Saturday morning

I do best when I get to bed around 10-10:30.  Even on the weekends.  Rarely happens.  But it did last night, and I was in my glory.  Reading alone after being gone all evening with just Avery and Todd, the rest of the family started watching movies just before 10.  I wouldn’t have made it through the opening credits.  I was just so sad when I started falling asleep in my book.  I hate when I do that.

So I slept in maybe an hour.  Perfect.  One of the reasons I love Saturday mornings.  Being up before everyone else.  A quiet house.  Except for the birds in our trees.  No traffic even.  Apparently everyone in the world was up later than me last night.  Because it sounds like no one else is even stirring.  I like the time to write.  Or read.  Or exercise.  All alone.  Blissful.  So exquisitely so.

Today’s an exception.  Todd gets to sleep in too.  Usually he has to work, so he leaves the house at 7:15 on Saturdays.  And once a month he’s on a camp-out with the boys from church.  If he has an extra Saturday, he might have some scout activity like merit badge day or training.  Maybe a service project.  Mostly it’s hunting in the fall.  It’s unusual to have a Saturday morning together as a family.  But I relish them.

When the kids were little I remember lying in bed with Todd on his day off, the new snow buffering any outside sounds.  He’d decide it was a perfect morning to go out to breakfast.  I always agreed.  What’s cozier than seven bodies squished in a vinyl booth at Denny’s with syrup and pancake smells wafting from the kitchen?  Fresh orange juice, a treat we rarely indulge in.  Cold outside, warmth in.  Just hardly a sweeter scene.  Except that the kids wouldn’t just sit still.  It was kind of noisy.  It took a long time for the food to come.  They got antsy.  Todd would ask why he thought it would be a good idea to bring such little kids to a restaurant.  I’d laugh.  We were making memories.

He and the kids were especially fond of a place out in Molt.  About 20 minutes away out in the country.  A restaurant that only served breakfast.  I went with them once; they went without me when I’ve had other commitments.  They had a band.  And a line out the door.  Cash only.   It was awesome.  Our youngest still asks if we can go.  But it closed.

I like the summer mornings too.  Because they start so early.  I love waking up my plants.  Dismissing the weeds.  Alone in the shadows.  I especially love picking raspberries when they’re still dewy, when the morning sun is just starting to warm us up.  I feel like I’ve got a head-start on the day.  I feel calm and alive, a little sleepy but awake.  Nature does that to me.  Soothes and energizes me at the same time.

I even like going into town in the wee hours.  No one’s really up.  Except the farmer types.  And worker bees.  So places like Lowe’s are abuzz.  I greet my pals at the garage sales. Each of us quietly taking in one bargain after another.  I love the people who are up when I am.  I feel a comraradarie, a connection.  We’re the ones who retired early.  Who are old enough to be up this early on a weekend.  Ready for the day.  At like 7.

Sometimes I’ll be the one who has to leave my sleeping family.  A conference or a training of some sort.  In a way I don’t mind.  I’m up anyway.  In a way I’d rather slide up next to Todd and just stay there for an extra while.  But I love being with my people too.  It’s all good.

I remember coming back from town after a commitment I’d had at 8 one Saturday.  Totally out of character, I had the crazy notion to buy donuts to bring home to my sleepy heads.  Glorious!  I felt like Mother of the Year.  Because my mom would do the same thing for us when she’d do the laundry at the laundromat early on a Saturday morning.  She’d come home at maybe 8, loaded down with warm towels and fresh donuts from Christy’s Bakery.  Such an indulgence.  These days we have them maybe twice a year. Maybe three times.  I haven’t had one in years.  But the kids love them.  Of course.  I remember another strange day that Todd was home with us and we were going to make a day of our errands and outings.  We had some garage sales in mind and other stops to make, but we wanted to start at the local bakery for donuts just for fun.  Our friend was there working.  It was early.  So just our kind of people were up.  It’s still etched in my mind.  I think because it was so unusual to have Todd with us.  And to buy donuts when we could’ve just had cereal.  I love that we didn’t.

Saturdays are our traveling days when we’re making the trek across country to see family.  We leave early.  And we have the routine down.  We get up at 3:30, everyone who wants to can shower, we pack the cooler, and we’re all ready to leave by 4.  It’s dark.  And cold.  Even in the summer.  The sliver of light reminds us which direction we’re heading.  I feel cocooned and secure in our temporary traveling home with Todd at the helm.  I love going back to sleep for an hour or two and waking up alone with just him because the kids are so tired.  I love watching the sun come up.  I even like it when I’m the one at the wheel when he can’t be with us.  Everyone’s asleep and I have my talks on and snacks within reach.  The roads are so empty.  The countryside is just beginning to stretch and yawn.  The cows are nibbling at their breakfast, the farmers are just getting out.  I feel small in the great expanse, but powerful too.  Knowing I’m responsible for this precious carload of kids.  I like knowing I have Help.

I remember so many times from our days in Illinois.  Two little boys.  Vet school.  Demanding weeks.  But we made a pact that we would mostly just play on the weekends.  So we’d pack up for our day trips nearly every Saturday morning, venturing to state parks and Amish communities.  We’d hike and shop and visit every little town within a 1-2 hour radius.  I know he could’ve used those hours to study.  But I’m so glad he spent them with us.  Camping with friends, walking leaf-strewn park trails as a tiny family, stopping for ice cream in the country towns, these are some of our best memories from that time in our life.

