An uneven exchange

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beauty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking a tour

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

- Aristotle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To tell you the truth

People keep asking me how I’m doing.  I’m embarrassed to even entertain the question, I hardly feel like it’s worth our conversation.  Because I feel like we’re rehashing a van repair we made last year.  It was all the way back last year, after all.  And because I feel better than most people who are sniffling through a cold, certainly way better than those dealing with stomach flu.

You all know how fast the weeks go, especially as you get further and further from the event.  Time has been my most treasured friend.  First I seemed to go from night to night.  Then to each doctor appointment, surely drains coming out was progressive.  I looked forward to week three, a vague time assigned when I’d feel Better.  But after about week eight I started losing track.  Days are spinning so fast that I hardly remember what week we’re on now.  Totally helping to relegate an intense month to a distant corner of my memory.

The only lingerings seem to be the pills I take each night (tamoxifen).  Ignoring what the potential side effects might be.  But that’s my new normal for the next 5-10 years.  That and my continuing appointments with my plastic surgeon.  And of course my scars.  Which I also try to ignore.

I tried to donate blood last week.  Who knew you needed to be cancer-free for at least a year?  I think it will be kind of funny to answer affirmatively to having had skin grafts and tattoos next time.

I’d give myself a 98% back to normal.  Still a tight band feeling around my back and chest, like I’m a Chinese infant girl’s foot.  But it’s so part of how I always feel I hardly pay attention any more.  Unless someone asks.  I guess a little discomfort is the best I can offer.  Mostly it’s when I’m turning around in my sleep that it’s even an issue.  Been sleeping on my side for weeks now, even my stomach.  But it hurts to lift up and turn to another side from my chest.  Really sore.  Surprises me because I’m not pain-filled any more any other time.  This kind wakes me up.  But other than that I really do feel pretty regular.  Been doing push-ups for the past two weeks.  I’m weak at them because I skipped out for eight weeks.  The scars on my back are still very prominent, but it’s not summer yet.  And I don’t really care anyway.  Mostly it’s nothing anyone even notices, so there’s really not much of a conversation.  Like they told me, I’m able to do all my normal activities.  

To be honest, I not-so-secretly-now feel like this was a little blessing in disguise.  A treat I’d always wanted but never dared hope aloud for.  I know how that sounds.  I know cancer just happens.  It’s not God’s way of presenting us with a new hairdo or altered body.  But I guess I just feel, if I have to go through a little surgery, why not be grateful for the silver lining?  I think of it along the lines of being able to take home a newborn at the end of a short hospital stay.  Worth the pain.  Unlike having a child, I don’t know that I would ever really opt to take this kind of drastic measure, but I have been nonetheless happy for the opportunity presented me in a round-about way.

I also can’t help but be grateful for the medical and surgical advances I’ve benefitted from.  I can’t get over my male doctors being so careful and concerned—even though it makes surgery that much more difficult—about what I, a female patient, would be dealing with for the rest of my life.  I have thanked them.  Believe me.  But I just don’t know if they know how much I appreciate the delicate care they took.  Because I’m touched that they would take my feelings into consideration when it’s of such little consequence in the grand scheme of things.

So I’m asking myself a hard question these days.  Am I any different because of it?  And since I’m being completely honest, I have to say that I really don’t know.  I don’t think I look different.  People don’t really say much.  I don’t know that I act any different.  Life is pretty normal these days, so I don’t know how else I’d be.  I can’t even tell if I think or pray any differently.  That sort of concerns me.  Because what good is a little teaching moment if I didn’t assimilate the take-home message?  I’m embarrassed to have to admit this.  And I honestly wonder how I could not be changed.

But maybe it’s because change normally occurs in slight waves across the years.  Not always—sometimes life-altering moments come in the blink of an eye—but often it’s almost imperceptible.  Like when you compare yourself in junior high and as a college grad.  Or as a son of a father and now as a father of a son.  Some years have slipped in, making all the difference, easier to tell that some things have changed.  So maybe that’s it; it’s still too soon to tell.  Maybe it’s still too fresh.  Maybe I will look back on this time in my early forties as a pivotal time.  I can’t imagine that, but perhaps.  You’d just think something with a title like this would do something more to me.  I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t noticed much difference, but I also want to be frank.

Maybe I didn’t get a big enough dose of a trial.  I think this is it more than anything.  I feel like a fraud, on the fringes of a club, not completely part of it, having cheated a bit.  I really didn’t have to look death in the eye.  Except in the beginning as I waited for test results for days and wondered if this would be it.  I imagined how humbling it would be to have chemo.  I wondered how I’d take it.  If I’d get grumpy and irritable.  If I’d curl up in a ball.  I was curious about how it would affect me.  So I still feel untested.  And not sure if I’d even pass the real test.

I wonder what the point’s been.  But, like I said, I’m not sure God just gives us cancer.  I think He allows nature to be natural, to run its course.   Including body malfunctions of course.  But I hate to think of wasting an experience, even a natural one.  I was given a glimpse—albeit a very tiny glimpse—into what other people deal with all the time.  What good was it?

