Hopes for our graduate

I know these were mostly good years for you.  You took some interesting classes, tried out a few sports, saw our political system first-hand as a page, did some scouting, earned a bit of money, honed a few skills, and had some good friends.  That’s why it’s a time of ambivalence and even a little sadness, there have been some good times and you’ve got a portfolio of memories to carry with you.  I know, it’s hard to leave the years of being a kid behind and push forward, knowing for a time it will seem all uphill as you start the next phase of schooling and begin life as a grown-up.  But I hope you’ve taken some notes and that you’ll remember some of the lessons you’ve learned.

I hope, above all, that you know by now that it’s all about relationships and how you treat people.  I hope it’s solid in your mind that your family loves you, that nothing you do can change the unconditional love we have for you.  I hope that security will allow you to love others deeply, to invite them into your circle, your life, and your heart.  That you will constantly look for people who need a real friend, that you will be like a brother to people, that you will continue to practice this and learn what it means to really love others, especially the ones who seem unlovable.

I hope you will continue to include a variety of people in your life.  That you won’t exclude people or shy away from people who are different.  Every single person is better than you in some area.  Everyone can teach you something.  And you can share yourself and what makes you unique with people around you.  I hope you will have an open mind and heart, that you will be true to yourself and who you are, and that you will learn to love others as Christ does.

I hope you will continue to be grateful, and that you will become more so.  I hope you’ll have experiences and moments that will shock you, that will help you realize how blessed you’ve been.  And I hope you will use your blessings to improve the lives of people you meet.  I hope you will be generous with your gifts, your time, your means, and your talents.  I hope you will use all that you’ve been given so abundantly to lighten the burdens of others and to make others happy.

I hope you will come to value your education and the joy of learning.  I hope you’ll keep reading.  I hope you will expand your mind, that you will explore different ideas and ways of looking at life.  I hope you will take what you know and add to it.  Let others share their perspectives; be respectful.  Look for truth—it’s all around you.  And remember what you know to be true and cling to that.

I hope you appreciate your youth and health and the blessing of a strong body.  It will eventually become weak, it happens to all of us.  I hope you will keep your eyes open for ways you can serve and use your vitality for good.  Watch for old ladies who need help with heavy things, be the first to volunteer to help people move.  Help with yard work and community projects.  I hope you will take care of your body and use its power for good.  Respect it and treat it well.  And be grateful for it everyday.  It is an awesome gift.

I hope you make time to be in nature.  We’ve taken you outside ever since you were a baby.  We’ve taken you hiking and camping and on walks all your life.  You’ve spent weeks fishing in Minnesota, days hiking in the mountains of Montana, hours and hours on your bike and on the slopes.  You love beautiful scenery and have always taken pictures, surrounding yourself with inspiring photos.  Continue to carve out some time to be in the trees, to view the world from the mountain top, to experience storms and snow and rain.  Spend time alone in the quiet.  And then share it with others, invite them to experience nature’s beauty with you.

I hope you continue to create and use your talents and develop new skills.  You started a book back when you were a kid, I’d love to see you pick up that hobby again.  Use your imagination, be confident, ask people to teach you what they know and what they’re good at.  Develop what you uniquely have to share with the world.  I hope you will encourage others to do the same.  Learn to appreciate what others excel at.  And tell them.

I hope you will remember your manners.  That you will treat others with respect, including yourself.  That you will never degrade women and that you will encourage other young men to be gentlemen themselves and to treat women as ladies.  I hope you will say please and thank you.  And that you will send thank you notes without me telling you to.  I hope you will look other adults in the eyes and acknowledge them and what they have to say.  I hope you will never be distracted by office or rank or degrees or money.  Treat all people equally and with dignity.

I hope you will come back.  To visit.  I know you are capable and independent and self-sufficient.  You will be fine.  But I hope you will remember your siblings and how much they look up to you.  I hope you will teach them what you’re learning and share with them what you’re experiencing, that you will look at them through new eyes, and that you will appreciate the joy of having been part their lives.  I hope you will take them on bike rides and hikes and that you will play games with them when you come back during your breaks.  I hope you will tell them about your experiences as a missionary.  I hope you will share what you learn.  I hope you will tell them in your own ways how much they’ve meant to you.

More than anything, like I told you in the beginning, and as I’ve told you every time you’ve left the house or gone to bed, I love you.  I will always, always love you.  I never knew love could be this strong.  I cried with overwhelming happiness when I first saw you, I couldn’t help it.  And I only feel that love more deeply now after 17 years with you.  I hope you know that.

24 years ago

I’ve been watching the last few days of my son’s time in high school unfold this week.  And I can’t help but reflect.   I think I’m beginning to see what really old people are talking about when they say how young they feel inside, that it’s just their bodies that are aged.  I understand.  When I happen to find myself in the kids’ high school, it’s like the years fade away and I’m transported back, it all comes to mind so effortlessly.  And then I remember my wrinkles and the gray hairs that are more or less camouflaged for the moment, and I straighten myself and sigh.  I’m the mother here.  I almost can’t get over it.  And I wonder for the 6,000^th time how on earth I got here.

