Camping

Camping as a family growing up would’ve possibly been the weirdest thing I can imagine us doing.  That or living in a mansion.

But when I was about 12 or 13 my sister and I joined a friend’s family in Utah to go camping up American Fork Canyon.  I was obviously a kid.  And a guest.  And a novice.  So I don’t remember a single thing about setting up camp or the meals.  The only real memory I have is how the water sounded during the night as we slept.  I was entranced, lulled by its cadence.  But our tent there by the water was about as far away from life in my city apartment as you can get.  And I chalked it up to a once-in-lifetime experience that, while heavenly, I’d likely never have again.

Still a young teen, even though my introduction to camping had been a good one, I refused to go to our church camp with the rest of the girls my age.  One, because I would say we weren’t really friends and I didn’t want to be on the outskirts.  And two, because I didn’t know a thing about camping and it sort of scared me to death.  So I may have missed out on some great opportunities; I’ll never know.  But I can’t say I really regret not going.  It may have skewed my perspective on what camping really was and I might never have given it another chance.

As an older teenager my family joined my aunt and uncle and cousins for a trip to southern Utah to spend some time in the parks (Zion/Bryce).  It was a breath-taking area and it could’ve been another trip of a lifetime except that we’d all gotten sick from some bad water and miserably stayed close to camp, ignoring most of the food the moms had packed.  It was sort of a failed trip in a sense, but it tapped my love for nature that had laid dormant for so long.  I realized how myself I felt in this sort of environment.  So much at peace, more like me than I’d felt all my years growing up surrounded by surfers and California girls. 

On the other hand, Todd’s family embraced camping.  Mostly because there were six kids and not a lot of of extra for eating out and fancy hotels.  Camping was a way to see the country on a budget, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the precedent his parents set.  One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned from them is how to enjoy life without getting tangled up in materialism and consumerism.

Todd’s parents tell of one of their first dates, a fancy BYU dance.  They could hardly keep up the charade and before long they’d changed and were up the canyon with a campfire.  Completely romantic in my eyes.   And interestingly, we started off in much the same way.  Our first date wasn’t a campfire, but a hike up a mountain.  Eventually we made our own fire up the canyon and when Todd taught me to whittle a stick I distinctly felt he was teaching me about the person I wanted to be, that maybe I was, a pivotal moment.  I knew I’d always loved nature and walking in the waves at the beach, spending time at zoos and lakes and parks.  I never minded getting dirty or wet.  I had posters of nature scenes all over my room at home and then at college.  One of my strongest pulls is from the natural world.  Nature is my happy place.  And so with Todd as my guide, I began to explore.

We camped up at Mirror Lake (Utah) in the middle of July with another couple when we were very first married.  Snow still littered the campground, but it was breathtaking and I was in.  The first of a lifetime of campouts as we started our little family.

I remember one October weekend a few years later, camping in a Missouri state park back when Todd was in vet school.  We had baby Andrew. There was one other couple in the entire campground, so it was mostly deserted and a little eerie in a way.  But heavenly.  I loved the way our fire ring was surrounded with crisping leaves.  A little unsettling once I realized all the little crunching sounds were little mice feet scampering to their homes.  There’s nothing like falling asleep next to a natural water feature, and the Jack’s Fork River provided just the right backdrop for our slumber.  I guess I’m a sucker for the sounds of nature.  Even now, I’m writing to the backdrop of nothing more than summer birds in our trees right outside the window.  If I focus I can almost pretend I’m in the mountains.

We decided that he'd be ours for the weekend, even with his intense workload at school.  We took in every state park within a reasonable driving distance and camped with friends and our little boys.  No one cares what grades you get, but these weekends together solidified our family, helping to bridge a tough time when we rarely saw each other otherwise.  I'm so glad he chose us instead of a 4.0.

Several years back we and a few other families spent Labor Day weekend at Georgetown Lake.  Everyone played on the water and water craft most  of Saturday.  We hung our suits and towels on the clothesline.  Sunday it rained all day, but we went into Phillipsburg and toured an old ghost town.  (Fascinating because I’d just finished reading a book about these old Montana towns!)  We snuggled contentedly that night as we listened to the rain on our tent as it softened and gradually turned to snow.  I had to laugh as we peeled our suits and towels off the clothesline the next morning, frozen and covered in snow.  But I loved it all, we were completely warm and dry, and it felt good to know we could handle a little adversity or an emergency.  We managed, we’ve done it since, we know we can do it again.

Most of our camping is typically Montanan, the kind where there’s a unisex outhouse, a hole in the ground with a toilet seat.  We’re almost always in the mountains and national forests, so there are few amenities.  Perfect.  Less to worry about.  I’m ok with not showering for a few days.  Everyone just smells like camp fire, so we’re all on equal ground.  Nice to have a little break from the getting-ready routine.  (Although I always wear my contacts and lipstick.)  I’m maybe weird because I prefer natural dirt to human-created dirt.  I’d rather eat outdoors on a blanket with bugs and spider webs and ants right beside me than in a dive of a restaurant with who knows what going on in back.  I’d rather use a bush than a smelly man-hole outhouse any day.  And I for sure choose a tent over a relic camper that too many people have owned—who knows what kind of nasty is left in the corners?  I guess I feel that lots of fresh air trumps closed-in people smells and that bugs and other critters are part of the ambiance.  So primitive camping doesn’t bother me much.

But one of our favorite spots is Custer State Park in South Dakota.  This is the place to go when we have friends who are kind of iffy about camping or who are just learning or who have really little kids.  The campground is grassy, so there’s not as much dirt and mud as in the mountains.  There’s also a great bath house with flush toilets and free hot showers.  Movies in the campground at night.  Fun day trips within 45 minutes in all directions, including Mt. Rushmore.  Just a great weekend destination.

We’ve camped in Glacier a couple of times, in the mountains close to home, even with the babies.  They love it.  I have to admit I’m a little on edge when we’re in bear habitat—which is most of Montana.  I hate knowing bears have been through the campsite just days before.  But we do our best to keep things tidy and I just offer up some of the strongest prayers I’ve got.

I have friends who are incredulous, unable to find anything good about camping.  One friend says it’s spending a lot of money to go live like a hobo.  There’s some truth in that.  It’s not always cheaper, gear can really add up, and of course it’s messy and everything takes a bit of an effort.  But that’s exactly what we want to teach our kids.  That experiences are worth investing in.  Confidence is not found so much in the medals that adorn walls then packed away, but in learning skills and developing talents, pushing yourself, satisfaction from working hard and becoming a part of the bigger world.  So yes, chopping wood takes time, and building a fire doesn’t come naturally.  Part of the fun is the work.  To make food, to clean up, to set up camp, to pack away tents.  I want the kids to know how to survive if the electricity goes off, how to cook from scratch, how to set up tents, why we roll the tarp under it all, what wood works best.

It might be hard for me to choose my very favorite part about all of it.  I’d have to say it’s for sure not the packing or the unpacking.  Preparation and clean up takes nearly a week on either end. And I have admit it makes me grumpy.  So it’s always better to go for at least three days, a really long weekend minimum since you have to bring the same amount of stuff regardless.  Todd’s family had an old wooden camp box;  we just use small totes with all the equipment in one spot so we don’t have to gather it each time we go:  old towels, hot pads, dish soap, salt and pepper, silverware, matches, tin foil, spatulas, can opener, knives, cutting boards, pots and pans.  I have a list to check against just in case.  So glad his family blazed the trail so I’d know what to do when I took over as matriarch of a family.

As far as packing, we’re old fashioned and simple.  We load everything we need in our van.  We took a two week road trip a few years back and camped for a week next to a river.  There were seven of us and all our gear fit just fine—we did have a car top carrier for some of the sleeping gear and the van was jammed, but we fit.  All the kids have packed their own duffle bags for as long as I can remember.  I print out a list and fill in how many tshirts, shorts, sweatshirts, socks.  They are ready to be packed as soon as they’re by the front door zipped, ideally the day before.  They also pack what we’ve termed a “to-do bag,” with homework, books, treats and are responsible for their own pillows.  What mom can remember everything for seven people?

