A sick day

My grandma had one of those cots I’d never seen before and haven’t ever seen since.  Maybe left over from World War II?  Except it seemed made for granddaughters.  Just my size.  White canvas with wooden fold-out legs.  Grandma made the most comfortable bed ever.  With a thin pink flannel blanket flanked by a puffy pad underneath me and a thick lead-apron-weighted wool blanket on top.  What warmth!  What rapture!  It was almost worth being sick for.

A far cry from the nurse’s office.  But even now that seems quaint to the point that I might like a second peek.  An entire infirmary just for kids.  With apothecary jars and old-fashioned mercury-laden thermometers.  A small bed like my grandma’s but not a cot.  Colder sheets, more sterile.  A temporary holding area, healing would not happen here.  This was a place better than the classroom but inferior to a home.  A place to still be brave but where you could let your guard down a little better than in the classroom.  I don’t know that schools have entire nurse’s offices quite like these any more.  It’s been awhile.  How would I know?

Most of the time that cocoon arrangement at my grandma’s was reserved for sleep-overs.  She lived half an hour away and it was easier for my dad to come get us if we felt sick, but sometimes she was our savior.  There was nothing like seeing your grown-up, familiar and safe, at school.  Just for you.  A rescuer, your life-line.  Knowing you were just minutes away from not having to be strong and brave any more.  You would be able to let your sickest self show soon.  And it would get Better. He’d make us a bed on the cutting table of his upholstery shop.  And soup from those little packets.  He stood sentinel as he continued to cover chairs and couches while we rested and recuperated to the din of his sewing machine.

As comforting as those memories are, it is so much more rewarding to be on the grown up side when someone needs convalesing.  That’s a truism for life, so much more gratifying to give than receive.  There is no parental task quite as nurturing as tending to an invalid.  The time from the school’s phone call until you can get to your ailing child seems to play out in slow motion.  You can hardly drive fast enough.  I remember once being in the temple and coming out to voice messages from the school saying Bronwyn (9) was sick.  How regretful that I hadn’t been there for her!  But how was I to know?  Our kids call maybe once a year for sickness; it just doesn’t happen to be our trial. But when the call comes, I long to swoop up my new patient and am ever so relieved when I finally pull into the parking lot.  (But being in the school office kind of makes me feel like a little kid again.  Even though I'm there all the time.  It’s still weird to be this old.  To be the grown-up.  I know, I really need to just get over it.)  Maybe it’s especially because it could never be my mom who'd come when we were sick (she worked in a bank and it made more sense for my dad or grandma to come), but I can’t help but feel overwhelmingly grateful to be the one to pick up my ailing children.

Our ten year-old hadn’t been quite himself one morning earlier this spring.  Quieter.  Suspiciously quieter.  With breaks to rest on the couch before school.  But only intermittently.  So we sent him to school, knowing I would be just across the hall in the library if he needed to go home.  I checked on him occasionally, communicating through sign language, asking how he was.  At some point I needed to leave.  I had told a friend I’d go visit her, but I would be just around the corner from school if he needed me.  As these things go, I was there maybe half an hour before I recognized the school number on my phone.  I  hated to leave my friend, but I was also thrilled that I was available, that it was so effortless for me to pick up my son, that I’d be right there for him in just under three minutes.  Trust me, I realize what a luxury it is.

You know how it is when you finally get home, you just want to be tucked in nice cool sheets, the perfect blend of warmth and refreshment.  I darkened the room, got water, and left him to rest.  I tried to think of what to feed an ailing child.  White bread I’ve heard.  We never really have that.  But we do almost always have applesauce. And bananas.  I wish I’d thought to stock up on those little soup packets.  I never really use canned soup, but that’s the first thing you think of on occasions like these.  No Saltines.  We never even have any juice in our house (although I have to admit, I have bought frozen oj on the past two trips to Costco for our smoothies—I know).  And you can imagine how much soda we have in the house.  We live far enough away from town to dismiss the idea of running to the store.  But we make do.  I actually love putting together a little assembly of apple sauce and toast, things that go down easy and that can sit by his bed for awhile without rotting.  I might need to create some sort of Sick Day tote with supplies just for this kind of special occasion.

