Thinning the canes

A glorious warm spell in early March calls for an outdoor work day.  Part of it was dedicated to clearing out the old plant debris that would become fuel for the flames in our fire pit.  One of my favorite yard tasks.  I’ve always liked the clean look of a weeded bed, the fun of pulling out dead dry bits from last fall and the exercise of raking out under plants.  And so clearing out the raspberry canes has been a job I don’t mind.  Todd and I take turns, just depends who’s home and has time.  It’s pretty straightforward.  Find the canes that are peeling and gray—the old ones—clip them as near to the ground as you can and pull them out.  So much less cumbersome without leaves of fall.  More comfortable in the cool of spring when it feels good to wear long sleeves still; they’re prickly and I’ve had battle wounds lasting throughout the week.  But they remind me of my accomplishment, a badge of honor in a weird way.

As we often do when we’re working together in the yard, we notice the analogies and kind of smile to each other and ourselves that gardening and working the land is certainly not only about yields and harvests.  Although we love that lesson too.   As we work in our raspberries, we notice how the canes are like getting rid of old habits or parts of our lives that just aren’t productive any more.  I’m more sentimental than Todd when it comes to our plants.  I feel like we’re giving up on them when we do things like this.  The same reason I hate thinning carrots and onions, how do you choose which ones get to stay and which ones are no longer needed?  In my mind I want to keep them all.  But I’ve been around raspberries and gardens long enough to understand the cycle, I can tell when it’s time to let some go.

I’ve felt that way with a few of my habits.  Some of our activities.  Weaknesses.  Even an occasional friend.  Some are easier to get rid of than others.  Like a thin cane near the edge of the box.  A silly habit comes to mind.  I’d read Dear Abby with toast mostly every day of my life since I was a teenager.  But last year I simply decided to spend those couple of minutes reading something else instead.  Something a little better.  Or, if my family was with me, just talk to them.  I wasn’t learning much from it, some of it was disturbing, most of it I couldn’t relate to.   I could just tell it was a habit that needed to be relegated to the burn pile.  That cane was near the edge of the box, so I hardly felt a scratch or have taken a glance back.  This is my favorite kind.  An easy tweak that provides space to stretch.

But others, like the woody cane in the middle, surrounded by other prickly stems, are tough.  Sometimes I skirt around them, ignoring them till next time.  But in the back of my mind I know they need to go.  It takes me awhile to muster the courage to cut some of these things out of my life, and I still haven’t gotten to them all, but I know where most of them are.  These are things like a boyfriend or job or major you know just isn’t going to work out.  Too many commitments that you love but knowing in your heart there isn’t enough gardener to go around.  Admitting the box is only this big.  It’s knowing this is not really a sacrifice, but rather an investment, that will produce a greater yield in the future. 

Weaknesses are hard.  They seem embedded with roots so deep that I end up wrestling with them.  I’ll even take a break and come back sometimes.  And of course they’re the ones right in the middle, painful to remove.  But this is where I’ve had the most experience.  I’d like to level the residual stump so I don’t have to think about it when I look at our raspberry patch up close.  But, for good or for bad, it’s a reminder of what used to grow there.  And so it’s not hard for me to acknowledge that jealousy and insecurity and gossip and unkindness have lived in my patch. I can still see their little stumps.  And every now and then I wonder if I really did pluck them after all.  I sometimes think I see something growing in a spot I thought I'd cleared.

I know the job will never be entirely done.  A pity.  And a blessing.  This task isn’t like planting or removing a tree, building a garden box or fence, or putting in bulbs or a trellis.  Some kind of project that stays done.  We feel like we’re doing it all the time. Like I said, it takes some mental effort on my part to pull the canes up; they were  producing beautiful berries last summer.  It’s hard for me to admit that it’s not working any more.  An old habit that we derived some kind of thrill from, a relationship that really isn’t thriving any more, a weakness that is so engrained in us but isn’t producing any good fruit.  These are the canes we need to take a look at.  It's time. 

Last year our harvest was a wash.  And I think people have years like that. I certainly mourn what could’ve been, I think we all do.  I missed the early mornings and darkening evenings with Todd and the kids picking berries.  I missed making jam and raspberry pies.  Of course I did.  But I guess it gave us time to do other things.  We had more time for walks and games, more time to spend on the other plants.  Same with an illness or losing a special loved one, you can hardly believe it’s happening to you.  But even with the down days of last year, it was nice to know people cared, to have visitors, to be able to slow down and assess what really matters.  Even in our disappointments, there seems to be compensation.

