Willingly

A faraway friend and I were texting the other day, as we often do, about our lives and our families. She asked how our daughter on a mission is doing and I told her the sad news that she most likely will not be able to go to her original assignment due to travel and visa restrictions. Her daughter is in a similar situation.

So I just posed the question, not mad at all, just so curious. Why do you think God assigned them to these distant missions if He knew from the beginning they might never make it there, that they would end up serving in the states? Why didn’t he just say that from the start and not get their hopes up only to be smashed? Really not upset, honestly just wondering.

I loved our ensuing conversation. She said if her daughter had just been called to where she is serving right now, that would’ve been just fine. I just think it’s so disappointing to anticipate something that is now unlikely to work out, why even suggest it in the first place? But maybe there’s a lesson in this for us and our kids that we will need desperately moving forward.

She offered that maybe they and we need to learn to simply surrender our will to God. Maybe we need to tell him we will live and serve wherever and however he wants us to.

She shared a tender story that changed her forever, in which she told God from that point on she was all in, that he had her will. And she is rock solid on that promise.

I told her I don’t know that I’m there yet.

I told her I’m scared. As we all are I imagine. What will he do with me if I let him have full charge over my life and my future? What will happen if I let him take the reins? I’ve seen what he’s done with others, and I don’t feel strong or courageous enough for any of that. It’s easier and safer to just keep things as temperate as possible and to stay at the helm to avert potential threats. As if.

Do I trust him? I dug deep, desperate to know. Of course I do, I told myself. Mostly.

I’ve been reading about a group of people in Biblical times setting “forth into the sea, commending themselves unto the Lord their God.” When they were buried in the deep there was no water that could hurt them, their vessels being “tight like unto a dish….The wind did never cease,…and thus they were driven forth; and no monster of the sea could break them, neither whale could mar them; and they did have light continually, whether it was above the water or under the water.”

I love this visual of a journey similar to ours, where we are dashed upon the seas of life, trials seemingly as big as whales, winds of troubles never ceasing, duration unknown. And yet I love the idea of what being “tight” could mean for me, confident, prepared, trusting. That “they did have light continually, whether it was above the water or under the water” helps me retain hope that even when it feels like we’re drowning in our sadness, our overwhelm, our confusion, our adversities, there is never any water so black or heavy that it can sink us if we stay focused on the light that is consistently available and accessible and always more powerful than dark.

As I read and think about the strength these and so many other faithful people have had over the years, I can’t help but love my friend even more. She is these people personified, someone like us in today’s world but who is fiercely loyal to her God and trusting of his plan for her life.

There have been times when I’ve let go, when I’ve acquiesced to doing it his way. Rarely do his ideas make sense, but so far they’ve been easy enough to agree with: marry young, have kids, move around the country, buy a farm, say yes to uncomfortable opportunities, be ok with a diagnosis whatever it means. But what about the rest? I haven’t been able to get the phrase, “commending themselves unto the Lord their God,” out of my head. Am I there, am I ready to immerse myself in his will? I feel like I’m a little kid who, after splashing around in the shallow waters, now hesitantly stands teetering on the edge of the deep end while my dad patiently waits to catch me.

I pleaded silently in my heart and admitted the absolute truth of it, “I’m scared. What will happen if I let go, if if I do give my will to You? Where will I be then, will I be able to handle what You have in mind? I’m not that kind of person. I’m so weak.”

A peaceful, loving thought immediately warmed my heart. I wouldn’t be left alone. Phrases I’d heard—even taught—so many times flooded into my mind. “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. I will go before you and be your rearward; and I will be in your midst. I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.” So many, I was overwhelmed with the rush of them all. I had forgotten to remember that I have and will never be left alone no matter what storms beset me.

“When they were encompassed about by many waters they did cry unto the Lord, and he did bring them forth again upon the top of the waters.” There were and always will be waters. That’s just the nature of our journey. But when our barges are tight, when our trust is secure, when we let him steer our journeys, we will be able to withstand the waves and the whales and the monsters of the seas and be assured that we will come “upon the top of the waters.”

Sleeplessness

Todd doesn’t usually do emergency call overnight these days, but he’s had more the past year, with a few the past couple of weeks.  Which I hate.  I stay up and read until I’m solidly tired, ever hopeful that I will just sail into morning without a break in sleep waves.  But almost never does that happen.  I usually find myself awake somewhere in the middle.  I’ve stopped looking at my phone to ascertain where we are because I already know.  It’s too early, it’s sleeping time, I would know if it were the right time to wake up.

And so there I am.  As I’m sure many of you my age and older are.  Then what?  I’ve tried a million different ways to trick myself into going back to sleep.  I’ve tried doing a monk-hypnotist-like chant, “Sleep, sleeeeep, sleeeeeep…”  I’ve tried praying for everyone I know.  I’ve tried just admitting I’m awake.  I’ve tried playing my quiet music on Pandora but all that does is tell me how many songs I’ve been awake through.

Finally I decided to write out the question in my journal.  “What can I do to go back to sleep?”  And I prayed.  Not really expecting an answer, but I figured why not, I pray about all sorts of specifically weird things.  It wasn’t at that exact time, but it wasn’t too many days later when the thought came to me as the answer: Breathe.  I considered that and remembered lying on my brown leather couch six years ago after my mastectomy recovering.  I was so desperate for some sort of pain relief that I did some deep breathing.  I’ve heard and read many variations, but the one I remember best is to breathe in for four counts, hold for four and release for four.  I know it’s deep if it involves my belly.  So I’ve tried focusing when I find myself awake, I quiet the clatter and chatter in my head and just breathe. In for four and so on.  I think if nothing else it relaxes me and helps me clear away my thoughts because it takes concentrated effort.  I don’t know how long before it works because at some point in the morning I wake up, unaware of my last breath, a lot like the surgery, where one moment I was counting and meeting the surgeons and the next I was awake with tubes coming out of my torso.  Surreal.

It occurred to me as I listened to at least an hour’s worth of instrumental music last night (because I was not breathing and focused), that this idea would be useful in so many scenarios, situations, and struggles we’re faced with in our awake times of the day.  Breathe.

I thought of a specific trial that had low-key (and occasionally intensely) plagued me for several years.  I had journaled about it copiously, and I’d prayed incessantly for resolution, understanding, and knowledge about how to deal with it.  I finally quit praying about it ever changing and decided instead to simply pray for the person involved.  For love.  I felt like I settled down and chose to just breathe through it, not knowing what the outcome would ever look like or expecting to ever feel peace.  

And I thought about how interesting it is that breathing slowly, mindfully, and deeply can have such a powerful resolute effect, a transformative power almost, carrying us from a state of worry and upset to a place of calm restfulness.