I love the cozy feeling of caring for an invalid.  All of a sudden everything deemed urgent is now on the back burner.  You realize that there’s nothing really that you wouldn’t undo to care for your child.  Succoring him, just being available to him, seems to be exactly what I was placed on this earth to do.  Which I sense anyway, even on their well-days, I just feel it more keenly on days like these.  I like the quiet of having only one child home.  A dozing one at that.  I like that I’m tethered to the house, that I can tidy up and play my soft music and enjoy the envelope of peace that sort of rests on our home.  I might prop him up to watch some tv later on or maybe set up a bed on the couch in the living room upstairs when he wants to be a part of the activity but is still not quite up to par.  You know how that is when you’re sick, so hard to be relegated to the back bedroom knowing family life is going on without you.  And yet you just can’t quite do normal life the way you want.  So playing spectator up close is as good as it gets.

I remember picking up my daughters when they’d felt yucky.  I’d brought one a rice bag and chocolate to her school office. I asked if she’d prefer to just come home and felt such confirmation of an inspired offer when I could see the flood of relief in her little face and tears forming in the corners of her eyes. I knew it was perfect for her to be able to suffer in the privacy of her own home.  Another one had been waiting and waiting for me (this was when I’d been at the temple), and so I raced especially fast to her side, so glad to finally hug her and be there for her.  It felt so good to be her rescuer when she’d had to stay strong for so long.

It’s nearly the same even when they’ve grown into their big-kid bodies.  I feel just as nurse-like with my college/high school-aged boys as the little kids.  Maybe because they are just as pitiful as they were when they were little.  It’s hard to be sick no matter how old you are, you just want to escape into sleep, nothing sounds good, you’re cold then sweaty, tired but restless.  You hate to be alone in your bed with nothing to do, but at the same time that’s all you have energy for.  It’s a wrestle you don’t have will to engage in, so you hope to just get Better soon, that it will all go away.

I know the mindset is to pity the soul who’s having a sick day.  Which is warranted.  It stinks.  Throwing up is the worst.  Chills where not even wearing sweats inside your bed warms you sufficiently.  Post-op recovery is also bad.  But aren’t you secretly just a teensy bit grateful for a sick day here and there?  I love the halt it puts on our life, when the entire requirement for the day is to sip a few drops of liquid and maintain life.

My mom never took a sick day all the years I was growing up.  Except once I remember her in bed right after a surgery and of course to have her two other babies.  She kind of set a precedence because I never missed a day of high school (except for field trips).  So dumb.  In my mind I guess I figured it wouldn’t be worth it to make up all that work.  Still dumb.  I should’ve at least gone to the beach.

Kids are usually awesome at knowing when it’s time to take little time off.  They seem to just know when it’s time to slow down and then when it’s time to be up again.  I noticed this when Andrew was 17 and got his wisdom teeth out.  I brought him home and set up shop on the couch with all the necessary paraphernalia.  He threw up a bunch of blood.  I think seeing it all over the bathroom kind of startled us both.  And really grossed us out.  But after three hours of resting he was all of a sudden back in his garage making knives.  And never looked back.  I just think kids are tuned in to how they feel and pay attention more than adults.

Granted, they have that luxury when they sense things aren’t quite right, nothing wrong with missing some school and watching tv all day.  Unlike parents who need to get to work or college students with looming finals.  But we just take some kind of Day-quill or other drug to keep things at bay and make the most of it.  Kind of like a mom with little kids and a baby at home.  You don’t dare nap because you have no idea if all the kids will still be there or what kind of trouble you’ll have when you wake up.  You just turn on the tv and pray they stay nearby.  It sort of throws them for a loop when the parent is the one down, especially if it’s the mom.  It’s concerning and unsettling, so it’s probably best we don’t take it lying down for the most part.