So packing and unpacking are the bad parts.  So are wet, dirty clothes, towels, and tents.  But otherwise I can’t think of anything I don’t love about it.  I love sleeping in a tent.  On mats on the ground.  We invested in our zip-together sleeping bags when we were first married, one of our all-time best purchases.  All sorts of babies and small children have cuddled in beside us and when the temps dip, we’ll just put a quilt over all of us.  We’ve endured some cold nights, but they’ve worked pretty well, even camping in snow.

I love that we can make a meal with the most basic equipment.  Todd’s sister gave him two collapsible water jugs many years back which have joined us on many, many trips.  We have a small camp stove that Todd got for college graduation.  It rests on a table and has two burners.  One pot for water, another pan for the bacon.  We have a griddle that sits on both burners for pancakes.  It’s compact, completely sensible and has served us well for over twenty years.

I love the simplicity of housekeeping.  Straighten the sleeping bags, collect the dirty socks, wipe off the tablecloth.  I’ve never really minded this part of camping and distinctly recall one morning a couple years back washing the breakfast dishes.  It was one of those moments that told me to pay attention, this was a memory I’d want to savor.  There’s nothing better than doing everyday chores out in nature with the wind making chimes out of the leaves, the scent of pine pollinating everything it touches, the old-fashioned, carefree sounds of kids and critters, no clocks hanging on the trees to remind us what’s on schedule, just a peaceful backdrop for keeping house.  I love knowing we can make it work.

I love the rhythm, the slowness of it all.  I love that I have zero distractions keeping me from engaging.  Other than my book.  I love that we get to see new things—caves, fish hatcheries, mountain waterfalls.  Bison, bears, water critters.  I love that all we have planned for the afternoon is to play in Lake McDonald or to take a little hike.

I know I love the traditional easy meals, a week off from real cooking.  Tin foil dinners and BBQ chicken.  S’mores and  peach cobbler for late-night treats.  Waking up to bacon and pancakes and eggs.  Packets of oatmeal for last-day breakfast.  Salad and crunchy vegetables to temper everything else.  Juicy summer fruit dribbling on the checkered tablecloth.  Picnic sandwiches and chips at side-of-the-road waterfalls and day-use only pull-outs.  Treats that we normally don’t buy, Oreos, hot chocolate, occasionally some lemonade.  So fun to spoil ourselves now and then.

I love that every normal thing is an adventure.  A simple trip to the bathroom means finding the flashlight and hand sanitizer.  And a buddy.  To stay warm we need to hunt for and chop wood.  Dutch oven cooking means planning ahead, building the fire early so that the coals are just right and not too hot.  Instead of a pantry and fridge we have totes and coolers.  Clean up is easy and predictable.  The smallest of houses, yet we have everything we need.

I love lazy nights around the campfire watching the kids burn sticks and cook marshmallows.  Or listening to the group play cards late into the night.  I love being able to sneak off to my tent for some extra sleep while my whole family is happily entertained with friends, a luxury to have some time alone, knowing everyone else is content as well.

I love that it’s one of the few activities that fits every kid in our family.  Toddlers just like playing with sticks in the dirt.  Older kids like to collect pine cones and fire wood.  My teenagers and husband like to show off their muscles chopping huge logs into bits.  Little kids can get water, older kids can maintain the fire. Everyone—even toddlers—can help unload and it’s awesome when the kids can set up the tent on their own.  I love that the hikes test us all equally, that water play fits everyone’s idea of fun. 

I love when we’re all finally gathered together late at night, cozy and secluded with a dim light hanging from the net in the tent’s roof to help us feel safe.  I love having a prayer together, the intimate quiet talk in the privacy of our tiny temporary shelter.  Hearing them sleep during the night, waking up to the soft morning light, cocooned in our chilly tent, warm under the thick cover of our make-shift bedding.

So yeah, it’s hard to know what it is that draws me to the outdoors and camping specifically.  I had no idea this was me back when I was a kid, but I’m so grateful for a husband who took a chance on a city girl from California without a wild or wilderness bone in her body.  He showed me that this was the life I was yearning to live, he somehow knew I had it in me. 

Talk from 31 May 2015 on the Book of Mormon

(I know we all have different beliefs and faiths, I love it!  In our worship meeting (Sacrament Meeting), 2-3 members of the congregation are asked to speak each week (including youth starting at age 12!) and this was the assigned topic I was given a few weeks back.   Very interesting circumstances.  I remember distinctly sitting in the congregation and telling Heavenly Father I needed something big to get me back on track, I'd even agree to speak in Sacrament Meeting if that would help.  Later that evening my friend called and asked me to speak on this very topic.  I'm not the right person for any of this, and I wasn't even able to deliver my whole talk, so I know it was a blessing specific to me, that it may not have done anyone else in the whole congregation a bit of good, but having to think about it for two weeks really changed me and got me back where I wanted to be.  A huge blessing.  I just thought this would be a good place to file this talk.)

As a kid two fears stand out: being caught in a fire overnight because we lived on the second floor of our apartment building and had only one exit.  The other, of course, was quicksand.  As a grown-up my fear is just as far-fetched but still just as real to me: being called to the Gen RS presidency and being in an interview on live tv and someone asking me about a BOM story or character I should know about…

I’m in no way an expert on the Book of Mormon or a scriptorian by any stretch.  Although I have to admit I want to be. I don’t know the story lines well at all, I get everyone mixed up, I mostly like to underline quotes I like and I make smiley faces and frowny faces to help me know who’s good and who’s bad.  I’ve only done the Iron Man once in my life, just to be obedient and to see if I could.

I have no idea how many times I’ve read it, but I probably started sometime when I was in YW.   I’m just regular.  I have times in the year when I’m really good at this and am excited about what I’m learning because I find new symbolism and applications.  Other times I feel like I hardly make the time, I’m running from the second I wake up, and it’s the last thing I do before I collapse at night.  But I know we’re blessed as a family simply by trying again and again.  

So I guess my only real qualification is that I know it’s true, I know it’s inspired, that it is all the prophets say it is, that it really is to help us with today’s issues.  I know that it blesses my family and my home and my life.  I know I feel the Spirit when I read it and I get answers when I look for them.  And nothing has helped me know and get closer to my Savior than the Book of Mormon.

Today I want to share a few lessons that I’ve learned from reading the Book of Mormon over the years and then I’ll end with some thoughts from a couple of our young friends.

—The first lesson I’ve learned is that we need it constantly, daily, regardless of what that looks like.  There’s something compelling about it.  It draws us in.  If we invest just a few minutes, I know other parts of our day will work out.  Start small.  Start anywhere.  Just look up a topic in the back.  Read one verse and all the cross references for it.  Start with a question.  Ask Heavenly Father for creative ways to find time.  Tell Him you want to but you just can’t seem to make it happen.  He will absolutely help you, but you also have to do it when He gives you a little thought like, “This would be a good time to read.” :) Heavenly Father never asks us to do something without blessing us with so much more than we sacrificed.  You’ll remember what Elders Scott and Person have told us in conference:

“Don’t yield to Satan’s lie that you don’t have time to study the scriptures. Choose to take time to study them. Feasting on the word of God each day is more important than sleep, school, work, television shows, video games, or social media. You may need to reorganize your priorities to provide time for the study of the word of God. If so, do it!” (Elder Scott)

“Search the Book of Mormon and the counsel of the prophets every day, every day, every day!  It’s the key to spiritual survival and avoiding deception.  Without it we are spiritually lost.”  (Elder Pearson)

For me it doesn’t take long to get off track.  But the inverse is also true and reading the Book of Mormon is the quickest way to get back.  Heavenly Father wants to talk to us, we need His spirit so much.  This is the way to do it and I know that when we just take a few minutes, immediately the spirit comes and we remember again how much we need it. 