And so yes, scratches come, canes go, reminders of what once was remain in the raspberry patch.  But it’s a cycle of life and I understand.  I’m appreciating the lessons I’m learning and the fruit that we’ve enjoyed in so many seasons of our lives.  I know the sting of the scratches from removing hard things will eventually subside and the wounds will heal .  And I know that we will have good times ahead because even with maybe a less bountiful year, we’ve still been able to make good memories working together.  We try to assess what went wrong and what we can do better.  We use the extra time to do some thinning.  I know it will be ok.  Because I can't help notice pushing up right beside the old cane stubs are two little green growths, barely perceptible.  But these must be the new friendships, better habits and unknown strengths we didn’t even realize were percolating just under the surface.  Waiting for room to rise up.

Since he's been gone

I remember back to last year at this time.  She’s going through it now.  I just had lunch with a friend the other day and we talked all about it.  She wanted to know, through her glistening eyes, if what she was feeling was normal.  The beginning of the end.  The last few months with our sons.  I told her the only thing I could.  I have no idea if it’s normal.  All I know is I was going through the exact same thing last year about this time.

I couldn’t help but chalk up every family experience as one of our last.  I don’t know why I started grieving at such a strange time.  Maybe after the cresting of our last holiday season as a family, I couldn’t help but notice how quickly the wave was about to break on shore.  The days we planned to drive him to college and say goodbye were like the people on the beach, so distant and blurry we hardly paid attention before.  But now they were looming larger, coming into focus so quickly we could no longer pretend we didn’t see them.  I recognized how fast the past 17 years had gone and I knew I just had a blink of a ride left.  I had no previous experience to go on.  All I knew was what a broken heart felt like.  What it felt like to lose someone I loved.   What it felt like to move to a new phase.  So I knew it would be hard.  And it would hurt.  I was already sad for what would inevitably come in a matter of months.

But somehow the anticipation was harder than actually hugging him goodbye.  Last spring was a teary time as I looked ahead to life without him.  I think maybe I grieved the loss before the loss.

And now I can hardly believe it was a whole year ago, that he’s been at college since August, that we hardly ever see him any more, that neither one of us really anticipates living under the same roof ever again.  But for whatever reason I’m not broken up about it.

I think because it’s like saying goodbye to bottles but hello to sippy cups, goodbye to the crib and hello to a big boy bed, goodbye to long days at home with just each other and hello to preschool, farewell to needing help with buttons and peanut butter and the bike.  Hello to talks about the government and music groups and God.  As hard as it is to pack all the memories into four sturdy boxes and a few photo books and move on, our lives haven’t come to a screeching halt after all.  Just as a wise friend’s doctor taught her as a nesting soon-to-be-mother, there is still life after the baby comes, and I’m seeing that we will still have a life together even after he goes to college.  I knew that.  We all know that logically.  It just feels at the time that you might never recover from the heartbreak.  Because you can’t fathom what might be Better.

It seems that the hole his absence created has been filling in a bit.  There’s a new hierachy at home, we’ve shuffled the chores and seating arrangements around, we’re an even number now.  We still don’t quite have a plan, even after all these months, for Mondays, his assigned day for family prayers.  So we kind of muddle through and take turns, but otherwise his room was taken over while his mattress pad was seemingly still warm.  His belongings are relegated to the storage room.  Maybe that all sounds cold, unfeeling.  But to us it’s just a matter of practicality, what with a family of seven and only so many bedrooms.  I’m not even talking about the logistics really when I suggest we’ve gotten used to him being gone.  It’s been a walk down memory lane to have him live in exactly the same spot we did.  To be experiencing so much of what we did as freshmen.  I think what has helped is seeing him grow and mature and learn.  In ways you can’t maybe do at home with parents. I feel like he could only learn so much staying here with us.  It was time, as with most transitions, to stretch and step into the dark a bit, into a new phase of life.  And so all the lessons he’s sharing with us, all the friendships he’s made and all the new and exciting things he’s been able to do just thrill me.  Nothing makes a mom happier than to have her kids happy.  Except when they are happy and learning.

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not perfect.  I hate that we can’t be physically with him to hug him and to just sit and talk in person.  I miss his laugh and funny ways he was with all of us.  I miss his presence late at night when he’d come to our room to talk, to tell us about his biking or snowboarding or knives, what they talked about in class, what he wanted to be when he grew up.  Of course.  I wish we could look into his eyes and see how he’s really doing.  I hate not knowing.

