Teammates

I find it hard to believe that some people would actually choose to be leaders of their organizations.  I’m just so much more at ease being a dutiful follower and letting others carry the burden of thinking.  Just tell me what to do, I’m dependable, I’m on it.  But this being in charge stuff has been a little unsettling.  So I just remind myself (and others if they ask) that everyone takes a turn.  It won’t last forever.  I’m nearly to my half-way mark.  If I screw up too bad someone else will come in and clean it all up and get it right.

Half the time I get to church I forget my role.  That I’m supposed to be looking around for visitors and new people.  I have to move past my comfort zone and think more about them than myself. Which means I have to leave my warm bench and go introduce myself and talk to them.  It’s good, it’s always fine, it’s just not really where I live and so I always feel a little awkward.

I’ll tell you what I do like.  Placing food orders, entering the amounts and types of food in the computer for people who temporarily need a little help.  Nice tidy seat work.  I also like changing around the visiting assignments, printing them out, and organizing them for the other members of the presidency to hand out.  I do not like handing my stack out.

I’m ok with activities.  With speaking if I have to. With hosting anything at my house.  With cooking whatever.  Gathering supplies, shopping, planning.  Totally fine as long as decorating expectations aren’t too high.

Like I mentioned recently, one of my counselors suggested we go to the temple this past week.  I’m not sure why it never occurred to me.  At all.  Not even once.  It’s a normal thing for presidencies to do, I’ve been in others where we’ve done it.  Why I never thought of it is beyond me.

I also hate going on visits.  Not actually visiting.  Just setting up visits.  Figuring out who to visit.  If someone’s new or just had a baby or surgery, fine, easy; a visit is expected and there’s an obvious reason behind it. I don’t want ladies feeling like they’re a “project” or that we’re checking up on them. If she’s a little older and lives alone, that’s a good place to start and acceptable I think.  Except they can never hear us on the phone and so I hesitate there and put it all off another week.  I’m the worst. 

Here are some thoughts about where I’m coming from.  I figure ladies who want to be involved in church are already here.  If they aren’t interested, I don’t want to bug them.  As much as I love what I believe, I respect what others choose to believe and what they want to do with their lives.  And so I believe in giving people the space to do that.  The problem is that as part of my calling I am to help find those who are searching for this, women who may want to join us again, women who are maybe at a different stage of life now and who are feeling that they may want to try religion again.  Jesus commanded us to feed his sheep and to find those who are lost.  I love Jesus so much, and so I want to follow him.

But ugh.  It is beyond uncomfortable for me.  Not because I can’t be a hard worker.  Not because I don’t have time.  But because I don’t want to offend or bother people who want to be left alone, who are hiding out for a reason.  If they wanted to be found they would seek us out.  It’s not like we’re being obscure and playing hard to get.

And I hate to admit this.  Truly hate it.  But I do it to show you how much I still have to learn.  And to remind us that callings are simply opportunities to grow.  And serve.  But mostly I think they’re for us.  I have prayed sporadically about things pertaining to Relief Society.  On occasion.  But not every night.  I hardly ever prayed about specific sisters until recently.  I had to think of new counselors, etc. but other than that, not much.  I’m really embarrassed.  I can’t believe that’s me.  And as I’ve wondered why on earth this is true, I think I simply didn’t want to face the task in front of me.  It has been too big for me.  Too overwhelming to think of all these sisters in my stewardship. How could I possibly figure out who all these ladies are and personally visit them all, let alone help them with their issues?  What can I, a little 47-year-old church lady with no significant life experience to speak of, possibly contribute to complicated lives filled with real problems? Who am I to think my presence would mean something, that it would be welcome, that I’m anyone special to these women? I’m not the bishop.  I’m just a regular everyday mom who, for whatever reason, has this responsibility for a while. I think I subconsciously wanted it to go away, to figure itself out, to have someone else take over.  I must’ve bargained with myself: if I keep busy and do a good job at all the other tasks, maybe it won’t matter that I wasn’t that great at this people-stuff.  I honestly don’t know that I thought about it at all. I think I tried not to. Time simply passed and the guilt just grew that I wasn’t out and among the sisters, serving and loving them individually in their homes.

Along the way, just in the past few months is all, I started praying a little more about things.  I made a goal for myself to see two sisters a week as a presidency, that’s it.  I started praying about the sisters I’m assigned to personally minister to, something I’ve been bad at.  I must’ve prayed about something because out of nowhere I’m getting answers.  Nothing to anything I specifically asked about, because I don’t think I did.  Except for help in general.  And if I’m being really honest, I think this is a case of unprayed answers. I can’t credit myself at all; I just told you how disconnected I’ve been.  Maybe it’s others praying for their ward members, maybe God just needs me to get on the ball and get serious and get to work.  I don’t know; but, oddly, I’m feeling something new.