A couple weeks back I could feel that I was kind of losing touch with myself.  That sounds so dramatic, you know I’m not like that; I just knew I needed to pull back and kind of assess where I was and pay myself some attention instead of giving everything away.  A lot of adults refuse to stop, seeing it as giving in, being weak.  But I took some time off and said no to a few things and just spent some downtime at home, a couple of “sick days.”  Maybe selfish to some, but I saw it more as an investment.  More like a time to rest and recoup and get stronger so I could be more useful and happy.  And now I’m feeling more like Andrew who left his couch-bed to get back to work, more like my energetic self who has a list longer than her day but likes it that way, like my younger kids who let their soup get cold because the trampoline is beckoning and they’ve missed too many jumps convalesing.  That’s how you know you’re on the mend.

Time for dinner

Back in the fall of 1990, as freshmen at BYU, Todd and I would eat all three of our meals together nearly every day in the cafeteria.  A group of us would gather for dinner every night at 5, if nothing else, and it became habit for the entire nine months we lived in the dorms.  Who knew 24 years later we’d still be dining together?  We must’ve noticed the impact that tradition made in our lives, because over all these years we still insist on eating breakfast and dinner at the table as a family, and Todd and I still meet every Thursday for lunch.  Those were somewhat formative years in establishing our relationship.  And now we’re in those formative years with our kids, grateful for a time we know we’ll connect.

Speaking of meals, hardly anything makes me feel more on top of my game than when dinner’s underway before the day’s really awake.  I know how nerdy that sounds.  But I think if other moms could share a voice here they’d agree.  That’s one of my constants.  Regardless of what else my calendar dictates for the day, I know we’re all going to come together in the evening and that it’s mostly up to me.  And so I take that charge seriously.  But I love it when it’s done early.  Like in a crockpot bubbling away on the counter, smothering the house with tantalizing smells or in the fridge just waiting to be popped in the oven an hour before we’re ready.  Love those days.

I’d had a rough couple of weeks awhile back, you know how it is when you’ve been sick or just not yourself.  We were just getting by as far as dinners.  Nothing too crazy bad, just not my best effort.  I just wasn’t feeling it, too distracted and not quite engaged.  But finally one day I felt myself rising above the fog for whatever reason.  I decided to make enchiladas.  Garlic beef, one of my favorite recipes, one I’ve had forever.  I love the blend of spices.  I like the thick sauce.  I’m in my element when I’m making food for my family.  And I knew I was on the upswing as I rolled cheese and beef mixture into little tortillas in the late afternoon.  I felt so much like myself.  Making dinner that night with my soft music in the background and the new spring breeze wafting through the kitchen window was cathartic.  I felt centered knowing I was serving my family in a small but simple way.  So normal, routine.  Just right.

This morning was the same.  I’m starting early.  I think I’d do it more if I was home more during the day.  Usually I’m gone about the same hours as the rest of my family, but I’ve been pulling back a little more, carving out some time to be home, and I love it.  I just took out spicy-smelling muffins that will go with our Great Northern bean soup.  We’ll be gone this afternoon, so it’s one less thing to think about.  I wish I was better at this.  I’m really trying.  I think the biggest road block to cooking is deciding what to make.  So if I can figure out Sunday night what we’ll be doing during the week or even the night before, pulling a meal together really doesn’t take much effort.  I’m good and bad at this.  I go in waves.

I don’t care if it sounds old-fashioned—you know I don’t care—I am old-fashioned.  I think dinner ought to be a top priority in a family.  It seems that as dysfunctional as a lot of families were when we were all growing up, most of them at least had dinner together.  Which we know now is a buffer against all sorts of ails.  I’ve read studies, anecdotes, even a whole book devoted to this topic (The Surprising Power of Family Meals)—in favor of eating together.  And I know you know this too, both intuitively and because you’ve seen the studies as well.  Just interesting that something so effortlessly cultural made such a big difference in our lives growing up, even as tumultuous as some of our home lives could have been.

I think because it was one thing we could count on every day.  We knew that no matter how crazy the other parts of life at school and with friends were, we would come together as a family—whatever that looked like—and at least spend a few minutes over dinner.  Our dinner time wasn’t  perfect.  We usually watched tv.  Our living room and dining room could hardly be distinguished.  They were just extensions of each other in our little apartment, and so during dinner we’d sometimes just turn the tv toward the table.  Other times I suppose we’d talk.  I know we weren’t a deep family, and it was nothing memorable, but just the routine of coming together at the table night after night, year after year, must’ve connected us in ways we didn’t realize.