I miss hearing him working in his garage.  That is maybe the deepest hole of all because we haven’t found a big enough drop cloth to cover his workshop.  Knowing that it will never be our reality again really does make me sort of nostalgic and sad.  Strange what affects you, isn’t it?

But the gaping hole I felt expanding in my heart last spring no longer has raw edges.  Obviously I wish we had a few more days at the splash park, a few more days lugging home over-stuffed bags of picture books from the library.  Of course I long for more nights all in the same tent.  For my sweaty, tow-headed four year-old curled up on my lap looking at books with me.  There’s no question that I have an insatiable longing in my heart where those days used to live.

But at the same time, I’m not one to wallow and pine for things that just aren’t possible.  I hate to waste good energy on wishes that just can’t come true.  And so I look ahead and around, taking note of what’s decidedly good about this phase of his and our life.  And, as always happens when you look for the good, you find it.

I love that we’re friends.  That we talk several times a week.  That he’ll email me and ask hard questions.  That he’s scooping ice cream and studying for hours at a time.  That he’s met some of the greatest people in the world.  That it’s been hard.  That he’s sick of cleaning up after people and doing dishes.  That he’s seeing that life is expensive.  That he’s making bread and stir-fry and cookies and roast.  I love that we’re close.  That even though life is tough sometimes, he knows where to look for answers.  I love that he’s testing what he’s been taught. I love having a son who’s grown up to become one of our very best friends.

So, yes, of course, I miss the old days.  But I continue to look ahead because looking back still makes me a little misty-eyed.  Life will never be the same.  How cliche.  But when has life ever stayed the same?  And would we really want to go back and hang out at a given point, no matter how great it was?  I’d linger for sure.  A little longer in the elementary school days.  I’d sail through a few others.  But I wouldn’t set up camp.  Because since he’s been gone, I know now that we will be fine.  That the future is brighter than even the past.  That no matter how good we knew life to be, there is still so much good ahead.

When I write

It feels so intermittent lately.  I can’t quite put my finger on why I can’t seem to gather my thoughts into a coherent blog entry.  But I have some ideas.

I love to write more than most anything.  Except for long walks with Todd or cuddling in bed on a rainy Sunday morning.  But even with those options, so many times I’ll sneak away and write for just a minute or two before I go back.  It’s just that strong.

But I hate it when it doesn’t feel inspired.  When it’s just me clunking along.  Without direction or guidance.  Because it falls flat, and I know it’s not right.  It’s so interesting how sometimes I’ll sit and write for maybe half an hour, make relatively few corrections/changes, and I’m done.  It just kind of slides out.  Effortlessly.   The ones I struggle with take so much longer.  And most of the time I start them and leave them in an abandoned file.  Not rotting, just resting.  For maybe months.  That intrigues me.

And so I pray.  As I do whenever I’m lacking.  For anything.  But sometimes the answer has been not now or wait.  Or nothing.  I hate those answers.  Because I ache to write something meaningful and powerful and inspiring.  But I can’t do that on my own.  And so sometimes I just have to give it time.

I’ve found the most effortless entries have been personal memories or feelings of my heart.  Because I don’t have to pretend to know anything; I just share what I’ve experienced or learned or observed.

I think in the past month I’ve been distracted.  I’ve started maybe a dozen.  Maybe more.  I have no idea.  But I feel unsettled.  Distanced from what I love.  Paralyzed and disjointed.  Uncertain of what I’m even thinking and feeling from one minute to the next.  And maybe it’s as simple as having had very little alone time.  Being gone nearly the entire time my family is with hardly a quiet afternoon or morning to just think.  It’s been an uncharacteristically busy season lately.  And so I’ve been pulling back.  A quiet weekend of early nights. I just didn’t have it in me to have friends over, when the kids asked why we weren’t.  Except then we did.  But more like a sister and nieces and nephews than anything else.  Maybe I’m just too tired for any other kind right now?  Burned out?  A slump of some kind for sure.

It’s not like I’m not interested in writing.  Or that I’ve used up all my ideas.  Or that I don’t yearn to spill my heart in a few paragraphs here and there.  That I don’t have memories I want to capture and save for my aging kids and brain.  It’s just that I can’t seem to concentrate and make sense of what I’m feeling at the moment.  Because it seems like I’ve been all over the map lately.

