re-hashing the last two years if he was wanting to put it behind him and focus on the future, but I didn’t want to sweep it all under the rug and just leave it in the past, pretending that I didn’t have a million questions I wanted to ask.  For the most part, we’ve bounced back and forth between the two worlds.  We’ve inevitably had to talk about classes and what he’ll need for getting back into school, we got his license renewed and his phone and computer are up and running.  But I love how little things have sparked a conversation about California or a person he taught.  We remembered a lot of the stories and people from his letters and emails, so we were excited to find out how they’re doing and what they’ve been up to.  And so we’ll talk about Elder Herrerra one minute and ask if he needs jeans the next.  I hope it’s ok, I have no handbook on what we’re supposed to be doing.  Maybe it’s how an adoptive family feels with a new child joining in.  But then hopefully the mothering instinct kicks in and I won’t have to think about it so much.

And he’s so quiet compared to the other four.  We can’t tell if he’s just like this naturally, has he always been a little shy, or is he just trying to process everything?  It’s hard to know because he’s been gone for essentially three years with only a handful of days at home with us.  And he wasn’t really ever that open or talkative back then.  So we can’t decide if it’s just his personality or if he’s just adjusting or if he’s disappointed in his come-back, if he misses his mission, or if he’s content, like the rest of us usually are.  We don’t need to talk much in our family, so maybe he’s fine.

I’ll be honest, the first (and only) full day I had with him, I was a bit weepy once I got on my own in the afternoon.  We went on a walk, he did dishes without being asked, he showed me his study book that he’d handwritten all sorts of quotes and scriptures in, I saw that he filled up two other journals, he ironed his casual shirts and shorts, and he went shopping all afternoon alone.  I had the most unexpected emotional reaction, one I never would’ve anticipated.  I felt like a failure as a mom.  If all it took was two years with a bunch of strangers to teach him everything I’d worked nearly 20 years on teaching him, what was I even for?  What good was I as a mom when it would all work out in a mere 24 months away from me?  Why were they so good at what they did and why did nothing I’d taught sink in?  He makes his bed now. He shared a beautiful scripture thought with us that first night, completely filling my heart; his copies of the scriptures are highlighted and well-read, something we’d encouraged for years and years.  He is tidy, thoughtful, thrifty, and health-conscious all of a sudden, all qualities we’ve been trying to instill in him his whole life.  I couldn’t help but feel discarded and unnecessary and melancholy. Isn’t that the weirdest reaction you can think of?

I guess I’m not sure what he needs me to be anymore.  What’s my role?  To pass along some money for school clothes?  To call him in when we’re doing scripture and prayer?  Tell him we’re eating? And then what?  Does a grown man even need a mom? For what?  I want so much to get it right; I feel so intensely all the mistakes I made when he lived with us before.  So I’m just a little tentative.  Like I imagine a new puppy might feel breaking in its new home; innately she knows what a puppy wants to do, but she’s unsure how to navigate this new place she’s found herself in.

This morning he left at 6 with his little brother to go biking all day.  My heart has felt a literal soreness/tightness all day, like it’s been re-injured.  I was so thrilled to have him home with us, to laugh and tease and hear his funny ways after such a long time, but it felt like he was ripped  away from me all over again.  We will be apart for another week, together for just a short few days and then back to school.  I’m trying to be ok with our new normal.  But I long to just have our family together like in the olden days.  I don’t want this separation to continue on and on and on. My heart’s been pulled here and there so much over the past few years, I want to let it settle.  I want our reunion to last.  Until it feels normal again.