All of a sudden the missionaries asked me for my list of sisters I know nothing about.  They’ve been visiting their homes and trying to find out if they’re still there.  They’re texting me all sorts of information about who would like visits and who has moved.  And who wants no more contact with the church.  And others who don’t want to be members of it at all anymore.  Which is fine and also sad. But good information. I just feel like I’m not alone trying to figure out all of it myself.

My counselors and secretary have been so supportive, arranging care for their kids with each other so we can do visits.  They’ve called ladies themselves.  They’ve set up visits with other sisters as companions.  They’ve made themselves available and never, ever make me feel that I’m asking too much or that it’s an inconvenience.  I love that so much.

They have done so much in their own callings.  I don’t have to do a single thing to remind them about any of it.  They’re completely self-sufficient and doing amazing things within the scope of their callings.  Such incredibly competent, reliable, and inspiring women.  I have truly loved every one of these women just like my sisters.

The thing that hit me the most recently was sitting in the temple together as a presidency.  We didn’t say more than a couple of words to each other the whole time.  It wasn’t as if we discussed anyone’s needs or came up with any great activities.  We didn’t even tell each other it felt good to be there.  But what I saw beside me was a vision of unity.  I felt like we are a team.  It isn’t just me against the whole ward of women I need to serve—it’s the four of us working together.

I know not all of you can relate to this sort of experience because you’re all in different churches (or not) or callings or stages of life, whatever.  But consider your own experiences.  Don’t we all feel alone, daunted by the demands we’re facing, wanting to hide out at home or in bed, wishing it to all just take care of itself?  Maybe we don’t want to deal with our teens or extended family or a loss.  Maybe we’re a boss at work and aren’t sure how to rally the troops.  Maybe our coaching isn’t as motivating as we’d hope.  Maybe it feels like us against the world.

And maybe you don’t even want to touch it.  Maybe it’s too big.  Maybe you’re like me and you don’t even think to involve God in the hard parts of life because they’re too “earthy” and mortal and unimportant (we assume) for the Ruler of the universe to care about.  Maybe we think we’ve made our own issues for ourselves and we need to clean it all up ourselves.

But I encourage you/us to open our hearts and ask God to be a part of it all.  Just the petition for general welfare help is a good start.  And then look around.  Notice that a family member has reached out.  Pay attention to the friend that texted or called.  Note that you’re getting ideas you hadn’t come up with before.  Listen.  Look who’s next to you.  See that you have allies all around you, you’re not alone.

I just think no matter how uncomfortable we are with what we’ve been asked to do, whether it’s figuring out life after a spouse has died, dealing with a new job or stage of life, heading up a major project, or taking a turn as a leader in 4-H, we’re not alone.  While what we’re asked to do may be someone else’s dream stint, it’s ok if we’re a little shaky and want to wish it away.  But most of the time we still bravely try to face it.  It just helps to remember that we have teammates on our bench right beside us, that we’re never completely on our own as we do.

Her hands

I was talking with a friend in the library at school who’s in her 50s, just a little further down the road than me.  She mentioned that she had told her daughter recently how much she hated her hands, how ugly they were.  Until her daughter wisely pointed out how much good they’d done over the years, how they’d been used to make food for her family, to give hugs, to work and to serve.

I was just lounging on our sectional the other afternoon playing with a baby’s tiny soft hands.  So engaging.  So peaceful.  As I let my mind wander, I reflected on that exchange with my friend and juxtaposed it with the baby perfection in front of me.  And considered the marvel our bodies are. 

I think it’s been especially hard the past few years as I approach 50.  Up until the 40s or even mid-40s I didn’t pay that much attention.  But I’m finally understanding what all the fuss is about and I can commiserate.

But I felt how deflating and useless that sort of exercise really is and I switched up my thoughts and reminded myself of all our bodies are capable of and all mine has allowed me to accomplish and experience.

I think of my own hands.  I told my friend I feel the same way, I’ve always sort of hated the way my hands look.  But would I want to be a hand model?  And give up all they’ve been able to do? To maintain smooth, wrinkle-free, manicured fingers?  No contest.

As I was watching this baby, I continued my body tour and obviously ventured to my stomach.  Which was interesting.  Because my French beauty book encouraged us to look at the skin on our abdomens and compare it with that on our faces to illustrate the damage the sun has had on us over the years.  And so I recently did take a little peek at my stomach, honestly something I try rarely to do.  It was of course pure and creamy.  I had a bikini when I was maybe five, but it has never seen the light of day since.  And so my tummy is virgin white. 

And a little squishy.  The sides and top poke out of my pants.  I immediately covered right back up, grateful for an ample shirt to glide over it all.  But as I sat with my little baby friend, I of course recognized the trade off.  And would do it again and again in a heartbeat.  Yes, maybe I could have it all: a house full of babies and a taut tanned stomach.  Lots of women do.  With a lot of conditioning and time and willpower (is that what it is?) or maybe a coach. Maybe just better genetics? Maybe a cook?  But I sighed and reminded myself that I’d given life five times over to precious—oh so precious—loved ones.  A little extra, relaxed muscles from birthing and a c-section, mostly a huge lack of self-discipline all contributing to what we have here.  But how can you even begin to weigh the value of a life?  Would I give any of them up for a beautiful body instead? Would I entertain the thought for even a second?

