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.

Well-read

I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who live in houses with those tall libraries, the kind you need a rolling ladder to get to the top shelves.  Actually, I’ve never wanted to live in that kind of house; I just want to be the kind of person who’s read all those books.  And actually, I don’t want to read them; I just want to have read them.  I guess what I really want is an accumulation of knowledge, to know what they’re talking about when I read references to Middlemarch or A Tale of Two Cities.  I’ve always wanted to be well-read.

Which is maybe why I determined this summer was the perfect opportunity to brush up on the classics I’ve missed.  I’m not sure how or why I summoned a call for Roots from the library.  But when I read the synopsis, it sounded exactly like my kind of book: autobiography, 1800s, family relationships, history.  It had my name written all over it.  Except it was thick.  Over 800 pages.  And a classic of sorts.  It made me nervous.  I hated the idea of investing time—any amount of time—into starting it if I wasn’t going to finish it.  So I began tentatively.  With Kinte back in Africa in a village in the 1700s.  Which was ok for awhile.  But I got antsy.  I knew there was more to the story, but we were spending a long, long time talking about his village life.  So I glossed over a few pages here and there, returning to pick up some of the missed details if I got lost.  I wasn’t enjoying reading about his life.  It was nothing I could relate with.  I learned some things along the way, but I didn’t exactly look forward to curling up on the couch with it—although that’s exactly what I did.  It was somewhere after the first 100 pages (I think) that I felt I needed to make a decision.  Was this story worth my time?  It wasn’t a difficult read.  The language was familiar and easy.  I was able to keep track of who was who.  The hard part was focusing on the story at hand instead of worrying about the other books I was anxious to get to.

Which prompted me to pose the question to my online friends a couple weeks back, basically I wanted to know if they felt it was worth the time and effort to read classics or should we stick with reading what we like (assuming they’re not the same thing)?  So they weighed in, most of the opinion that life is short, read what you want.  Which is generally my philosophy too.  But are there books that are good for me just as there are foods that are better for me?  And just because I’m old enough to choose both my foods and my books, shouldn’t I be smart enough by now to make good choices instead of just eating and reading junk?

I eat a lot of cookies, and I read a lot of novels.  It’s not like I’m into salads and Wuthering Heights exclusively.  But I’ve always wondered if I was missing something by not including avocados in my diet, and over the years I’ve been curious about some of the books they set on those tables at Barnes and Noble, feeling a little out-of-the-know by not having read many of the familiar titles’ innards like Silas Marner.  I hear speakers I respect allude to them and I long to have the same exposure, the same inner knowledge.

I think back to the long, dark evenings of the 1700 and 1800s and even the earlier part of the 1900s.  Reading was a mainstay of entertainment.  I believe readers wanted rich details, a thick book they could lose themselves in.  I think people were generally less distracted back then, more able to focus.  That, and many of the “classics” to us were contemporary novels to them; daily life depicted in books was familiar to them and the language was current.  For me to wade through a serious novel takes a good deal of concentration.  And a nap beforehand so I’m wide awake.  It feels like work.  It conjures up feelings from high school, the anxiety of not having read the assigned chapters in 1984 and, even after comparing it with the Cliff notes, still not feeling certain about what was happening.  I hate being told what to do (and read) and so for me to be tied to a list that some random people have pulled together based solely on their opinions… that doesn’t sit well.  If you type in something like 100 Best Books of the 20th Century, you’ll get a variety of responses.  But I originally just wanted to know if reading the true classics (the ones branded right there on the covers) warranted the effort it would take me.

On the one hand, I believe in self-discipline, in doing hard things.  Our world has swung way too far the other way, indulgent and somewhat lazy.  We  balk when something would stretch us to discomfort.  I want to push myself, to know that I can be tenacious, that I have it in me.  It’s not about saying I’ve read the classics.  Who would I tell, how on earth would that come up in conversation, and why would anyone care what I’ve read?  That sounds so braggy anyway.  I know lots of people who have run marathons; I guess for a minute it awes me, but what I really care about is what kind of person and friend she is, not that she’s impressive.  And maybe that’s just me, I’m not inspired by much other than genuine kindness and humility.  So choosing literature has nothing to do with showcasing my bookshelf; it’s really me wanting to know what good literature feels like.  Just because a few scary-looking rock bands have huge followings doesn’t mean they’re worthy of it all.  And just because a book has remained in the top slot of a best seller list for several weeks doesn’t mean a thing to me.  However, when it comes to the true classics—the ones that show up on list after list of 100 Books to Read Before You Die—I simply wonder if they’re worth the effort and if that’s where I should spend my time. 