Nothing I can’t handle.  That is pushing me over the edge.  You understand.  You have foggy days and weeks of your own.  Just a little more to think about than usual.  So I’m doing what I can to carve out some quiet time for myself.  To calendar myself like I do the others.  But it’s interesting at the same time.  Because there’s little to go on when you cocoon yourself for too long.  Fodder for writing is found in the thick of things, of life as it’s happening.  At least the kind of writing I’m comfortable with.  I’m not a dreamer in most ways, so I don’t know how to conjure up a distant land with funny people.  All I know is what I’ve lived and seen.  And so I think there’s a balance of living and thinking.  Of aloneness and time with friends.  Of comfort and uncertainty.  I embrace it all.  Because I know it won’t last—the good or the bad.  There’s necessarily ebb and flow, periods of serving and times of self-reflection.  Stretches of calm and jolts of activity.  Just so happens I might be in the middle of it all at the same time so I’m not sure what to make of it.

But I’ve also learned that writing is not something to do after an event or feeling has elapsed.  It’s always more telling when you record of-the-moment feelings.  These are the most genuine, heart-felt entries.  One of the most cathartic ways of seeing what’s going on around you and in your heart.  So my journal has been out more than usual lately.  My old-slipper-friend who conceals the deepest yearnings and pains of my heart.  My most sublime joys.  The questions and wonderings of a hopeful soul.  The resolutions and answered prayers.  A kindred spirit friend.

So when I write, I might not finish the blog I start.  All I might have in me this week is a note to a friend or my family letter.  And not much more.  Other weeks I might write a few blogs one after another and have to save them to post later.  Another time I’ll sit.  Like this morning.  And try to write but with so much effort, plodding along, wondering if I was getting it right.  I knew in my heart I was struggling, and so I stopped.  And said a little prayer.  And opened a new page.

I don’t know if this is even for anyone but me, but it slipped out.  For now this is all I have, but maybe I’ll carve out some moments for quiet this week.  To be alone with my thoughts for a minute or two.  To catch up on what I love to do.  Because nothing makes me feel more alive and like me than when I write.

Saturday morning

I do best when I get to bed around 10-10:30.  Even on the weekends.  Rarely happens.  But it did last night, and I was in my glory.  Reading alone after being gone all evening with just Avery and Todd, the rest of the family started watching movies just before 10.  I wouldn’t have made it through the opening credits.  I was just so sad when I started falling asleep in my book.  I hate when I do that.

So I slept in maybe an hour.  Perfect.  One of the reasons I love Saturday mornings.  Being up before everyone else.  A quiet house.  Except for the birds in our trees.  No traffic even.  Apparently everyone in the world was up later than me last night.  Because it sounds like no one else is even stirring.  I like the time to write.  Or read.  Or exercise.  All alone.  Blissful.  So exquisitely so.

Today’s an exception.  Todd gets to sleep in too.  Usually he has to work, so he leaves the house at 7:15 on Saturdays.  And once a month he’s on a camp-out with the boys from church.  If he has an extra Saturday, he might have some scout activity like merit badge day or training.  Maybe a service project.  Mostly it’s hunting in the fall.  It’s unusual to have a Saturday morning together as a family.  But I relish them.

When the kids were little I remember lying in bed with Todd on his day off, the new snow buffering any outside sounds.  He’d decide it was a perfect morning to go out to breakfast.  I always agreed.  What’s cozier than seven bodies squished in a vinyl booth at Denny’s with syrup and pancake smells wafting from the kitchen?  Fresh orange juice, a treat we rarely indulge in.  Cold outside, warmth in.  Just hardly a sweeter scene.  Except that the kids wouldn’t just sit still.  It was kind of noisy.  It took a long time for the food to come.  They got antsy.  Todd would ask why he thought it would be a good idea to bring such little kids to a restaurant.  I’d laugh.  We were making memories.

He and the kids were especially fond of a place out in Molt.  About 20 minutes away out in the country.  A restaurant that only served breakfast.  I went with them once; they went without me when I’ve had other commitments.  They had a band.  And a line out the door.  Cash only.   It was awesome.  Our youngest still asks if we can go.  But it closed.

I like the summer mornings too.  Because they start so early.  I love waking up my plants.  Dismissing the weeds.  Alone in the shadows.  I especially love picking raspberries when they’re still dewy, when the morning sun is just starting to warm us up.  I feel like I’ve got a head-start on the day.  I feel calm and alive, a little sleepy but awake.  Nature does that to me.  Soothes and energizes me at the same time.