I can tell you that I know Heavenly Father is very close.  And so is our Savior.  But don’t we all know that?  Don’t we know that from everything we do and see and feel?  It’s obvious.  We don’t need cancer to know that.  I’ve always known He listens to and answers prayers.  I’m not great at understanding or recognizing all the answers, and I sure wish He’d give it to me a little more straight-forward, but I know that not a single sincere prayer is offered without Him taking note.  I can’t remember if I felt that differently four months ago or not.  I can’t imagine I wouldn’t have known that.  I feel it with everything I am.

I have also learned, as I’ve learned in other ways, to try to align my will with God’s will as quickly as I can get there.  His way is the best way.  Why on earth would I try to tell an omnipotent, all-loving God of the universe what it best?  He knows.  He wants me to be happy.  As He does all of us.  So why would I not trust that?  And trust Him?  I felt that early on.  That even if I hated His decision, I knew it would make us stronger and happier as a family.  Maybe not in the short-term, but in the long-run.  And I know that obviously every bad thing is not an act of God trying to teach us something; He respects agency and laws of nature.  Yet I felt that if leaving my family would be our trial, then there is no reason to curse Him or push Him away.  I would lean on Him like we do in all of our struggles.  I can’t imagine someone needing cancer to learn that.  I think just a million hours and days of regular life teaches us that.

I can tell you that I’ve been not necessarily surprised, but overcome, witnessing the goodness and generosity of people.  And yes, now I’m remembering this is what I’ve learned and how I want to be different.  I think we all try to serve how and where we can.  We feel to do that instinctively.  But having to slow down for a bit, I see clearly the efforts people went to for me.  They taught me how to creatively serve and help in unique ways.  I saw their personalities reflected in the ways they showed love.  I saw them using their resources to bless my family—whether it was cleaning, visiting, shopping, cooking, driving, sitting with me, writing, entertaining my kids, or making me laugh.  I want to pay that all forward.  I want to be less complacent and more engaged.  To really take note of what people are struggling with, to be genuinely helpful.  Maybe—hopefully—this is part of how I will be different because of a rough couple of weeks.

I think it’s humbled me to have to be on this end of things.  I don’t know how it can’t be humbling to have your 9 year-old help you bathe, a stranger help you walk to the bathroom, to wear that useless hospital garb around the hospital halls, to need help taking pills or draining the bulbs.  I hated not being able to cook or clean very well for awhile.  I was embarrassed to notice tears out of nowhere so many mornings when it was so painful.  Or when I’d be lying still, I’d feel their hot burning on the sides of my eyes.  I still hate looking at myself.  It’s hard to know this is my new normal.  That things will never, ever be the same.  I feel broken in a way, and yet I remind myself that it’s just my shell, not who I really am.  It’s so humbling to accept that people have altered their lives for me.  It’s made me want to keep my house clean.  Just in case of an emergency.  It’s made me want to keep the connections open.  With Heavenly Father and with my friends and family.  It’s made me realize how life can change in an instant.  That we have control over our attitudes. That we can serve from a bed.  That we need each other.  That our bodies are gifts, not to complain about and compare and loathe but to embrace!  They are miracles in all their sizes and forms.  They are to help us enjoy life and to serve.  I’m convinced again and again that it’s all about love and how we treat each other in this life.

So I don’t know if I even have a report for you.  But I wanted to at least touch on how I’m doing because people have asked.  They’ve thanked me for sharing the details.  They’ve told me they’ve liked being able to be a part of it all.  I wonder why.  It’s just regular life.  But then again, that’s the kind of book I love, regular people talking about everyday life.  Maybe that’s why we’re friends.

Keep it burning

I’m so bad about starting fires.  I know the procedure, I’ve been camping maybe a million times, we’ve roasted marshmallows in our back yard for several years, we’ve had wood-burning fireplaces for the past 14 years.  I love it all.  Love it.  But I’m not great at starting fires.  I burn out quickly.  Just like my fires.  I build the teepee.  Or cabin.  We’ve got oodles of kindling.  At least the baby kind.  My problem is I go right from the tiny bits of bark and paper to wanting to put a log on.  And everyone knows that will never work.  The house is cold from us being gone all day.  And we need a little warmth.  So I start by cleaning out the ashes from yesterday or the morning.  Then the glass needs some attention too.  At the same time that I’m on and off dealing with the fireplace I’m fielding snacks and homework questions, listening to school woes, organizing evening rides, starting dinner, and letting the dog in and out.  I hope and cross my fingers that the paper and kindling will get along, that there’ll be sparks, and with the door ajar there will be just enough air to fuel the relationship that will burn bright through at least the afternoon and evening.  Inevitably I’ll go back to cutting the vegetables.  But as soon as I turn around, it’s dark and cold again in our fireplace.  Where just before the flames were abundantly dancing.  So discouraging.  So I try again.  And again.  Until I give up.  I need to use intermediate kindling—something between a log and a twig.  I know it.  Of course I know it.  And I’ll use it if it’s around; I’m just too lazy to cut more.  I try to take short cuts, I keep hoping it will work without it. 