I was a senior in high school 1989-1990.  I know you know what I mean when I say it feels like both a million moons ago and like it was just last year.  The memories of yesterday and from 24 years ago reside almost side by side.  The recall is a little fuzzy in places, but it’s all there.  It was surreal being the mom in the senior awards assembly a couple of weeks ago.  Because I had to sit with the parents.  I couldn’t help but photo-shop faces of my classmates I’d known years ago onto the kids that were getting their certificates.  I swore I even recognized a few. 

In the same vein, I can’t help but compare my senior year to Andrew’s because in a lot of ways they weren’t that different.  Just a few years apart really.  History repeats itself and I smile remembering what it was like.  Because in so many ways his life reminds me of what mine used to look like. 

Seniors these days are still trading little wallet-sized pictures of each other, writing similar sentiments on the backs.  I still have a few of my friends’ in my scrapbook.  The girls all had a pretty homogeneous look, only then we took pains to create long, puffy, permed manes, contrasted with today’s more subdued locks.  Kids still want their individuality to stand out, but they do it in groups.  Kind of nonsensicle.   I noticed senior standouts comparable to what we had while browsing through his yearbook—which is beautiful by the way.  And a close resemblance to the ones I own; even the scribblings inside about hanging out this summer, glad we got to know each other.  Warms my heart that some traditions continue to live on.  In a few ways life hasn’t changed all that much. 

Like a lot of teens, we both drove little cars without much substance that saw a lot of road time.  And flesh wounds. We never cared if we got dings or scrapes.  He’s had a broken windshield for as long as I can remember.  The driver door is bashed in from when a friend slid into it while backing up on the ice.  The one I drove only came with a heater, no air conditioning or even a radio.  I’d drive in every direction on San Diego freeways, just as he’s driven to the mountains for years, each basking in our independence and the luxury of having the roads to ourselves in the wee morning hours. 

Partly because of our escapades, neither one of us could ever make it to bed early.  Always too many distractions or late night activities or work.  He’s not home much anymore, neither was I by this point.  We kind of just checked in.  I made it through high school in a fog; I don’t remember much from most of my classes.  He gets up just after 5, same as I did; never really feeling fully rested.  But his recall is so much better.  Even if he is always tired. 

Neither one of us ever did homework at the kitchen table; we just always did our physics and geometry to alternative background music in our bedrooms.  I don’t know how we managed to get anything done, the music was so loud.  We both kind of liked our math, but studied a lot less than we should’ve.  We both ended up with decent grades, far from valedictorians, but neither one caring enough to give more than we did. 

Music has always defined a generation, and it was just as important to me at that time as it is to him and the others now.  I’d shop for particular songs just like he does.  Only I’d buy a single 45 rpm record at Tower Records instead of online.  Funny that they were each still just over a dollar.  We’d make compilations of songs we liked too; ours were just a little trickier because we’d have to have our tape prepped (in our tape recorder/radio combo) in record mode with the pause button ready to release at any moment the right song was played on the radio.  So annoying if the deejay talked over the intro or end.  Kids these days have it so easy.

Neither of us also never held a real job all through high school.  I cleaned houses on my own; he’s mowed lawns and made knives to earn money.  Although I did clean my uncle’s dental office; I guess that was kind of official, in that I got a check and a pay stub.  But it wasn’t like I interviewed for it.  Strangely enough, the same kind of job just recently landed in his lap (cleaning a dental office for a friend of ours).  Interesting, now that I think about it.

The phone was just as key back then as it is now.  I was on mine all the time, same as kids today. We just talked more. 

Proms haven’t even changed much.  Still get together in large groups, have a nice dinner either at a house or restaurant, lots of pictures.  A little time at the dance.  Even the dresses aren’t too much different, some styles are a little longer, but kind of funny to see trends repeating themselves.

We were both in track and even ran the same races.  I’m sure my experience with athletics will come up another time, but as much as I disliked running, it hit me earlier this year that maybe a reason for it all was so I’d have a way to connect with a 17 year old son down the road some 20 years later.  I almost cried when I thought of it in that context.  And knew all the humiliation and embarrassment was worth it, just so I’d have a little something in common with my future son.

We took similar classes because we both wanted to get into BYU.  We took some fun ones along the way; he did some art and jewelry; I did some sociology and male/female roles types.  Just takes me back in time hearing about chemistry and physics and algebra, and I feel for him.  But it was worth it for both of us; we can’t wait to hear what he thinks about college.  We both had declared majors and a rough idea of what we wanted our futures to look like, but I know he’s about as unsure of it all as I was.  I don’t know that he’ll stick with his major; I changed mine a couple of times and I think he might too. Which is fine.  Who really knows what they want to do for the rest of their life at this age?

So yeah, maybe the world was a little different, but life in general hasn’t changed much.  We worked a little, did what we could at school, hung out with friends, went to church and spent some time with our families.  We’ve told him that so many times.  We get it.  We really were his age not that long ago.  Like most of you at this stage, we straddled the line that seemed to blur more every day, uncertain if we were still kids or if we were more like grown-ups.  In a million small ways, we’ve been there.  And I think someday when he has kids of his own it’ll all come back to him, and he’ll remember all over again what it was like to be 17.