Well I did.  This is how sick our world is.  My body obviously changed with each baby I nursed.  And with my fifth I was distraught.  I toyed with the idea of not even nursing at all because of how ugly I felt my body was becoming.  Which is so twisted—that our world would have such a pull on me as a woman and a mother that I’d actually consider not nursing so I could maintain even a semblance of what I thought a woman should look like.  I cried over it.  I knew I was sacrificing what was left of my figure.  I knew I would continue to become distorted and grow further from the model of what a woman should be.  And yet I chose anyway.  I’m thankful I was able to nurse all five of my babies—so thankful.  Not every mother can.  Not every woman has that experience.  It was a privilege and a blessing, the closeness, knowing I could provide nutrition for them, helping them with a healthy start, I was in awe of my body and how it knew exactly what each of my babies needed.  I felt like I was teaming up with heaven.  Even as satan was tugging on my heart at the same time.

I continued on up to my face, since I’d just finished that French beauty book, her number one tip being the religious use of sunscreen.  But growing up in the 70s and 80s in San Diego, I didn’t know if sunscreen was even invented.  I remember when I was maybe in elementary school my mom presenting us with a new product: Pre-Sun, a precursor to sunscreen.  We balked but eventually converted.  Eventually we could choose from the number scale: 4, 6, 8, and 15.  I usually tried to stick with 6; who would even buy SPF 15? You’d never get a lick of sun that way.  And so we boogie boarded, swam, laid out, slathered ourselves with tan-promoting products.  I grew up in day care, where we played outside a good part of the day.  My mom certainly didn’t lotion me up each morning as a precautionary measure against future skin cancer and wrinkles.  And so I lived.  With freckles.  And sunburns.  And blisters.  Which have all morphed into wrinkles.  And brown “age” spots.  And permanently sun-damaged skin.  Which all adds years to an already oldish-looking body.

And hair. I can’t believe how fast I turn gray again.  I never knew to appreciate naturally dark hair until I had to start coloring it.

I thought about how tied down I get when I sit or squat in a position too long.  I’m thinking now of my mom’s and sister’s arthritis.  Of my anemia and thyroid issues.  Of Todd’s cyst on his wrist (which makes me think of Dr. Seuss) and his pre-cancer on his face that needs to be treated. And how our bodies are aging against all our wishes.

I look at my teenagers who are simply young and active and fit.  Who can wear anything.  Who never have to worry about what they eat or about wrinkles or even about washing their faces.  I want to warn them that they will become us someday.  And yet will that change anything? Would I want it to?

And here’s what I decided.  (And have to tell myself over and over.)

It’s ok to have wrinkles.  It means I’ve danced in the sun all my life and laughed till my eyes have permanent cracks around them.  

It’s ok to have a little extra around my middle.  It means I had birthday cake.  Lots of times.  It means I ate ice cream with my family all over the country.  It means I had fries and shakes with my dad and with my best of friends and enjoyed every minute of it all.

It’s ok to have hands that would never pass for a model’s.  It means they’ve been busy digging in the garden, changing diapers, making bread, and playing play dough.  They’re cracked and worn and aged.  But only because I’d rather use them than display them.

And no way does any part of my body look like the ladies on my exercise videos.  I keep waiting for their “guaranteed results” to show up, but I just figure they’re young, they eat lettuce, they haven’t had kids, they work out a lot.

And maybe that’s what some choose to do with their time.  But I wonder if we could all just settle down and admit we’re never going to be young again.  Not defeated, just content.  With the lives we’ve lived, with the bodies that have been our instruments that have helped us learn so much, with the scars and remainder marks highlighting all we’ve experienced and been through.  From stretch marks and varicose veins to wiry hair and bony hands, can’t we just laugh and tell ourselves that they are simply souvenirs we picked up along the way to remind us of all our life’s journeys?

The blessings of missing out

I feel sort of antsy, maybe a little melancholy, that our house is torn up again.  It’s not bad, just the living room floor.  So the couches are all pushed to the edges, our huge hutch is in our kitchen.  We have towels on the floor.  Nail gun and air compressor are center-stage.  No railings for the stairs. Like I said, it’s honestly not that bad.  It’s just that I was thinking about Valentine’s Day and remembered that I do have a few decorations I could’ve put out.  But didn’t really see the point since it’s hard to tell what’s supposed to be out and what’s just sort of here temporarily.  I also figure I may as well put away my winter snow decorations, less to get wood dust on, and fewer things to accidentally break (we’ve had one casualty already).  I keep wanting to invite people over, but it’s a little disheveled for the time being. Maybe it’s just a season I’ll have to let go of and catch again next year.

