It might be in how you look at it

With each of my non-first-born babies I swore this time would be different, it would be a fresh start, I would keep my cool and refuse to make the same mistakes stemming from frustration, lack of sleep, or exasperation.  I would remember the vivid feelings surrounding each’s birth.  I would closely hang on to the anticipation I’d nursed for nearly ten months at the forefront of my memory instead of relegating it the place at the back of my brain where algebraic formulas latently rest.  And yet I have failed every time.  Easily by the time each was 18 months, I honestly can’t remember, I’d already lost my patience.  The unjaded memory I’d had when they were helpless babies diminished, and  before I knew it we were entrenched in the real work.  And yet this is still my go-to coping technique because it helps it from being worse than it could’ve been.  I pull up snapshots from the back of my mind of when they were tiny, and I juxtapose that memory with the scene before me: tall teenagers in grown-up bodies, big kids I have to look at closely to make out how they resemble their baby pictures.  I love them in some ways the same.  I long to just hold them.  I still love listening to the way they interpret the world—and I still can’t understand what they’re saying.  Only now it’s different.  When I see them through the lens of a young, inexperienced mother and the unblemished, utter awe I had for them, I’m able to apply that deep, abiding love to whatever kind of tricky situation we might find ourselves in.  The balm of that untarnished love I had for my brand new babies softens me and helps me remember to make sure our relationship always matters more than the issues facing us.

Here in Montana people have been shoveling snow for more than five months; it’s now the snowiest winter on record.  All they can talk about is spring and warmer days.  And yet in the height of summer all we wanted was a cool spell; we enthusiastically anticipated the first flakes of winter.  Our kids are always eager to go through the boxes and find clothes to match the new season; and, as much as we bask in the summer freedoms, we’re all ready to switch out shorts for jeans, hamburgers and grilled fare for soup and bread, fires in the backyard pit to blazes in the indoor fireplace.  But why is it that we’re emotionally done with our seasons just because we’ve spent a little time here?  It doesn’t change the forecast; all it does is gray our mood.  Winter’s here for awhile longer.  So I tried to look at the snow outside the other day as if it were one of the first storms of the season.  I recalled how I looked forward to jeans and sweatshirts.  I asked myself, do I like wearing them any less just because I’ve been doing it for a few months now?  Not really.  I still do like the feeling of clothing caressing my white freckly limbs, it feels soft and cozy.  I lingered in the remembrance of the first crisp fall mornings just a few months back and pretended these chilly mornings were just some of our first.  It made me smile.  I remembered all the things that made me look forward to winter: long nights curled up watching movies, time to read all my books, quiet dinners with friends, inside projects, puzzles during the holiday breaks, the muffled calm of blanketed hills.  I smiled some more.  Dark clouds are on the horizon; there’s still time!

I also like to kind of close my eyes and remember all the feelings and memories surrounding our beginning.  The early days when we first met, how it felt to hold hands, a first kiss under an umbrella in the rain, how much I admired his humble confidence.  When I interpose those images with the current everyday ones, it’s almost as if there’s some magic at play.  And I’m able to overlook the monotony of everyday dishes and bills and feel gratitude for a life partner, a committed husband and dad, a confidant and best friend to share my days with.  Is it any less of a treat to meet him for lunch more than 23 years later? I exhale slowly.  I am so blessed.

And we are all blessed to have memories to draw on.  Our minds are reservoirs that bathe our senses, help us recall our earlier anticipations and refresh our ordinary days.  Just because we’ve been living our dreams for months or years now and just because they’re just a tad different than what we thought they’d look like doesn’t mean we can’t still be excited about them.  I’m not saying life doesn’t happen, that there aren’t really good reasons (and excuses) to become jaded and complacent.  But trying to remember what it looked like in the beginning can help us see things more clearly now, it calms us and rejuvenates us at the same time.  Switching lenses shows us what we once eagerly anticipated.  And when we apply those feelings to present situations we remember what we never want to forget and act accordingly.

Why I hesitate

I’ve never felt like leading music in front of a group would be a good idea.  a) Because I’m not sure I would get it right, and b) you know that would mean I would be in front of a group.  But you also know I’m all about learning experiences, so a couple years ago I ventured out of my comfort zone for a greater good and volunteered to help out a smallish group.  The hymn was How Great Thou Art.  None of it worked.  It was bad.  I can’t foresee a time when I’ll ever agree to do that again.  I was beyond embarrassed.  Just this week a friend asked me to lead the music for the kids on Sunday.  Thankfully I have other commitments.

I’m afraid to get a real job.  As a tour guide and receptionist at BYU I’d lackadaisically let one group go out on a tour without really checking to see if they had a slot reserved.  If a large group of people came, I just sort of assumed that was the tour we were waiting for and sent them off without confirming.  I sent out groups using a different department’s cart they were planning to use.  I’d use up all the big carts without seeing what other groups would need them.  Not all the time.  But enough.  It’s pointless to enumerate all the ways I messed things up.  My First Jobs post talks a little about this kind of stuff.  I confided in Todd the other night.  I’m even afraid to become a receptionist when I go back to work.  I’m scared I will ruin things all over again.  But in bigger ways.

I was in charge of a dinner celebration one year, the committee chair.  I’m pretty sure one lady still doesn’t like me.  She didn’t like me then either.  I was also president of the Young Women’s organization back when we were in vet school.  It was mostly a horrible experience.  I felt unsupported, my counselors and I weren't on the same page, the girls and their families had all sorts of problems.  Some of the girls ditched.  I had my two year-old boy with me or at a babysitter’s for every activity.  That pregnant summer I was due in August, my grandpa died, my sister got divorced, my camp leader was all of a sudden unavailable.  You should know by now Todd was gone.  I had no idea what I was doing; I felt utterly alone.  I never have been a teen-person, not even as a teen.  I wasn't the right kind of leader for the girls.  I connected with a few, and I still have fond memories of them, but it never felt like a good fit for me to be in that position.  The idea of being in charge of anything again makes me completely nervous.  So I shy away from taking on major school fundraisers or projects.  I will assist, just don’t make me ultimately responsible for anything, except my family.  The other stuff scares me to death.  And now you know why.