I loved my mom’s cooking.  During the week she worked, so dinners were kind of fast and easy.  Skillet types.  I didn’t care.  I loved spaghetti and tacos as much then as I do now.  We had macaroni and cheese with hot dogs.  Boiled.  I know.  Tostadas.  BLTs on Thursdays.  Creamed chicken occasionally.  Which I made for my roommates in college on one of my nights. Disgusting.  We had canned peas and pickled beets that leaked red juice all over the plate.  We had pizza every Friday.  Most of us still do.  Todd’s family does too.

Sunday was one we all looked forward to.  I remember hearing my mom call out before church, “Who’s going to make the jello?” (A given, the jello.)  “Who’ll make the muffins?”  (Another given.)  Blueberry, the kind with the small enclosed can of juicy berries right in the box.  A fascinating little pouch of mix, the can of blueberries, and additional tiny pouch of streusel all in one box.  She’d make roast or chicken broccoli and rice or bbq ribs and poppy seed potatoes.  We’d have chicken cordon bleu or Mexican chicken with a chili and cheese in the middle.  It was always such a treat to have Sunday afternoon dinners together, and a lot of times it seemed we had extra friends.  So fun.

Maybe that’s where I’m coming from.  It was so natural to include others, there was always plenty, and we’d linger when a college cousin or friends from church would join us.  We loved it when our Japanese teacher friend from day care or our Scottish relatives would bring a new perspective. It felt like we almost always had an extra friend.  And so it’s not a big deal to me.  We’re making dinner anyway.  Our kids are always asking who’s coming over and a lot of times we end up with someone by the end of church even if we told them we’re just having a small family dinner.  If not for dinner, at least for dessert.  Which is great, we all love it.

It’s not always around the table.  When the kids had sports I’d pack up pasta salad and bread.  Or little sandwiches on rolls.  Fruit and bagels.  We’d make do.  Sometimes we’ll pack up tin foil dinners and head to the park or lake for the night.  When the evenings seem to go on forever in the height of the summer, we’ll head up the mountains and cook over a fire until it gets dark.  And then we’ll do marshmallows.  Usually on Thursdays we have leftovers, the perfect night to clean out the fridge and get ready for the weekend.  Some nights the kids and I have to be all over town at different times, so we’ll eat early, without Todd.  It doesn’t feel the same, and we’re all a little out of sorts.  We normally eat at 6:30 when he gets home, which I know is late, but it’s better than not having him.  Sometimes it’s closer to 7.  I know.  Sometimes I have to be gone all afternoon and I’ll leave something in the crockpot.  But we really seem to do best when it’s a normal night and we gather around the table and catch up.  It’s not long, but it’s one thing we can count on.  We don’t have any cutesy things we do, we’re certainly not the poster family for dinnertime.  Or any time.  But we talk about what happened, if there was anything unusual, what the plans are for the evening or upcoming days.  I try to teach the kids conversation skills—a lost cause. Except for Callum, our 11 year-old, who will ask his dad, “What was your most interesting case today?” (He’s a vet.)  We occasionally pull out some fun conversation starters and we try to record something in our book every day.  At breakfast we’ll read a bit and share some stories, but we’re not awesome at any of this.  I guess our only success is that we’re at least trying.

Even though I don’t love to cook, I do like preparing meals for my family.  I know that sounds weird.  What I mean is I don’t necessarily love to try new seasonings or spending my afternoon chopping vegetables or making complicated or fancy dishes, I’d rather be working in the yard or reading or writing.  On the other hand, I do kind of like looking through cookbooks.  I’m so inconsistent.  But you already know that.  I love the stability dinner provides though, so that’s why I do it.  I think it’s cheaper and healthier than eating out, values I espouse.  I like putting together salads and vegetables, fresh fruit plates and new berries in little dishes.  I love using up leftover bits from the fridge and washing off the mud from garden spinach or potatoes.  I love plucking cilantro from the herb garden in the summer and using our remaining onions from last fall.  I feel nurturing when I set out the cutting board with fresh oatmeal bread and a steaming soup tureen.  I like the collective agreement when it’s something we all like.  But by now you know my mantra, that by small and simple things, great things come to pass.  And so even though the food isn’t anything to write home about, I don’t think that’s what matters. I think we’re just happy to be together, carrying on a tradition we know goes back through the ages.  I think it reminds us that there are still some things we can count on, that no matter what happens throughout the day we know we’ll still have time for dinner.