—Another lesson I’ve seen over and over in the Book of Mormon and in life today is how the same circumstances can affect people so differently.  War throughout time is a prime example of the choice in attitude can affect us.  Compare 50s BC Nephites and Lamanites with 1940s AD concentration camp survivor, Viktor Frankl: “But behold because of the exceedingly great length of the war…many had become hardened… and many were softened because of their afflictions.” (Alma 62:41)  “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms - the ability to chose one's attitude in a given set of circumstances.”  Someone who lost a spouse or a parent might become bitter and spiteful and pull away from the church and the rest of the family, mad at God.  But, like the Nephites [who] “were not slow to remember the Lord their God in this their time of affliction,” we all know people who have used the experience to cling even tighter to their families and the gospel, to draw closer to God, to use the atonement for comfort.

Where else would we go? I remember gathering the kids around when my dad died last summer.  I have no idea why it wasn’t hard, but all I felt was tons of peace.  We just told them this is why we do everything we do in the gospel.  So we can be together as families again.  It was a real testimony to me that the promise in the Book of Mormon is real, that when we turn our hearts to Christ and look to him for comfort, he really is available and willing to strengthen and support us.  But it’s up to us, he lets us choose.

—Another lesson I’ve been learning over the years is to take the counsel in Alma 34 to pray over our flocks and fields literally. To include him in all parts of our life, to be specific when we pray.  It just seems the older I get the more I realize how much wisdom there is in being humble enough to ask for help.  I need to tell myself Heavenly Father knows everything.  He knows everyone’s hearts.  He knows our circumstances.  He knows my schedule and intentions and what I want.  He helps me sort through all sorts of things.  Just this past week I prayed whether to buy a piano we were considering.  The thought came to me, “What do you want to do?”  I loved that answer because it wasn’t a right or wrong, just permission to do either one.  I’ve been  praying over a relationship with a friend for years now.  With no resolution that I know of.  But I feel so good when I talk to Him about it.  I’ve prayed for a chance to talk to the kids about something that’s on my mind.  It’s been amazing how sometimes the exact topic just seems to come up naturally at dinner.  I feel comfortable sharing with him how heavy the world feels and how worried I am about our family.  I ask him to help me find time for the temple.  And we’ve prayed over math assignments.  I guess I just figure he wouldn’t have had Mormon include those verses if he wasn’t serious about it.  I know he cares about everything about my life because of them.

—Another thing I’ve learned is that Heavenly Father and Christ are definitely concerned about each of us personally.  What makes this so real to me is when Christ visits the Nephites and he had them touch his nailprints, “and this they did do, going forth one by one until they had all gone forth, and did see with their eyes and did feel with their hands.” (3 Nephi 11:15)  We are more than a collective body, a church.  We are separate and distinct children of God with individual needs and problems, and he knows exactly how to help us personally.

—Another thing I’ve learned is to be wise with my resources, especially my time and energy. “And see that all these things are done in wisdom and order.  It is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength.” “They did all labor, every man according to his strength” (Mosiah 4:27 and Alma 1:26). I have really clung to this counsel over the years, but especially starting when our family was much younger.  Most of you have no idea what our life looked like a few years back when we had 5 kids under 8, no family in town, Todd in the bishopric and on-call all the time.   We were just starting out so money was tight.  The house and yard and our dogs and litters of puppies needed tons of work. I felt so inept and overwhelmed.  Life seemed a little chaotic.  But because of these verses I’ve learned to let most things go. I don’t feel guilty if I’m making little headway on my list as long as the important things are getting done.  Life is a million times easier now, so I’m able to do more at this stage.  We all have different energy levels, strengths, and circumstances.  It’s such a comfort to know he will help us navigate all this since He knows us perfectly.  We just need to be wise and include him.

—Another comforting lesson I’m learning is that Christ can heal us.  I love his interaction with the Nephites, “Have ye any that are are sick among you…or afflicted in any manner?  Bring them hither and I will heal them.”  I’ve certainly felt his strength as I’ve been healed physically, but it’s usually more spiritually and emotionally that I need his healing hand.  He’s absolutely come through for me when I’ve turned my broken heart over to him.  I don’t understand how it works, but when I finally get desperate enough and give up whatever I’m holding on to, I feel lighter, calmer, peaceful, like it will all be handled.  I feel the big hole closing up.  I feel love for the people I’d been struggling with.  I feel softer, like my heart is literally being healed.

—These are all examples of the most poignant lesson I’m learning from the Book of Mormon: that Christ is always the answer.  That Christ’s life and atonement are perfect.  I love how I feel His love all over the Book of Mormon.  “But behold, I did cry unto him and I did find peace to my soul” (Alma 38:8).  The Book of Mormon turns me to Christ.  I’ve learned from reading the Book of Mormon that I can always count on Him, that He is the one person who will never, ever, ever let me down.  I know I can be better by following Him and trying to love like He showed us.  I trust Him.

—My last and one of my favorite lessons actually takes us back to the very first lesson I shared with you, “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6-7).  Every prayer we say as a family and every dinner we eat together, every time we try to be nice instead of mean, every verse of scripture we read, all the times we sit up late with our kids who want to talk, all the times we’re calm when we wanted to scream, all the times we try to be a good home or visiting teacher, all the times we share our imperfect talents, it all adds up. I love this confirmation and this reminder by President Packer: “Our lives are made up of thousands of everyday choices.  Over the years these little choices will be bundled together and show clearly what we value.”

That applies to the priority we give the Book of Mormon in our lives. I know we all have a million things  we need and want to get to.  But the amazing part is that by making the small effort every day to read even for a few minutes, you’ll see how much more you’ll be able to get done.  You will feel lighter and happier, more calm and patient, more clear-headed and loving.  It’s a small choice but a great investment.  And nothing will help us feel closer to Christ than reading the Book of Mormon.

II.  Testimonies and experiences from some of our young friends:

It’s been neat seeing Callum figure out how the scriptures can help him.  When he was younger and sleeping upstairs, his room had huge windows and he was nervous about the storms and the wind.  He had a hard time feeling safe with how loud it was and of course because we’ve had a couple of close calls with tornados a few years back.  We tried everything to help him feel more comfortable and peaceful, saying prayers, tucking him in, reasoning with him, explaining how strong the house was.  We were just inches away in our own room, we could hear each other breathing, but nothing seemed to soothe his anxieties.  Until we started reading the Book of Mormon with him at bedtime.  Ever since then he just knows that’s what will help. He told me, “It helps me sleep better.  I sleep deeper.  I have happier dreams.”  I asked a couple others at breakfast about them reading before bed and one said, “I can’t fall asleep without reading it.”  And another said, “It helps me not have any bad dreams.  It makes me feel good and happy.”

From a few young friends we know:

Spiritual thought time. This week I would just like to give my testimony of the Book of Mormon. I know that it is true. It has blessed my life and especially my mission. There is so much in it that is perfectly applicable to our lives and that helps us become better. I know that it was translated by the prophet Joseph Smith, and because I know that this book is true, I know that this church is true, and that God loves us. It is a beautiful thing to know that, and I know that others can find this out for themselves as well. This book, and this gospel brings happiness. It is the only way to happiness.

In the mission we´re reading from cover to cover once every six months, and it´s been really good for me. One of the worst feelings I´ve had in the mission was about 2 months ago, when my backpack was stolen...with my marked scriptures and everything else. Even so, I´ve started over with marking my scriptures and I´ve found many new things. More than anything, I´ve found it to be true that as we have a habit of truly sincerely studying the Book of Mormon, we find the answers to the questions that come up in normal life. When the doubt or question comes, we already know the answer because it was in the parts we read in our studies of the days before. 

I'm trying to gain a testimony, I'm kind of approaching it how an investigator would I guess, starting at the beginning of the Book of Mormon and praying after each time but I still haven't gotten an answer. And I want to believe it and I know that I have felt something on occasion, but I don't know that it was because of the gospel or just a cool story or something.  So I'm trying, but it's slow. And that's how the prophets say a testimony will come.  But I'm working on it.  I obviously want all of it to be true.  if it is, it is an amazing plan, and really all depends on the truthfulness of just two things; that God is real, and that the Book of Mormon is true.  And so those are the two things i want to believe more than anything.  