I remember feeling this way when I had my cancer surgery almost five years ago during a most beautiful November.  I was so sad to be tethered to my house and a lot of times to my couch when I longed to be taking walks and spending time outside in the leaves.  And even being able to cook and mop. Yet I knew I had to give my body its time to heal, and so I bowed out of my favorite time of the year—knowing surely another would come around and I could embrace it then.

It was sort of the same thing when I had my fifth baby emergency c-section nearly 14 Mays ago.  Another friend had her baby at the same time and she and another friend came to visit me.  I felt fat and frumpy and so sore.  She was out and perky and totally normal-looking.  But I knew I had to be a little selfish, I needed this time to heal.  As much as I longed to go to the park and play with all our little friends, I just didn’t feel well.  And so I consoled myself, knowing next year would surely be different.  This healing process surely couldn’t last forever.

And now that I think about it, I remember feeling this for the first time when I had Andrew almost 23 years ago.  I’d been working full time up until I had him, and all of a sudden I was stuck in my little apartment all day in my new role. My family came, but I remember feeling sad that I couldn’t go shopping with them, I didn’t feel that well.  I had very little contact with the outside world and I felt sort of forgotten and discouraged that this was my new normal.  But we all know that’s not the case.  I got back into life soon enough, just with a baby in tow.

I was so disappointed when we decided to move a couple of falls back, that our closing date would be the middle of December.  I was sad to have to move in the first place.  And that it meant fall and Christmas would be very different and disrupted.  We couldn’t decorate the house we were moving from for Christmas, I patched and painted walls all those weeks instead.  We packed up as our house—normally cozy and festive—became more and more messy.  And less homey.  As we moved into our new home—as the previous owners were moving out—during one of the coldest, snowiest weekends I can remember, I knew we had just over a week till Christmas and then it would be over.  My holiday that I can stretch for weeks… I would only have a few short days with.  I know there are many harder things in life, but I was sad to not be able to make it as special and festive as I wanted to.  But I told myself next year would be different, better.

I’m reminded that Callum was sick last Christmas.  On the couch feeling miserable on arguably the best day of year.  I felt so bad for him.  I remember throwing up one myself one Christmas a couple years back.  I knew exactly how he felt to be missing out on all the fun.  But knowing it likely wouldn’t be this way the next year pulled us through.

I’ve known kids who have broken a limb at the beginning of summer—could there possibly be a more inconvenient time to be in a cast?  A summer without swimming?  Our little friend just tore up her ankle.  She’s an amazing high school soccer player and is out for the rest of the season.  At least.  Soccer has been her life for as long we can remember, and it’s devastating to be on crutches and to have to use a scooter at her age.  It reminds me of when Andrew wrecked in a bike accident as a senior just weeks before state track, his last chance to compete in high school.  Pretty devastating.

On and on.  We can all think of seasons of our lives where we’ve been relegated to the side lines as the days and people go on around us.  For whatever varied reasons, sometimes we’re to sit this one out.  Hold tight. Just wait.

It’s helpful to remember that usually our setbacks are temporary.  Most flu episodes clear up, broken bones mend, the house gets put back together, we adjust to having a new baby, we reapply for the program the following year, we rebuild after a flood or a fire.  But yes, some are life-altering in a major way.  Divorce, death, a serious accident, a stroke, financial ruin.  These are serious and there’s no way to assure ourselves that next season or even next year will be different.  Or that things will ever get better.

Or is there? 

Does time really have that much power over us?  Do a few weeks or months or years really ease the pain of even a traumatic loss?  I honestly can’t say for sure because I’ve never weathered a severe enough storm.  But if we sit out a few months or years, can our hearts start to piece themselves back together?  Can we ever expect to be whole again?

Like I said, I don’t know for sure.  I think whole is a big word when we’re talking about our hearts.  I’m thinking we will always have a noticeable space when we’ve suffered a loss.  When we’re talking death, I think that’s because they still live in our hearts and we need to keep a spot for them.  But I’ve known many friends—including my own mom—who have remarried, who have created new careers for themselves, who have moved and built different lives for themselves, people who have come out the other side of heartache still intact.  And even ok.  Not overnight, but eventually.

Yes, we’re still missing out.  On a lifetime with a spouse or child.  On being independent the way we had been. On playing for the college we always dreamed of—or even getting in. On getting married or staying married. On a comfortable retirement.  Yes, all sorts of upsets, both big and small.  But maybe things can still work out.  And maybe time really can ease the sting.

Obviously, we acknowledge how painful set-backs can be, to have times in our lives when we’re not able to do what we planned, to have to remain in a holding pattern while others seem to carry on, oblivious to our discomfort and pain.  And yet, all of it is still temporary—regardless of how long the temporary is.  We will be reunited with loved ones, we will walk and run again, we will be healed and whole.  In time, all that we missed out on will be compensated us.