I think I was around 13.  A friend let me drive a tractor.  I nearly collapsed a fence, having no idea what a clutch was or that I needed to push that in while pressing on the brake.  That’s not the only reason I shied away from an agricultural major, but an older woman told me it was her job to drive large trucks like that on her mission with her husband.  It makes me nervous just thinking about having an assignment like that.

Poetry has never really made sense to me, and I never liked those short stories in high school English, both of which we had to surmise what their deeper meanings supposedly were.  I only ever skimmed those kinds of reading assignments because I usually didn’t get home in time to get all my homework done.  Math took priority, so I skipped or breezed through long readings.  But Mr. Landry finally called me on it.  He refused to let it go when I replied I had no idea what the poem was talking about.  He stayed on me and wouldn’t let the class go even though the bell had rung until I gave my interpretation.  For the love.  I’ve never cared much for poetry since.  And hesitate even now to suggest aloud what hidden mysteries might be lurking deep in scriptural passages.  I just make notes to myself in the margins.  In case I’m getting it all wrong, no one will know.

I was part of a pod cast panel for several months.  We’d record live.  The others were all so eloquent and articulate.  They had stories and personal experiences to support their ideas.  They just came to them off the top of their heads.  I know this is a basic quandary for introverts, but I just can’t think and talk at the same time.  I have to synthesize my ideas, ideally write them down.  It helped when the one in charge would pose a question, go around the panel and get to me last, giving me some valuable time to think.  It was even more helpful once I started asking for some questions ahead of time and could make some notes.  In my volunteer work at church we’re occasionally asked to make some remarks.  I come prepared with a little card.  Even when I feel inclined to share my intimate thoughts and feelings in front of the congregation, I make a couple of bullet points on my program as a crutch.  It’s still not pretty, but I do it maybe once a year.  Just for good measure.

I was a Y Group Leader back as a sophomore or junior in college, one who introduced the freshmen to the campus and college life.  Having been a little involved on campus previously, I thought this would just be something else to try.  Just another reason I stay behind the scenes, it was a nightmare.  I had a strange male partner.  He wore his watch over wrist sweat bands.  That stands out.  Kind of different.

My concern over deep water emerged when I fell out of a raft when I was in elementary school and floundered under water, no one noticing that I didn’t know how to swim.  Finally an uncle on shore came to my rescue.  It was also a little hard boogie boarding as I got older even though we did it all the time.  As my eyes worsened I couldn’t see where my family was on the beach if I didn’t have my contacts in, but wearing contacts in salt water can be painful, so I eventually spent more time out of the water than in.  A guy took me and a friend on a catamaran on a break from college.  I have no idea what it’s called when it goes up on one side and skates across the water.  But being afraid of both heights and water (from my earlier days), I hated it.  I can’t make out the fun in stuff like that.  I’m just fine—so fine—on the shore, assembling the sandwiches, making sure the towels don’t blow away, guarding the camera.  I’m cold in nearly every water feature except hot tubs.  I’m not that into bathing suits.  I’m white.  Just none of it sounds that great to me.  Friends and relatives alike think I’m weird.  But maybe they have things they avoid. 

I’m just pointing out the obvious.  There are usually reasons for why we shy away from parts of life.  It's not like I haven't tried some things, that I haven't stepped out of my comfort zone. But I'm 42, by now I have a pretty good handle on what I like and don't like, what things work and what things are better left to others.  Nor is it that I don’t want to help or that I don’t have time or energy.  It’s not that I don’t want to do my part.  It’s not that I don’t want to be one of my normal friends racing around on the ski doo or doing tricks on jet skis, I just can’t see how to cross the bridge from where I am.  Maybe you can relate if I suggest an impromptu comedy act, a lip sync dressed in a silly costume, a whistling contest, an extemporaneous speech, a high, high dive.  I don’t know what your anxieties are; I just know there’s almost always a reason behind mine.

A treat

It doesn’t take much.  It really doesn’t take much.  At all.  I bought myself new kitchen towels with my Christmas/birthday money; it makes me smile every single time I open that drawer.  I’m happy with a new mascara or lipstick.  A bag of three little See’s candies.  Four is also good.  A small banana cream pie Blizzard.  A new pack of my favorite pens.  A good pair of scissors.  Socks with padded bottoms.  Popcorn and a movie at home.  Notecards that scream Caren.  Easy peasy.

There’s nothing like the smell of clean sheets and pizza in the oven on Fridays.  A towel warmed by the floor vent while I’m in the shower.  A sparkly microwave.  Frozen yogurt as a family.  Cuddling on the couch with Todd or the kids.  A sappy romance with the girls and ladies in my family.  Watching the kids work in harmony to get the dishes done.  Dipping slightly overcooked chocolate chip cookies in milk with Andrew. A vacuumed vehicle that smells good.  The sound of the dishwasher and washing machine humming harmoniously.  The cool air conditioning on my feet when I’m cooking.  A pile of letters ready for the mailbox.  A night at home with no commitments.  Earrings on clearance at Kohl’s for $3.  A text asking me to go walking at the mall in the morning.

A list of errands all checked off.  I hate errands, but I love an accomplished list.  The sound of my kids laughing hard.  So hard they can barely catch their breath.  A documentary with Mitchell.  The latest issue of Real Simple and an early bed night.  A box of children’s classics in good condition at a garage sale for $.50 each.  A little stand-up comedy.

Dancing music.  Dancing to dancing music.  With my kids.  With the blinds closed.  Energy and enthusiasm to make the whole house clean at once.  Like a hotel room when you first walk in.  Brand new Ticonderoga pencils.  Coloring with Bronwyn.  Freshly painted toe nails.  An organized drawer.  Toast with jam and Dear Abby.  A quiet hour to write.

I’m not a gifts person (we can talk about that later), but it was always such a treat when my dad took my little Ford Escort to the bottom of the street for me and filled the tank.  It was like $8 back in the 80s.  Nearly every time I visit, my mom leaves a tiny bag of See’s on my pillow.  Occasionally I’ll get a card full of words from one of my non-wordy sisters.  Just the other day out of the blue a cute family came bearing brownies to congratulate Andrew on getting in to BYU.  A friend made me envelopes out of fabric.  So nice, who thinks of things like that?