I loved getting that email because it’s real, someone who admits he doesn’t really know.  I’m ok with that.  Because I think we all go through that to some degree.  Wondering if all this is real or if we’re being taken, an interesting story but hardly plausible.  And so I think he is spot on.  The best way to know if everything else is to read the  Book of Mormon.  The best way to remember that you know it’s true is to go back.  The best way to help your family and our ward and yourself is to read from the Book of Mormon.  Every day, every day, every day. 

A year closer to my dad

I’m arguably the least sentimental person you might ever meet.  I’m not into special occasions (although as a mom, I honestly try) and, while I’m usually on it as far as birthdays, I hardly ever get around to anniversaries (except our own) and I’m the worst when it comes to remembering when someone has died.  Ask my sisters, I can’t even remember the years my grandparents died, let alone the months or days.  I don’t know why that kind of stuff doesn’t register with me; all I can surmise is that it matters so little to me.  I guess I just care that they lived.  And I just don’t see death as an end, more of a moving on, so maybe it doesn’t seem much more than a transition.  On the other hand, maybe I’m just cold and heartless.  There’s always that possibility.  I’ve considered it.

But I know this is a hard weekend for my mom and sisters.  It was last year at this time, Father’s Day weekend actually, that my dad suddenly died from an unexpected heart attack.  A tender way to transition in my mind; I’ve seen so many friends struggling for months as their parents have lingered and the process has been drawn out.  I suppose we knew it could happen, but we’d had so many near-misses with my dad over the years that I think we all figured he was invincible and would never perish.  He was to be preserved throughout the ages, it seemed.  A likely story, we always joked, what with all the rubbish he’d eat, preservative-laden Ding Dongs and tv dinners, Tab and beef jerky.  He held out and lived a pretty full and healthy life considering, so nothing could’ve surprised us more when it was the real thing.

As I’ve been talking to my mom and sisters the past couple of days, I think it’s normal to think back and reflect on how the year’s been, where I sit with it all.

To be honest, I think about him every day and hardly at all.  It’s as if he’s with me all the time while at the same time not.  What I mean is I can be doing the most arbitrary thing and it’ll make me think of my dad, the smell of beef jerky, seeing white walking shoes on sale at Costco.  Once in awhile I’ll be driving and wonder how he is, what he’s doing.  But days will tick by and I’ll realize I haven’t even thought about him.  In my mind, he will come to my side the second I need him, and when I think of him, it’s as if he’s the closest thing to me, right beside me.  But on the other hand, I feel he is busy.  That he has a lot going on, that he has a life just as I do.  And while yes, we’d love to walk and hold hands, sit and talk over extended meals, watch comedy and silly shows, there came a time when he’d have to go out to the upholstery shop and I’d need to get the dishes done.  So our time together is the same to me even now.

As I was falling asleep on the eve of this anniversary, I thought about our lives.  How some are so short.  Others seem to go on and on and on till you think maybe they’re the exceptions and might live forever.  I visited my oncologist this week.  Usually I don’t take down the Cancer box, I leave it on a shelf with my other souvenirs.  Except for when I’m at my plastic surgery appointments, I rarely even connect the dots that my still-tight chest has anything to do with my life expectancy.  And yet online and off I’m hearing it all around me, friends whose cancer has come back in places they can’t reach, they’re not doing well, it wakes me up and reminds me that we started out the same.  That my life really isn’t my own, that I’m not in charge, and that I may have fewer years left than I’m banking on.

So I guess it’s natural that I’d be a little introspective this week.  I thought through my dad’s life briefly as I was falling asleep.  And I wondered what the purpose of it was.  Because it was pretty uneventful, just normal, we didn’t do a whole lot as a family that impacted many, he wasn’t famous or even well-known outside of his small circle of family and friends.  I just couldn’t help but wonder what lives like this—like the majority of our lives—mean.  More pointedly, did he fulfill his mission?  What was his mission?  Did he do what he was meant to do?  And are any of us?

And of course I immediately felt that of course he did.  Because I know in a million tiny ways so many of us are better because of him and the way he lived. I don’t have proof or any documentation from those outside our family, but I know he made all the difference in my life and in our family.  I love the example he gave of how to treat the poor, the men he encountered that he’d bring coats and blankets to, that he’d buy food for.  I love how he never held a grudge and always forgave.  Sure he had a temper and lost his patience, most of my family’s like that.  And yes, he watched a lot of tv and liked his sleep, same with the rest of the family.  But I love that he was loving nearly to a fault.  We hated his slobbery kisses and aftershave-laden hugs as kids, but there wasn’t a doubt in the world that his kids were his everything.  I know it’s weird for a 40-something year-old to hold hands with her dad, but I didn’t care.  (Like I’ve ever played by the cool rules.)   I suppose I knew I would always be his little girl, and I get it.  Now that I have sons bigger than a lot of men, I still want to cuddle them and hug on them.  He loved like that.  To the core.  I love how childlike he was, excited by the small things in life like a good meal, a trip to the mountains, a trip into town, a good show, a hot fudge malt (seriously, who wouldn’t??), new jeans at a bargain price, and certainly a road trip to see the grandkids.

I love that he smiled and talked to everyone.  We’re all doing it these days.  I wonder what he thinks about that.  I love that he was clean, that he liked a tidy house, that he took such good care of his van and his tools and his furniture.  I liked that he talked about God a lot.  That he prayed even when he had no idea we’d be watching.

I loved getting his letters back in college.  He’d send pages and pages.  Nearly weekly.  And would overnight me $20 for the weekend.  His special occasion cards were always from the top row, the most ornate available, the best choices for showcasing his love.  Enthusiastic and focused when he had his mind set on something.  Same with house plans and furniture sketches, his attention span would impress any teacher.  He taught me to share my feelings in writing, to show love unabashedly, to follow my dreams, to live true to who I felt to be, to not worry if it wasn’t fashionable or what everyone else was doing, just stick with things I love.  His confidence eventually made its way through my stubbornness and is happily being applied to his grandchildren, whose confidence knows no bounds.  What a great gift to leave for future generations.

He taught me and my sisters to work hard.  He worked six and sometimes seven days a week for almost all of his adult life.  But even in that there’s a lesson: follow your heart, use your talents, spend time on something you love and you’re good at.  I think upholstery was not only his life’s work, but his passion.  I love how he did quality work, matching up the stripes on the cushions to the stripes on the back of the couch.  I like how he’d take it apart if it wasn’t working.  He taught me it’s better to leave a project that isn’t working and take a break, go back in the morning.   My sisters are two of the hardest workers I know and have landed great jobs because, in part, of the work ethic exemplified by my dad.  I couldn’t be more proud of all of them.

I guess that’s just it.  It’s hard to tell—there’s no control group for ourselves—in this experiment of life and family, what it would’ve looked like without our dad, how we would’ve turned out, what we would’ve learned to value, what kind of women we would’ve become.  I have no idea.  We think we’re who we are because of who we came as.  But I believe every person has influence.  That we touch each others’ lives in imperceptible ways.  That parents can help shape a child.  That a dad’s invaluable when it comes to instilling confidence and security in a daughter.  That the greatest lessons are taught by example, by the way he treated others, by the way he worked, by the way he loved.  I believe his generous spirit propelled others to be more so.  I think his laugh was contagious, that his enthusiasm for life lifted others.

I’m not eulogizing a perfect man.  But a dad who tried.  Who was the dad we needed.  I love him as much now as ever.  Of course I have regrets.  That’s the only part that really makes me sad.  I should’ve been more patient and paid him more attention.  I should’ve called and written more.  But I’m good with it all because I know his forgiving spirit.  I love it when a picture pops out of the blue, an old one on the computer or when we’re rifling through photos for a school collage.  I’m startled by how familiar he is.   How he’s right back with me.  Just like that.  And every good thing about him comes back to me.  I remember instantly how close we are, how much he loves me still.  And so I’m not sad.  I feel like he can see my life and my kids and my frustrations and heart pains and worries so much more clearly now.  I feel soothed that I’m understood, that he can help me if I need it, that no one is more invested in a daughter than a dad.  I’ve never felt closer to him than I have this year.