“It isn’t as bad as you sometimes think it is. It all works out. Don’t worry. I say that to myself every morning, Gordon B. Hinckley taught. “If you do your best, it will all work out. Put your trust in God, and move forward with faith and confidence in the future. The Lord will not forsake us.”  It also helps me to remember this adage, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways…. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

“Find the compensatory blessings in your life when, in the wisdom of the Lord, He deprives you of something you very much want. … You will discover compensatory blessings when you willingly accept the will of the Lord and exercise faith in Him” (Richard G. Scott).

I do feel that time is not quite the same to God as it is for us.  I trust “that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.”  Because there are always, always lessons to learn and people to serve and love, regardless of what we’re missing out on at the moment.

I think when we’re reeling from a loss of any kind, when we feel like something has unfairly taken from us, all is not as tragic and black as we initially think.  And I love that idea of compensatory blessings, the reality that he is blessing us, even as we’re not able to live as we’d prefer.

For instance, during a crisis or misfortune, I’m freshly aware of the people who are still here.  So when I had my babies and had to bow out of my regular activities for a period, I obviously gave all my attention to them.  What an amazing period of life.  What most of us wouldn’t do for a day with our newborns again.  More than ever, I looked forward to Todd coming home, I don’t know that I appreciated his companionship as much as when I had to be all alone during the days.  When I’ve been home with a sick kid, it’s been so nice to just have time one on one, to focus on her needs and to just watch Netflix together cuddled on the couch.  When do we do that in regular life?  When my dad died, there was nothing more comforting than having my sisters and mom with me.  Obviously we were close before his death, but it hit us that this was our new family arrangement for awhile and we relied on each other.  When we’re recovering from a surgery or a fall, when we’re dealing with a loss or any kind of devastation, it’s eye-opening to see our friends and family members with new eyes, those we normally take for granted.  All of a sudden we appreciate them more intensely, we recognize that they genuinely care.  That they’re here.  It’s overwhelming at a funeral, as we know, to see how many people have lined the pews to simply support us—and I think that’s partly where some of our tears spring from.  I don’t know if we have any idea until something as life-altering as a death happens, how widely and deeply we are known and loved and cared about.  As wrenching as it is, there is something incredible about noting this palpable love we were simply not aware of on our other days.

I’ve also noticed that in my weakened state, these are the times when I’m forced to slow down.  And in our frenzied world, that is a true blessing. Sometimes it takes a hardship—debilitating or simply inconvenient—to make us become more present.  We’re not up to our usual speed.  We simply don’t have it in us, maybe physically, maybe emotionally.  But there is beauty in slowing down.  In noticing the artwork on the walls that you never really pay attention to except for when you’re lying on the couch and rest.  In face to face conversation as visitors come to spend an afternoon or a few moments.  In having to read.  Or listen to music.  In watching the leaves flutter on the tree outside the window. In hearing the airplane or wind or dogs or lawnmower, the background of our life we take for granted. 

Additionally, these unusual days and years allow us to see what we’re made of.  What can we still do?  What new skills are we developing? What’s changed? What’s better even? What am I capable of? How am I stronger? Wow, look at what I’ve done and learned and become.

These periods of disruption can also be times to be grateful in ways we never really acknowledged before.  We can be thankful for having had so many amazing years together, that we know what love feels like, that we still have an arm, that the burns weren’t more devastating, that we can still walk or talk or breathe.  That we’re still here.

And the most significant compensatory blessing when we’ve been let down, hurt, or broken is that we always, always have God’s love with us.  If we allow it, these can become sacred days of our lives.  It’s in these quiet desperate moments when we have no where else to turn, that God is there, so close.  Christ—more than anyone in the universe—gets it.  No one knows better what we’re feeling when our dreams have been crushed, when our hearts have been shattered, when life’s derailed, when we’re feeling dark and desperate.  And it’s precisely in these moments that it can be the easiest to feel His love.  Partly because we’re forced to slow down.  Partly because we’re vulnerable and desperate for our people to love us and tend to us.  And partly because we’re taking time to notice our blessings and to be grateful.  All of these lead us to feel God’s love in our lives more intimately than we sometimes notice in the times of our lives when all is tranquil.

And so I acknowledge of course it’s ok, appropriate, and expected to be mad, to cry, to feel overcome with grief when we’re missing out, when the rug’s been pulled out from under us.  Obviously.  But I still think there are significant blessings associated with these losses, and I wonder if we can ease our pain by considering them.

Ask the expert

I can’t help but think of all the collective wisdom that’s out there. It seems like we’re missing out on some of that if we don’t take the time to talk with the people we encounter throughout our days.  I've noticed that everyone is an expert at something.  Test it in your next conversation.  Whether it’s quilting, the classics, cars, board games, gardening, home improvement, bread making, or painting, everyone’s into something.  So it behooves us to not only take advantage of their accumulated knowledge so we can apply it to our own lives, but it enriches our lives just by getting to know them a little better--whether it's a serviceman, a clerk, or a new acquaintance.  