Kind of like the whipped cream on a day.  Not part of the main meal.  Certainly not necessary.  Just a little indulgence, a simple treat.  In the tiniest ways these are some things that make me smile.  My mom has engrained in me the idea that you have to pamper yourself because no one else will.  She’s awesome at this.  I’m not so great.   Everyone has a list.  I bet it’s just not written down.  How hard would it be to treat yourself now and then?  Or someone else?  There’s not a day so great it wouldn’t be that much better with a tiny dollop of cream on top.

"You're nice."

 I helped 7 year-old little neighbor guy with his life jacket while we were boating with their family one day.  “You’re nice,” he told me. I was completely taken by surprise.  I’ve told you before, I’m not really a kid person.  I know, I’ve got five of my own, I’ve had hundreds of kids in and out of my house, I’m at school a fair amount, I’ve spent time with them at church.  And yet this is still a weak area for me.  That’s the backdrop I was leaning against.  All I’d done was fasten his little vest.  Maybe patiently.  Probably softly.  Anyone would’ve done it.  It had nothing to do with me.  But it did something to me.  Because of two little words given as a result of an honest assessment on his part, he changed me in a small way.  I wanted to be what he thought I was.

I have a lady friend who is at least 80.  She tells me how nice I am to pick her up and take her where we need to go.  I feel like I’m just doing my duty, anyone would do it, I know I’m not nearly as sweet about it as she seems to think I am, and I hate that I’m not.  But I do appreciate opportunities to turn things around, to use information to become a better person.  She made me feel like I am more than I know I am.  So she’s having the same effect on me as my young friend; because of the potential they see in me, I long to live up to their expectations.

I know what you’re thinking.  I’m not really a mean person.  I don’t know anyone who is.  But sometimes I do things more out of duty or without really engaging my whole heart.  I hate that I sometimes hurry through the parts of bedtime instead of relishing the whole experience.  I hate that sometimes I pray out of habit more than to be close to Heavenly Father.  Sometimes I go through the motions, it looks fine, but I’d like to be genuinely nice in all areas of my life, not just the ones I pick and choose.  I’m maybe not alone. 

It’s no secret that I’m a words person, and so I’m sure I’m more sensitive than maybe others.  However, Mark Twain confessed, “I can live for two months on a good compliment,” and I believe it’s a boost to anyone to acknowledge the good you witness.  Usually I try not to get too hung up on compliments from people because I figure there is just as much that people aren’t saying that I need to work on.  The reason these two instances stand out is because they came from uncharacteristically honest segments of the population: the young and the old.  Neither one is afraid to call it as they see it, with no guile or hidden agenda.  I took them at their word and took what they told me to heart.  They prompted me to become a person who is genuinely nice, not just dutifully nice.

We all have similar opportunities to affect the people we interact with.  Goethe apparently taught, “Look at a man the way that he is and he only becomes worse, but look at him as if he were what he could be, then he becomes what he should be.”  I hate fake, I’m not talking about the inflated praise from the 90s.  I just know that my mom and sister make a point, for instance, of noticing young men and teens, pointing out the good they see, nothing counterfeit, just honest appreciation for, say, opening the door or being helpful.  That small gesture seems to help the young men think of themselves as gentlemen, and so they act a bit more like it because these beautiful older women took the time to acknowledge their potential.

I see the value of this philosophy.  If it can work with me and the young men my mom and sister encourage, I’m  convinced it can impact others too.  Assume the best, look for any glimmer of good, and tell people what you observe.  Your impression could bring out latent qualities they weren’t aware others could see.  And encourage them to become what you know they can be.

Hands

I’m probably a little unusual in that I notice at hands.  I’ve never really liked the way my own look, but I love what they’ve been able to do over their lifetime; they have been so reliable.  I know they will become arthritic.  Todd already teases me because they are bony and veiny.  I saw a procedure once where an old lady got some fat pumped into her hands.  That was one of the weirdest body enhancements I’d heard of.  Who cares?  Actually, who cares about most of the things they’re doing these days.

There was a period in elementary school I almost forget about.  I had warts all over the backs of my hands.  Not a few, even the doctor was impressed.  I had them frozen off.  They turned white.  The 1^st graders I tutored were shocked by all the white dots I wore as the treatment took effect.  Even after they healed, it took me a long time to reconcile that I had smooth hands again; it had been such a long time.

I actually sat next to a hand model in high school choir.  I’d never known there was such a thing, being young in my education and all.  She had womanly hands in the sense that they were unmarred, perfectly manicured, cared for.  Her fingers were long and skinny.  She was so interesting; it was the weirdest job I’d ever heard of.   How does a person qualify or even find out where to audition for such a position?  I’ve never looked at dishwashing soap or lotion ads the same since.

I spent many an evening alongside my mom at the kitchen table painting my nails starting back in 6^th grade.  Dark reds like she wore.  Kind of how a girl in jr. high experiments with her new-found world of make-up.  I rarely wear polish on my fingers these days (nor do I wear all that make-up like I did as a teen).  But I do remember the tragedy of broken nails and chipped polish.  What a dumb load to carry.  But she worked in a bank and wanted to look nice.  I went to school and wanted to look like my mom.

I’m drawn to hands with smooth cuticles and wonder how that works.  I wash my hands maybe 28 times a day.  I don’t bother with lotion most of the time because I know I’ll be cutting up chicken or mopping the floor within minutes.  I hate to see good lotion get washed away.  And yet I rub Vaseline into my cuticles once I’m on the road.   For most of my adult life I’ve gone with really short, no-nonsense nails.  I have a lot of questions when it comes to long, fake nails—I think it’s probably because I have no experience with them.  I wonder how they type or make bread.  Don’t they break when they’re cleaning the blinds?  Does the nail polish chip?  How does she change diapers without scratching the baby?  Do they ever fall off?  I’m equally fascinated by women whose polish matches their outfits.  When does this happen?  Who a) thinks that far ahead and b) takes that kind of time to change it out all the time and c) can sit that long while they dry so they don’t get smudged?  I don’t even know what we’re having for dinner most nights, let alone what’s happening at the end of my fingers.  There is so much about the adult world I’m completely ignorant about.  I must’ve missed that class along with the money management one.  (Just for the record, I love black nail polish on short, chic nails.  I know that’s hard to believe, but I honestly love it.  I’d consider it; but it’s like getting the car washed—just not that important to me.)

