Beauty tip

Most of the time it’s not even an issue.  Turning 44 next week, I feel like I’ve all but outgrown this tendency, and so it’s kind of surprised me that it’s even been on my mind lately.  And I hesitate—as I do most of the time when I’m sharing my personal life—to even admit I’m dealing with something like this.  But I have felt to let you into my heart in hopes that it will resonate with even one person.  And that it will help.

I will attribute it to hormones, possibly age.  But to be honest, I’m blaming my sisters.

I spent a weekend with them this fall.  Their Christmas cards/photos came this week.  I think my sisters are beautiful.  I always have.  But even more so lately.  I can’t put my finger on it, they just are.  They are looking more and more alike to me, which is interesting because I never really thought they did until this past year.  They have longish light brown hair, one with blond highlights.  I’ve always had plain dark brown hair.  Mostly short.  I love their cheekbones.  I’ve never had cheekbones, just a roundish, comfy face. I know we have features in common like our blue eyes and freckles and thick hair.  People even tell us we sort of look alike.  It’s just that I’ve always felt like the odd one out.  Especially now.

And so I know this is a personal issue.  And the last thing I want is comments, reassurance.  That’s not at all what this is about.  Please don’t pester me with that kind of thing.  I’m fine.  Totally fine.  Just wanted to share the thoughts I’ve been dealing with because maybe somewhere along the line you have too.

You know how it is.  A bad hair day.  A string of them.  I wonder if I should embrace my dark hair.  If I should highlight it like my sister and all my girlfriends.  I wonder if I should cut it or grow it out.  Bangs or try without?  I’m not in love with any of it at the moment.  I think it’s partly winter in Montana.  And the pasty white look.  I so prefer colored cheeks and a little brown tint, even if it means a few more freckles and dirty looks from my dermatologist friend.  I think I’ve had too many treats this year.  That, or it’s these dumb jeans that give every woman I know a muffin top.  Better than mom jeans, but low riders have no where to push residual baby fat but up.  But not far enough up.  I think my mom and sisters have been losing too much weight. I think I’m jealous.

And so I decided to be pro-active.  But not in the way you’d think.  I haven’t gotten highlights; in fact I just touched up my gray roots in medium brown.  I haven’t cut my hair or made any decisions about it.  I’m not getting (any more) plastic surgery; I’m determined to deal with what I have.  I’m still working out every morning, and I’m trying to watch what I eat; but I’ll be honest, I’m still having cupcakes and cookies.  A handful of caramel corn every now and then.  Bread.  I figure I’ve got to be real with myself—there’s no way I’ll ever give that stuff up, so I might as well work around it.  Bottom line, I can’t switch things up drastically. So I went to God for ideas.

I’m not afraid to talk to Him about real life.  I ask Him, for instance, about ideas for a healthy lunch.  To help me know if I should stay home or help a friend.  If this book is worth my time. Throughout the day and week and year, He’s my go-to.  And so I know enough about Him to know if this is an issue for me—as petty as it is—then He will help walk me through it.  Because we all know how sad it is when one of our own daughters has a down period of time.  All I want is for her to know how absolutely precious she is.  The last thing in the universe I care about is what her hair is doing.  Or what size she is.  Or what shade her skin is.  I love her simply because she’s my daughter.  And so with that in mind, I knew He’d help me re-focus.

The answer I’ve been learning is that is doesn’t matter one bit what anyone else thinks about us—even when it comes to what we look like.  Which is funny in a way because I think we think we’re trying to look good for everyone else.  But preferences are so personal, how could you ever appeal to everyone out there?  We really are only trying to look good so that we feel good. 

I remember writing a list of answers to a question in the scriptures, “What desirest thou?”  A list of maybe 15-20 entries.  And one of them was “To feel beautiful.”  Which is interesting.  I knew intuitively that I wanted to only write items I could honestly satisfy.  I couldn’t all of a sudden become worldly beautiful.  But I knew I could feel beautiful.  Maybe simple semantics; this word choice made all the difference though.  Because I wouldn’t be at the mercy of the world, waiting for their deciding vote.  It would be between me and God.  And I know I can do anything with Him.  Even feel beautiful.  What I’m really saying is it has more to do with what we think about ourselves than what we actually look like.

Think about preschoolers.  They love wearing bright colors, doesn’t matter if they match or clash.  They just want the sparkly shoes.  Or to wear a cape.  And when we let them, we encourage their confidence.  Radiating joy and pride, they couldn’t care less what any one else thinks.  They are just bursting to show who they are and what they think of themselves.  And we can’t help but smile with them as they bask in their obvious enthusiasm and bliss.  They are absolutely beautiful to watch.

That’s kind of what I’m getting at.  You know I’ve talked about this all before.  We do what we can with what we have, we find clothes we feel good in, we do our best to be healthy, we take care of ourselves.  But the key is that we don’t dwell on all of that.  Instead, we move away from the external and focus way more on what we can do for others and how we can help them feel great.

And so that’s where this has come for me.  My mom’s and sisters’ hearts are three of the most gorgeous hearts I’ve ever seen.  Generous, fun-loving, passionate about finding ways to lift the burdens of others, fiercely devoted to family and morals.  They radiate beauty like no magazine girl could.  Their beauty is deep and genuine, which is why it’s so attractive.  They are warm and funny and accepting and real and loving.  And I think that’s what I’ve been seeing this year in them, they become more beautiful every time I see them.  And I long for that myself.  Which is awesome because that kind of beauty is within everyone’s reach.  I know this, I’ve preached it a million times.  And so even though I hit a dip in the road and took a few days off to wallow, I’ve known in my heart that this is the answer.

A little reminder we’ve heard before but maybe we should teach our children, Elder Parley P. Pratt described the effects of the Holy Ghost:  “[His influence] quickens all the intellectual faculties, increases, enlarges, expands and purifies all the natural passions and affections; and adapts them, by the gift of wisdom, to their lawful use. It inspires, develops, cultivates and matures all the fine-toned sympathies, joys, tastes, kindred feelings and affections of our nature. It inspires virtue, kindness, goodness, tenderness, gentleness and charity. It develops beauty of person, form and features. It tends to health, vigor, animation and social feeling. It invigorates all the faculties of the physical and intellectual man. It strengthens, and gives tone to the nerves. In short, it is, as it were, marrow to the bone, joy to the heart, light to the eyes, music to the ears, and life to the whole being” (Key to the Science of Theology, 9th ed. [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1965], p. 101).

I love knowing where true beauty comes from.  And when we forget or the world distracts us, I’m so grateful that we know Who we can go to to help us remember.  When we have God’s love in our hearts, when we are doing all we can to love and serve like Christ, we will have His spirit with us, we will have His image in our countenance, and that is the kind of beautiful I want to be.  Even with dark short hair, sans cheekbones or highlights. ;)

A peaceful Christmas

You’ll think I’m daft.  I have my resolutions taped to the wall right beside the mirror I have to look in every morning and night of my life.  But I don’t really ever look at them; they’re sort of like background wallpaper and, especially at the bookends of my day, I’m easily distracted.  Plus, I don’t make many, so I kind of know what I’m working on.  But as Thanksgiving approached, and then as December unfolded, it was as if I was recalling parts of a dream from a last night vision, I vaguely remembered I’d already asserted earlier this year that I’d behave come Christmas.  Just to check my work, to affirm that I had indeed made an actual resolution, and that it was meant for this year, I checked my side-mirror-panel of resolutions and there it was next to Be More Generous.  Peaceful Christmas.

Come to think of it, they kind of go hand-in-hand.  I should’ve written a summary goal instead.  Settle down.  Quit worrying about the money.  Just try to have some fun.  And that would’ve taken care of a litany of issues.  For whatever it’s worth, I thought I’d give you a report of how it’s all going since we’re half-way through the holiday season.  You know I write, in part, to retain a record of everyday life for my family.  But I also write in hopes that some of you will learn from my mistakes and do better.  Much better.