Todd has more patience.  And it’s so nice when he builds a fire for us when he gets home.  Because men are task-oriented, focused.  Not as easily distracted.  They like a purpose, a job with a beginning and end.  A result.  Fire building is perfect.  And his fires are perfect.  But they take some time, and he stays with it, paying attention to the various sizes of kindling needed.  Even cutting some if we’re out.  His fires always work.  Always.  And he sticks with them throughout the evening, knowing just when to add another log.

I loved it early last week.  The first day back to school after Christmas vacation.  I bowed out of everything and stayed home all day Monday and Tuesday.  And took down Christmas.  The roads were icy, the temps hovered near zero.  I’d rekindled the fire that morning, which is easy when the coals from the previous night are still warm, glowing when I nudge them.  And I stayed with it, replacing log after log throughout the day.  You have to pay attention, noticing when it’s kind of winding down, making the effort—even a sacrifice—by going out to the porch even when the wind is howling.  But it’s so worth it.  The small investment.  All it takes is tiny but consistent effort, noticing when it’s not burning as brightly as you know it can.  When it’s getting a little cold.

We were huddled around it in the evening, reviewing the day.  We somehow got to talking about the fire, how nice it was to have had it all day, what it takes, how you have to kind of stay on top of it.

And then we thought of all the other things in life that are like the fires we tend.

I remember back to my post c-section days, days in the hospital and at home afterward.  I hate taking medication, even pain relievers.  Even for headaches.  I just figure my body needs me to go to bed; I’ll feel better after some sleep.  But surgery isn’t just a headache, you really do need to stay on top of the pain.  Much easier to keep the pain at bay than to wait until it’s miserable and try to catch up.  I tried to remember that with my recent surgery.  Once you have it under control it's worth staying with the pill schedule prescribed.

Same with resting.  A wise friend we knew in Illinois told me it takes your body a good six weeks to recover after a baby.  You can push it, but you’ll just have to take the time later.  I tried to remember that after subsequent babies.  To be honest, I wasn’t that great of a patient. I couldn’t figure out how to put my feet up much, and I figured if I could do it I should be able to it.  But I’ve tried to take care of myself, especially when my body is compromised.  Kids are awesome at this.  I'm learning my limits, and I know I do better with a consistent sleep schedule, an occasional nap, an early bed time.  Just like kids.  Most people do better—and even sleep better—when they are well-rested.  It’s worth investing in.

Same goes for studying and finals.  We know as adults how much easier it could’ve been.  We get it now.  How a little studying every day—even though a test might be weeks in the future—would’ve been so helpful.  Cramming never really worked that well, and it’s hard to see the kids repeating your mistakes.  Now that we know better.

Easier to stay in touch—even occasionally—with friends who have moved away.   A note or email every couple months keeps the relationship somewhat alive, whereas years and years without contact sometimes allows it to fade or even die.  It’s awkward to try to get in touch again.  How do you start?  But when we make the effort to just send a text—better yet, call—just to check in and say hi, wow, what a difference that can make in our friendships and relationships.

Todd asked if I’d shovel the driveway since I’d be home.  More snow was due later.  So much easier to take the time while the snow is light and fluffy rather than iced down from being driven on.  Heavy and difficult to move.  Smart.  Seems counter-intuitive.  But staying on top of it really does make it easier.

Winter in Montana is pretty rough on the skin, and some of our kids’ knuckles get so dry they bleed.  We try to remind them to put lotion or Vaseline or coconut oil on their hands before bed, but they are certainly old enough to handle it.  When they were little and would forget I’d sneak in their rooms after they were asleep to rub lotion or Neosporin into their little hands.  I hate seeing their little hands sore when it’s so easy to prevent it.  Just takes a little lotion so it doesn’t get to that point.

In so many ways it’s the small and simple things that we do—consistently—that make big differences.  I’ve written about this idea before, but I just can’t help but notice how it plays out in a million ways in life.  In no place is it more true or important to stay on top of things than in our own homes and with our families.  I’m not that great at this.  I know I need to talk to my kids about the big things, for instance.  It’s on my mind all the time.  It’s just that it’s been so long since we have that I’m not sure how to make the leap.  I wish I would’ve kept on it a little better.  The fire’s still there, it just needs a log a little more frequently.  

Maybe we all have little fires like this in our lives, parts we need to pay a little more attention to.  The coals are usually still warm—even if they look cool.  Most kids are forgiving, they’ll let you back in.  You can still shovel even if there’s more snow now than there would’ve been.  We can study better starting now and we can text an old friend.  We can keep our lotion handy and spend time with our spouses starting tonight with a little pillow talk.  It’s the small kindling that gets the fire burning again, easier when the coals are still warm, but not impossible even if you have to start all over.  You just can’t make the same mistake I tend to and rush through, thinking a big log will surely keep a fire going from nothing.  Like a store-bought present from an absentee mom.  It doesn’t really do anything of consequence.  But fan the smallest spark, use any residual warmth that's still there.  And start small.  Even if you're starting all over.  Stay with it.  Be patient.  And once there’s warmth, keep adding fuel.  It will last all day.