I know Todd’s not happy about it, but I haven’t worn my diamond in years.  Partly because I read a National Geographic article about diamond mining, while at the same time I was constantly taking it off to deal with kids and bread dough.  I was always scrubbing it and forgetting where I’d put it.  It’s just so much more me to wear the thick silver band Andrew made me in his jewelry class.  Plus my diamond doesn’t even fit me anymore.  Sad.  But I’m enamored with the rings I see on fingers.   To me, they say a lot about a person.

I’m a little skeptical about men with very soft, smooth hands, too.  Probably because my dad was an upholsterer and always had beat-up fingers and cuticles.  Why aren’t there splinters or healing cuts or stains?  What does he do all day?  But then I remind myself, he’s most likely a surgeon or dentist who has to be very careful, his hands being his livelihood and all.  Or maybe he’s a businessman who doesn’t have time to garden or work with wood.  I get that.  I think it must be a weird thing to notice people’s hands.  I’ve had one friend confess that she does, but I think maybe we are the only two people in the world. 

Girls will remember what it was like to hold hands with your girlfriends back when you were little.  To be so innocently connected.

I remember a moment in time when I took a conscious snapshot with my mind.  Mitchell was young, maybe 4, and I watched his little fingers and hands knead the dough beside me.  I knew this stage was fleeting, that I wouldn’t have him young like this for much longer.  I have his little hands with those pudgy knuckles etched in my mind, I savor that memory.  And wish to relive it for a day.

Think of how we long to have a brand new baby grasp onto our big finger.  It’s almost as innate for us to reach for her tiny fingers as it is for her to hug ours.  We yearn for that connectedness, the feeling of skin on skin.  It’s nearly a subconscious act.  We reach for one another’s hands in hospital rooms or when we visit with the older people in our lives—their skin is thin and wrinkly like tissue paper, so we try to be gentle.

It used to be such an intimate gesture back in the olden days, holding hands.  Even still it’s an obvious statement that you’re with someone, that you’re something to each other.  It’s one of the first ways you tell each other you’re committed.  It’s an exciting part of falling in love, a throw-back to old-fashioned courtship and years gone by.  For some, it still means something.  I imagine most of you can still remember the tingly sensation of connecting with someone you were attracted to.  It was one of the first assurances that she felt the same way.

I hope you are still doing it.  I hope you link fingers whenever you get a chance.  I hope you hold hands with your kids when you walk—there is a sweetness about a giant rough dad hand enveloping a tiny helpless daughter’s hand.  My dad still holds my hand, and maybe that’s weird, but it’s more important to me that he knows I’m still his little girl.  I hope you hold hands when you watch movies, when you’re scared or excited or just together.

I hope if you aren’t, you’ll consider doing it more.  Be the first to reach out to a friend, to reach down to a loved one while you’re talking or taking a walk, to assure a child know she’s secure and protected.  It calms us, connects us, and reminds us of why we’re together.  Even after 24 years, I still love the feeling of his hand in mine and I know as long as we’re still holding hands we’re still committed.  And that’s something I’m not willing to let go of.

Feeling rich

I remember getting stamps for Christmas from my grandparents.  A coiled roll.  Of 100.  This was back in the 80s.  It was the ultimate gift, and I loved it.  I can’t imagine another teenager in the world anticipating that for Christmas.  My aunt still sends me some once in awhile; how does she know? Even now, I feel rich when I glance in the mail cupboard and see several little sheets of self-adhesive stamps.  Brand new stickers hiding out in their little cellophane envelope.  Options wide open.  I can write a letter to the editor, send my sister some recipes, write a little note to a friend who moved away, pop a congratulations on an accomplishment in the mail, or send off a get well, birthday or gift card..  Anything is possible.  I’m totally rich.

I also feel rich when I see the needle is closer to the F than the E on the gas gauge.  I feel again like I have all sorts of options.  I can go anywhere.  I don’t have to worry about the cost of gas for at least a few days because I don’t have to fill up anytime soon.  I sigh with contentedness.  The temps can drop to -20 and I’ll have enough gas to let the engine idle for a good 15 minutes to warm up.  I can make it into town and back a few more times.

I know, an unusual way to ascertain my wealth.  But by this point you know I’m a little unconventional, and you also know I’m telling you the truth.

Our kids occasionally question why we are so weird compared to some of their other friends.  Why we don’t go on as many trips or have as many fun toys.  We talk about money and their concerns pretty openly.  Todd’s used Monopoly money to illustrate a normal month’s expenses for family night.  They were out of paper bills before the month ran out.  Love a good teaching moment.  We try to teach them to have a realistic approach to consumerism and materialism, to look for good quality but to curb their covetings.  We’re just a regular family—we’re not that great at any of this.  We try to share our values while encouraging them to tell us how they see it.  But we try to always point out about how very, very rich we are.  We have running water, a warm house, opportunities for good education, our faith, our friends, our relatives and each other.  We are among the wealthiest people on the earth.  They sometimes roll their eyes.  But if there’s been a hard little patch for a friend or family we can share with them in some way, I sense they understand what we’re talking about, that we have it so good, that things could be so much worse.  To just be grateful for all that we have.  We have so very much to be thankful for.

I feel rich when we’re all home for the night.  When we’re gathered around the fireplace, not because we’re having a meeting, but just because we all ended up here.  Maybe someone’s reading.  Another one’s having a snack.  Mostly just talking about life, cuddled up in different bundles.  Maybe someone will make popcorn.  There’s almost always music in the background.  I also feel it when we’re gathered around the table and have fresh food from the garden.  Or when Todd’s home and I see him working with a kid in the yard.  We are so abundantly blessed.

I feel rich when we call up friends at the last minute to come hang out.  We are so blessed to have found people we can connect with and raise our family with, especially since our extended family is no closer than a day’s drive in any direction.  I feel rich to have a committed husband.  I realize every marriage has its issues, but we hang in there.  We are so very, very blessed to have been able to live together and raise kids together.  I feel especially rich sitting at church all together as a family on the pew.  I know that sounds old-fashioned, but I mean it.  Peace like that can’t be bought.