I admit it, I think money is my top stressor.  It’s not everyone’s, but for some reason it’s mine.  An issue from childhood I really ought to talk to someone about.  But to alleviate a bit of stress, I have a little white envelope that I’ve saved a little cash in this year.  My mom and sister do this; a brilliant yet simple solution.  So I can take my family to Olive Garden when they come without panicking when I see the $75 lunch bill that has the potential to make me grumpy for the rest of the day.  To dinner at Johnny Carino’s on Monday when they have their family platter special.   So we can stay in a hotel as a family after the Christmas Stroll.  Any time I’ve found a little extra cash from the groceries or a reimbursement, I’ve slid it in the envelope.  I know we could take the whole envelope and give it to the poor people, to buy socks for everyone, coats.  I know.  This is so hard for me.  If only you knew.  I want to do all of that, I wish I could do more.  But this little envelope is giving me permission to have fun with my family in a couple of small ways while relieving my uptightness.

I straddle this issue, a constant internal back-and-forth, if only you knew.  I want to give.  And I want to make memories with our family.  Of course.  We’re all like that.  I’ve always just felt guilty when we’ve spent money on ourselves when there are so many people in our own community who struggle, especially the homeless teens.  That concern right there breaks my heart.  How can I go out to dinner when all these kids want is a sleeping bag so they can sleep in the little caves north of town or some canned chili?  You can imagine my conflict.

But I’m figuring it out.  Slowly.  Oh so slowly.  I’m glad I’m not getting graded and that it’s not a timed test.  I’m the last to figure out most of the important things in life.  But here’s where I am.  My goal to be more generous has helped I think.  I am constantly pep-talking myself, reminding myself that we do give.  We try to do small bits throughout the year.  But the December marketing and Empty Stocking stories in the paper and solicitations for Toys for Tots at my massage lady’s place and The Samaritan’s Purse at Hobby Lobby all tug at my heart, I feel torn to bits, like everyone’s demanding—in a soft, yet pleading, way—a piece of me.

We do what we can during the year.  And we do what we can at Christmas. I feel at peace with what we do.  And I pray for more so we can do more.  It’s just that we’re constantly aware of the need.  And so I continually wonder if we’ve done enough.  I think this is the underlying cause of some of my stress.  Not having a confirmation that we have.  I just read a story in the paper yesterday about a little fifth grader who collects items for the homeless teens.  She doesn’t want anything for Christmas, she channels all her money into this project, and she’s been heading it up for two years.  This year she’s involved six schools and hopes to compile 500 backpacks.  That’s the kind of thing I’m up against.  I can’t help but wonder what my part to play in all of this Christmas giving is.  And if we’ve done enough.  But as a coping mechanism, I tell myself that it doesn’t all have to be in December.  Breathe.  They still need gloves in February.  They need Ramen and deodorant in March.  We can spread it out.  Settle.

I’ve made a menu for the whole time my family will be here.  Because this tends to be another arena that stresses me out.  I want to make everything homemade for my mom and sister who both live alone and never cook.  And yet, the last thing I want to do after another marathon shopping trip is come home and work in the kitchen for another couple of hours.  So I vowed last year I’d do Nothing Fancy.  So this year it’s taquitos, tacos, lasagna, cashew chicken, chicken squares, ham.  Old fashioned comfort food that I don’t have to even think about, that I know my sister likes.  I love the idea of buying bread for Christmas instead of making it this year.  I love that we’ll have boxed brownies with ice cream for dessert (the one thing I’ve been doing right for several years).  I feel so relieved to have a plan.

I’ve shopped all year.  To spread out the spending more than to get ahead.  You already knew that though.  I love that our closet is my secret stashing spot.  Nothing fancy, nothing crazy.  Just a couple of games.  Some socks.  Coats for a couple, shoes for another.  A sled.  Some stocking stuffers—the most stressful part of all.  I’ve had so much fun shopping!  Instead of worry so much about the money, I try to find things I think they’ll love.  Of course I use coupons and sales and even return items when I find a better deal somewhere else.  Even in my heightened awareness state, I haven’t changed that much.

We’ve carried on a tradition I’ve come to love so much.  We meet early in the season and remind the kids we want them to do something meaningful.  To make a gift with their hands for someone, to serve in some way, to just put some thought into one of their gifts.  I love that Todd and the kids are working on a chair in the garage, that Callum’s come in splattered with paint many afternoons.  I love that Avery has her stack of material ready for her creations.  I love that at least most of them are thinking about it.

I love the idea I told you about earlier, to give your kids some money that they need to give away between Thanksgiving and Christmas and then talk about it on Christmas Eve.  It’s already been a great, great part of the season.  So fun.  I can’t wait to hear more about it on Christmas Eve.

I’m not worried about getting my Christmas letters out by a certain date.  I still have piles all over; I’ll get there.  I send out a batch every couple of days.  My ten-year-old daughter thinks it’s like playing office, and she’s written my envelopes and stamped them all, then folds and stuffs the letters.  I love our time together listening to Christmas music on her bed or mine.  At the kitchen table in assembly line fashion with the lights on our tree as backdrop.

I’ve got packages in varying stages of being packed.  Which is fine.  A little clutter here and there doesn’t stress me out too much.  I love that Todd’s siblings decided to leave it up to each family; if they feel like sending something, fine.  If not, no hurt feelings.  We may get to that; who knows.  My favorite packages are for Andrew and his companion.  I’ve never made fudge or peanut brittle in my life (I know), but I loved whipping them up for him.  And making his favorite pretzels.  As I stirred each pot for 15-20 minutes while the kids ran in and out, Christmas music in the background, feeling like Betty Crocker, I appreciated the moment.  That I could send him a little bit of home in a simple way.  That I didn’t feel pressure; it was fine if I didn’t get around to it, but it was fun to find a little window where it all worked out perfectly.  I think my lesson in all of this—the packages that we still haven’t sent, the fun foods I’ve thought of making but most likely won’t—is to not set definite expectations.  There’s very, very little that is an absolute necessity at this time of year.  Cards can wait till after New Year’s, some people don’t even plan to get a tree till Christmas Eve, those fluff Christmas books are still just as sappy if you read them at the beach in July, no one really needs neighbor gifts—just invite them over in February.  There’s just a lot we mistakenly think we need to plug into an already full month that isn’t really all that needful.  If I was able to find time to make some fudge before I mailed his package, great; if not, he’s got some Andes mints in there that we bought at Target.

I’ve made it a point to read those fluffy books I just mentioned.  Yes, I still read the news.  And my scriptures.  And inspirational stories and other stuff that’s good for me.  But why not take an hour out of the late evening and, instead of scrubbing the crockpot, take time to sit by the fire and indulge?  It helps curb any resentment that I might let creep in.  When I take a little nap or take five minutes to watch an inspirational Christmas message on the computer or just sit on my bed and talk to a friend on the phone (instead of multi-tasking), I feel like I’ve pampered myself, that I’ve filled my little bucket enough to be able to share with others.

Perhaps most surprisingly, I’m not worried that we aren’t being over-the-top spiritual anymore.  Another area where I can potentially (based on past performance) get my knickers in a twist.  Because of course, besides this being The Most Wonderful Time of the Year, it should also be The Most Spiritual Time of the Year.  And yet, like the shopping and the giving and the cooking for my family, I’ve learned that it doesn’t have to be more than the rest of the months.  It counts when we try all year long.  It’s ok if we’re not acting out the Nativity (that’s not our thing) or that we missed the First Presidency Christmas Devotional (we’ll get there) or that we just read short verses about Jesus’ life at breakfast and a Christmas story when we gather for prayer at night.  They all help bring us back to the point of it all: to remember how Christ lived.  To inspire us to be more like Him.  I don’t feel guilty at all for not making more of an effort, this works for our family.  I feel completely at peace with it.