I realized just last night during my bout of wakefulness that this struggle, the turmoil, I’d been experiencing for all these years had somehow dissipated.  I was shocked actually.  But not in a jolting or even surprising way.  All my angst had faded and I realized I wasn’t bothered or concerned about it even a little bit anymore.  Something that had paralyzed me many times, that I had cried to Todd and God about even more, something that had caused me deep internal analysis and soul-searching, wasn’t even a problem at all anymore.  Bizarre, given the grief I’d felt for so long.

But just as our worries lead to restless nights where we toss and turn and fight sleep and wakefulness both, this struggle kept me from relaxing into my own restfulness of soul.  It was only when I let it go, when I tuned into what I could control and focused on my “breathing,” which to me meant loving and trusting, that I felt peace.  Just like my night sleep that transcends the issues of the day and the anxieties in my head, calm came once I finally gave up the fight and just trusted my breath.

Having her home

Cliche to say it’s not what any one of us expected the past few months to look like, who could’ve guessed schools would close followed by nearly everything else, and that there would be no definitive end in the foreseeable future. As likely as we were to make predictions, no one has a glass ball and very few among us are seers.

I have felt most tender toward the students in all of this, particularly graduating seniors who, in so many instances, were left to grieve events and milestones that traditionally helped with the transition from and closure of high school.  I have felt the want for my own kids, desiring to attend school more than they ever were aware, but especially my daughter whose freshman year of college came to an abrupt and unceremonial end.

She stayed on campus for awhile just to ride out what would surely be a temporary hiccup in her young adult plans.  But as the students began to clear out, as more and more amenities became unavailable, as classrooms and campus facilities emptied out, she felt increasingly isolated and alone.  She asked if she could come home for awhile.  Of course! But she was set on returning to her new summer apartment to be with other young students in a vibrant setting rather than hang out with her family in Montana indefinitely. We weren’t offended in the least, we know about her wiggles and what it takes for her to thrive. But how we loved having her with us for those three weeks.

We took a family road trip from Montana to Illinois to see our oldest son get married.  Some of the best memories of the summer were staying at hotels, eating out, late nights with the kids playing games and eating ice cream.  Day trips to Chicago and Lake Geneva were eye-opening highlights, soothing our anxious and somewhat emotional souls. We rented a charming house by the water, a picturesque and renewing cocoon as we officially transitioned to our supportive roles as parents.  All seven of us (plus my two sisters) spent those memorable days together, and they will forever be etched in my mind. As anyone who’s had children leave the nuclear family structure—the nest—can attest, there is nothing like having everyone together again.

But life is more than a vacation home, and so we returned to our various posts, she and her brother to their college life. Until she decided there was no point in staying in her new apartment.  She was alone most of the time in an unfamiliar environment without means to make new acquaintances.  We talked all the time, but still feeling unsettled, she surprised us by coming back one day.

The details of her travels are less important than what’s transpired in our home.  Although she’s been in and out all summer, making her way through Washington and Utah, she’s begun preparing for her pending church mission for the past several weeks, requiring someone (mostly me) to be with her as much as possible as a “companion.”  And this has been a delightful time for our family.

You know what most kids are like in high school, especially once they can drive, and especially toward the end.  A tender mercy God grants parents is the gradual way our children begin to detach from the family, compassionately allowing us to become familiar with their absence.  When she was in school we were competing with friends, activities, homework, job, and volunteer work, which means we rarely saw her except on Sundays. Without these diversions, we have her much more.

Now she’s home nearly all the time.  She’ll occasionally go to the stores with one of the kids, but mostly she’s just here. And it has been the most exquisite blessing in the world for us, to have so much uninterrupted, undistracted time with one of our children.  I cherish casual conversation, the slow minutes of just wrapping her in my arms, the long, long talks and cries about what she’s doing, what she’s missing out on, how she’s feeling, what she’s painting.  I love having her with me as we run errands and shop for groceries; and it warms my heart to hear the sewing machine, or to see her at the easel in the backyard, or to just stop and watch her curled up with the dogs on the couch for a mid-day nap.   We love hearing her laugh with her district, her new far-away but close friends, and we’re especially thrilled with her companion who has to have been heaven-sent; I honestly don’t know if there could’ve been a more perfect friend for Avery at this junction of her life and I’m beyond grateful.  I love the quiet days together, her on the computer wrapped up in blankets on the couch or at the kitchen table, me making her cookies or puttering in the kitchen or folding laundry nearby. It feels cozy, homey, comfortable, peaceful, perfect.

Our weekends are different these days as well.  Whereas before she’d have work and plans with friends till late at night, now we spend so much time together as a family hiking, eating out, going for ice cream, checking out thrift stores and garage sales, playing games, listening to music, going on walks, watching documentaries, lounging about just talking, and making fun treats.  She is our glue, our anchor, and it’s been such a blessing to have this time with our teenagers and her.  We love watching them dancing and laughing together and listening to the three of them up late talking or making a whole new dinner or starting a Disney movie as we’re heading to bed.  We love it so much that our kids are best friends and that they love being together.  These few months have drawn them even closer, and there is a palpable love and joy in our home because of these tight bonds.  The only times that are better are when our other kids come home.  There really is nothing better in the universe than having our whole family together, it really is heaven on earth.

Just as our weekend visits with college kids are always too short, our days with Avery are fading quickly.  We all realize the inevitable, that it’s time for her to move to the next phase of her mission and life.  We’re all getting a bit antsy, so thankful for this unexpected luxury of togetherness, but recognizing it as a temporary pause from what we all need to be doing.  She will serve her mission and return to college and work and friends, just as our others will continue to become increasingly independent and spend less and less time with us and the family.  It’s what we want, for sure.  We want our children to feel free to leave, to move on, to be their own people and to create lives of their own, of course.

But we also want to soak up the moments like these.  Because we know how fleeting they are.  I’ve sat on her bed, I’ve cuddled with her under the covers, I’ve listened and I’ve held her.  In my mind I know we can always recreate scenarios like these, but it just might never really be the same. We love having her all to ourselves.  I love that she’s been able to be present, here with us entirely, not distracted and running about. I love hearing her thoughts and opinions and plans, so different now that we aren’t “parenting” as much as just appreciating the person she has grown into and is still becoming.  I love the heart to heart nearness we’ve had, the sweet everyday memories of doing nothing and everything together.  I’ll miss this all so much, as we all do when someone close to us, someone we have loved so intensely, leaves us.  But I choose to be grateful for this unexpected detour in our lives, for this uncommon but blessed experience of having our daughter with us for just a little longer than planned.  It has truly been a gift from God that we will cherish forever.

Lawn lesson

It’s been this way for years now once school goes back, but especially the past couple.  Callum and Bronwyn have mowed lawns together for several years, but with B having cross country, and Callum having two other after-school jobs, it’s after 7 before he can get to the lawns he’s committed to.  Most days he goes from one job to the next; leaving at 6:20 a.m. and getting home past dark, those 14 hour days get pretty long, with homework on top of it all.