It doesn’t take much.  A few stamps, a warm bed, some gas in the car, being with people I love.  Think about what makes you feel rich.  If you’re honest with yourself I’d wager that it’s not what those fluff magazines are pushing.  It’s not about the trips, clothes, cars or houses they hype.  It’s the tiniest things like my grandma knowing all I longed for was a few stamps, a walk to a waterfall with my family, a long talk with a close friend, feeling connected with my teen sons, cuddling on the couch with my 8 year-old, games on Sunday night with ice cream, watching them learning new things; it’s the little stuff that the glossy papers don’t usually advertise that makes me feel like one of the richest women in the world.

Engaged

So twenty years ago was one of our official starts of our life together.  (I’m the least sentimental person I know, so Todd’s the one who reminded me.  I don’t remember these kinds of dates.  I don’t even remember when my babies were supposed to be due or how much most of them weighed.)  But President’s Day last month Todd mentioned that he’d proposed 20 years ago.  The day was fading over Sunset Cliffs in San Diego.  You’ve read our story, it wasn’t a surprise.  He could only afford a band, but I loved that he knew me well enough to get white gold.  We hung out on the beach for awhile, I guess contemplating what we’d just done. We were 22.  So young.  Fearless, innocent, optimistic, in love.  Who really knows what they’re doing when they’re 22? Did we have any idea the commitment we’d just agreed to?  Maybe that’s part of it though, not knowing much at all but being willing to face the open future together, whatever that turned out to be.

We knew we’d be finishing up at BYU, then we’d move to whatever vet school would take him.  We assumed we’d have kids—we talked about 5 or 6.  You make plans and then plan on being flexible when things change or don’t pan out.   So that’s how we approached our future together.

I love the term engaged.  It makes me think of intertwined, wrapped, present, in the moment, committed, enthusiastic, bound.

It’s a different stage because you have made a decision to stop looking at the possibilities around you and start looking at the possibilities in front of you; you close your eyes to everyone else and shut them out as potentials.  You move forward as a team of two.  It’s an intimate period where you’ve taken a step out of the dating world and into a new realm of commitment.  A step beyond boy-girlfriend.  More meaningful.  There’s even a ring to prove your devotion.

The time when a couple’s engaged seems to be full of excitement, anticipation, long walks and late talks, shared goals, heart-to-heart intimacies, small loving gestures, meaningful kisses, all that’s paraded in Valentine’s Day ads.  Sometimes marriages lose that spark.  I’d say it at least fades a bit, and to some extent that’s to be expected; who could sustain a life on so little sleep?  No one can live like that forever.  Well, not exactly like that anyway.

What happens when you ask a new couple you’re just getting to know how long they’ve been together, how they met?  They kind of look at each other.  Usually they smile.  Instantly, they’re almost young again.  Memories titillate their senses, and they’re more or less there, the youthful version of themselves, falling in love all over again.  I love, love, love it.  Yeah, I’ve had some awkward times when I’ve asked that question.  One couple was on the brink of divorce when I’d asked.  Another woman, when I surmised that she must love being married, admitted that she didn’t really, her husband drank too much.  Sad.  But for the most part, what I said is true.  Usually it’s fun to watch them relive the falling in love time, to see them remember being the olden days and what it was like to be vibrantly in love.  I love hearing their stories.

So why do the feelings have to fade, even dissipate?  I know that eventually you do have to sleep more than four hours, you can’t spend every paycheck eating at nice restaurants with flowers in hand, you can’t put off real life indefinitely.  I get it.  But think of the times when you made some semblance of effort as you would have back when you were engaged.  A date you changed out of jeans and the shirt with all the flour on it for.  A small bouquet from the garden.  A text in the middle of the day.  A secret lunch meeting.  Late talks in bed.  Without having to go to your separate apartments.  Just like back when you were engaged, when you felt connected and totally committed. 

I wonder if we could re-visit the time we became engaged, what it would do to remember what it felt like, what we felt like.  How would it enhance what we have now?  A *wise man surmised that the word remember could be one of the most important words in the dictionary.  I think that is how we remain bound and intertwined regardless of how the world tries to tear us apart, and we can apply this to marriages, families, friendships, any of our relationships we value or at least valued at one time.  We can relish memories as we’re making them, in part because we recognize how meaningful they will be to us in the future.  (Not only that, but we’ve talked about how much better it is to just embrace our days than to wish parts of them away.)  We can remember the energy we invested in one another and the relationship.  We remember to be our best selves, just like we used to.  We remember what brought us together.  We remember that what we’re doing is important, that it matters, that it’s worth working on.  We remember that time when we became and were engaged.  And we re-engage.

*President Spencer W. Kimball, Circles of Exaltation [address to religious educators, Brigham Young University, 28 June 1968], 8.

Using our pasts for good

I can’t help but feel a tinge of sorrow for a friend of mine.  He doesn’t seem to get how great he is and how much we admire him and love being around him, because he regrets some of the recklessness of his youth; I can tell he has lingering guilt over not having lived up to his potential in his younger days.  But isn’t that all of us?  So the details vary a bit, some of us learned the hard way, but who doesn’t have a bit of shame and remorse over past conduct?  What do we do?  Bury it all in the back of our minds pretending it wasn’t us?  Do we play victim, never really moving on, paralyzed by our mistakes?  Or worse yet, stay young and dumb indefinitely?  Or can we accept that we’re all just learning, that we’re all getting better in most ways, and cut ourselves and each other some slack?  Just because the particulars of our pasts aren’t the same doesn’t mean that we can or should compare to see who’s done the best so far.  It’s so silly to even think of having a debate over who was the most rebellious teen, who strayed furthest from his parents’ teachings, who partied the most.  And yet I wonder if we carry around regrets like that, surmising that surely if people knew how far we’d wandered they’d look at us in a whole different light.  And yet, that’s true!  I imagine we have all matured to the point that we are so much better than our past selves and that the people we currently associate with wouldn’t really recognize the people we used to be.  How’s that for progress?