Somewhere along the line a friend and I were talking about this exact thing.  Because I believe all good parents want to teach their children the important things in life.  And for many of us, that’s Christ.  So of course it’s natural to want to do more to emphasize our love for Him at this time of year.  But she mentioned a podcast and how it taught her to simply acknowledge the reason we do what we do during this season, to discuss the symbolism, the meaning behind it all.  When we’re taking in all the Christmas lights as we’re driving around, talk about why we even put lights up this time of year.  As we put up the Nativity, talk about what it might’ve been like, tell the story again, ask what they think about Jesus.  As we read a scripture, talk about how we can be more like Christ based on what we just read.  As the kids hang up candy canes, make a simple comment about their symbolism.  As we come across stories in the paper, mention some ideas of what we can do to help.  As we plan our gift-giving, talk about the first gifts that were given and how they show generosity and love.

I’ve noticed that the umbrella which I’m under this year is holding up better than in years past.  I feel more centered and calm and at peace.  I’m not stressed and anxious.  No, I still haven’t finished shopping.  Those stockings will haunt me till Christmas Eve.  You know we don’t do neighbor gifts.  The couple I did do were kind of over-baked cookies on plain white plates with Saran wrap, sans bow.  We forgot to make gingerbread men for the tree.  We haven’t done gingerbread houses for years.  Although trains pop up every now and then.  The calendar’s packed with all sorts of gatherings, concerts, company, lunches, end-of-the-year appointments, dinners, and a camp-out just to round things out.  I haven’t made a single sugar cookie.  Our elf needs more attention than I want to dedicate.  Just life in December.  It’s busy, it’s full, but it’s fun.

I feel good.  I know it’s because I’m letting God dictate what should happen next and nothing that I’m doing, certainly not because I’m ahead of the game or “ready” for Christmas.  I’m relaxed because I trust He will tell me what comes next.  I’ve learned that when we do our part to invite the spirit into our lives, we can be assured He will give us ideas, random thoughts, just the right way to handle something, resources to carry out His plans.  It’s not that I’m some spiritual Wonder Woman.  Or that I’m especially good at any of this.  It’s just that I know God is not frenzied and harried.  And if I want to feel His influence, I need to settle down and let the less-important things go.  Then I’m calm enough to recognize what He’s telling me.  I don’t even know if I could pinpoint what I’ve experienced.  Just an idea to call a friend out of the blue to do a family night together.  The inclination to stay up late with Todd and just talk and spend time together.  The stamina to have a houseful of football-playing-binge-eating kids all afternoon.  The where-with-all to host last-minute company; even with beds and food to think about, all I feel is overwhelming happiness and excitement.  The thought and time to go to lunch with some older friends.  An idea for a quick and easy last-minute gift for visiting teaching that would fit into my schedule.  A desire to take the family to a couple of new musical performances we haven’t been to before.  A prompting to take a risk, not having any idea how it will work out.  On and on, just simple ways I’ve felt the calming influence of the Spirit this season.

And so, even as I submit this summary of the season, I’m not sure how the whole of it will turn out.  It’s just a progress report, a few ideas that have helped tweak my thinking, that have brought me peace.  For most of us, Christmas remains the most magical time of the year, so many good memories from growing up are centered in family and Christmas.  The thought that I was ruining that for myself and my family crushed me.  But I like to be proactive and to make improvements.  My failures and stresses propelled me to move forward, to trust that God would direct me, even in something as simple as handling a holiday season.  Above all, He’s teaching me not to do more.  Just to do it with Him.

To be more generous

A peculiar resolution to be sure, but certainly a weak area that needed some attention.  Because I’m cheap.  Shrewd with my time.  Regrettably measured, calculated, efficient, thrifty. I have to admit, I haven’t stayed with it all year. Sometimes I forget I ever made the goal in the first place.  I still think it’s been worthwhile.  But yeah.  Definitely been a stretch.

Don’t get me wrong.  I haven’t turned a corner, I’m not a completely different person.  But what’s been happening is that I’m paying attention more now.  As I’ve watched my friends, strangers, random people I interact with here and there, my kids, Todd, my mom and sisters and so many others this past year, I’m humbled by what generosity looks like and how abundantly people give.

I think I started noticing it last November when I was in the hospital and then home recovering.  I couldn’t believe what people did.  Dinner from a teacher at school our kids had never even had.  Sweatshirts from girlfriends I didn’t know were really that close.  DVDs of shows a friend knew I’d love, gift certificates, freezer meals that lasted more than a month spear-headed by a mom at school; I didn’t realize we were that good of friends until she showed me—I still can’t get over that.  My mom and two sisters who left their lives for a week to just come be with me.  Friends who took my kids and who washed my hair, my daughter who helped me in the shower, my family who helped measure my drains.  I’m still in awe of the ways people found to creatively and personally serve me and my family so generously.

My sister reminded me of my goal when I went to stay with her for a weekend this fall.  She made a bed like a cloud.  It was the best, most luxurious sleeping accommodation I’d ever slept on.  She treated us with tiny little bath washes and loofahs on our pillows, even ear plugs for our other sister, she remembered the tiniest details.  She bought us special food, an assortment of cereals, fruit, all sorts of snacks.  She set up lunches and breakfasts for us with her friends.  A trip to San Francisco.  She was a tour guide and a spoiling grandma all in one.  I made a mental note to be a better hostess.  She’s come for years, and I’ve never thought of even half the stuff she did.  I always assume people are just coming to assimilate into the family; I’ve never thought of pampering them.  But my mom and sisters are just like this.  They’re always leaving little bags of See’s on my pillow, bringing me special soap or a little treat they know I love when we see each other.  I love it; they inspire me.

I guess I just wanted to be more like all these people I love and admire.  I’ve wanted to pay it all forward.  I’ve wanted to have the mindset of “There’s plenty!” instead of “I hope there’s enough….”  To live with faith instead of fear.  I’ve always worried if I spend too much time with my elderly friend I won’t have time to get to my list back home.  Or if I give them too much soup we won’t have enough left for our dinner.  Silly, but I admit that’s been my paradigm.  However, this year I’m slowly realizing that we can be generous in small and simple ways, that somehow whatever we think we’ve “given” comes right back to us, that when we have a “there’s plenty for everyone” way of viewing life, there really will be.  Oddly enough, a specific idea that changed my mindset more than any other was in a parenting talk, “Open your homes to the friends of your children. If you find they have big appetites, close your eyes and let them eat.”* I felt he was talking right at me, I’ve always had such a hard time with this! I admit being generous isn’t all that natural, it’s harder for me than most would imagine.  But his words have stuck with me, and I’m working on it.

On the other hand, Todd’s awesome at this.  He’s a great tipper.  He even leaves extra in those glass jars at ice cream counters and sandwich shops.  He always rounds up, he’s never cheap.  When I’m making dinner for someone I’ve usually made just enough.  But now I think about how he’d do it and I’ll throw in another chicken breast.  Or fill the plate with just one more layer of cookies.  I’m still learning to trust that there’ll be plenty, but I have seen how God continues to bless us with whatever we need when we’re sharing with others.  My confidence is growing.

But being generous has less to do with money and more to do with being selfless, looking for ways to make life better for someone else in ways that are meaningful to them.  So of course it would’ve been an easy goal to check off—I could’ve done it back in January—if I had just decided to write more checks to Heiffer International or the Disabled Veterans.  Easy.  But that’s not really what I was after.  I wanted a change of heart, a new vision, a less stingy, worried frame of mind.  I wanted to to open my eyes to needs around me, to feel free and willing to give more effortlessly, without feeling anxious.