I even like going into town in the wee hours.  No one’s really up.  Except the farmer types.  And worker bees.  So places like Lowe’s are abuzz.  I greet my pals at the garage sales. Each of us quietly taking in one bargain after another.  I love the people who are up when I am.  I feel a comraradarie, a connection.  We’re the ones who retired early.  Who are old enough to be up this early on a weekend.  Ready for the day.  At like 7.

Sometimes I’ll be the one who has to leave my sleeping family.  A conference or a training of some sort.  In a way I don’t mind.  I’m up anyway.  In a way I’d rather slide up next to Todd and just stay there for an extra while.  But I love being with my people too.  It’s all good.

I remember coming back from town after a commitment I’d had at 8 one Saturday.  Totally out of character, I had the crazy notion to buy donuts to bring home to my sleepy heads.  Glorious!  I felt like Mother of the Year.  Because my mom would do the same thing for us when she’d do the laundry at the laundromat early on a Saturday morning.  She’d come home at maybe 8, loaded down with warm towels and fresh donuts from Christy’s Bakery.  Such an indulgence.  These days we have them maybe twice a year. Maybe three times.  I haven’t had one in years.  But the kids love them.  Of course.  I remember another strange day that Todd was home with us and we were going to make a day of our errands and outings.  We had some garage sales in mind and other stops to make, but we wanted to start at the local bakery for donuts just for fun.  Our friend was there working.  It was early.  So just our kind of people were up.  It’s still etched in my mind.  I think because it was so unusual to have Todd with us.  And to buy donuts when we could’ve just had cereal.  I love that we didn’t.

Saturdays are our traveling days when we’re making the trek across country to see family.  We leave early.  And we have the routine down.  We get up at 3:30, everyone who wants to can shower, we pack the cooler, and we’re all ready to leave by 4.  It’s dark.  And cold.  Even in the summer.  The sliver of light reminds us which direction we’re heading.  I feel cocooned and secure in our temporary traveling home with Todd at the helm.  I love going back to sleep for an hour or two and waking up alone with just him because the kids are so tired.  I love watching the sun come up.  I even like it when I’m the one at the wheel when he can’t be with us.  Everyone’s asleep and I have my talks on and snacks within reach.  The roads are so empty.  The countryside is just beginning to stretch and yawn.  The cows are nibbling at their breakfast, the farmers are just getting out.  I feel small in the great expanse, but powerful too.  Knowing I’m responsible for this precious carload of kids.  I like knowing I have Help.

I remember so many times from our days in Illinois.  Two little boys.  Vet school.  Demanding weeks.  But we made a pact that we would mostly just play on the weekends.  So we’d pack up for our day trips nearly every Saturday morning, venturing to state parks and Amish communities.  We’d hike and shop and visit every little town within a 1-2 hour radius.  I know he could’ve used those hours to study.  But I’m so glad he spent them with us.  Camping with friends, walking leaf-strewn park trails as a tiny family, stopping for ice cream in the country towns, these are some of our best memories from that time in our life.

We’ve tried to do the same whenever we can even now.  When we come across a lone, unclaimed Saturday morning in the summer, we’re up early, packing our lunches and jackets ready for a hike along a river or up a mountain.  That will take awhile.  So we need to start early.  I love our family times when it’s quiet out in nature.  Not many people are on the trails yet.  You feel as if you’re blazing it as a vanguard group.  But not really.  Because there’s a trail.  But you know what I mean.  A little chilly.  But warm because of who you’re with.  Really is heavenly.

Growing up, a lot of our Saturday mornings were also about getting ready.  But for the beach.  It took forever to pack the sandwich makings.  The treats my mom had made.  The nice rolls she bought just for this.  The chairs and towels.  The sunscreen bag.  The boogie boards.  What an undertaking.  It was nearly always freezing when we got to the beach.  Overcast.  It would burn off.  We had faith that it would.  And it nearly always, always did. Eventually.  But we had to go early to get a parking spot for our car and for our stuff.  And so we waited it out on the shore huddled under towels reading our books.  Even so, some of the best memories with my mom and sisters and our friends.  I loved our days at the beach.  Even the cold mornings.

Today is another chilly morning.  But it will warm up.  A great work day.  We already have plans.  Todd is home.  A treat like no other.  He’ll wake up his work buddy and they’ll tackle the projects outdoors.  The garden needs to be rototilled.  The beds need cleaning out.  Raspberry canes need thinning.  Bushes are coming out.  The bees need attention.  A  beautiful way to spend a Saturday morning, working the land, soaking in the smells and sounds of nature.  But it’s still early.  So I’ll let my sleepy family enjoy the sleeping-in part of their Saturday morning just a little longer.  Maybe we’ll even get donuts.