I won’t lie, I’ve totally got regrets.  The details aren’t worth dredging up, but I knew better; we’ve all succumbed to temptations along the way. Whether it was gossiping or cheating, boasting or reveling, is one vice worse than another? And who’s got authority to make that call? 

I’ve found that as much as I long for a way to completely erase those regrettable memories of how I treated people and as much as I wish I had just done better along the way, there’s no point dwelling on it. It’s not going away.  It’s all faded a bit, but I still have regrets.  I remember being so self-centered at home as a young teen, not bothering to help make dinner most nights even though my parents worked all day.  I remember stealing paper and supplies from a school my dad cleaned.  What pains me the most is knowing how I have hurt people, people who have also faded from my life that I can’t seem to track down.  I remember making a third friend feel so unwanted, excluded, and unwelcome back when we were in elementary school.  I was so mean to her, and I’ve lost track of her.  My friend’s mom sacrificed so much to drive me all over town to ballet, fed me so often, and I did nothing in return, just took and took.  She wasn’t rich; she was a single mom and worked so hard to care for her girls and her parents.  She’s also faded into my past and even though I’ve tried to find her and thank her, I haven’t made amends.  I think we’ve all been victims of our own pride.  We’ve all hurt each other.  We’ve used people and taken advantage of them.  Granted, some consequences are more painful and serious, maybe you had a baby earlier than you planned, you used someone selfishly, you lied in a big way, or you contributed to hurting someone pretty deeply.  Not to dismiss any of it, but surely we’d do better now.  I wish I could change so much, and yet I simply vow to do better next time. 

Our pasts have made us the people we are today.  So cliché, I feel like I’m giving some kind of motivational speech or graduation benediction.  But think about it.  Not that we’re always proud of our pasts, but we can at least use our mistakes for good.  Just like they use each other in Alcoholics Anonymous and Weight Watchers.  Their weaknesses have become strengths, so much so that now they’re the mentors.  Because I was jealous and gossiped when I was younger, I recognize it so clearly when people today struggle with insecurity. No one who feels comfortable with herself needs to gossip or compare.  Why would you do that?  But because I have in the past, I can empathize like some people can’t.  I’ve admitted to my mom and friends that I struggled with this kind of thing and they really can’t relate.  They’ve never had those weaknesses.  Lucky for them, and lucky for me in a way.  And the people you can relate to are lucky to know you.  Because you’ve made it past your past, you can help others wrestling with the same things that were once familiar to you.

Just for the record, I’m not advocating doing dumb stuff just so you’ll have a leg up in the future or so you’ll have good stories.  It’s always better to have played by the rules, to have been your best self, to have taken the high road, to have been a lady or a gentleman.  I’m just saying, when you haven’t, get past it and use those lessons for good.

I think it’d be hard if you haven’t had a chance to get away from people who have known you your whole life.  You’d kind of be stuck in a zone in their minds and it’s hard to change their mentality.  Todd loved the chance to re-invent himself in college; no one had to know who he was before.  But that’s how I see you, the current you.  I don’t care about your past.  I’m not dwelling on mine. I just see you for the strong and good people we’re all becoming.  We’re all better than we used to be, we’ve learned a few things, we’re doing the best we can and we overlook slip-ups in ourselves and each other and realize we’ve got enough to work on without worrying what everyone else is up to.  It’s ok to admit we’ve fumbled—we’re still at it—but let’s not dwell on it, wishing things had been different.  Take me at my word.  I see you all taking it one day at time, devoted to your families, working on your talents, dedicating time to helping people around you, working hard to encourage others.  You’re more patient than you probably used to be, more accepting, more forgiving, just a better version of you.  So admit that you’re not really even that younger person in a lot of ways, leave the past behind, learn what you can from it and move on.  I appreciate where you’ve been because it made you who you are.

Playing a quieter role

There are a million things I’d never volunteer for, that I shy away from, and will in no way agree to.  Along those lines, there are plenty of people who long for and even enjoy the spotlight; I think they’re nuts.  So while you’ll never catch me on stage, I’d be happy to put together the program (not the show—the paper flyer that tells you what’s going on).  I love performances of all most kinds and am happy to lead the clapping and to be one of the first ten to give a standing ovation.  I’ll work the bake sale (as long as someone else is ultimately in charge) and sell tickets.

I like being at the school—in the library.  I’m somewhat part of PTO; I go to the meetings, I help behind the scenes.  I would never aspire to or agree to playing president, vice president, secretary, or treasurer.  I will be support staff.  I will make cotton candy, run copies, serve pretzels in the concessions stand, hand out prizes in a carnival booth and stuff fundraiser packets.  I hate calling for donations, but I’m happy to write the thank you notes.  The one thing I can do is show up and tell you what a great job you’re doing.  You can count on me to slice oranges, set up chairs, and serve root beer floats.

I’m not into large gatherings of any sort (unless it’s an inspirational talk) and I’m kind of wary of the term “party” for what it implies (silliness, expectations of fun and animation, a performance of culinary and artistic talents, small talk with a Silo cup in hand); but I’m more than happy to provide the food and venue for baby showers, luncheons, large bbqs, dinner groups, whatever.  I just hate being the one to tell everyone it’s time to eat.

I will be the first to tell you how much I admire the leaders of organizations I’m a part of; their energies and abilities astound me.  They aren’t afraid to be in front of a crowd, to be in the spotlight.  They get more done in a day than anyone I know.  I have friends in charge of all sorts of things from political movements to the high school graduation party—they were born to lead.  I love our Relief Society president.  She is not only focused on what needs to be done and who needs help, but she is beautiful and funny—stand-up comedy funny.  Everyone feels like she’s their best buddy.  These women command my attention because they are so different from me; I’m in awe of them.  And I’m so totally good with that.  I have no desire at all to be up there.  I’m happy folding my paper napkins while we talk.

So this is simply an acknowledgment to all my quieter friends.  I get you.  Just know that your role is ever as important and that you inspire me.  I feel safe and calm in your company.  I can sometimes feel overwhelmed by my outgoing friends, I sometimes end up retreating to my thoughts.  And yet I love the variety, the perfect plan that allows us to work together.  Whether you are at the microphone making announcements or the kitchen pouring punch, you’re good.  You’re so very, very good.  And I think you should know.