As with any necessary change, it’s helpful to start close to home. How can we be generous with others when we’re stingy with ourselves?  I think this is becoming easier for me the older I become because I’ve seen it backfire when I haven’t taken care of myself, when I’ve been generous with others at my expense.  Which actually isn’t bad on occasion, service is mostly inconvenient, it’s good for us to sacrifice here and there.  But when it goes on for too long, we can become resentful and grumpy.  So I’m learning to take time for my own well-being.  To buy myself a pair of shoes when I need them.  To take a nap in the afternoon.  To stop the housework at a reasonable time so I can just be with my family or my book.  To let the bathroom go one more day so I can write for an afternoon.  Small and simple ways I find to be generous with myself so that I can also be generous with others.  

I love this thought from Suze Orman, “True generosity is an offering; given freely and out of pure love. No strings attached. No expectations. Time and love are the most valuable possession you can share.”

This is maybe the best (and hardest for some, including me) way to be generous.  Just spending time with people.  Slowing down enough to be present. Engaging. Carefully listening to what they’re maybe not even saying, watching closely.  This has definitely been tricky for me, so counter to the way I live.  Because I like to iron while I watch tv, listen to talks while I do the dishes, sew while we talk, clean up the kitchen as we visit.  But over the years I’ve discovered how much more satisfying it is to curl up on the couch next to Todd or one of the kids or a friend and just talk.  To leave the kitchen for now.  And our phones.  Without me getting a two-for-one out of it, squeezing in some work on the side.  Simply being.  Such a tiny way to be more generous.  I’m truly converted.

I’ve seen other ways people have been generous using their creativity and abundance to  enhance lives around them.  I take note of the baby gifts and birthday gifts they buy.  I love how they give from their heart, looking for just the right item that will make the recipient feel known and loved.  They look less at the price tag and more at the person they’re shopping for.  I love that mentality and I’m trying to make a shift in my mind, instead of whatever’s cheap or easy or what I have on hand to thinking about what my friends would really like, what would make them feel cherished.

I’ve observed the generous way friends have shared words.  Hearing them passing along a compliment in a group, asking questions that demand honesty and a soulful response.  Cards that uplift, texts that she’s on your mind.  Not what one typically thinks about when we talk about generosity, but withholding praise, keeping a compliment you’ve heard about someone to yourself, refusing to pick up on cues that a friend needs to talk all seem to be the opposite of generosity.  In my younger days I was afraid to give these away as well, thinking it would devalue my worth, that I would be less if I told someone how great she was.  But it’s strange how it’s just the opposite.  The more I share without holding back, the closer I become to friends, the more our hearts are connected.  The more I notice the good qualities in others, and then tell them, the more confident I feel about contributing my own gifts.  I’m in awe of what other people create and do and are; I’m not sure how it works, but as I express my admiration for them, nothing leaves me at all.  I’m completely satisfied that we all have a work to do and are competent in different arenas to bless lives.  Acknowledging that in ourselves and others lifts us all.

I love how people are generous with their touches rather than saving them for special occasions.  I love that our teenagers just hug us out of nowhere, that they aren’t embarrassed or  timid.  I love how women I’m barely getting to know unabashedly throw their arms around me, I love that we can hug friends we haven’t seen for awhile and that it’s totally comfortable.  I love that it feels like the American greeting. It feels like immediate acceptance, so generous.

I can’t help but notice the way so many of my friends serve, without letting on that they might think other people’s toilets are gross.  Or that the hospital is clear downtown.  Or that she never reciprocates.  Or that it doesn’t seem to make a difference.  They just keep giving in ways that are hard.  Scary.  Out of their comfort zone.  I’m not there yet.  I think we all have a list with two columns.  Easy service ideas, no brainers, got it.  And then there are the hard ones.  And the women who embrace this column are so generous in my mind, consistently extending themselves, showing the rest of us how to serve as Christ would.

I can’t help but think of all the subtle but meaningful ways we can practice generosity.  We’re kind and generous—giving just a little more than necessary—when we sense the need and then let them talk and talk and talk.  When we say, “Of course!” to the request for a donation at the Costco check-out. When we put a little extra effort into dinner or make the table look nice for our family simply because it’s been a long week for everyone. When we bump up our donation five or ten dollars.  When we include someone in our get-together we don’t know that well, even when it pushes us out of our comfort zone.  When we go ahead and put a couple dollars in his guitar case.  When we give the benefit of the doubt, when we try to see his perspective instead of insisting he see ours.  “Charity [which in my mind is simply loving generously] is having patience with someone who has let us down. It is resisting the impulse to become offended easily. It is accepting weaknesses and shortcomings. It is accepting people as they truly are. It is looking beyond physical appearances to attributes that will not dim through time. It is resisting the impulse to categorize others.”**

And yet, while the way others express generosity can inspire us, it doesn’t mean our offerings are less generous if they don’t look the same.  All of us fluctuate in what we can give from one moment or situation to the next.  Our energy, life circumstances, paychecks, and demands are all different and changing.  I love the reminder in the Bible of the woman who anointed Christ before his crucifixion.  Some were disgruntled about it, to whom Christ taught, “She hath done what she could.”  As always, there’s a lesson for us.  In our family it’s easier now to be generous with our charitable contributions than it was when we were students and just starting out, and yet I still feel bad we can’t (or don’t) do as much as so many people around us, but I remind myself we’re doing what we can.  At some point in my day the most generous thing I can do is hold my tongue or go to bed.  At another, I may have energy to write a letter to someone, to make cookies for a friend, or to go and sit on my teenager’s bed and talk for a bit.  I want to be more generous with good night kisses and tuck-ins when I’m the one wanting to be tucked in instead.  Generous when the last thing I have energy for is small talk but remembering what it feels like to be on the fringes.  Generous with praise when I secretly wish I had the same talent I’m loving in someone else.  Generous because even though it might be a small sacrifice for me, I sense it might make all the difference to someone else. 

* President Hinckley

**President Monson

The massage table

I was enduring another massage.  Oddly enough, I look forward to these appointments; previous times are awash to my mind.  Sort of like with getting pregnant again.  It all starts out serenely enough.  Lights dimmed, table heated and cozy, blankets a comforting caress to my exposed body.  Nature and instrumental sounds waft soft and low in the background.  Thankfully the ambience is soothing because nothing from this point on is.  She sometimes starts with my neck, just to get things warmed up.  But today she goes right to my shoulder.  I compare myself to a prisoner-of-war.  Guards trying to get me to talk.  As if she’s been mulling over how she can stretch and contort my body in unusual and bizarre ways.  And yet I trust her implicitly.

As she instructs me to crane my neck, to sit up, lie back down, hold up my arm, move it side to side or up and down, I’m compliant. I feel as if she’s digging her sharp talons into my soft arm, yet we talk as we work.  I ask her about all of it.  Why, what’s happening, what will this do.  She holds the muscles tight in place in her firm grip as I maneuver my arm through various positions.  She presses on the most tender spots—she knows just where to find them.  I feel like crying.

The first time we worked together I did.  She talked to me about it, thinking I was letting go of all my stress; massages have that effect on people, it’s normal she told me.  But it wasn’t anything like that.  I don’t need a massage to let things go, I feel like I’m pretty open about things, I’m not afraid to cry or be vulnerable.  No, I felt my hot tears spring up when I asked her if there was any hope or was I too far gone to be healed.  She assured me that even in my case, where my shoulder has deteriorated over the past year, we could work through this.  I was hesitantly ecstatic, overcome with emotion.  I relayed how sore it had been for so many months, nothing else had worked, was she sure.  She assured me again, yes.  We can fix this.  I cried and cried.  So grateful for a glimmer of hope, that she believed I could get back my normal range of motion, that my pain would subside.  That I could really be whole again.

But normally I don’t cry when we’re working. I laugh as I tell her how sore it is.  I squirm.  I pull away.  I compensate by lifting my shoulder.  I’m not afraid to tell her it hurts, that I’m not sure this is working.  She talks me through it.  “Let it go.  Soften.  Deep breaths.  Let me have your arm.”  She says some people never come back.  It’s too hard, too painful.  I was incredulous because I couldn’t think of where else they would go.  I’ve tried other remedies.  I’ve tried working it out on my own.  They’ll just flounder, it will get worse.  Until they realize they should never have left.  I told her how much I trust her.  That I know the pain is an investment.  That, as distressing as our sessions are, I can see the incremental improvements.