We’ve tried to do the same whenever we can even now.  When we come across a lone, unclaimed Saturday morning in the summer, we’re up early, packing our lunches and jackets ready for a hike along a river or up a mountain.  That will take awhile.  So we need to start early.  I love our family times when it’s quiet out in nature.  Not many people are on the trails yet.  You feel as if you’re blazing it as a vanguard group.  But not really.  Because there’s a trail.  But you know what I mean.  A little chilly.  But warm because of who you’re with.  Really is heavenly.

Growing up, a lot of our Saturday mornings were also about getting ready.  But for the beach.  It took forever to pack the sandwich makings.  The treats my mom had made.  The nice rolls she bought just for this.  The chairs and towels.  The sunscreen bag.  The boogie boards.  What an undertaking.  It was nearly always freezing when we got to the beach.  Overcast.  It would burn off.  We had faith that it would.  And it nearly always, always did. Eventually.  But we had to go early to get a parking spot for our car and for our stuff.  And so we waited it out on the shore huddled under towels reading our books.  Even so, some of the best memories with my mom and sisters and our friends.  I loved our days at the beach.  Even the cold mornings.

Today is another chilly morning.  But it will warm up.  A great work day.  We already have plans.  Todd is home.  A treat like no other.  He’ll wake up his work buddy and they’ll tackle the projects outdoors.  The garden needs to be rototilled.  The beds need cleaning out.  Raspberry canes need thinning.  Bushes are coming out.  The bees need attention.  A  beautiful way to spend a Saturday morning, working the land, soaking in the smells and sounds of nature.  But it’s still early.  So I’ll let my sleepy family enjoy the sleeping-in part of their Saturday morning just a little longer.  Maybe we’ll even get donuts.

What I wanted to say

We have what my friend calls “open mike” on the first Sunday of the month at church.  He makes me laugh.  What’s really going on is that we come to our main meeting (worship service) in the spirit of fasting and, after the sacrament portion of the meeting, anyone who wants to is invited to go up to the front for just a few minutes to share their convictions and feelings about Christ and principles of His gospel.  We might share a poignant event or meaningful experience.  But mostly we share our feelings about Christ and what he has done for us.

I rarely go up.  Rarely.  You know me.  I’m not afraid to give a talk or presentation really.  Because I have notes and have prepared.  But this is extemporaneous, from the heart.  And I trip over my words when they aren’t written down.  But mostly I don’t have a story.  Anything that interesting or different from the last time I got up.  And honestly, I don’t know if my motives for getting up are entirely sweet.  What if I’m just trying to show off?  What if I’m doing it just to prove how spiritual I am?  Those feelings weigh on me, I want to be sure my intentions are pure, and yet I’m never quite sure.  So I stay seated most of the time.

But as I remained in my pew yesterday, I couldn’t help but reflect on the feelings of my heart. Which is what most of us are doing as we listen to our friends.  And I couldn’t help but think about what I’d share if I had the courage and felt inspired.

I thought about the previous night.  Several teenagers were over along with another family.  We talked freely in small groups and one on one.  We played games, some till nearly midnight.  I thought about our friendships with a variety of ages.  How much I loved these kids.  And the adults.  I thought about how I totally feel like they are my brothers and sisters.  How we are all brothers and sisters.  And how that knowledge propels me to be charitable and kinder than I naturally would be.  I’m so grateful for the knowledge I have of a Heavenly Father and an elder brother, Christ.  I’m so grateful for his example and life.  He helps me know a perfect way to see and treat others.  And his atonement fills in when I fail at it.

I thought about the rough patches of the past two weeks.  (And I guess over the past year, although the sting of past events has diminished to simply happy memories in my mind.)  But I thought about my recent feelings and felt an overwhelming gratitude for perspective.  To know that we are here on earth for such a short time.  That we are learning to love and serve while we’re here.  That this isn’t the end.  Or the beginning.  That love is stronger than fear.  I’ve felt crushed a couple of times lately.  But I’ve been surprised how short-lived those intense sad feelings have been.  A day, sometimes less.  Because then I remember all that I know.  And I know I’m not alone.  That Christ is more powerful than satan.  That I am strong.  And that families are strong.  I have hope because I trust that the atonement is real.  I have used the atonement so much in my life.  I know its potential to change us and to help us.  And that reassurance has calmed me.  And buoyed me up.

I thought about all the truths we’ve been blessed with.  And how this knowledge cradles me.  Comforts me.  And strengthens me.  I couldn’t help but think of the harsh realities of life like jagged rocks with prickly points.  But how the perspective of the gospel softens them.  So that they are more like smooth river rocks.  Still rocks.  But softer.  I can’t help but think about my Savior and how willing he is to carry our rocks for us.  He is the refiner who takes our jagged pains and mistakes and polishes them, making me think of those shiny colored rocks that we long to handle in the rock store “Please Touch” section.  A souvenir of a now-distant memory, made beautiful because of Who we were with.

So as I sat on my bench with my family, holding hands with Todd, I mulled these thoughts over in my mind.  Not ever feeling like it was my day or place to share.  But touched by common feelings with those who did.  Grateful in my quiet heart for the blessings I so abundantly enjoy because of our Savior.  I think that’s what I wanted to say.

Hope

It’s kind of disheartening when years after you assume you’ve buried that weakness and moved on, its head surfaces, bobbing like a headstone in a flooded cemetery, taunting, reminding you of your former version of yourself.  As discouraging as its presence is, I accept its company.  Because it’s humbling to remember I’m never enough on my own.  I may have all but squelched the desire to succumb, to give in to jealousies of my youth, but when I get complacent or start to believe I’ve conquered it, I shouldn’t be surprised to come face to face with my past demon.