But on the other hand, life is short.  There are already so many demands on us, shouldn’t our leisure time be simply for relaxing?  Or should we juxtapose recreation with just a little bit of learning?  I’m not sure what you’re up against, but I know a lot of you have trade and professional journals to keep up with.  Like many of you, I try to stay on top of my lessons and church materials.  I try to read the newspaper every day and a slew of magazines that filter through our house.  I’m not that great at any of it, but I make an effort.  And so when it comes to books, should I try to be mindful and choose the best literature?  Or is it good enough to go the Doritos and a Diet Coke book route?  And yes, I know there’s a middle ground.

What does it even mean to be well-read?  I thought I knew.  I thought it was obvious: someone whose read all those thick leather-bound classics.  But as I thought about it, I realized maybe I had no idea what it really means.  Did you know you can look up that exact phrase?

The first little box that popped up: knowledgeable and informed as a result of extensive reading

Merriam-Webster: well-informed or deeply versed through reading

Thesaurus.com: bookish, educated, knowledgable, literate, studious, well-informed, cultured, scholarly, versed, widely read

From there, it was pages and pages of random people just writing in what they thought.  Most agreed that it’s got way less to do with quantity than quality and that it’s having read a variety of genres.  So having read several hundred lusty love novels does not make someone well-read.  And yet, these days it may have less to do with simply having made your way down the high school suggested reading list and more about reading (and listening to) a wide variety of opinions from Ted talks and podcasts to current novels and nonfiction in addition to those we consider classics. 

And delving just a little deeper—the real crux of the issue to me—what does it matter if we’re well-read?  Why do I hold that term in such high esteem?  I’d honestly never thought about it before.  But as I had a decision to make about my book, I felt to ask myself what my motive was.  What was I hoping for?

Probably the strongest reason for me wanting to read it was to prove to myself I could.  I’ve always wanted to feel smart.  And I did through elementary school.  Even until high school.  It’s been downhill ever since, and I honestly wonder if I’m just not intelligent enough to understand some of these esteemed books, to keep track of so many characters and plot twists.  Will I have to keep a dictionary beside me? I just wanted to see if I could make it through a thick book like that.  I’d tried others before (Little Women, Tess of the D’urbervilles—actually I was enjoying it but had to turn it back in) and always gave up, distracted or discouraged because I couldn’t really get into the story.  And so I wondered if I even had the smarts to read hard books.

But here’s what I’ve noticed.  I’ve known some extraordinarily intelligent people in my life.  But some of them are just complete idiots; they’re arrogant and essentially unable to relate to people in a warm, personal, humble way.  I’ve known some people who aren’t traditionally educated.  And yet they have figured it out.  They have common sense, they understand people, they make you feel better by just being around them, they seem to have a broad intelligence that doesn’t necessarily come from books, but from being engaged in real life and with people.

So is to be well-read the ultimate objective?  Or is it a means to a higher goal?  As I’ve thought about all this, as I’ve mulled over Roots the past couple of weeks, I’ve determined that the real purpose behind leisure reading (for me) is to learn something new but also to be entertained, to escape or transport myself into a life other than my own, to see life from another vantage point.  Our society is fascinated by wizards and werewolves, mysteries and Main Street because we get to experience life as we never could otherwise.  Even the stories we can absolutely relate to envelop us because the outcome or choices are a little different than the lives we’ve led, it’s not exactly the same, we glean new insights to life as we stand back and look at the characters’ (and inevitably our own) experiences from a new angle.

By exposing ourselves to a wide variety of media—and especially books, we begin to appreciate not only our differences, but we start to notice our sameness. In my mind, that’s what being well-read leads to: a realization that we have so much more in common than we think.  Good literature can lead us to develop a deeper compassion and understanding and sympathy for humans in a variety of ages and circumstances by exposing us to so many more scenarios and feelings than we could live through in just one lifetime.

As I read about wars through the ages, slavery, refugees, orphans, businesses, fashion, farm life, urban issues, poverty, athletes, animals, inventors, politicians, theories on education, nutrition, parenting, the environment, peanut allergies, autism, and religion, I’m inevitably becoming more aware of the world we live in.  Ideally, in my mind, reading in all its forms should lead to a broader mindset, a greater appreciation for the myriad peoples, cultures, ideas, sacrifices, and issues that make up our world.  And then our reading should propel us to do something to improve the world, to take what we’ve read and make some sort of difference.  Our reading should make us different than we were before.  I think that’s what good literature has the potential to do.

So, in answer to my question about classics, I believe in them.  I believe they have stood the test of time for a reason, specifically because they make us think.  They take us outside of ourselves.  They may cause discomfort, they may heighten our awareness, they may propel us to make changes, to fight, to empathize.  They conjure up emotion.  