I asked about the clients she has, if everyone has some kind of pain.  I wondered if all this work was taking a toll on her own body.  But her physical pain is nothing compared to what her soul is going through, she confessed.  We talked about her advice to me and others, “Let it go.  Soften.  Deep breaths.  Let me have it.”  She admitted how difficult it was to look in the mirror.

As she jostled and pressed on me, I started to appreciate the parallels in our lives.  I knew, even as I asked, that of course we all have pain we’re living with, that we mask or ignore, that we hope will go away on its own.

I think about what it took to even consider going in for a massage for my shoulder the first time.  I figured I could handle it on my own, it would eventually get better, would anything really work after all I’d tried?  I imagine others feel the same as they deliberate about returning to church and to God.  She talked about the regrets she has, all that she needs to ask forgiveness for.  I understand, Why didn’t I pay attention?  Why have I waited so long?  I feel so embarrassed, so much guilt for my indiscretions, regret that I didn’t make it a priority sooner, wistful about lost time.  Arms and souls, we can all relate.

I consider how tranquil both her massage room and church are.  Environs conducive to change.  Music soft, words encouraging, being tended to.  I feel warm and cocooned, safe in expressing myself, admitting how hard it is.  But knowing I’m in just the right place to get the help I need.  Where else would I go?  I’ve tried it on my own.

I contemplate the exercises I’m doing at home.  At first it was all such an inconvenience, I wasn’t as compliant as I needed to be, it was kind of shaky, I didn’t see much improvement.  And so my motivation was low.  But I’ve stuck with it.  Though so imperfectly and inconsistently.  Over time however, along with my massage sessions, I’m noticing that I’m slowly making progress.  I think how uncomfortable it is for some to go back to church, how hard it is to remember to pray and read.  But like my wand maneuvers and nightly rice bag, these habits also become second-nature the more we do them, even if we’re rocky and haphazard at first.  Little by little we come to value them and rely on them to strengthen and restore us.  We’ve seen the difference small and simple things make.

I think about how painful these sessions are.  Pocked with moments of sheer gratitude and optimism.  I think we’ve all been there.  Quiet times with ourselves, candidly evaluating where we are, admitting we’ve got some work.  But at the same time, we can’t deny that we feel a ray of hope.  That maybe we can become whole again.

I think of the massage table as an altar.  Where we finally let go. Soften. Take a deep breath.  And let God take it.  Where we finally and humbly acquiesce and release all we’ve been holding on to.  Trusting that it’s all for our good.

“The submission of one’s will is really the only uniquely personal thing we have to place on God’s altar. The many other things we “give,” brothers and sisters, are actually the things He has already given or loaned to us. However, when you and I finally submit ourselves, by letting our individual wills be swallowed up in God’s will, then we are really giving something to Him! It is the only possession which is truly ours to give!  Consecration thus constitutes the only unconditional surrender which is also a total victory!” (Neal A. Maxwell)

And so as both I and my massage therapist friend figuratively lay our troubles on the altar, I’m confident that we will both sigh with relief and celebration as we feel more and more like ourselves, unimpeded by the pains we’ve carried for so many months, victorious.  Whether we are restricted by tight muscles or a hard heart, the healing is the same.  Believe you can change.  Do your part.  Let it go.  Soften.  Take deep breaths.  Have faith that all the pain, the discomfort, the stretching will be worth it.  Trust the Healer’s hands.

The secret to writing

I’ve told you a million times, I’m no expert.  At anything.  Least of all, writing.  But I love it.  I’ve heard it all before, it takes at least 10,000 hours to become an expert in something.  So maybe in twenty years I’ll have figured out some tricks.  All I know is I love writing.  I’ve got a picture of me when I was maybe two with a little pencil crouched over a small pad of paper.  The longing to write is embedded in me, writing is the most natural thing I thing I do.  I long to share all the lessons I’ve learned throughout my life, I want other people to see all the beautiful things that have crossed my path, I crave deep exchanges—even if they’re just on paper.  I have this innate desire to write and share all of this, but I’m not sure how to go about it.  Like I’ve said, I’ve never even taken a real writing class except the generic ones in college about how to write a research paper.  But even in all my ignorance, I have stumbled upon one tidbit that never fails to help me out.

When I have an idea, I just let myself write and write and write.  All the details I want, long paragraphs, not to worry about how it all sounds.  I just want ideas.  Lots to work with.  And so I sat down to evaluate a blog I’d been writing.  I knew it was simply too verbose. I figuratively tossed and turned.  I loved the minutia, the tiniest details, unfortunately so much of which was unnecessary.

I’ve learned to trust myself.  And that unsettled feeling when I just know it’s not right.  Not morally not right.  Just that it’s not ready.  And so I reminded myself of what I know.  Because I’ve not only felt it intuitively but I’ve also read it.  The best way to write better isn’t always about adding more facts, finding longer words, or beefing up the paragraphs.  Most of the time it’s about eliminating.  Which sounds counterintuitive, but I think it’s spot on.

So I started editing.  But what I really ended up doing was cutting.  Sad.  I hated erasing so many words.  I hated that I wouldn’t be spelling it out, but I clung to the hope that someone would be able to read between the lines.  It forced me to think about what words I wanted to keep, which would convey most accurately what I was getting at.  I started small, just a paragraph at a time.  One by one, I slowly modified my essay.  Made it more succinct.  Till I recognized the feeling, an exhale, a calmness that tells me it’s done.  Not perfect.  I already told you I don’t know how it’s supposed to look, what the guidelines are, what good writing entails.  All I know is that feeling of peace, that I’ve been able to convey what I set out to share.  I can hear my voice in what’s left; it feels authentic.

As I revisited this lesson just the other day, you know I couldn’t help but wonder how this principle might apply in other facets of life.  And I realized that it’s a postulate I’ve subscribed to in other arenas.  Eliminate the superfluous.  Simplify.  Get rid of what’s encumbering you, what isn’t working.  I think this sentiment rings true, “Today’s complexity demands greater simplicity” (Elder L. Tom Perry).  With so much we’re juggling, why do we insist on keeping so many balls in the air?

I think about my house when it’s cluttered with projects or relics from the day’s activities.  Or even with charming decorations. The best relief for my psyche is to clear some space.  I love tackling the kitchen, seeing the clear counters stretching, coming to life.  I love that my pottery canisters stand out now.  That my basket of fruit makes its own statement.  I love re-working an area of adornments when I feel that something is amiss.  I’ll move items around and around until it finally dawns on me that what I need is an empty spot for my eyes to land, a little bit of blank.  Sure enough, that usually does the trick; de-cluttering—even the pieces I’ve loved at some point—helps me enjoy those I’ve left for display.  I don’t get rid of the other; I just have a box on a shelf labeled “decorations.”  And every now and then I’ll find a little keepsake I’d like to use again.  Not gone forever—although some have been relegated to the donation bag—but eliminated for now, just to allow me some time to assess and live with my new design and decision.

I’ve known this principle to work when I’ve applied it to activities and commitments, books and entertainment, hobbies and items on my to-do list.  The less is more mentality.  Sounds trite now that I think about it.  But it just seemed to pop up everywhere once I started looking.

But it’s more than simply making cuts.  We need vision to know what cuts will make a difference.  Like the snowflakes we’d make in school.  You can’t be so haphazard and inattentive when you’re down-sizing the paper that you snip the whole thing apart.  It takes some foresight.