I felt it coming to life this week in a weak moment or two, wondering where I went wrong and where so many others have gone right.  I couldn’t help but compare, a past-time of so long ago.  But I gave in for just a minute, before I’d even asked myself permission.  I almost couldn’t help myself.  Old habits.  You know what they say.

My heart’s ached this week.  And in my quiet dark moments of self-reflection, I couldn’t help but see images of the fabulous women and moms surrounding me, so many within my own circle of friends.  I looked at the way they’ve raised their kids, the way they’ve mothered.  I wondered how we were different.  How I could’ve done things differently.  And I felt weak.  Uncharacteristically critical of  myself, I’ve been looking back at every point where I might have gone wrong.

But by now I have enough experience to know that life just happens.  Even when we’re trying to do our best.  We all have upsets, a few steps back here and there.  Even when circumstances should dictate otherwise.  And I accept that.  I actually embrace it.  Because it means we’re using our agency.  We’re making mistakes and learning.

I attended a meeting the other night.  A little different from my normal meetings.  An intimate and sweet group.  An unlikely gathering of souls, sisters and brothers, each with our own silent heartaches.  But the spirit touched my heart and raised me from my stoop.  For most of the week I’d let my realist side drive while the faithful side took a ride in the passenger seat.  Who are we kidding.  She was in the trunk.  But here among strangers the spirit found me.  And comforted me.  Providing me hope that I’d dared not hope for.

Because I felt confirmation that regardless of the darkness or length of the tunnel, it is still, by definition, a passageway.  Not a destination.  Even though the light is dim and barely perceptible, a mere pinpoint in the distance, I’m remembering how the end opens wide.  As bright as the beginning.

And so even as I’ve felt such crushing pain, exacerbated by succumbing to my old enemy jealousy, I’m feeling the balm soothe my tired soul.  I feel the atonement at work on my heart in soft and simple ways.  I feel peace amid turmoil.  Unexpectedly calm even though we’re nowhere near the end.  I have faith that wrongs can be erased.  That mistakes can be catalysts in the experiment of life that transform a person.  Because knowledge and experience and repaired misdeeds are like steel fibers in a life, invisible but powerful reminders of Christ’s infinite love.  Love so tender that even the most fragile heart can be cradled in His care.

A good year

I always kind of figured that circumstances were the barometer that determined if a day could be logged as either a good one or a bad one.  Same with a year.  And yet I’ve always been kind of surprised when people have dismissed an entire day—and especially an entire year—as one they’d rather forget, happy to see it in the rear-view mirror.  I just can’t fathom disregarding all the good, deciding that there were simply too many tough moments, that we just rounded down, shading in the bubble labeled bad.  I just don't think we ought to let events make that decision for us.

I wonder where this past year would show up if our family ever charted this kind of thing.  Sure, we had a long, snowy, cold, record-breaking winter.  Andrew crashed on a dirt bike, messing up his knee and chance at State.  He survived a near-miss by a truck (by some miracle he landed right between the tires as it ran over him).  My dad died.  I had surgery to remove and build breasts.  We’ve spent thousands of dollars on auto and human repairs.   We’re down a car.  Our raspberry crop froze to death.  Avery reminded me she had a pretty ugly case of shingles.  Most houses in the area were damaged by a freak spring hail storm that we’re still dealing with.  Our oldest moved away to college, changing the dynamics of our household forever.  I stress about money.  All the time.  Affecting just about every decision I make.  Our repair list—like yours—just keeps growing, even as we attempt to cross items off.  I guess I could list all the misunderstandings I’ve created.  The sad feelings I’ve caused.  The way I get snippy when I’m tired.  My regrets.  The ways I missed the boat as a mom and wife and sister and daughter.  The cold, gray days I let myself wallow.  The days I spent so sore and frustrated.  And scared.  But when I look it all over, I just can’t see anything to be that upset about.  Because I know these were merely bumps in an otherwise breezy joy ride. 

We spent part of a January evening as a family recapping the ups and downs of the year, I wrote everyone’s responses in my journal.  I wasn’t surprised by their lists.  Because they were the same as ours.  Nothing crazy, just the normal stuff.  Backpacking and hiking, camping with friends, spending time in the mountains, road trips to visit family (although the actual road trips part made it on Avery’s bad list), Thanksgiving, boating, getting a drivers license, painting a bedroom, helping someone move, watching the Olympics with our friends, a daddy-daughter date, a Christmas stroll in a quaint country town.

Only twice did anyone mention papa dying and only Todd and one kid even mentioned cancer when we talked about our bad lists.  To me those aren’t necessarily things that define a year.  Yes, of course we miss my dad and papa.  Obviously.  But I think about him more now.  I savor our memories.  I smile wondering what he’s doing and where he is.  I remember the lessons he taught me and I wonder what he would teach me if we could grab a malt and chat for an hour.  I feel closer to him, I feel like he is more integrally a part of our lives than he was watching tv in our basement.  So my love for him is deeper now, I’m grateful for the glimpses we’ve had since he left, and for the years we’ve had together here.  I know it’s a short time without him, and so I’m not sad.  I guess it’s hard to think of his leaving us as a tragedy.  I think I just filed it under transitions.  And the others were tucked away in folders labeled something like learning experiences, bad luck, and just life.