What I do know

Last summer I couldn’t help feeling a little introspective.  I had to stop and ask myself if what I think I believe and what I habitually practice is what I really believe.  I think it’s worthwhile when another perspective comes up on any issue—political, ethical, religious, as a parent, student, spouse—to at least consider it. I think it’s natural to check in every now and then and reaffirm what we think, to reconcile where we are. Last fall I listened to many wise words of counsel that felt personal and validating, “Life can be like hikers ascending a steep and arduous trail. It is a natural and normal thing to occasionally pause on the path to catch our breath, to recalculate our bearings, and to reconsider our pace. Not everyone needs to pause on the path, but there is nothing wrong with doing so when your circumstances require. In fact, it can be a positive thing for those who take full advantage of the opportunity to refresh themselves with the living water of the gospel of Christ. Sometimes we can learn, study, and know, and sometimes we have to believe, trust, and hope” (Elder Ballard).

And so as I took some time to ascertain where I stood, I peeled back the layers of what I’d always believed and asked myself about the basics.  Is there a God?  Is he real or just an idea, tangible or just a spirit?  What about the Bible?  Are the stories just fantastical legends?  Did Christ really heal people, did waters part, did a bush burn without being consumed, were prophets real, did the flood really happen, did Christ really die on the cross and then come back to walk and teach in the flesh? Was he even who he said he was?  Or was he simply an impressionable teacher?  Could he have been a prophet?  Was he just a good man who lived in ancient history?  Or was he truly the Son of God?  Was he, could he be, everything he said he was?  I’ve been mulling all of it over the past year, wondering if I’d been mislead my entire life.

Over the months, I’ve continued to read (how else would I find out if I didn’t go to the source I was hoping to get confirmation about?).  And pray.  Coming to a conclusion about God was the easy part, and so praying still felt natural.  “As soon as we learn the true relationship in which we stand toward God (namely, God is our Father, we are his children), then at once prayer becomes natural and instinctive on our part (Matt 7:7-11).”

I couldn’t and can’t deny that he’s real.  Any time I wonder (which happens more than you’d think—it’s all so much for my finite mind to wrap itself around), I just think about trees and flowers and our bodies and animals; I immediately feel confirmation that organelles didn’t just create themselves, that our myriad cells didn’t just figure out their specific jobs on their own, that plants don’t just make themselves food, that these are all God’s creations.  Nature is my proof that God is real.  And so I knew he’d be my ally as I figured out what I thought about all the rest.

I think it’s important that we continue practicing what we hope is true as we seek confirmation.  We don’t quit exercising because we don’t see muscle definition after a couple work outs.  We don’t quit eating healthy because we don’t lose weight after two weeks.  We don’t give up on our kids or our spouses because we don’t see immediate changes in behavior.  We don’t quit praying just because we have questions.  And why would I ask or turn to humans when I’ve got God to help me with my concerns? I wish I could trust people more; but at this point in my life, I’d rather just ask him.  And so I’ve stuck by him, close, trying to live so I could feel his spirit teach and remind me of what was true.

Over the past year he’s become even more real, more personal, more of a confidant than ever before.  I know he’s concerned about me personally.  I know he loves me intensely and that he wants me to be happy.

Right along with that knowledge is the affirmation that his Son is just as real.  I know he came to earth to live among regular people in humble circumstances so we would have to lean on our faith to accept him.  It would’ve been easy to believe he was a god if he had come from the sky in a beam of light dressed in royal robes.  But God knew this was the better way.  And so yes, it makes us question if he was just a legendary Jewish man about whom fables and myths have been passed through generations, a good man, a convincing man, but a mere mortal.  But I can without any hesitation tell you he is real.  He lived among everyday people, yet he was and is absolutely without question the Savior of the world.

I know Heavenly Father and his Son are separate, united as one in purpose.  That they have real bodies like ours.  That they work together as a godhead, with the third member being the Holy Ghost, a personage of spirit that can reside with us, that can testify and warn and comfort us.