So when I’ve had washer repairmen out, I ask what sort of washing machine they’d recommend, if this is a good model.  When we had our front loader I asked how much soap to use and how best to clean it.  What kind do they have in their homes?

When our kitchen pipes and dishwasher have had issues in our old house, I learned how much food is ok to leave on plates and to put down the disposal (not much at all).

When we’ve had Roto-Rooter out, we’ve pumped the guys for answers.  What caused this? What can we do to prevent this from happening again?  What’s the condition of our septic tank? What would you recommend?  How much time do we have left with these?

When we were shopping for running shoes, I asked the saleslady what the real differences between the various price ranges.  What, for our daughters’ level of activity, would really be necessary.  Same with hiking boots for Todd. Were the $500 ones really worth it?  And we paid attention to whether they were just trying to sell us or if they were honest. I ask them straight up which ones they buy.  If they’re wearing the ones they’re trying to sell us, I take note.

When I get my hair cut—everywhere I’ve been—I ask about shampoos, color, current trends, tips to help my daughter’s hair be healthier and longer, just all sorts of things.  I figure we have at least 45 minutes together, may as well pick her brain and get her opinion on some things.

Same with my massage friend.  I ask her about muscles and exercises and why and what’s going on.  We have the whole hour to talk.  She knows so much!  I absolutely love hearing her thoughts about bodies.

When I’ve gone to donate blood and my iron’s been low, I’m anxious to hear what to change so next time I’ll be successful.  I know now to drink plenty and to keep my hands warm and to massage my finger so the little test will go better.  I have a list of iron-rich foods.  And others to avoid.  I’ve asked how often is too often to donate for a woman.

When we’ve stayed in a new city, we try to ask our Bed and Breakfast hosts where the locals like to eat, what they recommend to see and do.  We figure they live in that town, plus they hear from all their guests what’s been tasty and entertaining.  They’re a wealth of information.

I’m super bad at reading the booklets that come with electronics.  I’m underutilizing every device and tool I have.  But every now and then I’ll get smart and ask someone.  My sister and kids are awesome at knowing this kind of stuff.  A friend taught me how to use the timer on my phone camera just this week.  I’ve never used Siri or the map ap that talks you through the directions to get somewhere.  I’m honestly just too lazy.  But it’s been good to ask people and take advantage of their collective wisdom.  I think it’s fun for them to use their gadgets, so I swallow my pride and ask for help.

I’ve asked my dentist what he recommends when he mentions an issue with me or one of the kids.  I’ve gone in to an oral surgeon for a recent wisdom tooth development.  I appreciate the honesty when he’s told me to just leave it and try to keep it clean.  My dentist told me for years to hold off on gum grafting until finally it was time—because I trusted him, I went with his advice.

I enlisted my interior decorator friend to just come help us with some ideas when we first bought our house.  She was so gracious and generous as she listened and shared her ideas.

I’ve asked my photographer friends for advice on family pictures, especially clothing.  I know now to keep it relatively simple.  Not matchy-matchy, but coordinated.  Start with you (the mom) and build around what you feel good in.  Don’t use small patterns.  In fact, stay away from patterns completely if you can help it.  Just great tips I don’t know we would’ve thought of.

I’ve talked to temple presidencies ever since I started going, just asking questions about all sorts of things.  I figure they’re there all the time, maybe they have some thoughts that will trigger my own thinking.  And I’ve found that to be the case. Obviously they’ve never given me direct answers.  But they’ve guided me and encouraged me as I’ve sought out my own.

I do this especially with women just a season ahead of me in life.  Ever since I was a very new and young mom I’ve asked those just a little older for advice.  What would you do differently if you were in my stage?  What worked? What have you learned?  What advice do you have for me? I’m still asking friends these same questions, but now it’s in relation to how to parent grown up kids or how they’ve dealt with technology.  Mothers who have been there are a goldmine of information and solid advice.

We’ve also gone the other way and asked our kids some questions because they’re certainly the experts on what it’s like to be them and to be growing up these days.  I like to talk to young adults especially, maybe my favorite age group of all.  Maybe because they’re past the teen years but not too far removed from what was important then.  They have a more mature perspective and yet they still get it, they understand what teenagers are thinking.  So they’re super helpful and very expert-like.

Honestly, everywhere we go we’re running into experts.  We can ask the teller at the bank what account option would be best for us given our circumstances.  What do my nurse and doctor friends think about this medication or vaccine?  Which sleeping bag or backpack would suit our circumstances? What’s your opinion?

And so it goes.  I admit I don’t feel like much of an expert on anything, but when there’s an English paper or grammar worksheet, I might be helpful.  When it comes to using time well, I might have some thoughts.  And when the kids have questions about how something works or how to go about doing a woodworking project, Todd has some experience he can share.  If people want to pick his brain about gardening or raising bees, he’s learned a few things. When it comes to history or science or the classics, Mitchell’s our go-to.  Avery’s got her fingers in all sorts of social and political issues.  Callum and Andrew have spent quite a bit of time learning about snowboarding and bikes, so they’re awesome resources.  And B is quite the expert on living simply and organized, without drama, without a fuss, just straightforward and contentedly.