I get it, real tragedies can completely shroud a year.  I can’t imagine having my husband or a child die.  I can’t pretend to know what a divorce or living alone is like.  Or not being able to have kids.  What chronic pain is all about.  Parents burdened by their children’s developmental problems.  No progress year after year, the trials are relentless.  It breaks my heart to even skirt the edges of what that must all feel like.  These are the real tragedies,  so far removed from my life that I can’t wrap my head around them.  I know next to nothing about real suffering. I was feeling a little down the other day, weary from mom-life, constantly cooking and cleaning and taking care of things while the others were all off doing their things.  But in a quiet moment I couldn’t help but think of caretakers who never get much respite.  I couldn’t help but think of modern-day slaves all over the world.  The impoverished parents with no resources for their children, some forced to surrender their children.  I couldn’t help but look around at my pampered life, the luxuries and comforts I bask in every day.  I have so much to be grateful for.  An abundance for sure.  I just can't pretend that any discomfort I feel comes close to what so much of the world struggles with.

But even within a year when you may have been dealt a terrible tragedy, no one suffers a loss without Heavenly Father taking note.  I’ve loved this affirmation ever since I first heard it.  “Through faith and righteousness all of the inequities, injuries, and pains of this life can be fully compensated for and made right. Blessings denied in this life will be fully recompensed in the eternities. Thus our suffering in this life can be as the refining fire, purifying us for a higher purpose. Heartaches can be healed, and we can come to know a soul-satisfying joy and happiness beyond our dreams and expectations.”*  So I guess that’s how I choose to frame sorrows, temporary hiccups that I will eventually recover from.

I also figure we’re blessed with rare glimpses we aren’t privy to during more placid times.  Probably for most of us it takes losing someone, my dad to death and my son to college, even friends who have moved on, for instance, to appreciate the everyday interactions, the years of ordinary life we’ve shared together, helping me to be grateful for  relationships even more, teaching me to love unabashedly, widely, and openly.  Because I’ve felt the absence of people I’ve loved, as you have, I think it helps us with the relationships we still have.  Because I can get sloppy.  Complacent.  And so I’m grateful for the reminder of what life is about.  Even if it means an occasional heart pain.  Because it brings meaningful relationships into the forefront, allowing them prominence in the hierarchy of priorities.  A loss is a reminder of love shared.  Sad because we loved deeply.  But a powerful teacher nonetheless.  I just figure we can reframe our heartbreaks, choosing to see them as a confirmation—and even a celebration—of our love.  And of our faith.  And so yes, a bad day for sure, perhaps even a string of them for many, stretching throughout the year.  But would it be accurate to lump all the blessings with the feelings of sadness and call it an overall lousy year?

Because I just can’t pretend the good wasn’t strong enough to conquer the bad.  All the hours spent cuddling in tents and on couches.  The puzzles and games and ice creams on Sunday nights.  And a million other  nights.  All the walks holding hands.  Watching the stars and birds and the leaves.  Cooking dinners together.  Doing dishes together.  All the late-night talks.  Evenings and days spent with friends in each others’ houses.  All the hours wound together out in God’s majesties.  Cross-country road trips to be with family.  Fishing and hiking.  Swimming, kayaking, s’mores in the dark.  Sledding and snow boarding.  Waking up again and again and again, so grateful for another chance, for another day with people we love, even if we’re sick or weak.  Even if some are missing.  I just can’t sweep these treasured memories under the rug pretending they weren’t powerful balms that soothed even our biggest gashes.  Like the various harmonies in the songs we love.  The dissonance, a primary color, blending with the others. The summation of all the notes and shades—even the dark ones—fusing to create beauty, works of art.  Even masterpieces.  

And so, even with the inevitable vicissitudes and sorrows of a mortal experience, I can’t help but feel that in most ways we still come out ahead.  Last year was no exception.  Except that I just had to file it under One of My Best.

* President Faust

An uneven exchange

I thought it was a brilliant plan.  Loved it!  And was secretly thrilled to be included, thinking it was an exclusive right given to only the long-time residents of the area.  So when I went to the first babysitting exchange meeting of the year, it tickled me that someone was so organized.  I was duly impressed.  This was way back when Todd was in vet school and we just had baby Andrew.  I was such a novice and everything about being a mom was new and eye-opening; here was another lesson for my book.  So as the leader handed out tiny coupons at our informational gathering, I felt rich.  And grown-up.  The idea was that one ticket could be exchanged for one half-hour of babysitting per child.  Like I said, brilliant!  And so the other ladies and I began our swaps.  It was a system of checks and balances in a way because you could only acquire more tickets by babysitting yourself; no money was exchanged.  (Which was good because no one had much.)  If you were running low you’d have to watch a few kids before going out again.  And so it worked.  For the most part.  But I couldn’t help the unsettled feelings I had about leaving Andrew for my friend to watch while I went to work to earn money while later on I’d watch Anna because her mom had to go do her church work.  She didn’t choose to do that really, it wasn’t for fun or money.  Her assignment just required her to be gone a lot, and my particular calling didn’t.  And so I wondered about it all.  I know.  I do that a lot.

I started feeling funny about using our tickets once we all became closer friends.  It seemed so cold and business-like to use a form of payment for simply watching each others’ kids, who now felt more like our nieces and nephews.  So then it morphed into us calling each other and setting up something like, “I can watch your kids Thursday from 9-11 if you can watch mine Tuesday from 12-2.”  Which is fine.  But I felt like we had to have a pay-back in place before the favor could be granted.  Tit for tat.  It still didn’t sit well with me.  I eventually stopped making it so even.  I just figured I’d watch people’s kids when they needed it and told them they could watch my kids sometime later on; I was sure it would all work out.  And it did.  Because what if I had two kids and had someone watch for two hours.  But another mom just had one kid and I watched for three hours.  Or another mom had four kids but I watched for one hour.  Can you see how ridiculous it would be to keep track?  It just didn’t feel that great to me to measure it all, and I was glad the last 2-3 years that we just became like each others’ sisters-in-law, aunts and cousins.  It was a blessed co-existence and I have no idea in the world which side of the coupon count I wound up on.  It was a wash as far as I’m concerned.