A long-distance relationship

I’m understanding what it feels like to be on the other side of things.  Having a son in college and one in high school (meaning this one is slowly leaving us too) has obviously added a new dimension to our relationships.  I’m realizing—again—how God must feel.  Parenting is the perfect way to begin to understand God’s love.

I’ve noticed this as we talk on the phone with our son in college.  I love it when he just randomly calls on his walk to class.  I look forward to the long chats we’ll have on the weekends.  I want to know how classes are going, if he likes any girls, how he felt about his job interview, what his concerns about his future are today, how he has no idea what he wants to be when he grows up.  I love hearing about his adventures with his friends, the lessons he’s learning, the hard parts of living with roommates and being alone without us.  I like it when he texts me to ask how long to cook a roast or for the chocolate chip cookie recipe we like.  I like it when he sends me a picture of a cool sunset or a change of season.  Or a random snow report for his favorite Montana ski resorts.

I imagine God smiles similarly when I’m excited about my drive to town and notice all the twigs are loaded with fresh snow or that the trees are getting their buds back and I thank him verbally.  I think He loves it when I kneel in the middle of an afternoon for nothing more than to catch up or to thank Him for my amazing life.  Or out of desperation for an issue I can’t seem to work out.  I think He’s happy to respond when I need some words of advice for a sad daughter and can’t gather my thoughts.  I think it gladdens His heart when I ask for help on a blog I’m trying to write—just like when Andrew wants us to look over his resume or Mitchell leaves me his research paper to proofread.  I want His input as our boys want ours.  I love it when Mitchell just follows me around the kitchen and shares his day with me.  Doesn’t ask for money or permission for something, he just wants to talk.  Or when they’d come in and hang out on the foot of our bed for an hour past my bedtime just to shoot the breeze.  Those are good times.  I feel close to the kids because of times like these and I know we’re building our relationships little by little.

Because when we have created a warm and trusting relationship with our kids, hopefully the hard topics won’t be as awkward.  They will feel just as comfortable telling us about recess as they are asking us for help with a dilemma with another kid.  Hopefully we establish a similar relationship with God and likewise report back on all the great parts of our day while feeling just as able to ask Him about our own quandaries.  And yet, we're not there quite yet.  We're still working on having our kids share with us all that's in their hearts, and I see myself doing the same thing with God, holding back a little.  I realize we aren't as transparent as we could be.  Even though I love Him so much and we share a similar love with our kids.

I wish I could live in their hearts or at least see into their hearts like God can.  I wish I could physically be with my kids all the time, but--like God--I can't.  And so I’m counting on ordinary people to help them out.  Because as great as words are, sometimes we just need a warm friend, someone tangible who will just be with us.  I’m hoping that people will be in tune enough to know what our kids needs, that they will say or do just the right thing.  I’m counting on that so much.  And it makes me so happy when Andrew tells me about a friend he looks up to there on his dorm floor or a dedicated leader he admires or one of the other kids has a teacher who she connects with, a friend’s mom who is just like an aunt.  I like that other adults in our life take time to text Andrew and ask about him.  I love that other friends step in when I can’t.  So I think I understand how much God is counting on us to help Him help His other children.

I’ve noticed how well God listens.  I’m learning to just figuratively sit back and just listen as well, both to my kids and God.  I wouldn’t call this my strong suit.  But I’m working on it. Sometimes I feel like God will put questions in my head, as if we’re carrying on a conversation.  And I find myself saying out loud, “That’s the perfect idea!” or “I don’t know, I’m just sad.”  So I like to do that with our kids because of course we want to know what they’re thinking, what solutions they’ve come up with, what feelings they’re dealing with.  I know it helps to figure things out when I picture my loving Heavenly Father patiently listening to me.  Undistracted.  But with a thought-provoking rhetorical question every now and then.  And so I want to follow that example.