With that foundation, all the rest quickly fell into place.  That sounds like quite a leap.  And yet it’s not really at all.  Because I know that God is real, because Christ is who he claimed to be, and because I have felt the spirit confirm that, I can move forward easily.  I know that they love me, that God didn’t just put us here to flounder, to figure it all out for ourselves.  He’s an orderly and loving God and has given us guidelines, families, and tools to help us be happy.  As any experienced parent knows, we give our children rules to protect themselves and to help them live successfully and joyfully, the same motives God has by giving us commandments.  Bedtimes, healthy snacks, sunscreen.  Our kids balk and think they know better.  We’re not so different.  And yet I know he’s just trying to help.  Even as he lets us choose. 

I’m like you.  I’ve still got questions.  I don’t know how any intelligent, thinking person doesn’t.  I write them in the back of my journals.  And I let them sit.  And then I continue with what I know. I pray.  I read his words.  I try to live so that his spirit can guide me.  I have faith in Christ and in his atonement.  I ask that he can help me overcome my weaknesses, my failings, my sadnesses.  I try to think of them often throughout my day.  I ask if there’s a better way to handle situations.  I keep going along, trusting them.  And I keep this sentiment in mind, “We should not assume … that just because something is unexplainable by us it is unexplainable” (Elder Maxwell).

I guess I just assume people are fallible. That history is messy.  That records are incomplete.  That we don’t know the whole story.  But I also assume that there are answers.  Reasons that maybe only God knows about.  That people can still be instruments in God’s hands regardless of their humanness.  That there are explanations.  That there are a lot of things I simply don’t understand—about our country’s history for instance, about the decisions leaders have made, about policies that don’t make sense. There’s so much about life we can question, so many ways people can let us down, so many ways for us to become bitter and disenchanted.  Our political scene is just one example.  And yet, I feel peace when I think about our inspired beginnings as a country.  Regardless of the imperfections of our founding fathers, in spite of all the ugliness and mistakes of so many of our leaders through the years, I believe we are a blessed nation, I believe it is founded on true and Godly principles. And I hold on to that tenet in my religious beliefs as well.

What’s interesting is that the more I choose to ask God about the things I’m not sure about, the closer I feel to him.  The more I try to live like and think of our Savior, the more accessible he is to me.  The more I ask for the spirit to guide me, to help me think of who to serve and how to help my family, the more I feel inspired.  I love the admonition to trust God.  I love the idea of testing him.  “If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself” (John 7:17).

If I want to know about someone, it seems better to go directly to that person.  I don’t like to ask other people who may have a skewed perspective, who may be missing some information, who may misrepresent that person or who may want to mislead me.  That’s how I feel about God.  I can’t think of anyone better to talk to about what’s real and what’s right.  There’s enough insidiousness out there.  I want the truth.  And I trust no one more than God.  I appreciate his approachability, the ease with which we can communicate with and petition him.  I love the admonition, “If any of ye lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him” (James 1:5).  He tells us so many times, in so many ways, to ask, seek and knock.  He will never force himself on us, and he will never, ever give up on us or leave us alone.

Next to walking in nature, the quickest and most sure way I’m reminded that God is real, is by asking him as I pray, “Are you real?  And do you love me?”  I suggest anyone who’s not sure, who wants to know, who wants to remember, who wants the truth, to try it.  And pay attention to what you feel.

So while there’s still so much I don’t know, there’s a lot I do know.  A scripture I’ve relied on for years and years, one of my favorites as I wrestle with so many things I don’t understand, calms me and reminds me I can still feel immense peace even without all the answers, “Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?” (D&C 6:23)  For me, this is enough, the overwhelming peace I feel when I think of Heavenly Father and Christ.  I can’t deny the countless witnesses I’ve had in my lifetime that affirm their reality and love for me. That understanding overshadows all my other questions that I don’t have answers for at the moment.  Over the years, I’ve filled in some of the blanks in the backs of my journal.  Some questions are still without solid answers.  But I know that just because there are still empty spaces between God’s understanding and mine doesn’t mean I can’t continue believing in him and in his Son and in his perfect plan.  And that the answers will come.  I know they will.