As to whether I believe in reading them personally, for now I’m taking a lighter approach to understanding humanity.  I’m excited about my current bed stand stack, my non-fiction, my biographies, my Ted talks, my historical novels, my book group selections, my contemporary novels recommended by friends.  I do try to be selective.  To vary my choices.  To choose quality.  To read what interests me regardless of what’s mainstream.  With each book I read, I feel like I’ve gained some insight. Into a pocket of life or history I didn’t know much about before.  Into a person’s mind, someone who’s dealing with something I have no experience with.  Into another side of an issue, helping me see another way of looking at a complex controversy.  Regardless of whether these books have been or will ever be on some revered list, they have merit simply because they have all changed me in some small way.  While I think I will always wish to be what I have generally considered a well-read person who has taken the time to ingest the classics like so many I admire, for now this is where I am and decidedly want to reside for a bit longer.  There may likely come a time when I have long, dark nights to fill up as a grandma living alone with little to distract me.  I imagine I’ll pour over the books I once thought tedious and bask in the richness of the authors’ well-written stories. I’ll probably surprise myself by how well I enjoyed them.  And maybe then I’ll finally know what well-read feels like.  In the traditional sense.

Cautious

One of my biggest fears growing up was quicksand.  I lived in San Diego so I’m not sure how that got stuck in my head, but for some reason it made the short list.  Not so much anymore.  Currently it’s bears.  Mice.  Getting kidnapped and shoved in trunk (actually more of a life-long fear).  Being asked to serve as a general women’s leader in the church and having people know I have no idea about the scriptures stories.  Losing my husband or kids.  Going to jail.

I don’t know how likely any of those scenarios are, but I can tell you that I base my actions around my fears to some extent. Well, when possible.  I live on a (tiny) farm.  Obviously mice abound.  I also live in Montana and tent-camp all the time, even in Glacier a couple of times where bears have been seen only days before; we hike in the mountains (with bear spray).  I’m trying to learn my stories and keep all the bible characters straight (possibly a lost cause).  Just in case.  I avoid sketchy scenes and rely on my intuition and confidence to avert possible kidnappings.  I also don’t travel to the middle East much.  But the jail one is tough.  Because I’m afraid of doing something on accident that will kill someone.  Not with a gun.  With my van.  Vehicular homicide.  Manslaughter.  Those words pierce my soul.  And cause me great anxiety.

With that fear in mind, I swear I’ve had the thought a million times to not text while I’m driving.  Which I’ve dismissed so often.  The roads we travel are fast and somewhat empty.  And so I’ll admit I’ve called my mom and Todd and others when no one’s around.  But over the years, I’ve become more hesitant about doing that and definitely more vigilant.  Because that thought persists.  I don’t know if it’s God or the ad campaigns. 

But I think it’s God warning me.  I think it’s Him telling me no message or conversation is worth a possible disaster.  My biggest fear is causing an accident and killing someone—not me, but an innocent victim.  We hear this happening all the time.  Maybe mostly among teenagers?  But I’ve seen countless grown ups over the years coming toward me, drifting into my side of the road, which is scary as we’re facing each other just feet apart on these two lane roads going 60-70 miles an hour.  As I look back to see what the problem was, they’re nearly always on their phones.  I’ll be honest, I’ve got my phone right beside me.  My van is my office and I have all sorts of equipment within arm’s reach: tape, scissors, notepad, cards, pens.  My phone is just an extension of all that.  You know how uptight I am about wasting resources of any kind, but time feels like my most valuable of all and I maximize every minute I can, especially when I’m driving.  That’s when I can make appointments, arrange activities with friends, do my church calls, talk with family, check in with the kids.  But I’ve felt strongly to be on-guard, to really be mindful about what I’m doing.  And so I look forward to red lights, my go-ahead to text and call. I know it just takes seconds; I know I could just punch in the numbers when I’m moving, send my reply, just be quick, no one would know.  And yet, all it takes is bad timing.  A second without looking.  Averted focus.  Loss of concentration.  It could all change in a moment.

I’ve thought about this a lot.  I’m pretty lackadaisical about most things.  I don’t mind messes at all.  We’re not a scheduled family by any stretch.  We’re not hard-core.  Except when comes to driving and texting.  Or our marriage.  As I’ve driven—with nothing to type and only my mind to keep me occupied—I’ve had plenty of time to consider what other parts of my life I’m that careful about.  Probably not our animals (they’ve certainly been left out all night, gone without food and water, overheated, been left in the cold) or our doors (can’t tell you how many times they’ve been left unlocked and even wide open to the snow and elements overnight).  Not my health (you know about my cookie issues—yesterday it was six) or what I read (I’m super inconsistent).  I definitely thought about my spirituality and considered it to be at the top of this two-item list.  But I realized that my convictions don’t change because I don’t read my scriptures one day.  That sort of takes some time. That has to do with habits.  But then I thought about parenting and our kids.  They are absolutely up there on my list.  But I actually decided there are very few mistakes we make with our kids that will completely change everything.  They’re flexible. Forgiving. Obviously, when they’re young, one mistake can kill them.  Flying off a counter, pouring oil on a flame, stuff like that.  So yeah, I guess that counts.  I was thinking more of interactions, the relationship.  And maybe we could consider marriage in the same light.  I believe it takes years for a marriage to fall apart, just like our convictions or other relationships.  And yet, just like a moment’s indiscretion with texting, our marriages can crumble in an instant. I don’t drink, but I’ve lived long enough, read enough and listened to enough country songs to know a night out can change everything.  Which is why I say a marriage is different than any other relationship.  Because it’s the only one with that kind of intimacy, the one relationship where you take your hands off the wheel for just a moment, and you’ve crashed.