The past month or so we’ve been emailing our college son a lot.  Which is probably my favorite way to communicate with him (and most people) because I can think before I send him my words, we can share a lot of the feelings we don’t usually in a phone conversation.  I like that we can share opinions about religion and life and people and the future. I feel like I have this going with God in a way.  I’ll write questions in the back of my journal with a little blank space, waiting for a response.  I love when I periodically go back to see if any of them have been answered because inevitably some have.  A timeless version of email.

I like that sometimes we have lulls in our conversations (and emails) with the kids.  Sometimes it’s with Andrew on the phone or with my 13 year-old in the front seat while we’re driving.  I’m learning to get over the discomfort of it.  I sometimes feel that happening when I pray, I pause and kind of mull things over in my mind.  It takes a second to gather my thoughts.  And so I understand how that is with Andrew when he’s run out of things to say but doesn’t necessarily want to hang up quite yet. Or when the kids are on our bed and after a lively dialogue and then we just kind of sit for a minute.  I’m learning to just let the silence be.  You know you’re with a good friend when you can be quiet together.  God is like that.  I’m learning.

But I’m so un-Godlike in so many ways.  I feel my inadequacies keenly, for instance, in that I have no idea what Andrew is thinking unless we talk or write to each other.  God, on the other hand, knows us and our thoughts perfectly.  I can suspect and suppose, but I honestly am only ever guessing.  And so of course I get it wrong a lot of the time.  I notice how anxious I am, and I see God as ever patient and calm and collected.  Traits I try to hone but that are so difficult when it’s your own kids.

And so I’m left to wait.  I would love to get more emails and letters and phone calls and texts.  I don’t care if it’s anything important.  I just want to hear from him.  I miss him.  And I know Heavenly Father feels that way about all of us as His children.  But I also know it’s for his own good that I want him to call home more.  Which sounds just like a mom.  But I know that when he connects with us he’s reminded of what Home felt like.  He remembers in small ways what he’s been taught.  He can’t help but feel our love for him.  I can’t imagine he hangs up not feeling a little stronger just knowing he has a support system, a few allies.  I know that’s why God wants us to dial in as well.

But when he doesn’t make the effort, I just wait.  Kind of like a nail-biter who has to sit on her hands.  So un-God-like.  I would love to write and write and write to him.  In fact I have.  But I don’t feel to send him more until he’s read what I’ve already written.  I’m not sure what he thinks about much of it or if it matters to him.  I wonder if God feels that way about me and all He’s written.  Maybe I don’t show that His words matter or that I care about them.  And yet I understand how God must feel because even as imperfect as I am, I feel that I have so much I can teach him.  I have learned so much over the years.  I’ve been where he is, I know what it’s like.  I’m eager to share a lesson or an experience or a truth with him.  But I will never force myself on him.  Like I said, I’ll send him letters, just as God sends us counsel and comfort through the words of His scriptures.  I’m counting on others closer to him to be what I can’t right now.  I’m always available whenever he calls or texts, but I can’t force him to call me or write back.  I have to wait.

Windy days

Todd grew up in the Windy City and now we live in what should be called Windiest City Ever.  Which is fine.  You just kind of get used to it.  But last Saturday made the paper, a constant barrage of wind, nearly blackout conditions on some roads from the field dust, parts of the highway were closed, collisions, huge gusts, power outages. Including our home.

Which is also fine.  But when it happens you kind of make a quick assessment of how that will affect the rest of the day and weekend.   I navigated my way along darkened back roads from a baby shower to see my husband playing Monopoly with our 9 and 11 year-olds.  I felt out of sorts, in between obligations and needing to leave again soon, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the power would be back on before dinner, and in my mind I played out the immediate future.  And then I felt myself relax.  We had plenty of food that we could access.  We could always have cereal.  Our grill would come in handy.  Water is a problem for us when we’re without electricity because we’re on a cistern, but we have bottled water. We’ve certainly gone without before, we know how to camp, we’ve got this.