Orthodontia and beyond

This is possibly meant only for me, just for the family history archives.  So maybe take a break and check back next time.  Really, you’ll see.

I’m pretty sure it was 4^th grade when Mrs. Wendling thought it would be a good idea to have us make silhouettes for our parents out of black construction paper, glued to a neutral background.  Yikes.  I hated it from the moment I saw it.  It looked all wrong, my top teeth stuck out.  Not even that, my whole jaw was misaligned.

I suppose it was also around this age that my sisters and I stretched out paper clips to make pretend braces.  Didn’t any of you?  So began my fascination (or at least association) with mouth gear.  I always wanted braces.  Looking back, why a kid would ever hope for them is beyond me. But when my uncle-dentist talked in hushed-tones to my mom in his office one day about an overbite, I listened both carefully and apprehensively. It would finally be my turn to experience braces first-hand.  But given my luck, for some reason my case was too complicated for the normal, every-other-kid variety of orthodontic work.

I don’t remember the exact order of events, but around 5-6^th grade all the fun began.  With impressions.  Most of you have had these I assume.  What could be worse?  A larger-than-you’d-anticipate, thin, metal tray filled with a thick, cold, wet, cement-in-embryo concoction, efficiently (quickly and with pressure) pushed into the upper jaw so teeth can imbed themselves for maybe half an hour or so, making an exact mold.  Just teasing.  Maybe only a minute.  A super long minute.  While you just hold yourself together and try to remember what you know about breathing.  And use all your will-power and stamina to not throw up.  And repeat.  With the lower set.  It sounds like no big deal.  But it’s pretty awful.  You probably have no idea if you have a strong gag reflex until this exact moment.  But then you’ll know for sure for next time. 

These impressions aided in the fitting for some appliance called a bionator.  It’s worse than it sounds.  Like a huge mouth guard with metal and plastic components, it hovered in the middle of my top and lower jaws, just like an overgrown retainer.  Another apparatus during this time period was head-gear. Not just neck gear, but an entire helmet with fabric straps fitted with metal bands to hold your mouth in place.  I was supposed to wear it at night and after school, but I opted to sometimes wear it to daycare since I was there til 5:30 or so at night, to be efficient and to be done with it asap.  As much as I like to share detail with you, I can’t even tell you how splendid this phase of my early life was.

And then things kind of stopped.  I have no idea why.  But I was left with two brackets around my back molars with small tubes sticking out into my cheek sockets, for the head gear to slide into.  Residual souvenirs of old-bionator-head-gear times.  Until one day, long after the appliance days were done, my kind uncle-dentist sought to remove them.  With effort.  What relief!  And so I carried on through jr. high and high school without much more than cavities to fill.  At one point there was talk of breaking my jaw and having a 6-week liquid-only diet.  I honestly can’t recall if this was back in the early days or at this next junction.  But at some point I was in the impression chair again being fitted, this time for the retainer.  And you all know how gross retainers are.  Just say the word.  We don’t even have to talk about it. 

But before I knew it I was 20 and for some reason I was back in the saddle.  Or at least the chair.  Making the journey to a small town in southern Utah with my cousin and her kids to see an orthodontist once a month.  I have no idea how this came to be or who arranged it or why my mouth issues were revisited.  I straddled both adult and kid worlds at this point.  But in this regard I was completely a kid.  I joined my extended family for our monthly outing and was finally fitted with braces.  Why now after all these years and why they would all of a sudden work, again, I have no idea.

But as a precursor to braces I had yet other fantastic experience.  I don’t even know if there’s a proper name for it, but it was like a rake on the roof of my mouth, several small prongs, like the set you’re afraid to back up over in your car in a covered parking lot exit.  But these never laid down like the ones you run over.  Not even worth pointing out, but eating was close to impossible.  Talking was impossible.  What a miserable month.  It was during this memorable period that I met my college roommate’s family for the first time and stayed with them for a long weekend.  I didn’t make much of an impression.  In case you’re wondering what was going on, this appliance was to train my tongue to stop pushing against the back of my top front teeth.  So I guess it worked.  I have oodles of will power; I totally would’ve taken the assignment seriously if only I’d been given a chance to work things out on my own.  Just another humbling, feeling-good-about-myself-month in the life of Caren.

Once I passed that test and got my real braces all I could think about was how much it all hurt.  My lips, my cheeks, my teeth muscles.  Just my whole mouth.  I couldn’t get past the fact that half the teenagers in the U.S. wear braces (I have no idea what the real number is).  What were they all smiling about?  And how did they go about their everyday lives without talking about the pain or how hard it was to eat?  My lips would get hung up on them.  I had that funny pout that girls with braces have.  I felt very conspicuous.  Who else gets braces in the middle of college?  I knew no one.  But I continued to make the monthly trek to the orthodontist, and—oddly enough—I only had them on for about a year.  Strangest thing.  But I was fitted for yet another retainer.  I still have it, way back in the recesses of my top shelf, in a bright pink-from-the-90s-plastic case.