As I’ve thought about the ramifications of being distracted, I’ve determined to be more cognizant of what I’m doing.  Am I finishing up a text as the light turns green?  Am I coming across as flirty with my guy friends?  Or to their wives? Am I calling my mom even though the road is mostly empty and I know nothing’s coming?  Is it a good idea to ride or be alone with a guy I’m not married to?  To become a little too casual in a relationship? I’m not a risk-taker by any stretch.  But I’m a little lazy with parts of my life, a little nonchalant, a little carefree, I’ll give you that.  But as I’m driving, as I think about my husband, I’m wide awake.  It’s one thing to hit a deer you never saw, it’s one thing to lose your spouse to a heart attack.  But to cause a catastrophe that could’ve been avoided, to paralyze a teen for the rest of her life because I just had to send my RSVP to a baby shower? To tell my kids life with their parents under one roof, all their stability and security is gone because I thought it’d be fun to feel young again and attractive to some guy?  Totally not worth it.

And maybe it’s a stretch.  And you might disagree.  Maybe it’s not a big deal to catch up on some business while you have the time in the car and the road’s fairly clear.  Maybe it’s just bantering and laughing with a good friend, nothing more.  And you’d be right.  Most of the time.  But I’m not a risk-taker.  I’m not into taking chances.  Not with something as important as a life.  And definitely not with my marriage.  I’m not saying we can’t come back from a slip.  An auto accident may not cause lasting damage, maybe no one gets paralyzed, maybe no one dies.  This time.  And there’s almost always a way back even from an affair.  But maybe not this time.  What I am saying is let’s be cautious, let’s be disciplined, let’s not take something as serious as marriage or life for granted.

All or nothing?

I’d been trying to schedule a good two-hour block for weeks.  I’m gone most days till right before school gets out, so a good chunk of time that size had been eluding me and I couldn’t figure out how to make it work.  All I needed was to get the ironing finished up.  I love it when everything’s done at once, twenty or thirty coat hangers propping up crisp collars and holding out sleeves.  No obstacles when it comes to getting dressed, everything’s ready for the taking.  I’m usually pretty on top of the ironing because it’s one of the housekeeping chores I actually love.  But I just haven’t been able to gather as many minutes as I need in one place.  So a brilliant (obvious) idea came to mind.  Instead of 20 shirts, I just did three.  Took less than ten minutes.  Nothing.  I can totally keep up on a schedule like that.  Just funny that it took me so long to realize that it was never a matter of all or nothing.  It could be part.

I thought about this again as I slid a letter into Bronwyn’s scrapbook, one from her missionary brother.  And another picture in beside it.  I’ve had her scrapbooks out for days, the idea of getting to them rattling around in my brain since last summer; here we are a year later.  But as I put that one piece of paper into the binder instead of the little drawer beside it, I felt a teeny bit accomplished.  I do this with our missionary son’s letters every week.  I’ll print out the ones he emails us, and I’ll three-hole punch the ones we get in the mail.  I download pictures and have printed quite a few.  Nothing fancy, I haven’t embellished a thing.  But instead of waiting till I have a huge chunk of time when I can do a beautiful professional book (that, let’s be honest, would never happen), I’m content with adding a page here and another next week in a regular white binder.  It’s been nearly two years and his 2-inch binder is heavy and thick with pages and memorabilia.  And so are the other kids’ books.  It doesn’t have to be either the fancy, beautiful kind or nothing at all.  It can be in between.

Like all the women in my family, I’m the worst when it comes to homemade treats just hanging around the house.  Never had a candy stash. Or stopped at the gas station for a drink.  Or been tempted by open bags of chips in the pantry.  But chocolate chip cookies are my drug  of choice and I’m a binge eater when it comes to a) fresh ones right out of the oven, b) crispy ones with milk when I’m chatting with the boys, or c) anyone else’s any time they’re around.  It’s bad.  But I also want to be healthy.  And so I’m constantly teetering: carrots and peppers just to be good and then cookies and milk.  I’ll indulge.  Once in awhile I’ll go overboard.  But I pull myself up and dry off.  Just because I lose my balance and cave now and then doesn’t mean I give up on myself and my mostly healthy habits.  