But it happened again when I moved to our current town with now two little boys.  Another group of women had the same system in place, and I was so grateful!  Because a) I couldn’t wait to meet other moms and b) I was so glad for a child-care clause in our new life.  I was open to the idea once again because it seemed to be the only way to immerse myself, knowing I’d need to rely on these new women.  But I eventually found myself unsettled all over again.  For the same reasons.  I happily accepted my little bundle of coupons, and I gladly consented to watch others’ kids.  We became friends, we played at parks and each others’ houses.  But again the coupons began again to seem stiff and formal.  And unnecessary.  I have no idea what happened to the group or our coupons.  Maybe I wasn’t playing by the rules and so I just wasn’t invited back.  I have no idea.  But it didn’t matter because they didn’t matter any more.  We’d already figured out how to trade for visiting teaching and for the temple each week.  We knew we could call each other and it wouldn’t matter how long or how many, it would all work out.  I love these ladies still; they feel like sisters to me.  The ones we left behind in Illinois, as well as those I’ve loved here in Montana over the past almost 15 years.  I just don’t know how you keep track of years and years of service and love that goes back and forth.

I owe so many people.  We don’t have family for hundreds of miles.  And so we’ve necessarily leaned on our friends.  We’ve asked people to watch our kids overnight or for a long week when I’ve been out of town.  They might not have the same scenario come up, but we try to give back in our own way.  We have grandparents in town, not by blood, but just because our lives have blended over the years.  How can I even begin to pay back all the times they’ve watched our little ones or folded clothes or brought dinner?  Where do I even start?  They don’t need that kind of service in return.  But they might like a homemade treat now and then, an occasional visit, a love note, I don’t know.  I can’t think about it too much because it might make me feel a little guilty, but I just take opportunities as I see them and hope eventually they feel like it was reciprocal, that they gained as much as they gave within the framework of our friendship.

It’s the same thing when we invite people to dinner.  I don’t have to wait until they invite us over before I invite them back.  It just isn’t like that.  We have friends who take my kids out to eat when they’re over playing.  I think we’ve done that like five times in our lives.  Maybe. Because we just don’t eat out that much.  But we will totally let them play messy and have free reign in the kitchen at our house.  I will make treats for any kid who asks.  Just as long as we don’t have to run an errand.  We have watched the Olympics with our neighbors, and they have come over to eat.  Our friends loaned us their car for a week; Todd helped out with their cat.  We will loan you our rototiller and give you some garden produce; you might come over with an apple pie later on.  Or not.  We don’t care.  I’m not planning on it, we’re just being neighborly.  And so are you.

And so that’s why I may seem a little nonchalant about giving back right away.  If you loan me an egg or a cup of flour, you will probably never see my kids running back with an egg or a little baggie of flour right when we get home from the store.  But I will just happily spot you some yeast or butter when you’re out.  It all goes around.  It doesn’t have to look the same.

Recently (maybe the past fifteen years?) there’s been a movement to pay it forward, and that works.  Because even though I’ve had people watch my kids who will never need me to babysit for them, I might be able to help out another young mom down the road.  The guys at the auto shop do a little extra for us without pay, creating a wave that makes Todd want to be a little generous when it comes to helping neighbors with their pet plights.  It all just goes around.

But some people don’t see it like this, least of all with their children, buying three of the same toy even to assure equality.  But life isn’t fair and certainly this lesson is most aptly and easily taught when kids are young, within the bounds of love and home.  We’ve faced this in a million different ways.  As I know you have.  We’ve paid for Andrew to go to Washington DC with his eighth grade class.  And we’ve bought airfare for Avery to go to Scotland.  We’ve paid for half of two kids’ guns.  Mitchell hasn’t gone on a trip yet.  And Bronwyn hasn’t bought a gun.  So do we just give those kids the same amount of money in their pocket just to make sure it’s all fair?  Not at all.  They will have their own opportunities.  Their times will come.  It may not be a trip across the country, and the receipts may not match up.  Maybe one will need more help with college than another, maybe one will have an opportunity for study abroad that another won’t.  We’ll see. I’m not worried about it, and neither are they.

Parents even parade this sort of mindset all the way through the years of having grown children, which perplexes me to no end. One set of married kids might be in medical school for their fifth year and they are squeezing five kids into a tiny apartment.  How fun to buy a bunk bed for them! But do you buy a bunk bed for the other two kids, one who has a 3,500 square foot house and no kids and one who isn’t even married?  It’s absurd to even entertain the question.  Maybe you want to help a set with infertility costs or cover the airfare for a single kid struggling through college to join everyone for a family reunion.  The dollar amount won’t be the same.  Because the needs and desires and the kids aren’t the same.  Just because you give one kid $100 doesn’t mean you need to hand out $100 bills to all the others.  Their unique needs will show up in other ways eventually.  And it will most likely not even be about money.  We’ve seen this when one child has developmental issues and necessarily requires more time from the parents.  But in less obvious ways we play the game of life, spending more time on the phone with one daughter dealing with depression, flying to help out with a complicated pregnancy of another, driving one to piano and helping another to tie flies.  It doesn’t show up the same, and yet we are meeting one another’s needs in individual ways.