I’ve never liked my teeth, but I suppose they became a bit straighter.  And for that, I am truly grateful.  I still vow to never get a silhouette done again.

Fast-forward to maybe three years ago maybe.  I found myself reliving my nightmares.  Unfortunately I discovered that not much had changed over the past 20 or so years since I’d last had impressions.  Just as bad as I’d remembered.  Only this time they were to aid my dentist in creating yet another interesting apparatus for my mouth: a night guard.  But I was still clenching so hard even with it that I’d wake up with an aching jaw.  So then we repeated the whole process and settled on a smaller, more compact little appliance about an inch long that just sits in between my top and bottom front four teeth. Which reminds me of a mini-bionator from my olden-days.  So embarrassing, I feel like an old lady.  Is there anything less attractive than night-time teeth assistants?  I told my dentist for years that I didn’t have stress.  I’m not the uptight person I used to be, and yet I knew I clenched when I wasn’t looking.  I can’t even use my well-developed will-power in this arena; I just see it as one of the many indicators of my age.  And as some deep-seated secret my subconscious is keeping from me.

I had just one more interesting mouth experience exactly one year ago.  Pretty common, quite fascinating procedure:  gum grafting.  I had recessive gum tissue in two spots—I bet most of you do too—and so I had the awesome opportunity of having the top of my roof sliced open on both sides, some tissue removed and then sewn onto my thin gums.  I felt like I might choke to death (a lot like the impressions) as I reclined with my mouth obviously wide open, with the aid of little mouth “pillows” for an hour and a half.  My mouth and cheeks swelled like they would with wisdom teeth (which I forgot to mention I had removed just a few years back—also as an adult, such a late bloomer in so many ways…).  It was Todd’s birthday.  I drove myself to and from the appointment, went on visits right afterward as well as that night with the church ladies.  My partner asked what on earth was going on with my jaw and I told her about my oral surgery.  It was fine for the most part.  Until I tried to chew a piece of gum about an hour after I left the appointment.  Kind of dumb idea.  Rough week.

I know of no one who would think that private mouth experiences would be good fodder for an essay.  Yet, with the percentage of teens having had braces, you just might relate to some of this.  I can't think of any other reason you would read it.  I also know my oral issues are far from over.  I have another weak gum area they’re watching, the parts I had done will need to be repeated in the future, I’m sure my cavities from my kid-days are due to be replaced, I snore and I’m scared my teeth are forever undoing themselves from all the orthodontics in my past.  But I can’t fathom how on earth I’m to wear a retainer, night guard, and future CPAP machine, along with my eye mask, all at the same time.

Maybe we just pick and choose which problem to focus on at the moment rather than trying to deal with them all at once.  Maybe I let some go or I pack a few at a time up on the top shelf, along with my retainer from the 90s.  So I choose to have a jaw that doesn’t hurt in the morning, and if it’s really light then I like a little mask to keep me in my sleeping state.  It's funny that all those stressful impression-taking-appointments and awkward years of wearing braces and head gear and spikes in my mouth seem like a million years ago.  I even forget sometimes that I had my wisdom teeth removed just a few years back.  And believe it or not, it sometimes slips my mind that I endured gum grafting just a year ago.  Time has a way of softening the pain, of giving us perspective.  I’m grateful for the trials of painful gums and cheeks; I can empathize with other teens and adults who are having mouth work done.  It’s been humbling, and—looking back—I’m glad for the experiences; they helped me not obsess about looks (because there was never anything attractive about any part of it) and to look beyond the outward appearances of others, whether they’ve got metal in their mouths, on their legs or they're riding on a metal wheelchair.  We’ve all got things we’re working through.

So yeah, sometimes life is akin to getting impressions all over: every now and then I feel like I can’t breathe, that the uncomfortable feeling has been going on too long, that I’ll be permanently stuck in this position, or that the person in charge has lost track of time and has forgotten me.  Sometimes it feels prickly, like my prongs.  There are moments in time when I feel like everything I do is impaired, just like when I couldn’t eat or talk properly.  I feel like closing up and hiding out, hoping no one will notice me.  There are times when I open my mouth and it’s awkward, I feel like it’s all just a jumble, just like the month I lived with those spikes.  Sometimes I feel so noticed, like when I had silvery braces—or worse—rubber bands on top of braces.  I couldn’t smile and still blend in.  Sometimes I still feel like I stick out, like I can’t help but be noticed, whether it’s my weird ideas about recycling or water conservation or not being a doting mom, the strange book preferences I have, my innate desire to be alone sometimes, the ways my religious convictions shape the way I live.  Sometimes I feel just as uncomfortable as I did when I had braces. Maybe we’re all a little self-conscious once in awhile. And sometimes you just endure a short but painful period of gum grafting, a couple of years of teeth straightening, a little refining.  Though uncomfortable, humbling, and even painful, just as most of the hard things we endure in life, it’s all been worth it.   Eventually we move on and the innards of our cheeks and gums and hearts heal, and in the end we’re actually glad we did it.  Because it all made us a better version of our former selves.