What I wanted to say

We have what my friend calls “open mike” on the first Sunday of the month at church.  He makes me laugh.  What’s really going on is that we come to our main meeting (worship service) in the spirit of fasting and, after the sacrament portion of the meeting, anyone who wants to is invited to go up to the front for just a few minutes to share their convictions and feelings about Christ and principles of His gospel.  We might share a poignant event or meaningful experience.  But mostly we share our feelings about Christ and what he has done for us.

I rarely go up.  Rarely.  You know me.  I’m not afraid to give a talk or presentation really.  Because I have notes and have prepared.  But this is extemporaneous, from the heart.  And I trip over my words when they aren’t written down.  But mostly I don’t have a story.  Anything that interesting or different from the last time I got up.  And honestly, I don’t know if my motives for getting up are entirely sweet.  What if I’m just trying to show off?  What if I’m doing it just to prove how spiritual I am?  Those feelings weigh on me, I want to be sure my intentions are pure, and yet I’m never quite sure.  So I stay seated most of the time.

But as I remained in my pew yesterday, I couldn’t help but reflect on the feelings of my heart. Which is what most of us are doing as we listen to our friends.  And I couldn’t help but think about what I’d share if I had the courage and felt inspired.

I thought about the previous night.  Several teenagers were over along with another family.  We talked freely in small groups and one on one.  We played games, some till nearly midnight.  I thought about our friendships with a variety of ages.  How much I loved these kids.  And the adults.  I thought about how I totally feel like they are my brothers and sisters.  How we are all brothers and sisters.  And how that knowledge propels me to be charitable and kinder than I naturally would be.  I’m so grateful for the knowledge I have of a Heavenly Father and an elder brother, Christ.  I’m so grateful for his example and life.  He helps me know a perfect way to see and treat others.  And his atonement fills in when I fail at it.

I thought about the rough patches of the past two weeks.  (And I guess over the past year, although the sting of past events has diminished to simply happy memories in my mind.)  But I thought about my recent feelings and felt an overwhelming gratitude for perspective.  To know that we are here on earth for such a short time.  That we are learning to love and serve while we’re here.  That this isn’t the end.  Or the beginning.  That love is stronger than fear.  I’ve felt crushed a couple of times lately.  But I’ve been surprised how short-lived those intense sad feelings have been.  A day, sometimes less.  Because then I remember all that I know.  And I know I’m not alone.  That Christ is more powerful than satan.  That I am strong.  And that families are strong.  I have hope because I trust that the atonement is real.  I have used the atonement so much in my life.  I know its potential to change us and to help us.  And that reassurance has calmed me.  And buoyed me up.

I thought about all the truths we’ve been blessed with.  And how this knowledge cradles me.  Comforts me.  And strengthens me.  I couldn’t help but think of the harsh realities of life like jagged rocks with prickly points.  But how the perspective of the gospel softens them.  So that they are more like smooth river rocks.  Still rocks.  But softer.  I can’t help but think about my Savior and how willing he is to carry our rocks for us.  He is the refiner who takes our jagged pains and mistakes and polishes them, making me think of those shiny colored rocks that we long to handle in the rock store “Please Touch” section.  A souvenir of a now-distant memory, made beautiful because of Who we were with.

So as I sat on my bench with my family, holding hands with Todd, I mulled these thoughts over in my mind.  Not ever feeling like it was my day or place to share.  But touched by common feelings with those who did.  Grateful in my quiet heart for the blessings I so abundantly enjoy because of our Savior.  I think that’s what I wanted to say.

Hope

It’s kind of disheartening when years after you assume you’ve buried that weakness and moved on, its head surfaces, bobbing like a headstone in a flooded cemetery, taunting, reminding you of your former version of yourself.  As discouraging as its presence is, I accept its company.  Because it’s humbling to remember I’m never enough on my own.  I may have all but squelched the desire to succumb, to give in to jealousies of my youth, but when I get complacent or start to believe I’ve conquered it, I shouldn’t be surprised to come face to face with my past demon.

I felt it coming to life this week in a weak moment or two, wondering where I went wrong and where so many others have gone right.  I couldn’t help but compare, a past-time of so long ago.  But I gave in for just a minute, before I’d even asked myself permission.  I almost couldn’t help myself.  Old habits.  You know what they say.