Because, after all, isn’t this God’s pattern?  He blesses none of us equally.  He gives us according to our needs and righteous desires.  But not always right away.  We don’t get reimbursed immediately with twenty dollars for the hour we spent with a woman at a nursing home.  But we may develop a sweet friendship and love with her.  And we certainly aren’t able to pay Him back for the blessing of another beautiful day, but we can use our hours and abilities to serve people around us within the day.  I’ve seen how He more than compensates us for any resource we may think we’re giving Him, whether it’s energy to stay up just a little later to talk to a friend or teen, money we don’t seem to have but feel to give, a little extra patience when it requires everything within us to bite our tongues.  But somehow He doesn’t keep track, returning our small gifts with only a blessing of equal proportion.  Not at all.  He not only compensates what we’ve sacrificed, He pours His blessing upon us.  To the point of overflowing.

I think there’s a lesson in this for us.  As we go about life with our eyes open, looking for opportunities to serve, and as we necessarily need others to help us, I’ve found it works best to ditch the coupon system.  It feels better to give unabashedly, widely, without thought of return.  I ask the same of my friends, that they’ll have faith in me that I will gladly repay them—maybe not with exactly the same teaspoon of baking soda later that afternoon, but in ways they uniquely need.  Even without a ticket as collateral, you can count on me.

Beauty

I hesitated to move seven or eight years back, not for traditional reasons necessarily, but partly because I didn’t want it to be all about needing something prettier or newer.  I felt content.  I liked that our house matched how I felt we were.  But we also felt a bit squished, at least as we looked ahead even just a couple years as the kids would be getting bigger.  Three in one little room was already tight.  We wanted land.  Fruit trees.  A more prolific garden.  But we’d have to switch neighborhoods.

I was almost afraid of the new women I’d be associating with at church.  Maybe hesitant sounds better.  To me they were an entirely different breed.  Beautiful, talented, fashionable, educated, fun, and fancy.  I was/am basic.  So basic.  And I wondered if we’d have anything in common.  I still don’t know why we are here, and I don’t know why it wasn’t right to stay where we were; but I feel like lessons lurk around every corner, that we can glean something from every interaction, that we come away from every experience a better person.  And so it’s been.

These great women have changed me forever, convincing me that it is ok to make things beautiful.  Which was not necessarily my mindset when I entered their world.  In my limited scope I equated substance with plainness.  Embellishment with wastefulness.  I can see now how prideful I was.  Thinking time spent decorating was less time spent on the weightier pursuits.  How judgmental.  And off-base!  I am forever grateful for the humbling journey I’ve been on with these ladies who have kindly and gradually been able to teach me.

That the investment in beauty is sometimes worth it.  I will never be sold on extravagance.  Or indulgence.  Or doing things for the sake of show.  Or at the expense of what really matters.  But I will say that beauty has the power to create feelings.  To enhance vision. 

When someone has taken the time to lay out a simple pressed tablecloth along with a vase of fresh flowers for a dinner, I feel a bit pampered and cared for.  I just know as women and mothers and nurturers we are the ones to take care of so many needs, and so to have that little token of love buoys me up.  And since I know how it makes me feel, I’ve learned it’s an easy way to let someone else know they’re special and worth making the effort for.  Simple elegance inspires and elevates.  I love that these women have taught me to have fun, to set an elegant table, to spend time on themselves by working out and making the most of what they have, to search out good food, to beautify their homes, to look beyond the pragmatic and to spend an extra portion of their resources to embellish just a little, to add a little personality and flair here and there.  We can all go over the top, and I think some women do.  But a little feminine touch adds softness and a sense of delight. 

Along these lines, I had a friend in Illinois tell me about her dad.  We were just young mothers at this time with little kids, still trying to establish traditions, learning how to be moms.  As I still do, I’d cling to any advice and words of wisdom from those who have been there before me.  He taught her the importance of Sunday Dinner, telling her it wasn’t optional, she needed to have it be a little nicer, create a tradition her family could count on and look forward to.  I’d always loved that Sunday tradition growing up, the one day we’d have a big dinner and dessert, different from the other weekday fare.  It seemed more special somehow, and looking back I can see how in subtle ways my mom made it that way.  We used placemats.  Serving dishes.  We could take our time without evening commitments.  Whenever I’m tempted to let that tradition slide I think back to Jenni and her dad.  And I put in a little more effort.  Nothing too fancy.  Just a tablecloth or placemats.  Goblets.  Sometimes candles.  A roast or something we don’t normally have.  Most of the time dad cooks.  It’s a day we can count on dessert.  In fact, we’ve made it a tradition to have sundaes on Sundays.  All because it reminds us that it’s a different day.  Those little niceties make a difference.

My little sister shared an interesting observation a few years back, having run a quick errand before getting ready for the day.  She just prayed she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew, she couldn’t help but feel a little unlike herself.  And she is beautiful even right when she wakes up, so it’s not even about how we look even, it’s about how we feel.  When she told me how she felt I totally understood.  It’s kind of like when a friend of mine had just finished an early-morning final and popped his head into work.  All he could say is that he just wanted to go take a shower.  It’s a small thing.  But I know we all feel the difference when we’ve taken just a few minutes to take a shower, even put on perfume, clothes other than sweats (a nice shirt is just as easy as a torn sweatshirt), and put on some lipgloss and mascara.  It’s not a lot, but it makes all the difference.  When you don’t feel comfortable (not talking comfy, I mean good), you can’t help but be a bit distracted and somewhat self-conscious, even to the point of being self-absorbed sometimes.  (Like when you find a huge run in your tights right down your shin or you realize you forgot a slip when you look at yourself in the sunny reflection or deodorant on a hot sweaty day.)  My sister noticed how much easier it is to forget herself and focus on others once she feels put together for the day.  Neither one of us wears a lot of make up or has fancy hair or wears tons of jewels, she wasn’t talking about that.  Just in the simple ways I described.  Because once you’ve done your best to look presentable, you can forget yourself.  You are free to look outward because you aren’t so concerned about yourself.  In small ways you are telling yourself you matter, that you are valuable enough to spend a few minutes on, and that you are ready to serve.