Our small part to play

Before I knew what was happening, like I told you before, bags started appearing.  I couldn’t believe what friends had thought of.  Of course they’d need toothbrushes and toothpaste, diapers and wipes.  It’s just that I never thought to run to the store and get them.  Who thinks of things like swimsuits for the boys?  But obviously, if they’re staying at a hotel with a pool, it’d be perfect to have them.

I saw gift cards.  Another friend sells jewelry and brought over some of her wares.  Another brought balls and soft swords, small totes with boredom-busting supplies and snacks. Large 18-gallon totes.  What a great idea.  And work gloves.  Who thinks of these kinds of things?  So obvious now that I’ve seen them.  But wow.  Good thinking.

I’m in awe at the variety of ways friends and others have shown their support to our friends who lost just about everything in their fire.  We know a photographer who can help recover some pictures.  A neighbor brought a beautiful meal that first night.  Another brought over paper goods and sippy cups.  Several friends have invited them to dinner; we almost need a sign-up sheet.  Friends have swooped in to pick up kids.  Some brought Matchbox cars and other small toys.  A brand new stroller.  So handy.  A friend started a list, so our friends could have it later.  Brilliant.  I saw a couple of cash envelopes.  Smart.  So many calls.  So many responses, so many ways of using the variety of strengths we’re given and blessed with, so many unique perspectives and ways of thinking, myriad ways to ease their burdens.

But we don’t need to wait until tragedy strikes to find out what we can do.  Or what others can do.  Why is it at times like these we so confidently and quietly act on what comes naturally?  We don’t even hesitate.  We just each play our part and assume others are doing the same.  Even stranger, we don’t even pay attention to what anyone else is doing.  We don’t even really care.  All we’re thinking about is giving what we can and sharing whatever we have, whether it be an extra part of our house or some extra cans of food.  A note or a pan of cinnamon rolls.  We’re not comparing ourselves and saying absurd things like, “My bag of clothes wasn’t as big as hers.”  “I should’ve bought diapers instead of toys.” It’s hard to even imagine something so asinine.  No one’s keeping track and no one cares, we’re just all part of an orchestra where each instrument’s part, however small and seemingly insignificant, contributes to the whole.  True, I can’t ever pick out the individual instruments in a symphonic number, and I know our friends can’t even begin to keep track either.  But I know the summation of their efforts lifts my spirits and makes my heart soar.  I first heard this sentiment in a talk more than six years ago and I love the man who taught it.  “The Lord did not people the earth with a vibrant orchestra only to value the piccolos of the world.  Every instrument in precious and adds to the complex beauty of the symphony.  All of Heavenly Father’s children are different in some degree, yet each has his own beautiful sound that adds depth and richness to the whole.”*

This truth stands whether we’re pulling together in times of emergency, rallying someone in need, or on an ordinary day, just doing our best to be a light in a dark world.  I’ve said it before, but when we play our part, whatever that looks like, we’re blessing lives.  Interesting that the singers weren’t even the ones on stage this past week, and yet those are the first people who come to mind when we talk about talents.  I didn't see dancers this week, and yet they obviously enrich our lives at other times.  So much of the time we narrow our definition of what talents are, and we long to be or have something more than we are.  Yet this past week has been the perfect showcase for all types.  All contributions were valuable, and so many of the talents and strengths performed behind the curtains, backstage, quietly playing their parts, contributing what they could, inspiring others to do the same.

And so, again, a call out to you as valuable and competent members of the orchestra, and especially as parents and role models.  Let’s remind ourselves and the young ones what talents really are.  What it feels like to contribute their gifts to the world.  If you have voice, sing.  If you have hands that create masterpieces or quilts or pillows or sheds or gardens, build, beautify.  If you have limbs that move in harmony, give it your all in the game or the recital, inspire us to push ourselves, to work for a goal.  If you have a thoughtful mind for poetry, record your sentiments, uplift in your unique way.  Leave your words for us to ponder.  If you understand the innards of computers or the ins and outs of chess, we value your problem-solving skills and the way your minds work.   If you still feel nothing, you just haven’t found it.  It’s there.  But in the meantime, and all the time, we can smile, share a hug, selflessly give our time, reach out a hand to clean and serve and rock a child.  We are all here as instruments, to work together in concert, to bring music and light to a harried world, not only when tragedy strikes.  But even when it hasn’t yet.