As a mom, I play my role intentionally even as it looks like I’m just hanging out in the background.  More than anything, I want the kids to feel loved.  But also to be competent, independent, and confident in their own abilities. And so I stay out of most of their business.

Before they could drive, I would take them to do their lawns and we would finish up in the fading autumn evenings.  I actually enjoy mowing and weeding; I grew up in an apartment and never learned to mow a lawn until after I started having kids.  But it quickly became my household job since I was the one home all day, and I came to relish the satisfaction of it all.

The past couple of years I’ve been helping the kids weed at one of Todd’s clinics; it’s large and always needs some care, something they don’t always have time for when they have several lawn jobs in a day.  Since I don’t mind weeding, it’s a tiny way to help them out.  So this past Friday I ran over early while they were at school and just tidied up a bit.  Which led to tree trimming, which obviously resulted in a huge mess of leaves and debris.  So I texted Callum and asked him if he would just blow all of it off the sidewalks and clean things up for me when he came later that night.  To which he replied, “Yeah.”  Pause.  Then a little later, “If you could mow a lil that would be so helpful.”

I had planned in my day to help a friend pack, I’d been washing rugs and bedding, cleaning three bathrooms and tidying the house getting things ready for our college kids to come. I’d just made dinner, I was in the middle of grating zucchini, and I had a mess and a pile of dishes on my hands.  But then she canceled and I found an extra bit of time.  I had the thought that I could totally fit in a little service for my son.  It was only 5, no one else would be home for hours. Wouldn’t it be so nice if Callum could come home a little earlier tonight and just be with us, wouldn’t that be such a fun surprise to see some of his work done like the shoemaker and the elves?

And so I hopped in my van and headed over to Todd’s clinic for the second time that day and went to work.  I had showered only a handful of hours before and here I was in the hottest part of the day.  But it felt good in a hard sort of way to move around and to be outside in nature.

I didn’t do all of it; I left him the back section.  But I felt like I had acknowledged his load. I felt glad I could help in the smallest way.  It made me smile to think of what his reaction would be.  Later on he sent me the text, “Thank you mom.  Ur the best.  Did you get some soda?” I didn’t know what he meant by that until later; he likes to treat himself to a soda after work and hoped I had done the same.  So cute.

But as I was finishing up under the pine trees, the final stretch, I thought about the simple gesture of a mom helping a son in really such a tiny way and wondered what I would say if he wanted to thank me.  I’ve never taken money; I just tell them to divide it up between them.  I dug deep and thought hard about what kind of token of appreciation a mom like me would even want.

And it occurred to me that the best gift he could ever give me would be to simply live what we’ve taught him.  That surprised me, and I challenged it because I hate manipulation and passive-aggressiveness.  Was that what this was? Was I just wanting to live worry-free and easy during this last little stretch with my teenagers? But no, I admitted that wasn’t where this was stemming from at all.  As I examined my final answer from all angles and asked myself why this was my conclusion, I realized it had nothing to do with my comfort or pleasure or how I would look as a parent. All I want as a mom is for my kids to be full of love, for themselves and others.  And I easily recognized that this is exactly how true happiness is achieved: by being kind and hard-working, honest and generous, just basic goodness.  I decided in that moment that is all the gratitude I’d ever want.

And I immediately thought of Heavenly Father and Christ and where this idea had originated, “If ye love me, keep my commandments.” I smiled.  How interesting.  It wasn’t until this moment when I was suggesting the same in my mind to my own son that I finally understood.  I realized they were invested in my happiness and success and confidence just as I wanted those same things for my children.  It wasn’t so they could play the part of an accomplished leader or parent, it was because they understand that when we are following their loving advice, we will be truly happy because we will be filled with and radiate love.  As a parent, I can’t think of anything I’d want more for my children than for them to know who they are and to live in peace and joy.  I considered this as I hauled the bulging plastic yard bags full of grass clippings and pushed the mower back to the truck.  How often do we dismiss the simple yet straightforward counsel of our parents because we erroneously believe they just want to control us? It has taken me stepping into this role, so many years into my parenting, that I recognized the admonition to follow Him, to keep His commandments, has nothing to do with our Father in Heaven or our Savior needing strokes from us. Their kind, wise pleas are based entirely in love for us, knowing that if our hearts are directed toward them, if we are living as they’ve taught, we will be filled with joy and love, which is exactly what I want for my own children.  How grateful I am for the quiet prompting to do a little mowing on an early summer evening.  Not only did my love for my son grow as I served in a small way, but my love and gratitude swelled for my Heavenly Parents and their Son who are so generous and patient as I’m slowly learning to love as they do.

Alone

I have never spent a night alone.  Ever.  Not in college, not as a grown-up, not ever. But this past summer I’ve been forced into aloneness more than ever before—as we all have been.  It struck me poignantly one warm evening as I sat against the light all by myself on our deck overlooking our spacious yard.  My family members were away on a three-day hike and my other daughter was sick.  I’m used to hours and hours by myself as a mom, it’s become my norm.  But because any hint of illness in a family is suspicious these days, I kept to myself. Self-isolation being the new buzzword, I reached out to no one.  And thus felt my aloneness heavily sink in.  Normally I have my people, my plans, my to-dos, even if I have to create them.  But on a calm summer night with only myself, I had none of that.  As I sat with it all, I felt weighted down by the unexpected sadness and melancholy, almost despondency, that crept over me.  I looked over my large home, the gardens, the lawn, the flower beds, our labors of love, and I was unimpressed.  None of it meant a thing to me without my people beside me.

My overarching sense was how normal this was for so many of my friends.  This emptiness, this longing for company, this desire for someone to notice that I was on my own, was manageable and endurable.  But only, I think, because I knew it wasn’t my normal.  Ordinarily this would not be my life.  But, I considered, it could be.  And it probably will be at some point.  I contemplated how distressing that would—will—feel.  And I vowed in that moment to be a more aware friend, grateful for the peek into an existence other what I’m accustomed to.

Over the years I’ve had bouts of aloneness, as everyone has.  I think what this moment did for me was awaken me to the fact that it could very well become my reality sooner than I might think.  And it hit home that I’m at a place in my life where I can make a difference to those who are living this way every day.  I don’t know why it never occurred me this solidly before; I think maybe because up until recently my life has been so full that any downtime was a relief, not something to mourn.  These days every day is downtime and instead of looking for solitude, I’m looking for company. My current life already feels slow and independent and detached as my family goes about its activities for hours and hours and hours without needing me; I felt appreciation for what others endure every day.