I remember hearing a talk years ago.  This woman had struggled with her appearance—specifically because of acne—as a teenager.  But she had a wise mother. Over and over she said to me, “You must do everything you can to make your appearance pleasing, but the minute you walk out the door, forget yourself and start concentrating on others.”   (Susan Tanner) Another wise man said nearly the exact same thing, After you have done what you can to improve your appearance, forget about yourself and think of others and their needs. (Joe J. Christensen)  I have found this to be a true principle, aptly applicable.

We can do this in our homes as well.  No matter what kind of house or apartment we’re talking about.  I think you know the feeling of leaving in the morning, rushed, with dishes all over, the house is kind of disheveled, beds not made.  You hope no one comes by.  But you know that’s the only time someone will.  And it’s the only time ever that you’ll end up showing her around for some reason.  I had a friend step in and bring flowers to the kitchen when I was sick but not home (I know).  Totally not a big deal.  Just embarrassing.  Because when I came back I couldn’t help but see it all through her eyes.  Contrast that scenario with the days when you at least cleared the table, picked up the piles, just kind of got the house ready for the day.  It just feels better.

When I think of God, I think of tranquility and peace.  Order and light.  Centeredness.  Love. Calmness.  And definitely beauty.  I imagine where He lives embodies all of these things.  And we can emulate these God-like qualities in our own lives and homes.  We can feel a portion of what He feels.  And then spread and share that same goodness.

I feel free to serve when I know that the basics are done in my own home.  It doesn’t always work out that way; service is least of all convenient.  I know about losing ourselves in the service of God, but I don’t think He needs His servants to be dressed in rags and to be disheveled and to leave their doors hanging on their hinges while they go to serve the neighbors.  Sometimes the best service is rendered in our homes.  And sometimes that service includes creating a peaceful and beautiful respite from the world.  I feel more calm and focused on what I’m doing outside my home when I leave it in good standing.  I love it when it’s tidy and I’m home with music and a candle.  The stage is set.  Not necessarily for anyone but me.  But I’m relaxed.  And it just feels good.  But at the same time, it’s ready for others.  Because when our house is under control (it’s never perfect, but you know what I mean), I feel ok about including others, inviting people in, about going out.

You know I hate extravagance.  But I still think there are small ways we can beautify our spaces, ourselves, our yards, our bedrooms (we are so bad at this!), our lives.  We have the power to make things lovely.  Music is free.  Letting light in costs nothing but is an instant boost, a stark contrast to the dark.  Cleaning products can be purchased by the gallon for pennies; nothing is more beautiful than clean.  A tube of lipstick or lipgloss can be as cheap as $3.  A few quality pieces will hold up and look better than a closet full of cheaply constructed tops.  Flowers can come from a garden or when they’re on clearance at the grocery store.  In fact, I made it a resolution a couple of years ago to keep fresh flowers on our table, a simple and inexpensive luxury that lifts my spirits whenever I’m near them.  Fresh paint might be the easiest way to make a room feel new.  Setting the table even for leftovers makes us feel more centered, gathered.

This principle applies across life.  When we’ve created an item of beauty like a quilt or poster or bench, we are confident about letting others see it.  When we’ve put some effort into a yummy dessert, we are happy to share.  When we do our best with what we have, we’re free to then focus on what we can do for others, how they might be feeling, what they’d like to share with us.  We can step away from ourselves and look outward.  In small and simple ways I know you know what I’m talking about.

I suppose there are times to go all out: a fancy ball (good grief) or a wedding.  A special holiday dinner or party.  It’s fun to pull out all the stops and have a good time.  We certainly like to decorate at Christmas and some people enjoy themed parties (yikes) and getting dressed up.  It’s fun to decorate and make things pretty.  There is certainly a place for that.  But in simple ways we can create a mood, a feeling, and a sense of peace within ourselves and our homes that sets the stage.  When we’ve done what we can to make things nice, by making our beds or putting on some earrings or putting together a great flyer, we’re showing that we care.  Not obsessing about ourselves or our homes or whatever, just making the most of our resources and abilities and moving on.

And so that’s one of the lessons I’ve been learning over the years.  From my mom and sisters, Jenni’s dad, the women surrounding me at school and church.   They have taught me to seek out the lovely.  To embrace beauty.   That it is more than ok.  It is Godlike.

Taking a tour

"It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it." 

- Aristotle

I’m not sure what he was really referring to here.  I’m no brainiac or scholar.  I just live inside my head a lot of the time.  To me this quote means we can hear others out.  We can listen with an open mind.  We can examine both sides of an issue.  We can appreciate where someone is coming from.  Even if we don’t agree.  Or change our opinion.  But we show maturity and class when we can put aside our agenda for even just a moment and listen.  Without trying to point out where they’re wrong.  Or convince them we’re right. 

It’s kind of like me walking through the IKEA showroom.  What’s not to love about the tiny living quarters, sleek cabinets, compact storage solutions?  Except I wouldn’t want most of it.  It’s not really my style.  Not to say I don’t like it for someone else’s house, it’s perfect!  Just not my level of comfort, what I want to surround myself with.   It’s dreamy taking in all the furnishings and designs.  My mom’s house is just as beautiful.  In a completely different way.  Traditional I guess.  Black and red and yellow.  But contemporary at the same time.  Classy.  Not over-done, but coordinated and warm.  Her bedrooms are French-country, cool, soft blues.  Just so comfortable and pretty and inviting.  I love her house and the way she decorates.  I just don’t want to duplicate the look in my own house.