So even in our simple family we have some things we’ve learned over the years.  And I choose to assume every single person we meet or befriend or chat with has some of that too.  So whether we’ve asked someone to repair or build something for us, if we’re at the hardware store befuddled by the paint choices, or if we’re just not sure what’s the best menu option, it's never a bad idea to at least ask.  

I just think life is too short to have to figure out everything the hard way.  I know we can research cars, but why not ask a friend who owns a dealership what he thinks?  Or a friend who owns the one we’re contemplating buying?  Obviously we can look into coolers, but why not ask the guy who already has the cooler we’re thinking of buying if he’d buy it again?  If we’re thinking about going gray, why not ask our hairdresser the best way to go about that?  If we have friends who took a cruise, went to that mission, made that recipe, gave a great lesson, wrote an intriguing piece, why not ask them about it? How’d it go, how did you learn to cook or write or talk like that? Doing this is much more personal than interacting with a computer screen at home alone.  Or pretending that we’re not all people with similar families and lives—there’s nothing wrong with admitting that and enjoying a few minutes’ conversation with those we happen to meet.  It takes some humility to admit what we don’t know, but I’ve learned that most people are so happy to talk about their thing that they quickly forget our ignorance.  I figure I don’t have the time, patience, or even interest in being an expert in everything.  I’d rather defer to those who are and to glean what I can from their enthusiasm about whatever topic they’re wiling to tell me about and go from there, maybe deciding I'd like to become an expert in it myself someday.  But in the meantime I'm just happy to be learning from each other.

When it's frosty

Another in a seemingly eternal string of ice-cold wintry days.  The kind that require me to start my van a good ten minutes before I need to leave.  But on a harried and forgetful morning, I inadvertently forgot about that task and realized I had an opaque windshield to contend with as I rushed to leave.

As I plopped my bags in the passenger seat and started the engine, I willed the glass to clear quickly.  A defroster won’t work until there’s heat, and warmth was nowhere to be found on this arctic morning.  Time was my only hope. And I had precious little if I was going to be on time.  So typical. 

But as I started down our rocky potholed dirt road, I noticed the picture it created on my windshield was actually quite pretty.  Although it was slightly tricky to see the road as a million tiny frost particles peppered the glass.  But I continued to drive on, assured that I could see enough.

I didn’t consciously watch it happen, but of course I did.  Before long, the defroster had done its job and the windshield was nearly clear.  The frost designs had dissipated and I could easily out to the road that only minutes before had been obstructed and foggy to me.

I couldn’t help but think how often this has happened in my life.  So often it feels like the road ahead is all but hidden from view.  Most days I'm ok. I have a general idea of how to proceed, I’m familiar with the area, I mostly just keep moving forward the best I can.  In the meantime, as I’m waiting for the warmth from my defroster to clear things up, I trust my instinct and my vehicle and I try to focus on the small eyehole of the windshield I can see through.  Not the best of driving conditions, especially when the road is icy and the lanes are indistinguishable from the shoulder, I’ll admit it’s a little disconcerting.  But this is a two-lane 60 mph road; I can’t pull over and wait for better weather and I can’t even turn around and start over later.  I have to just trust myself and carry on.

I’ve thought how similar this is to the many uncertain journeys I’ve been forced to make in life. Regardless of how obscured my sight-line has been or how uncomfortable I’ve felt about proceeding, there’s not really another viable option. But over time, right before my eyes, without my noticing how or when it happened, eventually I’m able to make sense of some of the roads I’ve been on: small country lanes, major highways, vats of spaghetti-freeways and exchanges.

We’ve all had to drive in less-than ideal conditions, but scarier than a snowy, icy commute is having to make decisions or make sense of a situation without much to go on.  Choosing a spouse, a city to live in, a career, even a fall schedule.  Where to volunteer and put your extra time, whether to buy the house that doesn’t make a lick of sense, to have children when you feel like you’re still one yourself.

I think about the family I was born into.  Early in my life I couldn’t understand our dynamics and the purpose for our being in the same boat; but the older I get, the more I see how perfectly we fit together, how much we learn from and teach one another, how this alignment has provided us so many opportunities for growth and empathy and compassion. 

I think of the major decisions Todd’s had to make with his work.  Early on we had to decide whether to buy into the business, to take the risk of becoming part-owner, when we still had so much debt from school loans; it seemed crazy to take on more.  But he felt peaceful about it despite being a little unsure how it would all work out.  This past year he was faced with selling part of his portion.  So many questions and uncertainties all over again. Yet in both cases he trusted and proceeded.