Of course, this reflection caused me to recall flashes, times as a younger adult when I’d been completely on my own: moving into the dorms without parents or siblings for hundreds of miles, knowing no one on campus, my roommate not showing up for days later, feeling completely overwhelmed by my independence.  Later as I’d move into each new apartment I’d feel the same trepidation.  As I did when I had my first baby and was packing to move across the country. I was on my own during those long hushed days, such a transition from busy college student and full-time employee, so much quiet and solitude with hours stretched out before me without concrete plans or duties except to keep my son alive.  Arriving in the midwest without connection, again, for hundreds of miles, we knew absolutely no one.  Todd began vet school right away, leaving me on my own to meander through hours that yawned into days and months and years.

But a person forgets all that as soon as the intensity lessens.  In every scenario, details changed, roommates showed up, I met the people around me, I began classes and work and had more kids.  My life flipped upside down and all I dreamed of was alone time; loneliness, isolation, that quiet desperation for connection all a distant and rarely recalled memory.

Fast-forward twenty years and I’ve come full circle, kids all but gone, few friends in my phase of life with as much discretionary time.  “You’re so busy, you have so many friends,” others knowingly but erroneously tell me.  I try to call them out on it, to tell them they have no idea.  Obviously, everyone’s surrounded by people, it looks like we all have a full schedule and a lovely social life, but no one knows for real what my days are like.  It’s actually amusing, and unfortunate, that we might not know how life really feels like in another’s shoes. 

Of course—of course—I make an effort.  As we all do. Obviously, it’s all been a little strained lately as we tentatively extend ourselves, constantly trying to guess another’s comfort level of intimacy.  I had the virus in mind, but that’s always the game we play, isn’t it?  I’m like you, I text, I find excuses to see people, I check-in, I call, I write.  It’s not that I don’t have projects, a yard, a house, kids, and a stack of books to busy myself with, I could be more proactive and productive for sure.  But despite all the distractions, I still feel alone much of the time.

I have keyed in to this hot topic, the pandemic of loneliness, more keenly recently.  As we all know, the ramifications are brutal. “Social disconnection turn[s] out to be worse for health than big-name problems like obesity, alcoholism, and pollution.  ‘The medical community had never considered that social factors could be even more important than biological factors like high blood pressure, obesity, or high cholesterol levels.  Our findings showed that it had more of an impact.’  In other words, people who don’t have a strong social support mechanism—think trusted friends and family members—persistently experience poorer outcomes, including inflammation, cognitive decline, depression, reduced immune function, and earlier death.  Epidemiological proof of innate value of human relationships… revealed—that [relationships] are not just good for us spiritually or emotionally; they’re good for us physically” (BYU Today, Summer 2020).  I don’t think any of this is a surprise as we innately feel the heaviness and pull loneliness has on us; it’s not a stretch to see the connection between it and diminished health.

And yet, as the researcher pointed out, “I don’t know if there’s anyone who has never felt lonely.”  I hear it all the time actually when I talk to women over the phone, as I receive warm and grateful expressions of love in the mail, as requests for visits petition me to return soon.  I sense the earnest desire for connection.

As I contemplate what my own experience with aloneness felt like on my deck that beautiful but still evening, as I think back to my own alone-times, as I'm drawn to all the friends I love so much who are living their days on their own, I wonder what to do with it all. I don’t believe it’s always necessary or even beneficial to avoid discomfort, so at the time I simply sat with it and allowed it to wash over and through me.  It helps to feel some adversity on occasion; I actually want that for my kids because it’s precisely what propels us to increased compassion and empathy.  I can’t think of a more valuable way to hone into what another person’s struggle might feel like than to taste it ourselves.  And so, moving forward, I’m still thinking about what it felt like to be alone, to have no one to greet me or talk about my day with, to have no expectations and nothing to look forward to.  I’m still wondering how I can be a more mindful and more attentive friend.  In that moment, it would’ve made such a difference to see even a text or to have someone ask me over even if I couldn’t, just knowing that anyone was aware of and thinking of me.  I felt like everyone around me had a purpose, a plan, a vacation, a family, an invitation, a place. I felt the lack of all of it intensely. I vowed then to change, to care more.  And it made me want to provide warmth for others, not because I pity them, but because I know what it feels like.  And I want to love them better.

Early Saturday morning

Too stifling, even at that sleepy hour, so I left the air conditioning to run all night.  I stayed up late watching Father of the Bride 2 and Sleepless in Seattle with my daughter, shows she had somehow missed in her 15 years but that are classics she should have in her back pocket.  After a prayer, just the two of us, I climbed into my darkened bed way past my usual time.  And slept deeply, waking only once, briefly.  And then again at 5, my favorite time in the summer.  The light just creeping out, birds greeting the day, the refreshing coolness of the night invigorating my warm body.  I wasn’t ready to commit to the day, and yet I couldn’t remain in a dark air-conditioned state when the world itself was ready to be awake.  At that early hour I threw open every window in the house, pulled away the blinds, and beckoned the light and the cool air to come join me for just a little more sleep.  Intoxicating, peaceful dreaminess ensued as I rested cocooned by my nature sounds and feels: sprinklers in the distance, an occasional vehicle on a far-off road, the bird songs of course, the crispness caressing my exposed shoulders encouraging me to nestle down just a little further into the covers.  I sighed with contentment and slept just a little while more.

I drifted off without care, it’s Saturday after all, no pressing responsibilities or deadlines or appointments, a day to myself without my family needing me.  I relish driving the streets at this early hour when I must.  Downtown loses its mystery in the early morning as I take my daughter to her Farmer’s Market post at 7:30, its crowds dispersed, its buildings exposed, its quiet halls still. Normally there’s so much cacophony and distraction, I delight in the opportunity of having the streets to myself.  Some mornings I might venture to garage sales or take a walk and maybe even once a year we’ll go to breakfast.  I might spend time in the yard, wet from its bath.  I may feel ambitious enough to tackle a home project or start a load of laundry, although I hate to interrupt the silent sleepiness of the others.  Every now and then, if I’m all alone, I’ll prop my pillows up and read for a spell.  But mostly I write.  Tiptoeing down the narrow staircase, I’ll find my familiar perch and feel an alive and well, albeit drowsy, version of myself here at my desk.  More than nearly any other activity in a day, writing feels like coming home. I luxuriate in moments such as these and look forward to them as few others. I fall back asleep with no expectation and no agenda, just blissful peace and gratitude for a morning such as this.

As I awake only a bit later, I see that 6:30 has arrived, as it always does; and I’m ready.  I can sleep no longer.  I must greet the day with my whole heart and see what it has to offer.  There’s no way to pretend I can’t hear it or smell it or see it or even feel it.  Everything within me chooses to be with it rather than miss it. Sleep can be had at any time of the day, but these early hours are fleeting, rejuvenating, refreshing, and calming, reminding me that our world is a beautiful home, that there is still much good in it, that this morning is a gift to savor.