In five minutes or less

I read years ago in one of those fluff magazines I indulge in every now and then a piece of advice that has enhanced my life on a tiny scale.  You know how much I like to pass along a good idea, so here’s what I learned.  The premise was we’re all inundated with tiny irritants, so small they’re hardly worth mentioning, yet—combined—they zap of us good energy.  Anything from a persistent hangnail to a purse so jammed with receipts and old gum wrappers you can’t find a pen when you need it.  Kind of how you feel when you’re dying to get your hair cut.  There’s a tipping point, it’s subtly been driving you nuts for days, but at some point it begins to take up more of your mind than you’re comfortable allocating to something so dumb.  You have it on your mental list to call and make the appointment or clean the computer screen of finger prints when you have some time to spare.  You’ll eventually get a handle on all those little jobs you keep putting off.  But this unassuming article challenged its readers to face these annoyances head-on simply because each one takes less time than you think and it settles you in a small way.  At least that’s proven to be my experience since reading it maybe 10 or 15 years ago.

I’ve also noticed, as minuscule as the irritant may be, if I can just write it down it has like an 83% higher chance of happening than if I just think about it.  Just jotting down “oven,” for instance, has prompted me to switch it from the “need to do that someday” box to the “try to get to that this week” one even if it’s probably subconsciously.  And I’m surprised myself when I notice I actually did get around to it.

My sweaters on the top shelf had been hiding out in a haphazard stack for the past few weeks.  Not a huge aggravation by any stretch, but because I know how this principle has worked for me in the past, just the other day as I was getting ready I felt myself investing I bet three minutes total and refolding them (I don’t own that many sweaters, maybe 15); I tucked them into three short stacks and I noticeably sighed.  It was that easy.  This past week I purged the three purses I’d been hopping between: a checkbook was in one, my wallet in another, gum and pens in another.  Who lives like that?  So weird.  Finally got my act and purses together, it took a good four minutes to make a final home: gum wrappers out, lipstick in.  Receipts filed, hand sanitizer refilled.  I usually clean my purse out at stop lights, same with the van: collect the trash, corral the pens and crate the kids’ books.  I also finally took an old washcloth and everything out of my middle drawer on my side of the bathroom to assess what was happening.  Wiped it out and once again, no more than four minutes of work I bet.  I own five contact cases; I wear one pair of contacts.  Good grief.  I sometimes wear eye shadow on Sundays, but one had busted all over, sprinkling the remaining articles with a fine layer of shimmery dust.  I had a small trial sized tube of heat-treatment cream for a pedicure.  One guess how often I give myself pedicures.  The tube looked like it was from my mom’s bottom drawer from yesteryear.  Anyway, another investment of less than 5 minutes and I’ve given myself a mini treat the rest of the week every time I go to take my pills or file my nails.  A little smile, a little boost.

I know this is a silly thing to write a post about, but I’m only telling you this because I think we get bogged down by all the things that we notice but never really get around to.  We’re aware that the microwave’s got melted butter on its tray, the oven has burnt cheese from the pizza, the silverware holder is full of crumbs, the towels on the bed need to be folded.  It can get you down.  But don’t let it. Tell yourself you’ve got five minutes.  And you do.  Think of all the ways you’ve wasted your five minutes today.  I’m amazed at how much mileage I can get from such a small investment.  Since I’ve got a sink of hot, soapy water anyway, it’s easy to put my sponge in the microwave, heat it up as all the stuff soaks off, then I just wipe it down.  Like 2 minutes.  Another night with my sink of water I’ll dump all the contents of the drawers out on a towel and wash out the trays my serving utensils were in.  I’ll turn on the self-cleaning oven cycle on when I wake up and can wipe it out before I leave, replace the tin foil on its floor, and the oven is clean in under five minutes.  Finding the clippers to take care of that hangnail relieves us of the gnawing feeling of needing to get to that.  Taking the sheets off a bed takes about one minute, putting them back on takes maybe three.  We love Fridays partly for fresh-smelling sheets after a long week in a short but sweet five minutes or less.

So much about the world can weigh on us, remind us of everything we aren’t doing or need to do.  But in tiny, incremental ways we can stay with it and refresh our lives.  And you know I wouldn’t give you a lesson like this without giving you a lesson like this: if investing five minutes to clear off the computer desk can make you feel that good, think what else you can do with five minutes.  Call a friend who lives alone while you’re putting dinner together.  Drop off a treat to an old friend on your way to town.  Text someone while you’re at a predictably long intersection just to tell her what a great job she did with the decorations the other night.  Bring one of your loaves of bread that you now know how to make to someone for a surprise.  Open a door for someone with a smile.  Invite someone to join your family for the evening (you’re making dinner anyway).  There are all sorts of lists for things like this; I’ve even seen books.  But I hope in the five minutes or less it took you to read this you will feel empowered to tackle not only your cuticles and closets, but also to use your creativity to find small and simple ways to brighten the lives of others as well.

Nothing you'd call a trial so far

I’m embarrassed that I’ve ever said my life has been easy.  I wish I could take every single instance back.  I hate it when I try to be honest and it backfires.  Has that ever happened to you?  I hate the condescending looks like little pats on the head, knowing smiles to a little girl who’s still learning.  “Your time will come.”  “Don’t say that out loud.” “Don’t go asking for trials.”  Little meaningful laughs.  I was never trying to get a response, I was only ever admitting that I haven’t had anything super hard yet.  I imagine the second half of my life will be the one with all the tests, so I’m gearing up.  But I cringe when I hear we’re having another lesson about trials at church.  I feel like I’m a naïve child who doesn’t know what real life must be about, a mystery I’m not privy to.  And yet I’m not dumb.  I know enough to know not to pray for trials.  I didn’t say I don’t plan on ever have a really hard thing; I’ve just confessed that so far I can’t seem to commiserate on the same level as people I read about and some I’ve even known.  I acknowledge that I haven’t had cancer, my parents never got divorced, and I never even had a miscarriage.  I haven’t been abducted, trapped in a cave, even had a major accident.  Never broken a bone or even been a patient in the ER, same with all my kids.  I can’t hide those facts.  I’ve never had to leave my home to escape mobs in the middle of winter or bury a child on the frozen plains.  I’ve never been without my faith—it’s been a constant.  I’ve never watched my children go hungry or not know where we’re going to sleep for the night.  I’m drawn to books about lives of people who have overcome obstacles that most of us would find debilitating: being born in a prison camp, a drug-infested neighborhood and household, a country that terrorizes its women; being completely alone in the world, living with a chronic disease or without a complete body.  Abuse beyond imaginings.  To me this is the hard stuff, and this is what I’m talking about when I say I haven’t had any trials.  But I know many of you have, and so of course my life seems rosy.  That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.