My heart’s ached this week.  And in my quiet dark moments of self-reflection, I couldn’t help but see images of the fabulous women and moms surrounding me, so many within my own circle of friends.  I looked at the way they’ve raised their kids, the way they’ve mothered.  I wondered how we were different.  How I could’ve done things differently.  And I felt weak.  Uncharacteristically critical of  myself, I’ve been looking back at every point where I might have gone wrong.

But by now I have enough experience to know that life just happens.  Even when we’re trying to do our best.  We all have upsets, a few steps back here and there.  Even when circumstances should dictate otherwise.  And I accept that.  I actually embrace it.  Because it means we’re using our agency.  We’re making mistakes and learning.

I attended a meeting the other night.  A little different from my normal meetings.  An intimate and sweet group.  An unlikely gathering of souls, sisters and brothers, each with our own silent heartaches.  But the spirit touched my heart and raised me from my stoop.  For most of the week I’d let my realist side drive while the faithful side took a ride in the passenger seat.  Who are we kidding.  She was in the trunk.  But here among strangers the spirit found me.  And comforted me.  Providing me hope that I’d dared not hope for.

Because I felt confirmation that regardless of the darkness or length of the tunnel, it is still, by definition, a passageway.  Not a destination.  Even though the light is dim and barely perceptible, a mere pinpoint in the distance, I’m remembering how the end opens wide.  As bright as the beginning.

And so even as I’ve felt such crushing pain, exacerbated by succumbing to my old enemy jealousy, I’m feeling the balm soothe my tired soul.  I feel the atonement at work on my heart in soft and simple ways.  I feel peace amid turmoil.  Unexpectedly calm even though we’re nowhere near the end.  I have faith that wrongs can be erased.  That mistakes can be catalysts in the experiment of life that transform a person.  Because knowledge and experience and repaired misdeeds are like steel fibers in a life, invisible but powerful reminders of Christ’s infinite love.  Love so tender that even the most fragile heart can be cradled in His care.

A good year

I always kind of figured that circumstances were the barometer that determined if a day could be logged as either a good one or a bad one.  Same with a year.  And yet I’ve always been kind of surprised when people have dismissed an entire day—and especially an entire year—as one they’d rather forget, happy to see it in the rear-view mirror.  I just can’t fathom disregarding all the good, deciding that there were simply too many tough moments, that we just rounded down, shading in the bubble labeled bad.  I just don't think we ought to let events make that decision for us.

I wonder where this past year would show up if our family ever charted this kind of thing.  Sure, we had a long, snowy, cold, record-breaking winter.  Andrew crashed on a dirt bike, messing up his knee and chance at State.  He survived a near-miss by a truck (by some miracle he landed right between the tires as it ran over him).  My dad died.  I had surgery to remove and build breasts.  We’ve spent thousands of dollars on auto and human repairs.   We’re down a car.  Our raspberry crop froze to death.  Avery reminded me she had a pretty ugly case of shingles.  Most houses in the area were damaged by a freak spring hail storm that we’re still dealing with.  Our oldest moved away to college, changing the dynamics of our household forever.  I stress about money.  All the time.  Affecting just about every decision I make.  Our repair list—like yours—just keeps growing, even as we attempt to cross items off.  I guess I could list all the misunderstandings I’ve created.  The sad feelings I’ve caused.  The way I get snippy when I’m tired.  My regrets.  The ways I missed the boat as a mom and wife and sister and daughter.  The cold, gray days I let myself wallow.  The days I spent so sore and frustrated.  And scared.  But when I look it all over, I just can’t see anything to be that upset about.  Because I know these were merely bumps in an otherwise breezy joy ride. 

We spent part of a January evening as a family recapping the ups and downs of the year, I wrote everyone’s responses in my journal.  I wasn’t surprised by their lists.  Because they were the same as ours.  Nothing crazy, just the normal stuff.  Backpacking and hiking, camping with friends, spending time in the mountains, road trips to visit family (although the actual road trips part made it on Avery’s bad list), Thanksgiving, boating, getting a drivers license, painting a bedroom, helping someone move, watching the Olympics with our friends, a daddy-daughter date, a Christmas stroll in a quaint country town.