Mother of the Groom

I think it started when I was to pick out a mother-of-the-bride dress; he gave me the color and site I was to order from, and so started the surreal introduction to being one of the mothers.  I remember back being 22, youthful, engaged and perusing Bride in my college apartment.  To be on the other end feels old, and I wonder all the time how we got here so soon. Not here to the wedding festivities, rather here in life. It's been a month already since they got married. But it wasn’t until the Sunday after the reception that I realized my tears were coalescing with the water from my early-morning shower.  I hadn’t expected this, they just sort of dripped incoherently down my drained body without any provocation. I hadn’t really given myself the space to consider much of anything up to this point. Maybe similar to planning a funeral, thankfully there are tasks to distract us from our pain and our thoughts and the permanence of what’s transpired. But it was official now that both the wedding and receptions were over and it was the day after.  I had to face the altered stage we were in, and out of nowhere I felt a sense of grief, unanticipated and from deep within.

Obviously, we as parents recognize our influence on our children and their lives is fleeting, our time with them so limited.  But in the middle years we hardly pay attention to such adages.  Days are full, they’re so present, demands are high.  We take so much of it for granted because we feel that every day will bring more of the same as the day before it.  I did.  I try to tell my young friends how quickly it goes, pleading with them—although I know it will make no difference; they must experience it for themselves.  But especially once they hit high school.  The leaving accelerates.  Sports, jobs; they are gone for so much of the day.  Even more so once they start to drive.  The rug’s pulled out from under us even though we felt that we had a firm stance on it.  We saw inklings of their independence emerging but talked ourselves out of it thinking surely we will still ride together, we will still go to the pool and go shopping together, surely we will still be major players in their lives.  I didn’t realize how suddenly and completely that would all change.

And yet here I am again.  I obviously knew what was coming.  I’d seen it from months back.  But it’s like reading the last chapters of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, my bible as a young and naive pregnant woman.  I don’t remember much past the delivery chapter.  Was there more?  Did I miss the last section because I was so caught up in the birth and thought that was the climax, the whole point of the book? Maybe I thought I knew enough by that point.  Maybe I didn’t realize birthing was the easy part.

No one told me about the after.  The loneliness I’d feel as a new mom, isolated, sore, alone, exhausted.  Maybe I should’ve kept reading.  I didn’t know how long the healing would take, I didn’t realize how disorienting and trying this new phase would be.  I think I had the second book, What to Expect the First Year.  But it’s all sort of fuzzy looking back; I must’ve read it. Did I read it? Did it help?  Would it have made a difference if I had known what to expect?  Would it have made any of it any easier?

Likewise, if my more seasoned friends had warned me, if I had anticipated these feelings my first-born son’s union would provoke, would it have made a difference?  Does knowing ever make loss or change any less personal, less challenging?

I’m not trying to be dramatic.  I’m not that kind of person or mom.  But it feels so final once the ceremonies and celebrations are over. I think that’s why it struck me so suddenly and forcefully.  It really is over.  My season as an influencer, the relationship I’d been so accustomed to, all I’d known about how to be a mom. 

I accidentally cried to Todd about this on our morning walk that day, confessing my weak moment in the shower.  And I was surprised, but not really, to hear him sniffling beside me as we welcomed the dawn.  Our new day.  Our next stage of life.  That we should’ve been used to by now.  He’s been gone for years, they’ve loved each other for months.  But here it was for real, official now.  He reminded me that this is what we raised him to do, and it’s the same point we’re trying to get our other kids to: independence, to not need us in the same ways, to be capable and confident enough to move out and move on away from us, to create lives of their own.  Of course.  That’s exactly what we’ve strived for as parents.  They’re their own family now.  And have been for awhile now when I really think about it.  Adults.  A team.  Two who have left their parents and now cleave to each other.  I get it.  I’m beyond proud of them.  And so happy for them.  And for us.  Even as it grieved me to sense the finality of it.

I know that’s a dismal way to look at our family dynamics, but I can’t help acknowledging that those chapters are over, this must be the end.  It seems there is simply no other way to think about it.  And yet I sense and must somehow remember that there was more in my book.  That just as his birth was not the end, having a son be married will likely not be either.  There was a recovery period where we both took some time to get used to our new surroundings, our new normal.  And maybe that’s how I can reframe my thinking now.  Certainly all is not lost. Surely there is still something to look forward to.

If I read ahead, I might see family gatherings, trips, graduations, dinners, holidays, maybe even grandkids. Just as I had an entire lifetime of firsts with him starting 24 years ago, maybe these new firsts can be just as exhilarating, exciting, and joyful. But in ways I hadn’t considered.

As I pondered on the possibilities, I felt a surge of insight.  I noticed an answer to many, many hopeful prayers, ones I scarcely dared pray aloud, more like wishes on a distant star.  I was granted a paradigm shift in that moment that is so obvious to me now but soothed my lonely soul that early morning. A daughter.  I’d wanted more kids ever since we decided we were done more than 15 years ago.  Especially the older I’ve become and the further removed from the cacophony of young life, the more I’ve longed for more; I wish over and over we’d had another.  But this now is even better.  To have her join with us, to know her family, to not have the same burdensome role of active mothering but to just watch, to just enjoy them, to be a resource if needed but mostly just a source of love. I feel overwhelmed with gratitude rather than sadness, and I’m seeing this transition not so much as a loss, but rather a gain.  And maybe, like my book, their marriage is simply a beginning just as birth was not the end.  I just didn’t read far enough ahead to know that often what we see as the finale is only the opening act of the rest of the play.

Learning from the kids

My entire school years experience was shrouded by insecurity and jealousy.  As sure as I had white, freckly skin, I had a jealous soul.  And what a burden it was!!  It tainted so many decisions and relationships; it felt like noticing an eyelash stuck under my contact in the middle of algebra, irritating but seemingly unresolvable at the time.  With this background in mind, I was giving one of my pep talks to the kids while we were driving just the other day.  But you know how kids are and how things like this often go, they ended up teaching me the lesson instead.

I lose track of details like context, but basically we were talking about their friends at school and I was telling them it’s not good manners to tell who they got together with over the weekend or who came to play.  Unless someone asks them directly, it’s not polite to just to throw information out there. You just wouldn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings, they may feel left out if other friends got together and they weren’t invited.  Be considerate, kind.  Pretty straight-forward doctrine I thought.

But that’s where it turned on me.  Without pause, they corrected me. “I’d be happy if my friends got together.  I want them to have fun together.”  They both concurred, “Yeah, it’s fun for them.”  Completely blindsided me.  I couldn’t believe they didn’t get what I was talking about.  I knew their dad lived like that, but I thought he was an outlier, not interested in playing on the same social field as the rest of us. I figured most kids naturally grow up with the same mindset I had: fettered and encumbered by friendship triangles and dramatic altercations.  But for whatever reason, our kids have never really been affected the way I had been.

Somehow in just one generation, things have apparently turned downside up.  Of course I was surprised at their declarations, but more than anything I was elated!  Thrilled beyond words that my kids aren’t weighted down by the same insecurities I’d been tethered to my whole life.  They are completely unshackled and relaxed. What a blessing to be so liberated at such a young age, and what a healthy perspective.