* Concern for the one

When tragedy strikes

I woke up only to remember.  The memory from just yesterday hit me hard.  And it all came back to me.  It was surreal.  Because what we’d all witnessed didn’t even register as we were watching it unfold.  A fire out of nowhere.  And the garage.  We live in the county and rely on a volunteer fire crew from the next town over; it took them 20 minutes to arrive.  Devastating.  My hands and voice were shaking as I called the first two girlfriends.  I hugged my kids as they walked in from school.  The girls were crying.  We huddled together with the neighbor kids in the basement for a prayer.  Only to learn that the first and second grade boys with us had already said their own on the trampoline just a few minutes before.  So sweet, such good boys.  A close time for our family and our little friends in a tiny circle in a basement bedroom.  A plea for comfort for our dear friends.  We ventured out to meet with the rest of the neighbors.  A loving mom friend, visibly shaken, needed a hug, and so did our teenage neighbor friend.  We all united in our concern for our friends, and—as neighbors do—we became one another’s comfort and support throughout the afternoon and evening.  Almost immediately girlfriends and bags of clothes, toiletries, blankets, new items with tags still on, sippy cups and bottles, diapers and wipes, a bed and a seat all showed up in my living room.  People streamed in and out all afternoon.  A tragic event.  But we found peace.  We even laughed.  We took turns with the kids and the baby.  We made cookies.  I picked up a kid from school.  We made dinner.  We had snacks.  We fielded phone calls and requests for help, overcome with the outpouring of love and concern for our sweet little neighbor family.

She was amazing.  The first moment I saw her, just about half an hour after it all started, she just kind of laughed, “I guess I won’t be cutting your hair in the morning.”  She lightened the mood, she was just who she was.  Not stoic on purpose, just herself, an occasional tear, mostly normal, feeling overwhelmed mostly in private.  This afternoon she mused, “Just a bit of new flooring is all it really needs.”  She made me laugh, when I should’ve been helping her along.  Her husband was honest but smiled when we asked how things were going, “Surviving.”  But his calm demeanor, his beautiful smile calmed the moment, we knew he had the same perspective, the same way of looking at tragedy in the framework of what really matters.  Devastating, obviously.  But survivable.

On our early morning walk I noted how the siding had melted, and it immediately made me think of people whose exteriors had also been damaged, some in even the exact same way as a result of fire.  As hard as it was to look at, I couldn’t help but feel grateful the soul of their home was alive and well.  Just as with our friends whose shells are casualties of life; we all know it’s really what’s inside we love and care about.  I remember all the times I’d been in their home, but the comfort I’d felt there didn’t have anything to do with the walls or decorations.  It was all about the people who lived there, our friends, their warm demeanors, the light and happiness they radiated.  Anyone can do that, but not everyone does.  They are a truly remarkable family, and because they have touched each of us in so many ways we long to return the love, to show them in tangible ways how much we care and hurt for them.  That we are here.

I don’t have any frame of reference when it comes to tragedies.  I’ve never had anything extraordinary happen.  Ever.  But from all that I’ve observed over the years, it will be ok.  As in every trial in life, we learn some things.  We’re instantly reminded life was never about things.  Not even close.  And yet possessions still mean something; we don’t discount that.  We can allow ourselves to be sentimental and to hurt over losses, but we are able to put it all in perspective somehow.

What I understand about life is that it’s all about family and friends and relationships.  How we loved and treated the people in our lives.  It’s the first thing anyone asks about when tragedy strikes.  Those are the parts of life you hope to keep intact, and so they’re worth investing in even when there’s not a trial.  It’s the people you’ve been close to who come to your aid, who you seek comfort from.  But it’s also others you didn’t know you knew.  And maybe it’s strangers from nowhere giving you what you didn’t even know you needed.  From where I stand, it’s all about people and our relationships with one other.

I felt warm inside when she said she could really feel the prayers of her friends and family, helping her stay calm.  There is peace and comfort in knowing what really matters, that we are here to help one another, to strengthen each other and to love.  She’s done that for all of us, which is why it’s natural for us to ache for her and to want to sweep her into our arms and make everything better.  But because we can’t, we do what we can.  And hope that somehow she can feel the arms of heaven around her, carrying her through these most trying times.

A Mother's Day weekend fight... No, lesson.

Saturday morning was so nice.  Todd was supposed to be on a camp-out, but it was postponed at the last minute.  So he wasn’t scheduled to work this Saturday.  He only works two Saturdays of the month, but he also does one scout camp-out a month, and the other Saturday is usually filled with a service project, hunting adventure, or some other kind of scouting merit badge day or forest preservation something or other.  It’s rare—very rare—that he’s just home and sleeping in with the rest of us.  It’s awesome when it happens, and I relish the feeling of all being together instead of trying to figure out what I’m going to do to occupy the kids all day.  Since we’re all up early during the week (me and the boys at 5 or 5:30 and the other half by 6:30), it’s pretty hard for us to sleep in, so by 7:30 we were tossing and turning, done sleeping.  I suggested we hit some garage sales.  He added that we should get doughnuts at the local bakery.  Sounded so fun for a chilly Saturday morning.  Our big boys were gone (track meet and chess tournament) for the day, so it was just the other little kids with us.  We were all showered and on the road by 8:20.  So fun.  At least our kind of fun.  We found all sorts of treasures we didn’t know we needed: a glass container for our homemade salad dressing for $1, a brand new puzzle for $2, a white blouse for $1, brownies for $.25, a clip board/binder set-up for Callum’s spy days for $1, A Better Homes and Gardens cookbook in fabulous shape for $3 (I’d been looking online so I could get one or more for my kids for college), gloves, just treasures to behold.  What bargains.  What a successful hunt!  Pastries were a hit.  Although after Avery licked her fingers she proclaimed from the back seat that she didn’t feel so good (greasy junk food hits our family hard).  But we hoped for the best and proceeded to a fantastic new little grocery store in town, a little progressive for our area, but full of interesting items.  Bulk bins with all sorts of legumes and treats, tons of (organic, if you’re into that) produce, fresh breads, self-help honey varieties, just quaint, a fun excursion for the little kids.