And I have super strong opinions about dieting.  I don’t believe in them.  I don’t think it’s good for our bodies to make dramatic—but temporary—changes, only to go back to “real life” after the weight’s gone.  Too many desperate people have tried diets and have been disappointed when they inevitably go off their diets.  I don't think it's good to have large meals followed by hours with no food, all and then nothing.  I believe our bodies need consistency when it comes to fuel, three meals with a couple of small healthy snacks.  I believe in a hearty breakfast.  I don’t believe in banishing certain ones like fruits and grains; rather I believe in eating a colorful array of all sorts of foods God’s given us.  I know that’s maybe not a popular opinion, but I’m convinced that diets aren’t sustainable.  Small life-changes that we can live with forever, yes, totally on board.  But on and off again, no sugar, no bread… I’m just not convinced that all or nothing is the way.

I think about this idea a lot when I have a decision about exercising in the mornings.  I’m pretty much on auto-pilot as far as exercising goes, just a habit I adopted many, many years ago.  But sometimes I’ll get a late start and don’t have an hour.  So I bought a bunch of 20 minute workouts.  I know it’s not optimal, but I always feel like I accomplished something.  It always feels better to have done a little kick-boxing, a few ab exercises, some weights, or just a couple of cardio routines than to have skipped it altogether.  Even if I have zero time, it never hurts to do a few stretches, a few sit ups, some jump rope, just five or ten minutes of moving around to help wake up.  It doesn’t have to be a choice between a major workout or nothing.

That’s why I don’t get into these extreme exercise programs.  Is it something I can see myself doing at 70?  Why would I spend all these hours creating huge muscles that—when I stop—will just turn to flab? I believe in mixing it up, in cross training, in using weights, in pushing ourselves, of course!  But to train for a marathon for six months and then take six months or a year off of from exercising?  No, I don’t believe in that.  I think it’s way better to walk a few miles every day and never run a marathon in your life.  I think we’d come out ahead in the long run.

I like my little sister’s philosophy.  She has three school-aged boys living with her and her husband in a 1400 square foot house.  She’s feminine and and loves to create an atmosphere that showcases her love of beauty, but that’s hard given those parameters.  Since she can’t have everything she’d love (because there’s no room and because fragile decorations could get broken), she focuses on small reminders.  She loves delicate, beautiful jewelry, a little bird that might sit by her sink on a shelf, a tiny picture frame with a scene from a piece of the country she loves.  I admire her for her eye for beauty and her determination to embrace it as she can.  My mom was like that too.  We grew up in an apartment, and we all wanted a house more than anything else.  But instead of giving up because her dream wasn’t being fulfilled, she made our apartment as nice as she could by painting it every year, bleaching the grout in the kitchen tiles regularly, cleaning the insides and outsides of our second-story windows, and keeping it tidy and nicely decorated.  I love that she taught us this principle, make the best of what we have, it doesn’t have to be either your dream house or squalor.

I’ve thought about this idea so often over the years, all or nothing.  Because I think we’re tempted by it.  I’ve known people who subscribe to this philosophy, and I sort of feel sorry for them.  Because it’s as if there are only two choices: perfection or failure.  And none of us is no where near either.

I’ve wondered if it even applies to the most important parts of our lives, like maybe parenting.  But not at all.  If we gave up after every parenting mistake we’d made, we wouldn’t have made it through week one with our newborns.  We’re constantly readjusting, learning, trying, apologizing, and getting back up.  It’s not as if we’re either “that” kind of mom or we’re not, we’re just us.  Our kids want security, consistently, stability, to know they’re loved.  They want parents who are level-headed, who they can rely on, who will be there.  They don’t need a Pinterest or Facebook-worthy life, and we don’t need to feel like failures because we aren’t providing that.  I think the one area we might want to consider being perfect in is our love.  But just because we aren’t there yet doesn’t mean we give up.  We can steadily make progress, we can improve, we can keep trying. We can practice being unconditional with our love; we have ample opportunities to try again and again.