As I mulled over their angle, and then as we finished our drive, I recognized something that surprised me even more than what they’d just told me.  I agreed with them. I realized I didn’t feel that way anymore either. I am happy when different groups of friends get together.  I love it when good things happen to people I care about.  In fact, I pray for it.  I hope for their successes and well-being. I’ve prayed many times for my friends to find other friends, to be invited and included. I’m truly astonished that I can say this.  Because it’s been such a long and arduous odyssey.  But, in all honesty, I have to admit I’m not even entirely sure it’s completely over some days.

Because on some level, I’m still occasionally at odds with my natural tendency, maybe like a recovering alcoholic for whom drink might still hold allure in an insecure moment. I’ll admit I may have a few strings attached to my former weakness, and every now and then a social news rundown still conjures up feelings of rejection or wonderment as to why I hadn’t been invited too.   But it isn’t as consuming or heartbreaking as I made it be back when I was their age, and I try to reframe it all and be glad for friends who are mingling without me, grateful they’ve found friendship and commonality. Even this small mindful advancement still surprises me when I really take stock of where I’ve been. I haven’t arrived, but with my kids up ahead, I feel them silently cheering me on, not realizing the influence their quiet confidence has on me. 

It sort of blows my mind that they’re so at ease with themselves and their social network.  So calm and level where I would’ve been teary and down on myself. They simply shrug their shoulders when there’s drama surrounding them or when they haven’t been included, and we’re on to the next topic. I admire this so much, they inspire me and remind me that theirs is a better way.  It’s not as if all is rosy with friendships; jr. high and high school inescapably require figuring out relationships and navigating some rough patches.  But I love that they somehow got a head start, that they don’t seem to worry about the same things that have impeded me for so much of my life.  And I am humbled. Grateful for our kids who, like yours, continue to remind me to open my heart, to be vulnerable and accepting, kids who are the real educators in our family. 

An Easter week

Why is it the one day we’re allowed and even encouraged to sleep in we can’t?  I was awake in the fives.  6:36 and I knew Todd was awake as well.  It’s one thing when it’s warm, we’ll take off on our five mile walk down the deserted street, noting deer and pheasants, an occasional farmer in a truck.  But with snow and temps in the 20s, we’re good to stay inside.  I asked what he’d do if he got up.  But that’s just it, it’s not Saturday, there aren’t any projects, no Lowe’s trips, no breakfast out, no hunting or fishing to rush off to.  It’s Easter morning.  I told him I just had to write a bit.  He could tend to the chicks and make a fire and do the dishes, then we could make breakfast.  I also need to finish Little Women from last night; I’m constantly missing the last twenty minutes of movies when we’re downstairs on the couch and it’s dark and cozy and I’m full of ice cream.  Good grief.

Anyway, this is the least spiritual introduction to Easter morning you’ve probably ever read.  But I’ve never really cared for Easter as a grown up. As a kid I loved it so much.  Baskets full of treats.  Dressing up for church.  A special dinner with the extended family.  I don’t know that my mom ever took us to an egg hunt, and I don’t recall her hiding eggs in our little apartment; I think I did that for my little sisters? I think we may have dyed eggs, but I honestly don’t remember what that would’ve looked like, I can’t picture it.  As a mom, I’ve done all the parts all of you do, but it’s stressful to me to get basket fillers.  Like stocking stuffers.  Too much? Probably not enough. What kinds of candy do they like again? I can never remember.  When they were little it was easy: bubbles, play dough, a little board book about Jesus.  I just want to get it right, and so expectations like birthdays and holidays kind of test me.  Plus I’m so not into pastels and chicks and crosses.

So this is where I am.  I went to sleep after our movie with a heavy, heavy heart.  I just remembered that I didn’t do a single thing for our son in college.  Not a bag of candy, not a card, not money to buy a ham, nothing.  I didn’t cry.  Not like that.  But my heart ached.  I had thought about it earlier in the week for just the briefest of seconds.  And then it left me.  In another year I wouldn’t have been so hard on myself, my mom could have him for a nice dinner.  But this year he’s left to his own devises.  He doesn’t have extra money for stuff like that.  Why didn’t I at least send him some Starburst jelly beans and a love note?  I woke up this morning remembering my lapse.  And remembering how I prayed myself to sleep for something good to happen to him today to make up for my lack.  What that would be, I have no idea, I’m not confident even Christ can find a way to make candy appear at a random college kid’s apartment during a quarantine.  I feel like a failure.  I can do something for finals, but Easter? Breaks my heart to not have fulfilled my mom part.  But still I prayed and plead.  Not for candy, but for it to be ok.  Tiny failure I know.  But my heart is always tender when it comes to my kids and my lapses.

As I’ve thought about Easter this week, I had plenty of time, I should’ve had a solid schedule and plan.  But my study was all over the place.  I’ve listened to talks, I’ve read about the events and people, I’ve watched little videos, I’ve written a bit.  But I don’t think it’s really impacted our family, we kind of just go through the motions and hope something sticks. I think our lives are too easy to realize what it all means.

But in the tiniest ways this week, I’ve had Christ more on my mind than usual, maybe because I’ve been thinking of the days of his last week, maybe because of the uncertainties in the world, maybe—hopefully—just because he’s becoming that much more to me.

I thought of him as I shoveled wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of heavy manure and carted it to garden boxes and tried to tip the wheelbarrow load into the boxes without losing it all.  Heavy, hard work for me; I don’t think lifting weights is helping, I’m just not that strong.  I ended up losing an occasional load.  It was hard to get the wheelbarrow up and over the edges. I looked forward to the end.  Until Todd told me we’d just go through them all and keep filling till our pile is gone.  We moved rock as well, even heavier.  We moved each rock by hand. I thought about Christ and how heavy his loads in life—and death—were.  How he had to keep going and going and going when he wanted to quit.  Because it all felt so heavy.

I thought about him when I skinned my knee.  Such a small wound.  Of course there was blood.  It stung when I washed it off later.  I couldn’t kneel like usual.  I felt it in the sheets even.  So small.  But it reminded me of his pains.  How on earth could he have lasted?  I hate that part of the movie. I always look away, I can’t bear it.  I thought about him as I felt my own sliver of pain this week.

I thought about his temptations as I’ve been scrolling through hundreds of movies.  I want so much to be close to him, to have his spirit with me.  I’m trying so hard to be worthy of it and of him.  For me, this entails making choices.  I know people have real temptations.  I have very few.  A crude movie, the enticement to make a jab instead of turning the other cheek, the desire to just give in to laziness and not checking in with people, the sigh that I’ll have to get out of bed if we want to do family prayer.  Or my own prayer.  I haven’t been tempted in huge ways, I don’t know that I ever have.  But I can’t help but think about him always making the right choice.  His example has given me strength as I’ve practiced doing the same.