I knew Todd had planned to take Avery out shopping for Mother’s Day, but you know how efficient and cheap I am.  We were going by the mall anyway, let’s not waste gas, let’s just go in and get what we need—I promised not to look or get in the way.  I knew it was perfume he was after.  I wasn’t surprised when he told me which store he needed to go to.  I don’t have a coupon, I should’ve thought to cut one out of the paper when I was circling the garage sales, everything in there’s too expensive without one.  But I kept these thoughts to myself.  Well, until I said them.  The perfume set was $72.  I about choked on my air.  He calmed me by saying that he was just going to get a bottle, not the whole set.  I prodded.  Only about $50 without the accessories.  I was beside myself.  Who buys that kind of stuff?  Actually, I own some.  It’s just about gone.  I’ve loved it.  But I had no idea it had cost that much.  I wanted nothing to do with it.  People are starving in the world.  I could buy a pair of shoes for that much.  “Then let’s get a pair,” he compromised.  Good grief.  Doesn’t he know me by now?  Just a cheap $10 bottle was all I wanted, from somewhere down the mall, a teen store.  I’m not glamorous, I don’t need fancy perfume to match my definitely not-fancy jeans.  But by this time I’d soured the moment.  As I’ve done a million times.  He calls me a dream killer (like Dan in Real Life’s daughter labeled her dad: Murderer of Love).  I’ve shrugged it off.  I’m just trying to save him from himself.  And protect our family.

But I lose.  I try to explain myself.  But he knows the story.  And I know his side.   I just don’t understand why he can’t compromise with something cheaper, why $50 perfume??  No one ever notices anyway.

Later that night with friends we told the tale, probably because they asked how our day was, and you know I’m truthful about how things go down.  The guys were all on the same team.  They knew exactly where Todd was coming from.  Whereas the ladies’ argument is the one I know.  We’re the ones dealing with the money every month, buying groceries and kid gear, toothpaste and school lunches.  We know how much things cost, why blow so much on such expensive gifts?  That’s a third of our week’s grocery budget.  What don’t they understand?  Why can’t they just appreciate the careful stewardship we apply to their hard-earned money?  Not every wife cares like we do; some max out credit cards or buy expensive and ridiculous jewels.  We’re just trying to keep some in the grocery category.

But our friend explained how much it means for the husband to treat his wife.  To have the ability to pamper her, to show in tangible ways how much she means.  He works hard to earn the money, she needs to let him feel like a man and accept his tokens of appreciation.  I melted, and I knew I’d been wrong all these years.  I’d been suspecting as much over time, but am tethered to my stubbornness.  And stinginess.  I’ve almost always held out that my values should trump his in this area.  How very prideful.

And so the day went.  He ended up with some plants from the hardware store when he went to pick up our lawnmower.  Not his first choice, not as girly; more practical, not exactly his idea of a proper Mother’s Day gift.  I’d led him to this point; I’d told him earlier in the week plant-able flowers would be just right, a perfectly acceptable and fine Mother’s Day gift.  It was my fault I’d undermined his day.  I’d sapped any joy he could’ve felt from presenting me with such a nice present.

This happened many years before when we were in vet school.  He’d bought me a black pea coat for Christmas.  I insisted we return it, even as I assured him he had great taste, I loved it, appreciated the gesture.  Let’s just be honest, I told him.  We can’t afford this.  It was $70, a small fortune in those days.  But after I’d given the speech, I knew in my heart it would mean more to him that I keep it.  That I just acknowledge his selfless and heart-felt gift.  And so I did keep it.  I still have it and wear it to church.  And every time I do I can’t help but remember the circumstances under which I acquired such a gift.

So after going the rounds for oh-so-many years, it finally clicked for me.  And I understand where he’s coming from.  Enough to see that his feelings mean more than a perfectly balanced budget.  We’ve never had that in any single month of our nearly-20-year marriage, I don’t know why I thought it’d be imperative to start this particular weekend.  We can afford it, I should've stepped aside and let them shop alone.  The team of men and women Saturday night agreed that the best solution is to use a cash-only policy, where she has no way to follow the trail.  This does work because that’s how I came to be the owner of such a fine bottle of perfume in the first place.

I know you are embarrassed for me that I even write this kind of stuff.  But if any of you can relate to it, like the friends we shared our story with Saturday night did, then maybe you can learn this lesson sooner than I did and allow him to experience the full measure of joy that comes from giving from the heart and having his offering accepted and cherished.  As I will. Come our anniversary in a couple of months.

Mother's Day

A close friend responded to a clip I’d posted about Mother’s Day, just an innocent little feel-good video representing the many facets and faces of motherhood.  She hates Mother’s Day because of how all advertisements and talks showcase super-human moms; it reminds her of all she’s lacking, leaving her feeling worthless.  I wrote back to her telling her that’s just it.  It wasn’t a documentary on one perfect mom in her picture-perfect house.  It was a million women doing regular life.  Some laughing, some stressed.  That’s life.