I think back to getting married at 22.  About what I chose as a major.  About having kids so close together.  About not having more.  About moving to Illinois and to Montana.  In nearly all these cases I’m still waiting for the defrost.  I’m still not clear on why a mission wasn’t right for me.  I have no idea what possessed me to choose the major I did.  I’m not sure if we made the right decision about not having more kids.  I’m in the dark as to why we’re here in Montana and what my specific purpose is even now.  Although I’m beginning to feel a little warmth wafting over the dash.

I just think we sometimes we expect a completely clear windshield—a confirmation that the path we’re on will work out for us—before we move on.  And yet most starts are a little less than straightforward, the view is usually a bit hazy.  We may have a vague idea of where we want to go or be or do, but evidence that we’re making the right choice doesn’t usually come until we’ve committed to our choice and lived with it—driven—for awhile.

A leader sought counsel from a trusted friend who wisely responded with this counsel, “The trouble with you is you want to see the end from the beginning. I replied that I would like to see at least a step or two ahead. Then came the lesson of a lifetime: You must learn to walk to the edge of the light, and then a few steps into the darkness; then the light will appear and show the way before you. Then he quoted these 18 words from [scripture]:  Dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith” (Ether 12:6).*

I think this is even more difficult to accept when we’ve prayed over a decision, a course we’re grappling with, a fork in the road.  We expect—and absolutely want—God to confirm for us that we’ve chosen correctly.  But so often He allows us—and yes, expects us—to carry on, assuring us He will help us know one way or the other.  Eventually.

“What do you do when you have prepared carefully, have prayed fervently, waited a reasonable time for a response, and still do not feel an answer? You may want to express thanks when that occurs, for it is an evidence of [Heavenly Father’s] trust. When you are living worthily and your choice is consistent with the Savior’s teachings and you need to act, proceed with trust. As you are sensitive to the promptings of the Spirit, one of two things will certainly occur at the appropriate time: either the stupor of thought will come, indicating an improper choice, or the peace or the burning in the bosom will be felt, confirming that your choice was correct. When you are living righteously and are acting with trust, God will not let you proceed too far without a warning impression if you have made the wrong decision” (Richard G. Scott).*

Sometimes the windshield clears almost immediately, like you have some kind of turbo defroster working for you.  As soon as you accept a marriage proposal you feel a wash of warmth sweep over you, you just know this is right.  In other cases that confirmation may not come till years and even decades later.  Maybe moving to a new town you immediately meet someone you feel you’ve known forever, a major tragedy strikes and you know you were meant to be in her life just for this.  In other cases, after twenty years, you’re still not sure why you felt to move here.  I remember wondering that for 15 years since we'd been here. But one day just sitting in a church class, all of a sudden I felt the words, “You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”  What an unsolicited confirmation, one I’d given up seeking.  I still don’t know why, frost is still clouding my view, but I trust one day I may know why; for now it's enough to keep me going, like my little peep-hole in my windshield.

I have various friends who thought they were done having kids who ended up with a feeling to have another, others who simply got pregnant unexpectedly, some who couldn’t have more kids for quite awhile who ended up pregnant again. I have two friends who each told me they’ve come to understand that their sons were born to them to help them through trying times in their later lives, one who lost a husband to death and another through divorce.  Their older sons were in a position to comfort and aid their mothers during those times. These women didn’t understand the circumstances of their sons’ births, the timing of it all, until these events unfolded many, many years later.  Interesting.

I’m like you and in so many instances I see the beautiful crystalized glass particles as a hinderance, an obstacle, on my way there.  I’m anxious and impatient for them to melt and dissipate allowing me to turn on the windshield wipers and clear my view once and for all so I can proceed with my plans.  But what if we humbled ourselves, used patience and trusted that we’ll be able to see soon enough?  What if, in the meantime, we appreciated the kaleidoscope of tiny pieces of art in front of us?  What if we just enjoyed our friendships and family ties and children without having to understand the why of it all?  What if we just choose a major we’re drawn to, that we feel passionate about, and while praying to know if it’s right for us, just dive in and appreciate learning new things?  What if we create for the pleasure’s sake without worrying about why we feel to write poetry or music or make quilts or houses?  What if we just accepted the discomfort of the present?  And trusted that somehow--little by little--the way will be shown us, that we will gradually begin to see the road ahead of us a little better, that we will have a bigger perspective than we do with our current skewed vision?  In time.

The defroster takes time.  Understanding why takes time.  Seeing the path in its entirety takes time.  Seeing God’s hand in our lives takes time.  But in the meantime, we can choose to enjoy the beautiful patterns in front of us instead of impatiently willing the clouds to part so we can see what’s happening.  It's just slow, we don't even really notice.  But one by one, the bits of obscurity fade away and eventually we notice how clearly we can see.  But for now, what’s really going on is nothing we need to worry about.  We can proceed (with care) and with faith.  God’s got it.  He knows.  He sees the road.  And I can trust both Him and myself, that He will be with me until the view clears and I can see on my own.

*Move Forward in Faith, Ensign, August 2013