I thought about how thirsty I was working in the heat the other day.  I thought about his plea, “I thirst.”  And how easy it would be for me to drink cool clean water or at least wet my mouth.  I thought about how uncomfortable and consuming that desire would’ve been.  I had the smallest experience with it, but it made me appreciate his calmness, his power over himself, his humanness.

I thought about him at times when I felt hungry.  It’s a consuming, inescapable state, I’m not good at just going about my day and ignoring it.  How he did that for any length of time, I have no idea. I also happened upon a picture of prisoners from camps, skeletons unlike any other pictures I’d seen.  I couldn’t reconcile the fact that they were standing up; they looked more desperate than those in death piles.  I felt weak.  Selfish.  Small.  Unaccustomed to hardship, deprivation, and true misery.  I thought about the comforts of my regular life.  And I can’t help but ask myself why.  And what am I contributing, what am I even doing with everything I have?  I wonder about this a lot.  And how he carried on hungry.

I’ve felt rejected by my own. :)  My little kids don’t seem to want anything to do with spiritual church stuff.  I feel like I have the most important answer to life to give them but it’s not real to them yet.  He’s not real.  Not in the way that he’s who they turn to when life is troubling.  Mostly because I don’t know that they’ve had troubling experiences yet.  I’ll admit I was exactly the same way.  Probably most of us have been.  I wish I had the power and persuasion to help them know him at a younger time of their lives.  But I know from him that love is patient and kind, not rushed and harried and urgent.  Because of him, I’m ok with our slower pace.  With where we all are in our journey.

I thought about my heart this week.  I’ve of course felt it crack.  I’ve felt the heavy weight of being misjudged, of feeling anxious and tense, of the unknown, of not knowing how to proceed to make things better.  I thought about how Christ maybe already knows how all of it feels.  We talked about this earlier this week as a family; that’s just it, he does know.  We talked about him experiencing regular life so he understands what we’re going through.  We explained that just because our experiences as parents aren’t exactly like the ones the kids are going through, we have gone through similar things.  We know what sadness, jealousy, failure, uncertainty, grief, and longing all feel like.  In some way, I have no idea how, I know Jesus is the same but in a more complete, perfect sense.  How he knows the fragile nature of a mother heart, I have no idea.  How he knows what it’s like to have regret over failings and missed opportunities, same.  So many things I wonder about.  How, I just don’t know.  I just know.

So yeah, my thoughts have been all over the place this week.  I never made it through all my scriptures I planned on.  I’ve got a hodgepodge of information, images, ideas, and feelings floating around in my head and heart.  I have regrets.  I wonder why I never did those fun Easter traditions, why we don’t make it a more spiritual week, and how I could’ve done more to instill a love and awe in my children for the One person I love more than anything.  I wonder if it can still be ok.  And as I think about it all, I think for sure.  Definitely.  Everything I know and love about my Savior says yes.  There is time.  There is no rush.  There are answers.  There is peace.  There is a way he can fill in all the gaps.  There is a way to make more of myself than I currently am.  There is power in loving like he loves.  There is the answer to everything.

And so as we greet the early snowy Easter morning, I have to really think about life all those years ago.  It’s crazy hard to wrap my head around.  I can’t imagine being a character in his story.  I wonder how I would feel and be.  I wonder how I will feel and be.  Because I know I’ll have a chance to see him.  To thank him.  I don’t think I’ll have any words.  But I know because of how I feel in my heart that it’s all real.  He is the one thing in life I’m sure about.  And so I’m grateful for all the thoughts.  All the experiences I have that remind me of him.  All the tiny discomforts, the smallest of trials, the inklings of heartbreak.  I’m thankful for my Savior who accepts me right where I am, who knows me and my heart and who is always right up close waiting and ready and willing to be my everything.

The measure of success

I talked about bowing out of current diet trends talk recently.  Partly because I don’t agree with it all, but mostly because I’m not convinced that a number on a scale ever tells the whole story, even though I feel like that’s what our society is obsessed with.

It’s got me thinking about what success looks like.  Would I be “successful” if I lost the 15 pounds I’ve put on over the past five years? And am unhealthy and unsuccessful if I don’t? I have friends who are over the moon after losing 30 pounds and then so beaten down when they gain it back; they tie their feelings about themselves to an arbitrary number and end up feeling discouraged and like failures.

Can’t we feel successful even if we don’t look like the model on the cover of Runner’s World or Sports Illustrated?  We all know celebrities or people in our own lives who are skinny at a cost, who rely on drugs or extreme regimens and eating disorders.  We all have friends who can eat anything they want and never exercise and somehow manage to stay slender. Are we to believe that’s what success looks like? I personally believe success comes from incorporating consistent healthy behaviors in our everyday lives, from moving, from being mindful about the foods we choose, and from caring for our emotional well-being.  Regardless of where our numbers land on a scale, we can feel successful for today—even in just this moment—when we make incremental positive choices, whether it’s skipping the doughnut, drinking more water, walking around the block, or choosing salad over fries.  The way I look at it, success is in the effort, the progress, and the habits we’re creating, as well as the confidence and strength we’re gaining.

I guess I’m not comfortable with the idea of success being determined simply on the basis of what’s happening on the outside. And yet, of course, I recognize that idea is counter-intuitive and goes against what we’re taught to believe.  Our culture is all about numbers, times, inches, weights, and money: measurable outcomes.  I prefer to think there is a lot of “success” going on behind the scenes.  With so much out of our control, how discouraging to think our efforts don’t count unless a goal is reached, measured, and recorded. 

What about grades? Is that the barometer of our achievement?  To what extent will students go to secure good grades? Cheat, cram, buy, or plagiarize? Forfeit their health? Disregard other areas of their lives? Is the Valedictorian the most successful student in the class? Really? Obviously, I’m all for working diligently and believe we should make sacrifices for an education.  However, I think we’re missing the boat if the only benchmark we set for ourselves is what letters show up on a report card.  We tell our kids all the time that school is for learning.  About themselves and others, how people work, how to deal with tough situations and personalities, how to manage your time and money and emotions, how to balance work and classes, how to get along with roommates, how to assimilate new ideas, how to share opinions tactfully and thoughtfully, etc.  There’s no way to define how victorious they’ve become in these other facets of their education if all we focus on are the grades.  In fact, I was listening to a podcast about the power of kindergarten teachers instilling in their students “soft skills,” people skills.  The researchers followed these kids throughout their lives and discovered they outperformed and were more “successful” (in even traditional ways) than those students who simply focused on academics and grades.  There is power in being able to relate to others, in enjoying learning for the sake of learning, in being able to think creatively, in being able to express ideas, things we may downplay if all we promote is simply the idea of good grades.