The point of eliminating is discovery.  Like the paper snowflake and my writing.  When I look at the shards of paper scraps or words that drop as I cut, I no longer mourn their departure.  I appreciate what I can now see.  Even amusements and enjoyable commitments from last year might not be as fulfilling any more.  When I’ve decided to finally make the cut with ones that aren’t working, I’m able to focus on and enjoy those that are truly fulfilling without that nagging feeling in the the back of my head.  When we rid our lives, even temporarily, of whatever’s cluttering our minds, space, time, energy, and pages in our books of life, we’re left with what really brings us joy and satisfaction:  seeing the wood grain of the table once I sweep away the newspapers and breakfast dishes, remembering the clothes I’d forgotten about now that I’ve untangled them from their cramped quarters, dismissing ones I never really liked, free evenings to spend reading, playing games with the kids, watching the new mini-series on Masterpiece, discovering new friendships when others are no longer thriving.  When I rid myself of things that aren’t making me happy, I have room for things that do.  “There is a beauty and clarity that comes from simplicity that we sometimes do not appreciate” (President Uchdorf).  Kind of like clearing away the underbrush and noticing the tiny trees that had been sprouting all along.

I can tell I’ve made appropriate cuts when I hear my voice, when my life feels authentic and veritable.  When I’m not trying so hard to write a page in my book, hopeful it will be acceptable to others.  When I feel that familiar peace, the exhale, I know that I’ve carved out just the space I needed to feel aligned.

There’s a popular book among my friends, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, that keys in on this principle; she encourages clients to keep only items that “spark joy.”  I love simplicity, simplifying, because it unearths the clutter in our lives, leaving room for items, people, enterprises, and even the remaining words, that truly bring us joy.  Once I’ve re-worked a piece of writing using this principle, I find myself face-to-face with what’s left, what I wanted to say in the first place. Once I decide to let go of something, no matter how much I wanted to hang on at first—my words, a relationship, a habit, a fun but not-so-good book—I admit I’m relieved.  I sometimes look back, like Lot’s wife, and wonder if I made the right choice to move on.  But I love knowing in my heart I did.  Because whether we’re writing or making a life for ourselves, what really matters is not so much about what we let go, it’s all about what we let stay.

One year out

I was in my friend’s kitchen just the other day when she mentioned to all of us it’d been a year since she moved in.  No way, I thought.  And then I looked around, remembering standing in that spot with her exactly one year ago.

I’ll always remember it was a Tuesday because I’d been waiting since Thursday for the results of my biopsy.  I’m pretty calm, I don’t really get too riled up about things.  But I could focus on little else as I brought her closet’s contents to their new alcove.  As I put away bowls.  As we discovered the cool spice rack behind pillars by her oven.  As we made our way up and down all her stairs.  As she gave me the tour of her gorgeous new house.  I know we talked.  But my mind was a million miles away as I wondered what the year would look like for our family.

Of all the days of the past year, these were some of the most difficult.  Just waiting to find out.  Not knowing the outcome, how long you’ll have to deal with it, what it will entail.  And the scariest of all the questions I had to ask, am I up to the task?

I remember similar feelings many, many years ago as I was waiting to see if we might really be pregnant.  Once we decided to transition to parenthood, we found ourselves waiting for months with no luck; we had no idea if this was simply going to be one of our trials in life or if it was just going to take some time.  And so, as I’ve approached my one-year mile-marker, I was thinking how similar it was in many ways to what I experienced my first year with a new pregnancy and baby.

I remember the relief in both cases.  Odd to say.  But it’s only because knowing is easier than not knowing for me.  In the case of a pregnancy, we were elated.  But I was scared to death.  Would I have a miscarriage? Would I be able to manage a healthy, term pregnancy? I’ve never felt that great around kids.  How would I be as a mother?  Were we ready? I remember finding Todd the next day at school and crying to him.  We were so poor.  And young.  And naive.  And unprepared.  I felt nearly the same as I cried to him one night in the bathroom after we’d found out I had cancer.  He just loaned me his shoulder and I let myself be sad for a minute.  Would this ruin us financially?  We’re so young to be dealing with something so serious.  We have no idea what we’re doing.  We’re not ready for a trial like this.  I know what you’re thinking.  Babies are good, cancer is bad.  But in my mind, scared as I was, cancer seemed more straight-forward; nothing about parenting is clear-cut.  

We had decisions to make.  In both cases I read a bit.  Way more about pregnancy than cancer.  To this day I still don’t know what kind of cancer I had.  You’d have to ask Todd or my sister.  But I had faith in the experts.  I listened to their advice.  And then we trusted ourselves to decide, both with cancer and each birth.  No, I’d like to have an epidural.  This time we’ll go with a midwife.  And a bilateral mastectomy.  I’d like to leave my baby in the nursery for as long as possible.  We’ll bottle feed along with nursing.  And use cloth diapers.  Node removal first.  I know that will mean two surgeries.  And yes, I’d like immediate reconstruction please.  I felt good with all of it.  I feel like we listened to what experts had to share and then moved forward, making decisions that felt right to us in both cases.

Both scenarios—a little baby and a little 1 cm ball of cancer—required loads of medical visits.  I felt like I was always running to the doctor the first year or so.  Check ups, blood work, prodding, touching, disrobing, being vulnerable—showing so many people my body, exposing my ideas and myself as a mom.  I have to admit, I’ve kind of loved most of it.  I love engaging with a variety of people, great nurses, advocates, doctors, caregivers.  I love being touched, even if it’s just getting my blood pressure taken. I think we all love having our babies admired.  You know I love questions. Confirmation that my baby was healthy.  That my gross scars were healing appropriately.  It fascinated me to no end.

Nothing was as soothing as having Todd with me at all these key appointments, in the hospital, holding the baby and my hand, helping me eat, sleeping on the little sofa next to me, checking in on me every morning and night.

I don’t how I was so unprepared for the pain I’d encounter with childbirth and surgery, but how could I have known?  I just felt so disheartened and discouraged.  I felt battered by both, like I’d never feel normal again.  But I trusted other women who’d endured the same, and I trusted my body to be able to heal itself.

As expected, sleep eluded me for a long, long time in both cases. It hurt to lie on my back incisions.  I couldn’t sleep soundly with a baby in the room.  I wanted sleep to be my escape, and yet it was really just another hard part.  Both giving birth and undergoing surgery wore me out.  Grumpy.  Irritable?  Resentful, even though I knew better.  

Getting ready took forever.  I’d gear up with special baby soap and lotion, tiny washcloths and diapers.  I’d brace myself for my own shower every day.  My breasts were so sore in both cases.  The water, even the air, was painful. But after my surgery, my back was wounded too. I cried in the shower.  My secret place where tears would coalesce with warm water and no one would know how really weak I felt.  I felt discouraged as I’d see my misshapen and sore body in the mirror.  A year later it’s still hard.  Not to shower.  To look.

Even dressing after both hospital stays required a new skill set. Comfort was my top priority.  Along with what would work.  Most of us don’t come home from giving birth to putting on our jeans, and all I wanted to wear after my mastectomy was zip-up sweatshirts since my arms didn’t work and so I’d have pockets for my drains.  Just as I had to learn about unsticking my baby from his messy undershirts, I still spend a lot of time trying to unstick myself from the tops I’ve pulled over my head.

As we all know, the initial sharp pains eventually subside.  Every few days I realized I felt a little less damaged.  I’m used to the tight feeling around my rib cage.  I got used to nursing.  My body was mine but different.  Week after week though, I would feel more and more like myself.   I learned first-hand that healing simply takes time.  Millions of women have been through both birth and cancer.  I’m certainly not the first to have blazed these trails.

In both cases, I knew it would take a year.  I hated thinking about it in those terms.  So long to be dealing with the ramifications of a tiny lump, to think of sleepless nights with a crying baby.  But we all know the difference a year makes.  People still ask me all the time how I’m doing, and it’s easy to talk in terms of procedures.  But I want to ask new moms all the time how they’re doing, what they’ve learned, how it’s really been.  But no one wants to admit how hard it is.