Obviously I’ve had people steal from me and lie to me, just as you have.  I have had to work and work to overcome my hot temper and uptight ways, and I struggled with painful jealousy until just a few years ago.  I know, it’s nothing even worth mentioning.  I’ve had people talk about me behind my back, but who hasn’t?  I’ve failed at a million different things. Hasn’t everyone?  I’ve been betrayed and I’ve felt completely misunderstood and alone.  I haven’t been the person I could be even though I’ve known better.  I grew up in a less than ideal world—like most people.  I was so scared at night.  I hated the noises I heard from the neighborhood and fights in the parking lot, the pot coming through our bathroom vent and window from the downstairs neighbors. I still get a tight stomach when I hear rap music because of where I grew up.  I hated going to the laundry mat around the corner from our apartment at 5:30 in the morning with my mom when I was 11 or 12.  I wanted my mom to be around more.  I was scared when the police would come to our building and when we were home alone all summer while my parents worked.  It was hard for me to recover from a c-section with four other kids under the age of 8 with no family in town and Todd working long hours.  I’ve had some sad days after a couple of my babies, but isn’t every mom a little out of it after giving birth?  We’ve had some hard times financially.  Paying bills and talking about money gives me a knot in my stomach even today.  I know that’s why I’m so cheap—I’ve always longed for security and I worry that it will be taken from me.  I struggled with low self-esteem most of my life; most girls do.  I’ve dealt with very, very private things that I kept inside and handled quietly.  One obstacle I finally feel on top of after more than 15 years that I only shared with maybe 3 other people in my whole life.  I have issues with wanting to be a better wife, but who doesn’t?  I sometimes hate the way I parent, I imagine that’s normal.  We struggle with things as a family, things no one knows about; but everyone does.  I don’t really think of these as trials, just weaknesses or little obstacles to work around, regular life we all deal with.  None of it is worth calling a “trial,” it’s just everyday stuff every single person is up against.

But I get it, I know I’m young by some standards and my time will come; I’ve heard it from everyone.  I anticipate “it,” wondering when “it” will come.  I’ve lost four grandparents as well as other loved ones, some who haven’t even died—just left my life without peeping in again.  People I love will continue to pass on.  I’ll have more illnesses and eventually life-altering diseases.  I will continue to have private heartaches.  I will be in more accidents, serve in practically paralyzing capacities, and be scared for my life at times.  Of course dumb things happen, I regret the way I handled lots of things that I’ve lived through.  Many struggles have simply been internal ones that I can’t really share.  Same as everyone.

But I can’t help it that I haven’t had cancer yet, although seeing my sister deal with it was heart-wrenching.  I still feel guilty not being there to help, but I didn’t see how I could leave my five little ones with no one here to take care of them.  I felt helpless as my young daughter suffered through a year of tears and stress as she saw her aunt sick, not knowing how it would all end up.  I saw my other sister deal with hardships of her own and it was devastating to not know how to help her or be physically present for her.  I hated leaving her to deal with so much.  I felt so powerless and I still feel guilty over not coming to her aid at a critical time.  Many people have been abused in all forms, and I don’t know how some of us are lucky enough to avoid that.  It doesn’t seem right to apologize for having been married for nearly 20 years.  I just don’t know any other way to be married but how we’re doing it.   I didn’t know I wouldn’t have fertility problems, but early on we decided we’d think about the peace corps if we did.  I wanted to go on a mission more than anything, like so many of you.  I can’t change the fact that I wasn’t asked to sacrifice in that way.  I can’t help that I happened to be born in a great place in the world at a fabulous time in a family that would teach me so much.  For some reason I wasn’t born during the Depression or in the middle of the Civil War or the Potato Famine, I don’t know why; I just wasn’t.  I just can’t do anything about the trials I haven’t had.  I’m not wishing for them, as some people who don’t know me well enough hint at, although I do anticipate them.   It’s just that when people talk about the big trials, I have to admit that no, I haven’t really experienced that yet.

My one validation came from a grandma friend as we were discussing this topic in church.  She freely admitted to the class that she’d had an easy life.  I about teared up.  I wanted to hug her.  She’s lived a bit longer than me; she has kids my age.  I wondered what she meant.  I would still love to talk to her about it.  It made me think of some of my relatives her age and older.  I think about the money issues they’ve had, concerns about their kids, health problems, heartbreaks.  But don’t we all have things like that?  It just seems heavy to call the bumps in life “trials.”

All I’m really saying when I admit that I’ve had an easy life is that while, obviously, life hasn’t been peachy all the time, most of my days have been pretty good.  I’ve got family (not everyone does), health (for the time being), and my faith.   We, like many of you, have had it so easy compared to those who have lost spouses and children, who can’t have children, who can’t seem to find the right person to marry, who deal with chronic pain or depression or really, really hard issues or pasts.  So many people struggle with real trials—they are imprisoned physically or mentally or spiritually.   For some, abuse lives on in their lives; they can’t seem to escape it.  They’ve lost everything through no fault of their own.  Others can’t seem to catch a break; their whole lives seem to be a trial of their faith.  The worst trial I can imagine is being without hope.  And so many, many are wading through that trial all on their own.

I feel so very, very blessed.  And I know, while most of you have had much, much harder things to deal with than I have, I know you feel very blessed as well.  I have nothing major to complain about, and that’s my frame of reference when I’ve told you I’ve had a pretty simple life.  I expect my trials are still ahead of me.