What about music lessons?  Surely there’s a measure of success there.  Is it finishing all the books?  Is it being able to play at a certain level? Is it?  I initially thought yes.  But I’ve changed my mind.  Simply being exposed to music enriches a person’s life.  Having years of lessons teaches self discipline, respect, and work.  She has the background to appreciate the efforts of musicians; she has learned so many songs she was never able to play just a couple of years ago.  You never know, she may end up teaching lessons down the road.  He notices key changes in popular music, his genres are all over the place, he attends concerts for fun, and he’s loved his years in band.  Neither likely to be accepted to Juliard, but has any of it really been a waste?  Were they or we unsuccessful?  What about our kids who tried an instrument and quit?  I simply choose to believe those were also successes.  Because now they know what they don’t like.  They were able to bow out, to choose for themselves, to live with the consequences of not being able to play an instrument, to know they were the ones who decided to not take advantage of an opportunity presented to them.  All valuable lessons.

Businesses? Certainly, the profit margin tells the story.  But I don’t think that’s all there is.  Sure, some companies could make more.  But they pay their employees well and provide generous benefits.  They use local providers and quality, sustainable products.  They’re conscientious as they consider the impacts on the environment; they give back.  A company mindful of more than the bottom line is a winner in my book.

What about surgeries, medical procedures, science experiments? Failures are stepping stones to discovery.  What went wrong can lead us closer to knowing what will go right.  Obviously, a death is never deemed a success and it seems calloused to even consider that.  But success comes as a doctor or scientist learns from his mistakes and improves his technique for next time and so many times to come.  We’re all familiar with the stories of failures in science that led to great discoveries. 

How about marriage?  Does the number of years a person’s been married mean anything?  I think maybe.  But maybe not.  Maybe they have grit and determination to make the best of a tough situation; that’s definitely noteworthy.  But maybe they’re just biding their time till the kids are gone.  Maybe they’re just co-habitating, living parallel lives.  On the other hand, maybe they’re committed to stick with it through the good and bad.  Maybe they really are working and improving.  Only they know the answer to that.  But I don’t really know that 25 years tells much of a story.  There are people who love more deeply and have learned more in ten years than many learn in a whole lifetime of marriage experiences.  In my mind, the quality of marriage trumps number of years.

I think about my time as a leader at church.  If I based success on numbers related to how many people we’ve convinced to come back, I’ve lost. If I had to base it on how many meetings we’ve had or how many problems we’ve solved, I’m out.  If I try to connect it to whether or not our newsletter got done every month, if we visited every woman on her birthday, if we made everyone happy, there’s no way. If I had to come up with what success could look like in this realm, all I care about is showing the women what love looks and feels like. I have absolutely no control over who comes or leaves, what they’re getting out of church, or where they are with their feelings.  The only thing I can do is show up with love.  I can visit, text, call, write, and pray, yes.  But there’s no way to measure the good that’s happening in these women’s lives; that’s all inside them.  So I choose to view success in the form of love.

I even think this applies to relationships with family and friends and the world in general. Are we successful when everyone likes us?  I think that’s a common misnomer these days, as noted in our drive to accumulate “likes” and “followers.”  But what people think of us is completely out of our control; there is no way to assess whether we’re a success in that arena given that kind of criteria.  I choose to define success in relationships if I do my best to love people.  To imagine where they’re coming from and to give the benefit of the doubt.  To be classy and kind even when it’s hard.  To accept where they are and meet them there.  If I can maintain that standard for myself, what others choose to think or feel is up to them.  And I know there’s absolutely no way everyone will understand or like me.  But that doesn’t mean we have lost or failed.  We succeed when we show integrity and love.

We were anything but successful preschool parents if we’re talking about them knowing letters or numbers or beginning to read before kindergarten.  We refused to get into all that.  We figured the best start we could give them was a love for learning.  We strived to encourage creativity, questioning, exploration, and loads of hands-on playtime.  So I couldn’t even tell you when the kids learned to read, I have no idea.  But preschool was awesome for them.  Their teacher’s philosophy aligned perfectly with ours and she gave them a powerful start for school because she allowed them to learn through play instead of insisting on meeting some scholastic standards.  Loved it, they’re all inquisitive, independent learners: success in our book.

We’re also sort of out there when it comes to parenting in general, if you’re just peeking in.  And yet, regardless of what it all looks like, we would do it mostly the same all over again.  We believe it’s so much more important to teach than to have it look pretty.  We believe in keeping relationships strong rather than keeping up pretenses.  We’d rather have kids who think for themselves than having them feel they have to conform.  When they were little, I would rather have them learn and create and play freely than keep things tidy and picked up all the time.  I wanted them to be able to entertain themselves and think outside the box instead of needing guidance or a device at every turn. I embraced messes as a means to learning. As a result, nothing about our family or home will ever make it into a magazine or write up; it’s all still a work in progress.  We have very few family rules, we try as much as possible to let them choose at every junction, we don’t micromanage or censor, we give them leeway and try our best to trust them.  Obviously, it’s backfired occasionally.  And it will.  But we feel successful because we’ve taught them to think for themselves and that it’s ok to make messes and to fail.

Even with something as tender to me as my faith and beliefs, I simply can’t base the success of my parenting on something as personal and out of my control as whether or not my kids embrace it.  All we can do is teach them what we’ve found helpful and what we believe.  It is up to them to accept it, tweak it, reject it, or simply put it aside for a time.  As hard as that is for some to accept, it doesn’t mean parents aren’t successful.  In fact, to me it means we were.  Because the last thing I want is kids who appear to be compliant to appease their parents.  I’d much rather have kids who think for themselves and who have invested the time and effort to come to their own conclusions. 

I just read this recently.  “It is possible for young people to be raised in a Latter-day Saint home, attend all the right Church meetings and classes, even participate in ordinances in the temple, and then walk away…. Why does this happen?  In many cases it is because, while they have been going through the motions of spirituality, they were not truly converted.  They were fed but not nourished” (Stephen W. Owen), meaning sometimes we insist on our families following traditions without understanding the why behind all we encourage and allowing them to really digest our teachings.

I think God is merciful, kind, and gentle as we’re ambitiously trying.  Or even desiring to make changes and to do good.  In scripture, “for his sacrifice shall be more sacred unto me than his increase” for “it’s not our successes but rather our sacrifice and efforts that matter to the Lord” (Terence W. Vinson).  “The Lord does not expect perfection from us at this point… But He does expect us to become increasingly pure” (Henry B. Eyring).

This is where I’m coming from.  To me, it’s not an arrival, a winning ribbon, or a number.  Success is movement and growth, learning and exploration, endeavoring and showing up, acting congruently with our beliefs and doing what we can to make the world a better place. Our “failures” have made us who we are and have brought us to this place.  We’re successful because we’re here.  Because we get up each day and try again.  Because we’re figuring things out.  Because we’re fighters.  Because we’re getting better at loving.  So many ways to measure success. Let's just not limit ourselves to a number.