Originally I thought that if parenting wasn’t, then church was for sure the one exception, that I’d found a loophole.  But it’s not.  Those who want church in their lives are on a committed-continuum.  There’s no room for all or nothing.  Because who among us is perfect and who among us has no hope?  I know what you’re thinking, you’re either hot or cold, in or out.  Yes, of course I know the scripture.  But the problem I’ve seen is when we’re over-zealous but then burn out.  Or when they focus on one teaching to the exclusion of many others.  What good does it do to have one holy day on a Sunday and do little else regarding what you learned the other six days?  Isn’t it better to read from the scriptures and pray a little every day than to do it all in one day so you can take the other days off?  I know I’ve succumbed to this mistaken philosophy over the years, feeling like if I don’t study the scriptures hard-core for the day then I’m not really acknowledging how much I love Heavenly Father and appreciate the scriptures.  And yet, I’ve softened over the years and realize and accept that sometimes I’m just going to read a chapter or a few verses and recognize that I’ve invited the spirit into my life, I’ve learned some things, I feel closer to Christ and more hopeful and committed, and I’ve thought about some teachings from a new angle, all from just from a few minutes.  Other days I have a little more time and can delve into a deeper study, spend more time, research, inquire.  But I don’t beat myself up because that’s not my reality every day.  Same with service and family scriptures and everything else “churchy” we do.  We aren’t excellent at any of it, and we don’t spend even half an hour reading as a family every day, but we do read a little most mornings and touch bases again with a little more in the evening when our teenagers are around.  Not anything to emulate, but we’ve managed to keep up for years.  You know I believe in small and simple things.  And no where is this more applicable than when it comes to our feelings about God and what we do about them.  Heavenly Father cares way more about our small and steady steps toward him than he cares about where we are on the path; the last thing he wants us to feel is discouraged and hopeless because we don’t seem to be keeping up with some arbitrary, self-imposed expectations.  He’s not an all or nothing God.  He understands that our faith will waver, that we’ll have questions, that trials have the potential to create distance, that sometimes we’ll be upset with Him, that we won’t always live up to what we profess to believe, that we’re weak, that we’re human.  He knows and accepts all of it.  He created us, He knows us.  All He asks is that we turn toward Him, not to be perfect. 

I could go on and on.  Because I believe this principle applies to so many arenas of our lives.  I’ll give you that there are exceptions:  we need our parachutes to be perfect.  We need engineers to be flawless with their calculations when building our bridges.  Obviously there’s a place for getting it absolutely right .  But when it comes to behavior and habits, maybe it’s not as important to be 100%.  “I’m getting there,” “I’m stronger than I used to be,” “Our relationship is improving,” “At least I took a walk today,” “I’ll start with one class.” These are healthy and hopeful assurances that allow us to simply be better than we were yesterday, reminding us that small but consistent habits will yield better returns than (admittedly admirable) major efforts that aren’t sustained.

Aiding the understatement

I don’t think it really sunk in when people would ask how things were going the week we were in the middle of getting new carpet.  It never seemed to conjure up any sort of response.  “Nice,” “Fun,” “That’ll look good,” they’d nod, and we’d move on.  All I could surmise is that they’d never gotten new carpet.  Because otherwise there would’ve been more to talk about.  It all sounded so businesslike, but I don’t think they had any idea what it entailed.

For the weeks leading up to the day the carpet layers were due to arrive, we’d been putting up trim, ripping out flooring, caulking, spackling, sanding, and painting.  We’d moved three beds to the living room to sleep in and every other item touching the floors (including the closets) out to the bathroom, bathtub, family room and living room.  We’d taped newspapers on our mirrored doors to spray the brass edges black.  We’d gotten up early and stayed up late for days trying to get everything done before the carpet layers came.  Obviously we fit in regular life, but it was a pretty heavy week.  But when people would ask what we’d been up to, instead of giving a complete run-down, we just mentioned we were getting new carpet.

As most of you know, we’ve been in the middle of a kitchen remodel most recently. I’ve posted pictures of what our different flooring and wallpaper layers looked like, what it took to take out the particle board layer with a crow bar and to pull out each staple (about every inch or so throughout the whole floor) by hand.  We moved out of the kitchen and into the laundry room, where we’ve set up our work station.  We haven’t had normal water for nearly five weeks, so we rotate through three little gallon jugs that Todd refills at work every day.  We take turns washing dishes in the utility sink.  We ate in the living room for weeks.  We’ve cooked meat on our skillet and have given our crock pot a run for its money.  I’m longing to make bread and cookies for my family, and I’ve felt bad that things have been in such disarray as they’ve tried to be positive and find things to make lunches and snacks.  We didn’t invite as many people over in the beginning because it was just such a mess, but then we didn’t care and did it anyway.

It’s just made me think of other times in life when a few words sum up a major life upheaval/transition/event.  “She’s doing chemo and radiation.” “They’re moving.” “I have breast cancer.” “I’m painting.” “He’s got autism.” “He’s being bullied.” “She had her baby.” “She's gone back to school.” “They had a fire.”

I think the next time I hear about someone tearing up their kitchen, I want to be there.  It was so fun to have friends to talk to while we worked. How they lightened our load!!!  I was also grateful for the friend who brought us dinner one night during these weeks without a kitchen; it was heavenly!!!!  We’ve had other families invite us over for dinner to give us a little break.  It's been so dreamy to not have to think about what to make in our little crockpot and to get out of our mess and just feel normal for a few nights.  I love that two of our friends brought us cookies and another banana bread, the one thing I’d been missing maybe the most in all this. I just want to provide something “homey” for my family, and I haven’t been able to.  But these sweet friends heeded the call and—more than treats—they just reminded me that someone was thinking of us, that we weren’t alone just muddling through our messy days.  I want to be that kind of friend the next time I hear of someone going through this, in fact, I can’t wait.  Because I’ll know just what they’ll need!