Lazy days of summer

Hardly.  I actually secretly dread summer exactly because I know my workload’s about to increase by about 93%.  And yet, you can hardly not love summer.  I’m a sucker for just about all of it.

I love that I can sleep in just a bit.  But also that it’s light so early that I hardly ever want to.  I love waking up with the birds and the sprinklers, the quintessential sounds of summer.  I love that Todd and I get to sneak off for an early-morning walk before everyone wakes up.  I love that we have the roads to ourselves.  Except I’m kind of surprised that we really don’t.  I have no idea why so many other people are awake so early, most of them are in trucks.  I love that we have time to grab the paper and pick a few weeds and to check on the garden before we come in.  I miss my more intense work-outs during these summer months—there just doesn’t seem to be as much time now that the mornings are dedicated to yard work.  (Kind of funny to work out all winter and then slack off in the summer when more of you is showing.)  I love that we’re all up by 7:30 and that we can eat breakfast together and read a bit before Todd needs to leave for work.  Sometimes on the back porch in the crispness of the day.

It’s hot before we even really get started on the day, but the house is cool from having all the windows and doors open (we get a lot of bugs—no one cares).  I love feeling the cross-breeze as its freshness wafts through the hallways.  Eventually we will close everything up, and I admit I hate the darkness that creates.  But it’s worth it because the house will stay around 73 all day when we do; and, before long, the heat of the day wanes and we can open everything up again.  I love living in a desert where the nights are cool enough to warrant both a sheet and a bit of a blanket with a breeze caressing your sleep.

I love that the kids know the routine and that finally there’s little resistance.  I love weeding beside them, clipping dead flowers, pulling up old stems.  A satisfying rescue of a flower from the a tenacious Morning Glory vine, the defining snap of a hearty dandelion stem, tiny trees effortlessly uprooted, the garden boxes picked clean.  They’re not into it and just as I’m settling into the work, they announce their buckets are done and they’re heading in.

I love that we have both nothing and everything to do on these summer days.  The calendar isn’t empty, but it’s not like the school year.  I try to stick to maybe one outing a day if we can.  The mornings are for yard and house work, and then we’ll go swimming or to the park or have a picnic or play with friends.  We’re like you and have all sorts of dental and doctor appointments, we have church commitments and hair cuts and piano.  But we’re not the kind to sign the kids up for things and we’ve been pretty intermittent even with swim lessons over the years.  I guess it’s my old-fashioned ways at play once again.

I love the idea of cleaning out the dress up clothes and craft closet.  The garage and maintenance room.  I envision myself patching up the sleeping bags, organizing the camp boxes.  I love the idea of everyone paring down their rooms to a minimum, recycling old school papers, finding lost library books, bulging donation bags lining the halls.  I love the thought of everyone cleaning their blinds.  I know.  This stuff never really happens.  I’m just an eternal optimist thinking/hoping this year will be different.

I love the summer storms that visit so often in the evenings.  I love the green hills contrasted with the ribboned gray hues of our Big Sky.   What’s better than cuddling in bed listening to the rain through open windows?  I remember when we were very first married how much we relished the storms as the French doors of our bedroom opened up to the mountains and the rains.  Our tiny apartment rested on the garage, so it was if we were part of the sky itself.  Maybe those are the memories we lean on when we sense a change in the air.

I love that dinners are a cinch.  I love that we have a grill right outside our door and a whole produce section right off the porch.  I love knowing the lettuce and potatoes are fresh, that there’s more cilantro for tomorrow, that there will be beans later this week, and that we have onions to last till next fall.  I love that the oven’s rarely on, that we eat salad almost every night,  that we can linger on the patio for as long as we want.  I love that we ditch it all for hamburgers and shakes.  Often.  I love that we’ll drive for an hour to our favorite mountain shack for greasy fries and ice cream.  Just so we can sit by the creek and eat in peace.

I love that Todd reminds me of Mr. Rogers.  Not like that, just how he changes his clothes when he gets home, ready for the next part.  Anxious to get into the garden or to feed his bees or work on the rock.  Almost as if eating is an impediment.  I love that Callum wants to know what work they’ll be doing that night.  I love that I can sneak away early, having put in my time earlier in the day.  By night I’m not the greatest company.  All I want is my Real Simple and my puffy socks.  But I love reclining to the din of their project voices.

I love getting back on the road.  Confined by the cold and snow for so many months (who can afford to fly anywhere when you’re a family of seven?), we’re anxious to travel, to see what’s out there, to try something new.  We’re a little rusty on the first camping trip of the season, kind of like the first days back to school.  It takes awhile to get our rhythm back, but then we’re good.  We recall what it was that worked best for breakfast on the road and remember to add sunflower seeds, Funyons, and Dr. Pepper to the list.  The kids are tight packers and experts with their to-do bags.  I love that we wake up at 3:30 and are praying in the van at 4.  I love that we’re bound together for 10-14 hours; it’s so much easier these days than it was with toddlers and babies.  I love the tentative reunion with grandparents, the familiarity that comes back in small ripples, reuniting with the different houses, retracing their steps to the lake, the Legos from Todd’s childhood, their fort from last year.

I love that we spend so much time outside.  Both here and there.  I love that our doors are open so much of the day, that shoes are optional.  I love camping amid the pines, roasting marshmallows in our own backyard, hiking in the mountains, wading on the shores.  I love hot dogs only on a stick and I’ll gladly trade in perfume for campfire smoke for an evening.

I love (not really) the sticky pools of colored sugar liquid on the desk by the computer, the little plastic snips from Otter Pops with syrup dribbled out, sticky-ing my scissors and littering the counters and tv viewing areas.  I love the nasty fare of easy-summer snacks fixed by kids eager for quick carbs and the path of least resistance.  They beg for Que Bueno cheese sauce from Costco.  I’ve done it before.  I can hardly do it again.  Boxes of macaroni find their way to our recycling.  The pizza oven’s a constant counter companion.  Chocolate milk—Nestle a summer  indulgence; occasionally that Country Time lemonade mix when we’ve gone camping and have leftovers.  Granted, we add watermelon and grapes and strawberries to the summer lunch mix and try to balance out whatever diet you’d call this all.  I’m not on board, yet I also love that it’s so traditionally our house in the warm months.  A hiatus from health by anyone’s definition.  I guess the extra play time outside compensates.  Slightly.

I love days by the lake.  When we leave early and set up camp before anyone else, knowing exactly how the shade’s going to land.  I love afternoons by the pool.  Any pool.  Friends who are awesome, the indulgence of paying for the one with great slides.  I remember back to the wading pool days, the splash park afternoons.  We sometimes still go if I just have the little ones with me.  I hate the thought of giving that part of our summers up.  Maybe because it’s been the way we’ve summered for the past 19 years—at parks and in small plastic tubs of water on the front lawn.  I remember one of our first with Andrew—just under a year—outside of Orchard Downs, the married student housing our first year of vet school.  We’d let them splash in water pools right outside our steps, they loved how blue even the whites of his eyes were.  Such simple days that still stand out.

I love the freckles that have popped out overnight on the little kids’ faces.  I feel bad for their burns we so carefully worked to avoid.  I love seeing our pale limbs take on some color, gradually wakening from their milky slumber, all of our freckles coalescing.  I love tan lines.  Because I have so few.  I love the warmth of sun on my skin, wading in the shallows, watching the kids do what kids throughout the ages have always done.

I love flip flops and sandals.  Shorts and short sleeves.  My favorite of all is jeans and sandals and a little shirt.  Unencumbered by layers and jackets and shoelaces and socks.  I love that sunglasses become the added accessory to keep hair back, hardly permissible in cooler Montana months.  I love that getting out the door requires little more than some snacks and water bottles.  No coats and hats to slow us down, we’re minimalists for a season, and I love playing peek-a-boo with my polished toes, unwrapped from their winter sleep.