I suppose I like Mother’s Day for unconventional reasons.  In all honesty, I love the idea of a love note from my husband with a new bottle of not-over-the-top perfume, some (inexpensive, maybe plant-able) flowers, a sensible breakfast, and some handmade crafts from school.  And that’s what it usually looks like, although it wasn’t always like this.  I began to explain to Todd years back why it even mattered that he and the kids make an effort.  As I’ve gotten older, it really isn’t about me getting attention, gifts, or being pampered, anything like that; I’m not a gifts or service kind of person, I’m good.  But I think you older moms will agree with this. I simply want Todd to head up an effort so my boys will know how to treat their wives down the road and so that all of the kids have experiences making someone else feel good.  I want them to experience the joy that comes from thinking outside of themselves. I want the boys to understand what it feels like to help make a day special, to pay attention to what girls like, to take note of the sacrifices their future wives and mothers of their children will make.  I want them to recognize the unconditional love of a mother so they won’t take their future wives for granted and so they’re reminded that they will always, always be loved no matter what dumb things they do.  The best Mother’s Days are when I see this happening, when Todd has taken the initiative to help the kids make things different and special.  I could easily slip out of the bed or picture; it has nothing to do with me needing any of this.  I can easily pick up some flowers and perfume when I’m out, cards are too expensive, I have everything I need.  I know they love me and are glad to have me in the family, but what really, really makes my day and me happy is to see them turning their hearts toward someone else.

I also love Mother’s Day because it makes me think of all the women in my life, lively colors, spring flowers, everything girly.  If I ever get on the ball, I have in mind to buy or make (ok, buy; unless it’s something from my kitchen…) gifts for all my girlfriends and the ladies we love at church, school teachers, neighbor women, the grandma types, just all the women who touch our lives and our hearts.  I never do much more than our moms and grandmas because then what?  Who would I start with next?  And where would I draw the line?  Once every decade or so I’ll send a little something to my sisters.  But it’s usually Thursday before I even think of that, and it would never make it to them in time.  So I sigh and remind myself to think ahead next year.  I don’t even know what I’d do for the ladies in town, maybe flowers or lotion, a love note?  It sounds perfectly simple, easy enough to pull off.  But I never really get around to it.

I just want them to know how much they all make a difference to us, to our family.  I guess I’m hoping they just know.  And that they’ll allow me to bow out of showing or telling them because they get it.  I feel like we have an understanding—we know we love each other.  Let’s not stress each other out by making fancy things for each other, by one-upping each other.  Let’s just carry on with our womanly work and acknowledge that we’re all still friends and we’re all doing awesome.  But still, a part of me really does want to do all those girly things.  Mother’s Day isn’t so much about parading our mothering skills (good grief); to me it’s about appreciating the women in the world.  The feminine side of things.  Acknowledging one half of the whole.  In another month we’ll celebrate the other half.  It’s all good, I love both.

So no, I don’t mind the talks in church on Mother’s Day.  I love them, in fact.  I get good ideas, I love hearing the stories of how different moms do it, I come away motivated and inspired.  I used to cry quiet tears of frustration and inadequacy throughout the day, tears of longing for what I wasn’t and wouldn’t ever be.  It’s so hard being a young mom, you just don’t quite have the vision or experience.  Not to say I’m out of the woods, that I don’t still have pangs of guilt or regret; it’s just that I don’t wallow in it anymore.  If it makes me that upset then I should change and do something about it.  But I figure I have my own way of being a mom.  It’s not perfect or magazine-worthy or even blog-worthy.  We just put one foot in front of the other and make our way through the days and years.  I am in awe—simply in awe—of some of the moms out there.  They blow me away.  I have no idea how they live on such small budgets, how they home-school and have 10 kids, how they can keep their houses so clean, how they have that much energy for 5-course meals every night after running to 13 practices and games every week.  I don’t know how they manage to make homemade Valentines with dipped chocolates and cookies for every staff member’s birthday.  So much of it is beyond me, I just have no idea how they pull it all off.  Without drugs.  But honestly, who cares what anyone else is doing?  They’re amazing, but so are the rest of us.  To me, a good mom is a mom who is trying to be a good mom.  Whatever that looks like.

And so I guess to me Mother’s Day is a day to look at the women around us and the women we are.  To celebrate our femininity and role as nurturers, regardless of whether we have children or not.  To feel good about the work we’re doing in the world.  To pump each other up.  To take a deep breath, remind ourselves that what we are doing in the world matters.  It doesn’t need to look the same.  It can’t.  We all have different jobs and tasks and gifts and strengths and abilities and energy levels and circumstances and trials and heartaches.  Mother’s Day is to remind us that none of the dumb stuff matters.  And yet the little stuff does; they aren’t the same.  All that matters is that we loved, that we shared our mother hearts* with the world.

* "A Mother Heart" talk from General Conference, a favorite