Only twice did anyone mention papa dying and only Todd and one kid even mentioned cancer when we talked about our bad lists.  To me those aren’t necessarily things that define a year.  Yes, of course we miss my dad and papa.  Obviously.  But I think about him more now.  I savor our memories.  I smile wondering what he’s doing and where he is.  I remember the lessons he taught me and I wonder what he would teach me if we could grab a malt and chat for an hour.  I feel closer to him, I feel like he is more integrally a part of our lives than he was watching tv in our basement.  So my love for him is deeper now, I’m grateful for the glimpses we’ve had since he left, and for the years we’ve had together here.  I know it’s a short time without him, and so I’m not sad.  I guess it’s hard to think of his leaving us as a tragedy.  I think I just filed it under transitions.  And the others were tucked away in folders labeled something like learning experiences, bad luck, and just life.

I get it, real tragedies can completely shroud a year.  I can’t imagine having my husband or a child die.  I can’t pretend to know what a divorce or living alone is like.  Or not being able to have kids.  What chronic pain is all about.  Parents burdened by their children’s developmental problems.  No progress year after year, the trials are relentless.  It breaks my heart to even skirt the edges of what that must all feel like.  These are the real tragedies,  so far removed from my life that I can’t wrap my head around them.  I know next to nothing about real suffering. I was feeling a little down the other day, weary from mom-life, constantly cooking and cleaning and taking care of things while the others were all off doing their things.  But in a quiet moment I couldn’t help but think of caretakers who never get much respite.  I couldn’t help but think of modern-day slaves all over the world.  The impoverished parents with no resources for their children, some forced to surrender their children.  I couldn’t help but look around at my pampered life, the luxuries and comforts I bask in every day.  I have so much to be grateful for.  An abundance for sure.  I just can't pretend that any discomfort I feel comes close to what so much of the world struggles with.

But even within a year when you may have been dealt a terrible tragedy, no one suffers a loss without Heavenly Father taking note.  I’ve loved this affirmation ever since I first heard it.  “Through faith and righteousness all of the inequities, injuries, and pains of this life can be fully compensated for and made right. Blessings denied in this life will be fully recompensed in the eternities. Thus our suffering in this life can be as the refining fire, purifying us for a higher purpose. Heartaches can be healed, and we can come to know a soul-satisfying joy and happiness beyond our dreams and expectations.”*  So I guess that’s how I choose to frame sorrows, temporary hiccups that I will eventually recover from.

I also figure we’re blessed with rare glimpses we aren’t privy to during more placid times.  Probably for most of us it takes losing someone, my dad to death and my son to college, even friends who have moved on, for instance, to appreciate the everyday interactions, the years of ordinary life we’ve shared together, helping me to be grateful for  relationships even more, teaching me to love unabashedly, widely, and openly.  Because I’ve felt the absence of people I’ve loved, as you have, I think it helps us with the relationships we still have.  Because I can get sloppy.  Complacent.  And so I’m grateful for the reminder of what life is about.  Even if it means an occasional heart pain.  Because it brings meaningful relationships into the forefront, allowing them prominence in the hierarchy of priorities.  A loss is a reminder of love shared.  Sad because we loved deeply.  But a powerful teacher nonetheless.  I just figure we can reframe our heartbreaks, choosing to see them as a confirmation—and even a celebration—of our love.  And of our faith.  And so yes, a bad day for sure, perhaps even a string of them for many, stretching throughout the year.  But would it be accurate to lump all the blessings with the feelings of sadness and call it an overall lousy year?

Because I just can’t pretend the good wasn’t strong enough to conquer the bad.  All the hours spent cuddling in tents and on couches.  The puzzles and games and ice creams on Sunday nights.  And a million other  nights.  All the walks holding hands.  Watching the stars and birds and the leaves.  Cooking dinners together.  Doing dishes together.  All the late-night talks.  Evenings and days spent with friends in each others’ houses.  All the hours wound together out in God’s majesties.  Cross-country road trips to be with family.  Fishing and hiking.  Swimming, kayaking, s’mores in the dark.  Sledding and snow boarding.  Waking up again and again and again, so grateful for another chance, for another day with people we love, even if we’re sick or weak.  Even if some are missing.  I just can’t sweep these treasured memories under the rug pretending they weren’t powerful balms that soothed even our biggest gashes.  Like the various harmonies in the songs we love.  The dissonance, a primary color, blending with the others. The summation of all the notes and shades—even the dark ones—fusing to create beauty, works of art.  Even masterpieces.  

And so, even with the inevitable vicissitudes and sorrows of a mortal experience, I can’t help but feel that in most ways we still come out ahead.  Last year was no exception.  Except that I just had to file it under One of My Best.

* President Faust