I love trips to the library, cool and inviting.  Anything at all for the taking.  Loading up our arms and bags with new friends and old pals.  Movies and novels.  Picture books and workout dvds.  Now and then we’ll take a trip to the bookstore, which is both different and similar.  I love the freshness, the brightness.  I love the ambiance, the soft chairs and array of periodicals.  The shelves of brand new books and puzzles, games and bargains.  We hardly ever buy anything, but we love it all.

I love the summer nights when Todd takes us all fishing for the evening.  Packing up our tin foil dinners and fruit and cookies.  We’ll take the winding road that leads to our favorite spot, the kids will play on the bank, we’ll throw rocks and listen to the loons.  I love that we still have light so that Todd can have summer with us.  In the winter it’s certainly dark when he gets home; this is such an indulgent way to spend the night.

I love the days we stay inside all day.  When it’s the exhausting kind of hot that’s too intense for even swimming.  We indulged in an Anne of Green Gables marathon with friends a few years back.  We might try it again this year. We make a list at the beginning of each summer, things we want to make sure and do.  I always put Wild Bill Lake, ice cream at Rock Vale; the kids want a junk food day and a movie day.  Projects are always Todd’s contribution.

Today is typically us.  Yard work and chores.  The big kids took a run.  The little kids played piano and read for fun.  We’ll work in the yard a bit more tonight.  We’re heading to the park in a bit.  But it’s hard to interrupt the lazy days of summer for even such diversion.  Because the Star Wars marathon has already begun downstairs.

Our seedlings

Todd gets excited for spring planting when the first seed catalogues start arriving in February.  (This is some slick marketing going on, tell you what.  One year he had to replant three times because he started so early, pumped up by all the propaganda in our mailbox.)  By March he’s got seedlings sprouting.

Come April they’re ready for a little sunbath every other day or so. Just half an hour for starters.  To get them used to such bright light.  They’re accustomed to the sheltered light of our house, their cozy spot next to our window under their special heat lamp/light.  I suppose I’m used to having our dining area as a makeshift greenhouse this time of year.  Usually we have rows of identical boxes on a homemade wooden bench, but this year we have a tall metal rack with wheels, akin to what the bakery I used to work in nestled their loaves on.  This big guy stretches out wide and tall to take in all our window light right next to the table we eat all our meals at.  An ideal set-up.  For some.  Apparently for us.

So my job in the afternoons is to wheel the cart out on our deck and let these youngish plants just take in their surroundings.  To soak up some non-diffused sunlight.  To feel the wind in their leaves.  Kind of reminds me of my yoga poses with one leg straight up behind me, arms up high, balancing on my remaining limb, reaching sun-ward.  Forcing me to try to center.  But of course I wobble, it’s hard work keeping things tight and altogether.  And I imagine it’s a similar workout for these young plants, their stems and leaves exposed to the harsh realities of life outside as they, too, reach for the sun.

Which makes me think about our little human seedlings.  More hardy than wispy now, but still in our care, just like our garden growths on our bakery rack.

In fact, this reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend this week about something similar, the attachment theory (I know, random), which basically says when infants form good relationships with their parents, they’re more secure and grounded in their relationships as adults. 

“A theory that describes the dynamics of long-term relationships between humans, starting with the earliest age when an infant needs to develop a relationship with at least one caregiver. It explains significance of the parents' relationship with the child to achieve normal social and emotional development." (Science Dictionary)

It just got me thinking how raising kids and plants are so similar, how God’s pattern shows us how best to do both.  And when they are nurtured in the beginning, given thoughtful care and attention, they both are free to grow into what they were meant to become.  Secure in their roots, confident in their destiny.

Both are coddled in the beginning, tucked in small blankets of dirt or cloth in a tiny singular pot or bed.  Fed small amounts of liquid at consistent intervals.  A secure start to be sure.  In the beginning not much happens.  All they do is sleep, and we’re left to wonder if our freshly-planted seed or newly-born baby will ever open its eyes.  Until one day you barely notice its little green start just peeking above the layer of blackish potting soil.  Your baby staring back at you, one day you see her noticing her hands or turning toward sound, staying awake for longer periods, taking in the world a bit at a time.  Still safe in their cocooned worlds, warm and protected, even as both baby and seed begin to explore in small ways.

But eventually both our seedlings and infants need and long for exposure to the outside world.  In small doses.  A walk with mom, securely bundled up in the stroller or back pack for the first few months.  A blanket for extra comfort.  Later she can sit up a bit on her outings  The blanket drags, catching the wheels, she doesn’t rely on its security as much these days.  Eventually he can walk the path at the zoo holding onto dad’s pointer finger, and before long he feels confident enough to take off on his own.  Carefree, somehow knowing his grownup will be there watching out for him.  Like the plants I pull into the daylight in small doses, allowing them freedom to experience the world’s touch, but never leaving them on their own for long.

In a million different ways we parents teach our kids almost without realizing it, in the same way we "harden" our young plants.  We permit them both to experience light and rain, soft breezes and sudden gusts.  The process is gradual and over time we lengthen or intensify the exposure, bringing them back into our care after a short period of maybe a morning at preschool or a 15 minute sunbath on the back porch.   Nothing overwhelming, just a starting point.  But seeds and kids adjust and eventually they're used to school and being in the fresh air.

Like most of you, we’ve taken our kids camping since they were babies, just letting them feel the outdoors becoming second-nature to them, but pulling them back in the tent and wrapping them up warmly overnight.  Then on to father-son campouts, exposing them a bit more to the cooking and setting up camp, their leaves reaching out, still safe with dad close by, like our seedlings’ afternoon sunbath.  Eventually they’re off on their own to scout camp for a week, independent, out for most of the day.  My favorite is when they take off to the mountains with their friends.  Enjoying the full sun, a little wind, but surely stronger for the exposure.

We might teach them to cook or clean or take care of the yard in the same way.  Letting them hold the measuring spoon as we load it up with baking soda.  Having them scoop dough balls on cookie sheets.  Letting them swish the toilet cleaner with the brush.  Riding the lawn mower, then steering while dad pushes the gas.  Eventually they start mowing for the neighbors, learn to work the mixer and to clean the whole bathroom.  Before long, they’re making the cookies for the bake sale.  We all start teaching our kids in small ways, we figuratively put the plants on the deck when they’re little, helping them acclimate to their future existence.  But we’re close by, keeping an eye on things, ready to swoop in if a strong gust or downpour comes out of nowhere, a flooded toilet, a burn on the wrist, cookie dough too stiff to stir, a lawnmower belt that needs to be replaced.  We wouldn’t leave them alone in this important transitional time.  We let them try the real world for a bit, but we never plant them before their time.  

There comes a day when our little seedings are ready.  When they need to be planted out in the garden, far from the house, away from the tempered conditions of our home.  As we planned from the beginning.

And so just as we prepare the garden boxes each spring, turning the soil, adding compost from the winter, we made sure our college-aged son had what he needed for the upcoming season: bedding, cooking utensils, enough food to start with.  It goes without saying that there’s an adjustment period, regardless of how dedicated we were to the conditioning process.  It’s a bit of a shock to be in new surroundings, to be so far from the sheltered porch and warm home life.  Some plants—and some young adults—flounder.  Some don’t make it at all.  And some parents and gardeners keep their plants and kids within arm’s reach way too long, mistakenly thinking that they are nurturing them better this way.  They fail to realize that what makes them strong is giving them room to grow.  The freedom to become what they were meant to be.  A chance to see what they’re made of.

Of course we check on our plants regularly, just as we touch bases with our son in college. We weed around our freshly planted sprouts, likewise helping our young ones—both at home and away—determine which new ideas they’ve been exposed to are worth keeping and which ones really ought to be plucked. We fertilize and give a little extra help as needed.  We water when they seem to ask for it, but we also rely on the rain from above and wisdom of other adults that seem to come out of nowhere, usually when we feel most desperate for the extra nourishment on our seedlings’ behalf.