I constantly see women who are in the middle of both—mothering infants and dealing with the effects of cancer.  I know it sounds trite, but I honestly want to hug them.  I know first-hand what it’s like to be tired, worried, discouraged, excited, hopeful, helpless, relieved.  I know the miracle our bodies are, that they can come back.  I know what it’s like to need help.  To hate the weak feeling of not being able to do it on my own.  To want to heal quickly so that I can help someone else.

Just the other day we were walking into Target behind a youngish woman and a small girl.  The woman was completely bald.  I felt it all over again.  The guilt.  I wouldn’t in a million years admit to her that I’d had cancer at one time.  I barely scratched the surface of what she’s been through.  I admired her from afar, her strength, her courage, her obvious hope in the face of trial.   My sister has a new friend, a sweet little boy; his mom has stage 4 breast cancer.  I can’t even pretend to know what that feels like, the pain and sadness and heartache she and her family are going through.  That’s tough cancer.  The real kind, in my mind.

I feel the same when I see moms who are dealing with children with autism, severe physical disabilities, learning challenges, children who test a mom’s every awake minute, moms who get hardly any respite.  Mothers who have adopted children, who have willingly taken on the conflicts that come with some of these children.  Mothers who are doing it all on their own.  I had it so easy with my babies.  Easy, non-eventful pregnancies for the most part.  Easy, non-colicky babies who eventually learned to sleep through the night.  I had a supportive and useful husband, all the resources I needed, friends, church members, a grandma next door with subsequent babies.  We had the easiest case scenario by any stretch.

Women like this one with no hair, as well as these heroine mothers, impress me to no end.  They are the ones who have been in the trenches.  They know what it’s like to really hurt, to be exhausted and tested to their limits, to long for reprieve, to wonder if it will be worth it, to ask over and over why.  And how.

It’s humbling, so humbling.

I have no way of knowing what her details are—or what any of the women I see are really dealing with—but she reminded me that in every single way I took the easy way out.  That this past year really wasn’t harder than any of the others.  I’m not down-playing that each of these first years had their challenges compared to what I’d been used to, but in both cases it was just different set of months, a chance to see life from a new angle.  By all accounts, an exquisite, unexpected blessing of a year.  Both of them.

Of arms and marriages

My physical therapist sent me home with two sheets of exercises I’m supposed to do three to five times a day.  I hate that it’s come to this.  But it’s my new reality for awhile.  (They say 1-3 years.)  I’ve thought about my frozen shoulder and how gradually it came on.  Looking back I suppose I should’ve known what to look for.  I should’ve been researching side effects of node removal or mastectomy on the internet.  Or asked my doctors if I should be aware of anything post-surgery.  Or read the little words on all the papers they sent home with me.  But that’s all so not like me.  I just shoved all that stuff in my cancer file and figured if I noticed anything weird then I’d deal with it later.  No sense looking for trouble.  And so as my arm started bothering me I guessed I’d just slept on it funny.  That I’d tweaked it somehow.  So I babied it and took it out of commission as much as possible for several weeks.  But it got worse and shooting pain would paralyze me for a minute or two and tears would leap to my eyes out of nowhere.  As it became more difficult to ignore, I surrendered and went in.  X-rays, physical therapy, massage ensued. A little exercise routine that makes me feel like an old lady.  It’s been months already.  Acupuncture starts next month.

But as I’ve been tending to my arm, it occurred to me that I’ve experienced this all before.  Not physically, but in my marriage.  And it seems that if we think about it enough, maybe we’ve all been there.  Maybe not in your marriage, but maybe another relationship or some other part of life.  You never saw it coming, you have no idea how you got here, but out of nowhere you’re in some deserted land that wasn’t even on the map.  And you’re not really sure how to get back.

Most of our friends took a similar path as us as we pursued post-graduate work.  It was awesome, loved it.  The midwest enthralled me.  The people were warm, we made sweet friends, we hiked and camped and visited every small town we could.  We loved the antiques, the covered bridges, the fall festivals, the Amish, the state parks.  It was a great, great four years.  But also hard.  Because, you know how it is, you rarely see each other.  We worked.  We had church commitments.  We were just learning to be parents.  We had no family around for hundreds of miles.  He was at school all day and most evenings.  The last year he had rotations and I felt like I never saw him.  (I loved how he got the equine rotation right at foaling time.)  We had dinner together and spent Saturday and Sunday together when we could, but it was still tough.  And that’s life.  But I wasn’t used to it, I didn’t realize how hard it would be on me.  And our marriage.

I remember arriving at the point but not knowing how I’d gotten there.  But one dark night I admitted to myself that I felt completely apathetic about our marriage.  I felt alone.  I didn’t have any fight left in me.  I didn’t really care any more if he was home or gone.  It didn’t seem to matter any way because there was nothing I felt I could do.  I simply let go.

Nothing in my life has scared me as much.  

Kind of the wake-up call you get when you’re driving along the highway late at night and catch yourself falling asleep at the wheel.  This was mine.  I realized I had a choice, I was at a junction.  I could continue to coast.  Or wake up and make some changes.

Just like with my arm, I finally acknowledged things wouldn’t just get better without some intervention.  It’s been forever, so I don’t remember the details.  I just remember deciding.  Sometimes that’s all it takes.  At least that’s where it always starts.  Because of this experience, I’m forever looking at the fork in the road now.  The pivotal moments when a decision will take you one way or another.  And I’m always looking ahead to see where I’ll end up if I take one path versus another.  Some things don’t matter much to me.  But I’m all in when it’s the big stuff. I’m not willing to let my kids or my husband or convictions get away from me.  Way too much at stake.  I think this was the first time when I could see that our little fishing boat had become untied from the dock and that it was slowly inching its way out.  Even though the waves were minimal, you know how water is and how, before you know it, you’re out of touch with your vessel.

Just because I noticed we were drifting doesn’t mean things got better right away.  But I remember we made the effort.  I remember reading and learning about marriage.  I tried to be more supportive as he carried such a heavy load.  Slowly it came together and we pulled it off.  And I’m forever grateful for this wake-up call.  As scary as it was, it’s stuck with me.  I realized then—and am constantly reminded—how precious our marriage is.  And our relationship with our kids.  And with God.  I’m reminded of how gradually these can all slip away from us if we aren’t tethered together.

This lesson poignantly came to mind as I realized my shoulder wasn’t healing on its own.  I had  to stop ignoring the pain.  I needed to acknowledge that things needed to change.  Just like before.  I’ve been looking into it, learning about it.  I’ve been diligent—but not perfect—with my exercises.  I forget to do some of the parts.  I don’t even know if it’s working.  This all sounds so familiar.  But I know eventually it will make a difference.  Because I’ve seen it all before.  Small investments of time doing my stretches and massages, hanging out at night together before turning in, making time for each other.  Consistently putting in the effort.  Even when we’re too tired for it all.  Kissing good night.  Long hugs.  Giving the benefit of the doubt.  Pushing myself even when it hurts and makes me tear up.  Love is like that.  It’s not always easy to be honest.  Or to apologize.  But we work through the painful parts because we’re committed.  We know it will all make us stronger.

I look forward to the day when I’ll realize I have my shoulder back.  When I can use all my weights the way I always have instead of sitting out some of the sets.  When I don’t feel pain when I turn a certain way by accident or shift in my sleep.  When I can tie my aprons and dresses behind my back.  And tuck in my shirts.  When I can move my arm in all directions again.  The pain and immobility will leave as it came.  So slowly I’ll hardly notice.  But I know the small, consistent efforts, the attention I’m giving it, will eventually pay off.  Because I’ve been here before.  The investment I’m making will be worth it, no matter how long it takes.  If it’s anything like my marriage, I won’t be able to pinpoint the day it healed; it will be so gradual.  I’ll just know it feels right. But if it’s anything like my marriage, I’ll never take it for granted again.

Getting results

As I was walking through the school parking lot this afternoon, arms laden with books, I couldn’t help myself.  This is a new school year, I told myself.  We can tweak things if we want, the perfect crook in the road to make changes.