I thought back to wind storms we’d endured in the past.  One that always stands out is the one that blew our trampoline over our neighbors fences, breaking them and crippling our brand-new tramp.  The only one we’ve ever bought.  We even spent $100 trying to get the legs repaired at a shop downtown.  What a waste of money.  It was kind of surreal watching it tumble across the yards; we even had it tethered down, but the top half just blew off.  We chased it but weren’t quick enough.  Sometimes we’ll lose a shingle or two, we’ll sustain some damage.  Unexpected gusts, stronger than anticipated.  This last storm blew our grill into our window well.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve been blown into the window well.  I feel the weight of a power outage in my heart on occasion, causing me look around at the resources at my disposal.  Sometimes we’re in the middle of a windy day or just a blustery period of life, but once in awhile the gusts come out of the west with hardly a whisper to announce their arrival and I’m blind-sided.  I can’t help but feel a little apprehensive.  This is stronger than the ones we’re used to, will our preparations still hold?

I think we all held onto the notion in our younger days that our preparations—the formula—would protect us.  That if we did our part, the clouds would somehow part around us.  We would have a silver umbrella to shelter us, we would be immune to the passing storms that others were unfortunate enough to get caught up in.  But I think we’ve all lived long enough to know that’s not what our preparations have been about at all.  The formulas we relied on in algebra work for us in mathematical situations, but life is more like the piece of scratch paper we used than a bubble sheet all neatly shaded in.  Sometimes it feels like the formulas weren’t meant to hold up in real life.

Just when I think I’ve reached a part in my education when I can keep my answer sheet neat and tidy, the winds flare up and I’m back to my scratch paper life.  But what I’ve learned is that the formulas always work.  Not that they help avoid the windstorms of life, but that they are tools that help us work out the problems on our life’s homework.

I’d of course hoped that if we dutifully did our part to have Family Home Evening and attend church, to pray and read as a family and on our own, that if we played and talked and spent hours and hours together, as well as all the other things we’ve embraced since we were young and started our family, we would avoid the storms of life.  I’d hoped that by using the formula I’d end up with a nice even answer with no remainders.  And yet, I was realistic enough to know at the same time that it’s just not the way life’s tests go.  And so while I hoped, I at the very same time knew.  I think we’re all kind of like that.  Of course we hope.  We have faith that the deposits we make will eventually make a difference, that they will amount to something, that they will provide security.  Why else would we do any of this?

What I have found is that while all these deposits don’t help us avoid the storms of life, they are perfectly accounted for and available for me at a moment’s notice.  They are most definitely my security.  While attending the temple for years hasn’t prevented gusts from billowing around our home, it has tethered and grounded me, providing an anchor of stability in a troubling world and a place of refuge to think clearly and to receive comfort and answers.  While reading scriptures as a family doesn’t guarantee that we won’t have the same struggles as the people we read about, I know it brings the Spirit into our home and into our lives.  I know to go back to them for words of counsel, to hear what God has for me and to see how others handled similar problems.  They strengthen and comfort me, buoying me up to handle what’s out there.  I know going to church doesn’t assure me that every one of my children will always want to join me, that’s not necessarily how it works.  But what does work is the support and peace and strength I find there.  I know praying for our kids doesn’t mean they travel with an impermeable force-shield, but it’s an infalable source of power that comforts and guides us all as I send them out in all sorts of inclement weather.  And just as we look to our Savior to show us the way in our everyday life, He is there even in blackout conditions.  He not only takes our hand when we reach out for Him, He gives us courage to walk in the dark with Him.  He shares His strength, His love, His matchless power with us.  Because of the relationship we developed on many calm and cloudless days, we are familiar and at ease with Him when the darkening clouds threaten.  It’s a given.

So just as I looked around and took stock of what resources we had to help us through our power outage last Saturday, I think we do the same thing as the winds of life have picked up.  I know that just as we’ve squirreled away food and water, we’ve also stored up words of comfort and counsel, we’ve created and lived traditions and habits, and we’ve built strong relationships with each other and our God that will provide strength and nourishment no matter how long or strong the storms of life rage.  The formula works—not that it prevents the wind storms of life from reaching our homes—but it is the very framework we count on as we make our way through them.