We gradually leave them more and more on their own.  Our older kids are pretty self-sufficient by this point and rarely need much more from us than a little water, a good talk, a hug.  They’re like our potato plants, generally strong and healthy with large shade leaves, a conscience.  By the time the leaves and moral compass are this developed, the plant is pretty much on its way.  But now and then there's a stray weed that pops up, even under the cover of the great shade leaves, even with all the teachings and character lessons throughout the years.  It may be an off thought, a misjudgment, a perplexing question, a tough habit or unusual weed with tenacious roots.  But nothing that can’t be handled with the Gardener’s help.  A potato plant knows what it needs to do.  And so do our kids.  

Eventually these plants and kids produce works of their own, potatoes, degrees, food, service… seedlings that have grown up seemingly overnight.  At least now as we look back.  It seemed so slow in the beginning.  We could hardly wait for them to wake up.  And then we could hardly keep them watered and fed sufficiently.  Before we knew it, it was time to plant them in their own garden beds, time to not necessarily say goodbye, but knowing the engagement would lessen, our part would diminish.  The rest would, in large part, be up to them.

We know by now that the onions will be fine.  The rhubarb is an independent sort, hardly needing us at all.  The raspberries flourish without any interference from us either.  But others need us more as they transition from the home life to their own garden plot.  Like the tomatoes who still need to be tethered to a stake while they’re just starting out.  Flowers who need to be deadheaded, kids who still have some habits to shed, we’re here to help them out.  We always kind of wonder about the peppers.  We try to touch bases with them pretty regularly, ascertaining that they're getting enough water, making sure they aren’t overwhelmed by slugs.  For the most part, plants and kids at this age are pretty much on the path to what they’ll become.  There’s not a whole lot we can do to change things at this point.  But we still check up on them.  That’s what gardeners and parents do.

My mother's daughter

As I was hanging sheets to dry over the stair railings one Saturday morning I out of the blue recalled my mom doing the exact same thing.  I don’t know why I hadn’t remembered till now.  I think she does it so they aren’t wrinkly; she’s even been known to iron her sheets.  I do it to save energy, no point using a dryer in Montana.  I know we look like white trash when I spread them all over our front porch, but everything’s crisp and done within the hour, so it’s not like they’re hanging out all day.  Plus, no one really ever comes to our house.  When it’s too cold outside I’ll put them inside on the railings, just like my mom.  We both hang up the majority of our clothes while they’re still damp, just saves them wearing out so fast and we just like to save a little where we can.  Habit I guess.  I’ve been doing laundry with my mom since I was in elementary school, I guess I just picked up some things along the way.

In so many ways, I’m sure just like you, I sometimes feel like my mom in the way I mother and run the house.  I see her in the mirror and in my mannerisms.  I hear her in my voice and in the phrases that come out when I least expect them.  I suppose some is inherited and some is just from living together for so many years.  But in a million myriad ways, it’s evident we’re more than just friends.

I feel like her when I reach for my gift boxes on the high shelves of my closet and the ribbon and tissue come out from the box under my bed—my make-shift gifting station.  My mom is constantly putting together little gifts for people and has more ribbon and gift bags and tags than anyone I know.  She remembers everyone’s birthday and baby and graduation and wedding and special occasion a person may celebrate.  She spends part of a day at Hallmark each month gathering her cards and writing them for the upcoming month.   Her personal assortment of notecards gives Hallmark a run for its money, so I’m not sure why she still shops for them when she has so many at home.  But her selections are choice, perfectly suited to every situation and personality she sends them for.

Like I said, she and I can’t help but fill our bedroom closets with good finds we’ve come upon along the way.  Since we both love to shop.  I’ve lost most of my stamina for it over the years (except if we’re at a thrift store or garage sale), but she still shops with gusto.  I love her excited voice on the phone telling me all the good deals she’s gotten.  I’m the same, itemizing amazing finds in my weekly letter home.  We can hardly help ourselves.  Shopping is in our blood.  And our wares continue fill up boxes in our closets.

Since we’re talking about closets, it may be because she has so many, but she’s always been so breezy with the way she’s lent us her clothes.  Even now when I visit I don’t stress if I’ve forgotten anything, she’s got three closets I can rifle through at my leisure whether I need a hoodie or pair of sandals.  I find myself just as nonchalant about lending clothes these days, although I was the complete opposite as a teen.  Avery’s constantly in my closet borrowing tank tops and fleece tights and slips and socks and sweaters.  I love it, the more wear we get out of these clothes the better!  I’m so glad my mom has always been like that and relieved that it eventually rubbed off on me.

We both love silver jewelry—she’s got a bigger flare for metal than me—but there’s nothing like a great pair of huge silver earrings, and the bolder the necklace, the better.  At least for her.  But I’m happy to borrow when I visit.  She’s got great taste in jewels, and I always followed my mom’s ways even back in elementary school, careful to always remember my earrings. Funny though, neither one of us have really worn our original wedding rings.  She continues to switch out ones she likes better, and I’ve been over diamonds for years now, they just protrude and get in the way.  Which makes it easier when it comes to lotioning our hands.  Because of her, I now even have lotion in my kitchen.  And tiny jars and tubes all over the house and purse.  She is the softest lady I know.  And I find myself automatically rubbing cream into my just-washed hands when I come out of the Costco bathroom.  Just like her.

I feel like they’re her hands sometimes.  Especially when I’m sitting quietly at church or the temple.  The way I fold them, the way they’re shaped, the way I move them.  I feel like I’m my mom.  Bouncing the kids in the pool while they sit on my legs takes me back in time.  She never really swam with us, she was mostly on the side with her legs dangling.  But as a mom I can appreciate that now.  But it’s weird to feel like I’m looking at her legs when I’m sitting on the side of the pool.  She and I both have had issues with our legs.  As my younger version, I hated my big calves.  And she refuses to wear shorter skirts because of the way her legs look.  I’m sure we’re not alone, moms and daughters sharing similar shapes and concerns.  I see the same expressions on my face when I look at pictures of her at the same ages, as a teen and young mom.  Freckles, dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes.  Like a reflection in so many ways.  We both went gray somewhat early.  I look at her hair and hope that’s how mine will be someday.  She colored hers for years; I’m just at the beginning, but I can see where this is heading.  Just interesting to see what I might look like down the road.

To ward off aging for as long as possible, we’ve used Mary Kay for years and years.  I remember her promise to me at twelve, watching her get ready one day, “If you use this, you will never have wrinkles.”  Maybe my problem was waiting till I was 18 before I got serious about skin care.  But we’re still fans and I love knowing if I forget mine when I travel, she’s got my back.  Same with any beauty-getting-ready implement known to woman.  Her collection could rival any make-up artist.  I love getting ready for the day in her huge bathroom together.  She is as generous as they come, and any tool or hair or body or face product she owns is communal property.  Lipstick is our favorite beauty item hands down.  She has more tubes than anyone I know and neither one of us will even go for our walks without it.  It’s just the way it is.  I must’ve picked that up along the way.

When we finally move from getting ready to eating, she makes me laugh.  She’s got a chocolate in her cheek from the moment she wakes up, and Todd teases her mercilessly about it.  So we’re a little different there (she hates that I don’t love chocolate the way she does, with the exception of See’s), but we eat the same things, fruit, thick whole wheat bread, yogurt, Wheatabix, Raisin Bran.  Neither one of us has ever been into pancakes or waffles or French Toast.  It’s the same when we pack our lunches for the day.  I can’t help but remember back to my elementary school days and her asking me to put some grapes and Wheat Thins in a bag for her when she was getting ready for her job at the bank.  I pack myself the same kinds of things 30 years later as I’m leaving for my day.  We’re creatures of habit and when we’re at a conference we like the same kinds of sandwiches on textured bread, tomatoes, carrots, raspberries, with cottage cheese and grapes topping the list.  Mint brownies and BYU ice cream are at the very top of the list.  Right under See’s peanut crunch, bordeaux, and butterscotch squares.  Which we can eat by the bagful.  We’re so bad.  The sweeter, the better.