Just as I appreciate the chance to see various decorating motifs, I like seeing how people run their households and organize their belongings.  We’ve all been in a variety of buildings and even parts of the country and world throughout our lives.  I imagine we can all appreciate the distinctive looks and feels, foods and cultures.  Not one is inherently better.  They’re all just different.  Based on where they’re coming from, what their traditions and backgrounds are, what feels natural and comfortable to them.

I even like hearing my friends talking about books they love in our book group.  I might not want to decorate like or read the same books my friends do, but I can appreciate how their personalities play into their choices.  I love our differences.  Every single person can teach me something: whether it’s exposing me to a new type of music I didn’t know I’d like or helping me see beauty through a new lens.  I love filtering through all I see and experience and then keeping what works for me and jives with where or who I am.  And I've gotten some great book recommendations over the years!

It feels like the older I get the more difficult it is to be as stuck in my opinions as I once was. It would seem that we would become even more set in our ways the older we get.  And maybe that’s true with our routines, the ways we like to do things.  And even with a few key principles.  I’ve seen enough and experienced enough years to know what I think about a few basics, ideas like most people feel better when they’re earning their own way and have some skin in the game.  Homes should be places of refuge and learning, not showcases.  Small but consistent efforts can lead to great results.   You can only change what you can control.  Just different ideas like that.  I’m sold.  You probably won’t change my mind.  But the older I get the more I can see things from your vantage point too.

I remember back in high school in economics and government.  Our teacher wrote a blackboard full of controversial topics and we were allowed to go circle one or two we wanted to tackle, that we related to.  But then he just assigned us the rest, including which side we'd argue.   Our task was to research and present an argument for that perspective in front of the class.  Simple and easy enough.  But brilliant.  Because it taught us to look at issues from a different angle.

Another teacher in my Male/Female Roles class in high school had everyone raise their hands confirming their stand on either pro-choice or pro-life.  As you would suspect, I was the only one in the class that was pro-life.  But I loved what she had us do.  We were to write an argument on the opposite stand.  At first you can’t imagine seeing another side, it’s so black and white and obvious to you.  But there is always something you can learn or understand once you let go of what you think you know and even just take a peek at another’s opinion.  I doubt it impacted many, but it was a great lesson for me.

The older I get the more I feel my ignorance.  I know so much less than I don’t know.  I imagine we’re all there.  So I don’t understand why we are so cemented in our thinking.  Even if we’re basing our opinions on principles, we can at least try to understand the emotions of someone else, open our eyes a little wider to see why her life experiences brought her to this conclusion rather than refusing to listen because we already know what we think.  There is a lot of information on both sides of any issue.  And we can’t help but be swayed by our pasts, cultures, upbringing, values and experiences.  But a good friend or mature person can easily sit back and really listen to what all that background is saying.  Why he thinks that, how he arrived at that conclusion.  Information is power.  It has the potential to shift our thinking.  But even if it doesn’t, we are still more compassionate and empathetic when we take time to look at both sides.

It’s like probably most bills or issues in politics.  It wouldn’t be hard to make decisions if there was a clear-cut right and wrong or easy solution that would satisfy everyone.  Kind of like dinner at our house. But life’s issues are messy. And people have different values and priorities and paradigms.  That’s just reality.  I loved it when I heard of a new bill proposal.  A great idea.  Until my friend explained a part of it I hadn’t ever thought of.  I was filtering it through my own experiences, not recognizing how it might work in another situation.   I completely changed my mind, glad for her insight.

Again, I’m no scholar and I can barely remember anything from my high school or college classes, but I intuitively feel that there is an innate need to be heard.  To feel respected, validated.  I know that I appreciate it when I feel someone “gets” me, they at least hear me out long enough to see where I’m coming from.  Maybe we still won’t agree, but I feel like we’re still friends.  Still agreeing to disagree but with a little more understanding.

We’ve all been in each others’ houses and a million others.  They just all have different personalities.  I love it when it’s a new move-in because inevitably they want to show you around, doesn’t matter if the house is newly built or just new to them.  Or when they’re moving out or just had a baby or surgery and you get to clean for them.  Or when you just get to that point that you just feel like it’s an extension of your own house.  What could be better than taking a peek into someone’s life, how they arrange their kitchens, noticing what they value, learning what makes them feel comfortable, what “home” is to them?  I guess it’s because I’m a voyeur at heart that I love a glimpse here and there.  And I always take away great ideas.  Clever storage, a color that pops, a way to arrange furniture I hadn’t thought of, a fun way of hanging art.  A reminder to frame my pictures I keep on my shelf.  A little nudge to create something of warmth.  And so it’s good.  I love the tours, I love our differences.  And yet I see so many more similarities than differences.  We don’t let our variances in how high we stack our books or what colors we prefer create divisions in our friendships.  How silly!

Just because I don’t want to necessary live in a different house doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the tours.  Likewise, maybe by this point in your life you're pretty settled in your views.  Which is fine.  But we don’t hesitate to let a friend show us around her house.  We are gracious in acknowledging her way of displaying her treasures and, similarly, we can be gracious as she gives us a tour of her mind and thought processes.  Let her.  It doesn’t mean we have to re-decorate.  But it might give us something to think about.  And maybe even tweak.