I haven’t had a baby in over 12 years, but a couple of my friends just did this past month.  They make it seem like it’s no big deal, but I remember that it was.  Especially my c-section.  I never knew I could hurt so bad. Or be so tired and overwhelmed.  I was emotionally and physically exhausted with each of our babies.  I loved it but I resented it all too.  I loved when my mom and friends helped out.  They cleaned and cooked and took care of my babies.  They assured me I was a great mom.  I loved that people would take time to come visit me, that they’d take my other kids to play.  I think I’ve been bad at helping my friends who have had babies recently.  I’m not sure they want visitors, maybe they need to rest?  I’m not sure they need anything at all, they seem so much more competent than I ever felt.  But if it’s anything like I remember, I should’ve been a little more present.

I have a friend who’s moving right now.  I immediately called to see what we could do, when we could help pack and clean.  Because I know first-hand—it’s still super fresh in my mind—what it means to move.  It’s possibly the biggest pain in the world.  Especially when it’s a big family with years of collections.  And food storage.  And camping equipment. I know what it feels like to have to make decision after decision—about the smallest things, memorabilia, old dishes, school papers, quilts you got as gifts that you never even liked.  It’s overwhelming to know where to start, what to pack and what to wait on.  I remember having to touch up the entire house in the same month I was packing.  I painted all the baseboards in the house.  Insides of closets, the pantry shelves, the closet shelves.  I dusted everything, light fixtures, blinds, doors. I remember what I loved the most.  A friend brought two huge platters of Subway sandwiches the day after we moved in.  It was to help feed all the friends who were there cleaning and helping us unpack.  It was glorious.  It was so frustrating to not have my wits about me when it came to food those couple of days.  I’m usually comfortable creating food out of nowhere.  But I was completely overwhelmed, trying to clean both houses, trying to keep life as normal as possible, extra signings on top of regular closings, new insurance policies, the snow and the cold and the treacherous roads, two Christmas concerts the day of our move, on top of feeling extremely guilty that friends were taking off work to help us, wanting to make it nice for my family since it was two weeks before Christmas, and finding sheets and making beds for all the upcoming company.  The previous owners were moving out in the snow as we were moving in.  We still needed to clean some of both houses. I was beyond exhausted, and I simply couldn’t bring myself to think about food, as strange and pathetic as that sounds.  That’s usually the one thing I can do.  But for some reason, it wasn’t happening. So she was a lifesaver, and I will always remember that gesture as well as all the helping hands who brought cookies and cleaning supplies, trucks and moving equipment, water bottles, paper plates, and their families.  I want be that angel to some other friend down the road. I’m so grateful for this recent upheaval because now it’s fresh and I’m more tuned in to the simple phrase, “We’re moving.” 

It’s funny though.  The further removed from a trial we get, the less intense it feels, the easier it is to keep moving forward, assuaging any guilt about not helping others with a similar situation.  We figure they’ve got it handled, they’re fine.  It all becomes less vivid in our minds, the details get lost, the pain softens, the whole event sort of wraps itself up into a ball we tuck away on a high shelf with our Christmas platters.

But what if we brought those memories out and kept them with our everyday ware?  What if we tried to really remember what those days felt like and sought out those around us who are currently wading through something similar themselves?

I have friends and family that I talk to in person and across the miles who are struggling with way more than a move or a remodel.  Heartbreaking realities. I don’t know exactly how to help.  I’ve never had a child with allergies or autism, I’ve never lived through a fire or a major insurance issue.  I don’t know what it feels like to have poison pumped into me or to have to go for radiation or dialysis every day.  Or to be bald or lose a husband.  I don’t know what it’s like to not be able to walk and yet still need to provide for my family. It all sounds so neat and tidy when we talk about it, “She had twins.” “We’ve been dealing with litigation for about a year now.” “They’re separated.”  But I think this past year has humbled me. Again.  I’ll admit I haven’t been the first or best responder, I haven’t even been a responder most of the time.  But with each new experience that we encounter and wade through, I think I’ll know better what it means when a friend shares some news with me.  Even though I may not have gone through the exact thing, I’m hopefully becoming better equipped at processing what she needs and knowing how to act—simply because I’m trying to put myself in her shoes and really hear what she’s saying. I believe listening is the most important and valuable part of a conversation, and our job as friends is to to listen to what words simply can’t convey.

When someone mentions in a phone call that they’ve all been sick, we can do more than glibly mumble, “Oh, I hope everyone gets better soon.”  We can reach into our well of experience and remember what it’s like to change all those sheets and how frustrating it is to clean up throw up in the middle of the night. Maybe we could make (or buy) some soup or offer to pick up the kids or clean a couple of bathrooms. When someone mentions her baby has colic and they haven’t been sleeping very well, we can recall (or imagine) what that might feel like and offer take care of the baby while she rests for a couple of hours.  When a friend mentions her washing machine’s been broken for the past week, we can put on our shoes and head over.  All it takes is a simple prayer each morning asking God to open our eyes to what the people around us are going through and then paying attention to what He shows us as we listen with love to the understatement.