But we also like to make our own sweets.  I’ve tried a million recipes, but I’m drawn to the lemon bars I grew up with, her version of KBars, mocha cookies, and caramel brownies.  How can you go wrong?  She’s made trays and plates every year at Christmas ever since I was young enough to eat the leftovers.  I like to make cookies and treats too, I just prefer to spread it out over the year.  It would stress me out to do what she does.

But when it comes to energy for cleaning and weeding, I’m on par.  I’m faster, but she’s more thorough.  A good team.  She taught me to keep a tidy car and to take everything out when we went inside.  We’d ritualistically clean our cars—inside and out—every Saturday morning in the parking lot of our apartment where we lived during all my growing-up years.  She continues to have one of the tidiest cars and yards and houses I’ve ever seen.  And we're constantly organizing and paring down our collections.  (And those of anyone else who will let us in!)  Her books are what get her in trouble though, boxes, bookshelves, and shelves loaded down in every spare room of the house.  I love it.  And follow suit.

We have a hard time getting to the ones we own though—we’re much more likely to read them if we borrow them from a friend or library with a looming deadline.  She and my sisters and I are drawn to the same non-fiction, behind-the-scenes types.  Stories of people who overcame great odds.  Different cultures and difficult time periods.  We’re suckers for a good romance, but we love to learn more than anything.  Sometimes (most of the time) I feel like these are the only women in the world who get me.  Who I don’t have to pretend to like the mainstream stuff around.  I just know they’ll want to read whatever I’ve most recently fallen in love with.  Barnes and Noble is a weakness like no other for all of us, and the library is one of the most comfortable places in our world.  She’d take us so many Saturday mornings growing up, and I’d bring home a teetering pile of Beverly Clearys and Judy Blumes to get me through the week.  As a mom myself I’ll easily fill up four bags bulging with picture books and chapter books for the week ahead and I’m still dealing with overdue fines.  A small price to pay really.  Reading is our favorite hobby in the world.  Unfortunately we’re not that fast.  We both get sleepy.  She doesn’t want to miss a word, and we almost never read during the day.  Except for the paper, which she is fastidious about reading.  One of our favorite things in the world is the morning paper with toast and jam.

Speaking of mornings, that’s about the only time of the day we’re really good.  We wane as the day goes on, and we’re about out of juice by early evening.  Although we can make it to about 9 if we try hard.  We get up with the birds and like to get out and weed or go for our walk or putter.  This is when we have energy to do the bathrooms, start the laundry, and mop the floor.  We are coherent, with it, and ready for action.  About the complete opposite at 7 p.m.  I follow not only her pattern of wakefulness, but of washing the sheets and towels and bathrooms every Friday.  I do laundry twice a week, just like she’s always done.  Starting early, early in the morning.

I don’t know that either of us feels really competent at anything but cleaning, but we are happy to do our part in small ways.  We’ll forever be part of the church choirs.  I’d accompany her back when I was a teen to Sunday morning practices and she taught me that, even if we weren’t front and center, this was a small way we could contribute.  Cooking and having people over is as second-nature as stopping at See’s when we’re in the mall.  Not that we’re experts, more like it’s just not that stressful to us.  She’s the one who got me in the habit of writing home every week once I moved away, a tradition I saw her start as a young mother far away from her family back in Scotland.  Every Sunday evening it seemed she’d get out that crinkly stationery and her Air Mail stamps, and I carry on the tradition, composing my letter every Sunday morning as well.  Nothing that really stands out about either of us as far as talents or strengths, but we’re both good with blending in, helping in the background. We’re happy and content with our small contributions.  (Speaking of donations, one guess what group my sisters and I get return address labels from.  Disabled veterans.  Her charity of choice.  And likewise ours.)  

Maybe part of our contentment stems from having blossomed a little later in life than most as far as our confidence goes.  Once you get into your forties, little seems to ruffle you, and it’s awesome to be over that hump.  I, like her, find myself less and less burdened with guilt and the weight of what others think. But that took some time.  We were both quiet, shy, reserved, and obedient as young girls and women.  But as we’ve gotten older we’ve become more assertive and self-assured.  Her confidence grew in part because she moved to a new country all on her own as a very young adult.  She worked her way up in the bank and had to manage various branches over the years, as well as a home and family, so she had to learn to take charge.  I guess mine grew steadily over time too, but not necessarily because of work. I guess I just stopped worrying about myself so much and started thinking more about what was going on with other people.  No self-esteem course will do as much for a person as just looking around and figuring out what you can do to help people.  I think that’s basically what my mom learned from working in the bank: solving problems, human relations, trying to see another’s point of view.  Her confidence knows no bounds the older she gets and I find her talking to people wherever we go, pulling their life stories out of them and sharing her own. Before long they may have exchanged email addresses, shared family photos (and definitely a few laughs) and maybe even a parting hug.  I feel myself drawn to people in the same way largely because of her example.  Except, unlike her, my new friends and I might wind up crying together, two strangers who’ve become sisters in a matter of minutes.  She makes a point to walk over and talk to the one who seems lonely or outcast.  A powerful example and reminder to do the same.  She thoughtfully remembers those who might need a pick-me-up.  She’s always bringing left-overs and treats to her friends and neighbors, a reminder to me to look around and see who could use a little something.  And so when you’re doing things like that, there’s little time for wallowing or wondering if people like you.  Who cares?  You’re too busy for such pitiful thinking.  I love that about her.

I don’t remember her ever sitting down with me and giving me advice as a kid.  I’ve asked for it the older I’ve gotten, and sometimes it’s unsolicited.  I think she just has more time now.  Or maybe I need it more now.  But I’m ok with that.  Like most things in life, she and I are happy to be offered anything from leftover salad and the flowers from a church dinner or funeral to hand-me-down tablecloths and frames from a friend who’s moving. We’ll take it all home, mull it over, keep what works and pass on the rest.  No hurt feelings either way.  No point in wasting.  She’s constantly bringing me her collections from the people she cleans for or friends who are decluttering.  I love that she’s like that and has taught me to do the same without us ever talking about it.  I guess I’m like most people and would rather see how things are done than to be told.  And so as I’ve watched my mom over the years, whether consciously or not, I notice I’ve picked up on a few of her habits. 

In a million ways I feel she’s shaped who I am.  In some ways good, some not so good. Our sweet teeth have all been filled with silver, which unfortunately still doesn’t deter us from eating way too many cookies, and it’s so embarrassing to wake ourselves up snoring during a movie.  We get quiet when we’re mad and refuse to talk about whatever it is we say you didn’t do.  We’ve been known to slam cupboards, but mostly we just brood.  We’re two of the most stubborn women I’ve ever met, and we say Hell’s Bells more than we should.  We’re really not all that kid-friendly and we prefer to let others drive and make the decisions.  We avoid figuring out our phones and cameras for as long as we can and are not the least bit fun when it comes to water or amusement parks.  But if you’re sad we will cook you up something special to melt your troubles away.  We’ll talk your ear off if you have the time and stamina.  Especially about our latest non-fiction or thrift-store finds.  We’ll weed your garden with you and be happy to come help you clean.  Or maybe even do it for you as a surprise.  Even on vacation.  We will of course curl up and watch romantic movies with you and leave the housework for later if you want.  Even though there's a pretty good chance we'll fall asleep before long.  We will never be the type to pass up dessert because of some diet, are you kidding?  We will indulge right along with you.  We will go on long walks with you and leave a little treat near your door just because we love you and think it might make you happy.  We will send you love notes and thank you notes and cards and coupons and articles and anything else we see that makes us think of you.  We almost can’t even help ourselves.  I may think, now that I’m a mother too, that I’ve cut the apron strings, become my own self, grown up, whatever.  But no matter how I look at it, she is inherently in every part of who I am.  There’s just no getting around it.  I am, after all, my mother’s daughter.