I wondered if this was the year I’d finally become that kind of mom.  But nearly as soon as I’d asked myself, I knew my answer.  Not the answer, not probably the right answer.  But my answer.

I admit it.  I don’t make my kids practice the piano.  Or read.  I’ve never been the kind to work on their letters with them before they go to kindergarten or done a lot of flash cards or cared when they actually learned to read.  I don’t check on their homework status.  Or band practice charts.  I leave a lot up to them.  They know what they’re supposed to be doing.  Most of their school-related stuff is between them and their teachers; the saxophone and piano are between them and their instructors.  I bring it up now and then, but I wait for them to bring their practice sheets and reading logs and school planners to me to be signed, I’m not the kind of mom to ride them about things they can handle.  I’m more concerned that they’re making headway—not just in geometry but in life.

I guess my slant is a little non-traditional, certainly not one touted by educators and the kind of moms we love.  But I have learned that the best kind of mom is the one who uses her unique personality and strengths to mother—whatever that looks like.  I have learned that we are happier and more relaxed (and thus, better) moms when we lean on our own instincts.  When we are authentic.  And so, for me, that just translates into worrying less about results and more about what happens along the way.

I know that we’re a results-fueled society.  We compare and judge each other on the bottom line.  But I don’t know that that’s what I’m in it for.  

I don’t know that grades exactly offer a true representation of intelligence or how much a kid has learned or even effort exerted in some cases.  We all know how inflated grades can be (extra credit for bringing in treats?) and how they can’t possibly showcase all a kid has learned (maybe he has absorbed the concepts but is a poor test-taker?).  We’ve all had teachers who refuse to give A’s, whose reputations are legendary, whose classes we learned the most from and whom we hold in highest esteem.  I couldn’t care less if my kid gets a B in a class like that.  We always tell them to take honors classes whenever possible—even though it does little for their college application and might even hurt it when they get Bs instead of As—simply because it will be an enriching learning experience.

I don’t know that a kid who learns to read as a four-year-old is any better prepared for school than one who learns along the way in kindergarten (which in and of itself if astounding if you think back to what we were learning at that age).  I’d rather expose them to the library, let them choose their own books, read aloud a million picture books on everything from how they make crayons to the fairy tales we grew up with, Shel Silverstein to Percy Jackson.  Giving them nooks and crannies to curl up and read on a warm summer afternoon or snowy wintry night.  Showing them by example how much pleasure (and wisdom) you derive from reading a variety of genres and authors.  I’d rather that my kids have a passion for reading than an accelerated proficiency but who read only to tick another book off their list.

I don’t know that someone who memorizes lengthy scriptures and poems and documents is any better than one who has lived their teachings.  I’d rather have my kid wrap his heart around the meanings of great pieces of writing than to be able to quote them perfectly.  I know scriptorians who have no idea what charity or humility are all about.  And I know some of the sweetest, most tender—maybe even less educated—people who have no idea what the scripture references are or what the word sequence is in one they’re trying to recall, but who embody all the qualities we read about, who have imprinted these words on their hearts.  I know which kind of person I’d rather have my kids emulate.

We read The Battle Cry of the Tiger Mother in our book group awhile back.  While I certainly applaud her efforts and subsequent results, I can’t imagine having a mother-daughter relationship that is more about performance than closeness.  Her daughters certainly delivered, and perhaps that pay-off trumped everything anything else in their lives; but I’d rather have a warm, loving relationship with my daughter than to have her be a renowned concert pianist.  Some families strike the balance, they’re awesome. They have found the sweet spot where the parents are totally involved and oversee daily practice and kids still love their instruments and practice compliantly.  I’m just saying, if that’s not the case, at what cost are we making the instrument (or sport or grade, etc.) more important than the relationship?

I get it though, I do.  When we have put in the effort, we can play more flawlessly, perform confidently and with ease, quote at will, we have been reading years ahead of our peers and have a grand vocabulary and skill base.  But I guess I just have to ask myself, at what price, and is the end result really what we’re after?  Or is there something else?

To me, it’s more about a relationship than it is a destination.  A relationship with the piano and books and our bodies, with our families and friends, with God.

You know the people who are focused on getting married.  Instead of enjoying a variety of relationships in their young adult years, using the time to learn and grow, they’re intense and rigid, citing an engagement as their only goal.  Marriage comes naturally.  Or it doesn’t.  But it’s always better when it’s not forced.  Yes, you got your results.  But is a ring really all you’re after?  Wouldn’t you rather have developed a strong foundation of friendship and love that naturally evolves into a commitment?

Or parents who force religious compliance at the expense of the relationship.  They forget that God is love.  And agency.  That He always, always cares more about the relationship than the dos and don’ts.  Of course that’s not to minimize the commandments or rules in a family or anything like that.  Just that the most important commandments are about love.  A wise pattern to follow as parents.

A million other examples come to mind, especially as we raise our kids and maintain our homes.  In my mind it’s better to let the kids make their own beds—whatever that ends up looking like—than to go behind them (or worse, do it for them) to make sure there are no wrinkles, that the comforter is on squarely and pulled tight simply to impress company.  I’m not espousing an “everyone’s a winner” mentality or giving in to shoddy effort.  I just feel it’s better to let them load the dishwasher their way than to assure all the bowls are maximally spaced and so it looks good.  Giving them free reign in the kitchen to experiment and create is empowering—it’s never been about whether the cupcakes are beautiful or whether it can be done without a mess.  All that we’re doing in the home is really more about developing relationships and teaching than making it all look a certain way.  We’re teaching the reasons behind homemaking skills, why we believe in being tidy and orderly.  Which has nothing to do with showing off a beautiful house but is more about creating a climate that is nurturing and comforting, where we can feel the spirit of God soothing our souls.  We teach them skills in laundry and bathroom maintenance and cooking so that they can be self-sufficient, to build confidence, to let them feel the satisfaction of a job well done, to know they can do it.  We let them plant their own garden boxes of herbs and wildflowers, not simply to earn money or compare production to last year, but to provide a setting where we can spend time together.  Different from farmers who are really tied in to yields, our garden is more to teach the kids the law of the harvest, to teach them to work, to encourage healthy eating, to showcase God’s handiwork and miracles, to provide a sense of accomplishment as they sell their produce or turn it into salsa.  And when crops unfortunately fail, it’s always been more about the lessons and the process than the outcome. 

Even in business, where you’d think this philosophy wouldn’t apply, I see it working.  Think of the companies we love most like Nordstrom, Chick-fil-A, Ace Hardware, Starbucks, Costco (they’re all rated in the top 10 for customer service).  Granted, their bottom line is to make money (that’s what businesses are all about)—just as our goals are to have our kids excel in school and sports and music and life—but look at the way they go about it.  That’s what makes all the difference.  The way they do business feels softer, less cut-throat, less intense.  They have learned that when the relationship with the customer is their top priority—instead of money—business naturally follows.

Our instructor this summer—a long-distance runner—told our class about his experience with goals.  He had been wrapped up in his times, focusing solely on the outcome.  Deciding to switch things up, he kept his goal time to himself and instead use his race time differently.  His only “goals” were to thank every volunteer along the route and to notice three things to be grateful for throughout the course.  Instead of worrying so much about when he’d cross the line and what his numbers would be, he backed off and focused more on the journey and the relationships with the volunteers, nature, and himself.  His times naturally improved.  But his better race-times became a by-product and not his sole motivation.

I loved happening upon this thought as I was reading the other day, “The ultimate measure of success is not in achieving goals but in the service you render and the progress of others [and yourself].  Goals are [merely, I would add] a means of helping you bring about much good….” 

And I guess that’s my slant.  Not that we don’t set goals or strive for excellence.  Or teach our kids to give life their best effort or to work hard.   But rather to view success less in results and more in what they learned or felt or experienced along the way.  To see people and relationships and connections as the greatest of all successes.

*  Preach My Gospel, 146