Another healing Sunday fight

I don’t know what it is about Sundays but three of our biggest fights of our marriage have occurred on this holy day.  I think because we’re not distracted by the daily grind, and real issues have time to raise their heads.  This isn’t what we started fighting about (it was about chicken juice and dishes if you must know), but as we were hugging and crying, I admitted I felt sort of defeated.  I feel like I’ve been rejected by loved ones over the past few years, which is fine; I totally get that kids and friends move on.  I don’t pretend to understand or even really accept it, yet I know it’s inevitable.  But when I’ve invested my heart into my friendships and especially my family, I feel sad when it doesn’t seem to matter, hurt that they can just choose to reject me and move on with no explanation.  I don’t get it, and it doesn’t seem fair.  I know, so cliche, so jr. high.  But like I care what it sounds like, I was just telling him how it feels.

I’ve been sad that my son just left for college and has never really looked back, until we come knocking at the rear window every Sunday, curious about his life and how he’s doing.  I explained to my husband through my tears that I feel disposable, that my life’s work doesn’t seem to have meant much.  As I said that out loud, I realized I’d been holding it in for a long, long time.  

As we talked, I basked in his wisdom and soothing advice.  Even though it’s terribly difficult to admit he’s right.  I feel hurt and justified, whereas he’s trying to encourage me to be a little softer.  He’s told me before, you just need to love him, don’t try to fix him.  Love the people who have hurt you.  Obviously solid advice.  But if you know me, you’d know that’s inefficient and not being entirely honest from where I stand.  Why can’t I just say what I really think, why can’t we be real and talk instead?  But I know he’s right.  I think love is a softer way.  Listening is a better way.  Trying to understand rather than be understood is a higher way.  Loving like Christ is a far superior way.

So instead of quizzing our son about his upcoming summer plans as we talked late last night, we skirted around the elephant in the room and kept the conversation light and airy.  Instead of coming across as anxious and concerned and impatient, we asked about rockets, ceramics and girls.  We talked about religion, but only from an academic vantage point as he explained the interesting insights he’s been learning in his most recent class.  We talked about future classes he’ll be taking.  As to a timeline regarding when that might be, we never asked.

Instead of ignoring the ones I feel hurt by, I’m trying to tentatively reach out again.  Because I know, as Todd opened the curtains to show me, sometimes the people who seem to have pulled away are going through difficult times themselves.  Maybe it’s not so much a personal rejection, more of a need to refocus their energies on themselves for awhile.  Maybe they need a soft friend.  Not one who withholds because the friendship isn’t on level ground at the moment.  I feel left out because they haven’t shared their pains with me. Why, I don’t know.  This puzzles me and so my heart yearns to be protected, to let others go before they leave me. I remember being completely honest with a friend about this, asking her if it even mattered that I kept trying to be a friend and she told me straight up, Don’t give up on me.  So many times I’ve wanted to even since.  She doesn’t seem to need me as a friend.  And yet, I hear that sentiment echoing in my mind and I hang on to it as a reminder that maybe others are feeling the same way but just aren’t able to vocalize it.  My mantra has always been, Once a friend, always a friend.  And so it’s confused me and created a tender heart as I sense not everyone feels the same.

I also couldn't help but ask myself when have I let someone go who has tried to be my friend?  How good am I at staying in touch with people I love, and how can I be better? We all have good intentions, I think most of us long for strong and meaningful connections and we love our friends, but I know it's not easy to keep it up with them all.  I know my son and I have a deep love, I know our relationship is solid; when we talk and when we're together, it is loving and warm and we're right back to where we've always been.  I think what's painful is that I miss him.  I miss how it used to be.  And I miss my friends who have other commitments right now, who have moved away, who need to focus on something else for awhile.  Like my son.

As I start a new week with all this in mind, I long to be more Christlike.  I’m recommitted to asking Heavenly Father what He knows instead of relying on only what I see.  I know I profess to be a Christian, and I acknowledge we’ve had a lot on our minds lately with our kitchen and farm and house and kids, like everyone. I’ve been more than a little distracted and self-centered, oblivious to the pains and burdens my friends are bearing. But I’m humbled by my talk with my best friend and confidant, who cried with me and who sees clearly into my heart.  He knows I want to be loving and kind.  But that I’ve been so hurt that it’s hard, that I’m just being cautious. I’m glad for a companion who helps me see what I’ve been missing, what I haven’t been able to give, the one person who can call me out on my misbehavior and show me a better way to love.  I’m thankful for repentance.  So grateful  for a chance to try again.  I’m pleading for a heart like His.  For His love to seep into the crevices of my cracked heart so I can open it again.