A night on the plains

I’ll admit it was a slight concern of mine as we agreed to go on trek.  I envisioned late night giggling sessions, maybe some drama past bedtime, requisite late night talks.   I fade come ten and I know from living with teens that they don’t.  And so I worried about being the boring adult leader and how on earth I’d manage to get enough sleep as we headed out on our journey.  

You know how it is when you’re camping.  Sleep’s not the greatest, at least not the first night.  But by night two you’re so dog-tired from bad sleep and hiking and being in fresh air that usually you do just fine.

This was night two.  After hearing we’d be getting up at 4:30 the following morning before our 15 mile hike, I knew we’d want to get to bed at a reasonable hour and get a good night’s sleep.  But the meeting was long, we re-grouped later than planned, and we got to bed past my tired point.  I was doing as well as can be expected on the tent floor in a sleeping bag with a pillow the size of woopie cushion until I heard a faint plea from the next tent over calling for me.  Our little 11 year old “daughter” wasn’t feeling well.  It took me a minute to ascertain that I was the adult in charge and that I needed to wipe the sleep from my eyes and report for duty.  Usually Todd takes the night shift (and I do early mornings), but in this case I needed to be the ma.  So I ruffled the still of the night by very loudly unzipping our tent and perching myself outside of hers.  Her stomach was unsettled (my least favorite type of upsets) and so I asked if she was nervous about our big hike in the morning.  No.  I had Tums, would that help?  She’d already taken some.  Would she like me to go to the bathroom with her?  Sure.  We’d somehow secured the farthest site from the outhouses possible, so we trundled ourselves slowly onward, dodging tent ties along the dusty Wyoming prairie en route to relief.  I was shocked by how chilly the night had become from when I’d gone to bed just hours (minutes?) before.  And how dark it was.  We replayed that scenario one other time that night and I was grateful I had the presence of mine to grab my coat for waiting at the bathrooms that time.  Things seemed to settle down from that point and before we knew it, I was up for the third time in the dark, this time packing up tents and breaking camp, relieved we’d made it through the night without throwing up or serious repercussions.

I jotted down this night in my little paper journal they handed out to us because I wanted to remember what it felt like.

As I peeked my head out of our tent that very first time, I was still a little groggy to be honest.  But as I pulled myself together, I couldn’t help but be swallowed up in the night.  I was overcome as I stood up and then walked silently with my little friend and my small stream of light through the dark.  I was pulled to the sky.  But the sky seemed to be touching the ground.  I was surrounded.

Earlier that evening we’d spent some time with our little family taking in the night sky.  We pointed out constellations we each knew and talked quietly in the dark for a long time.  And how one of the most amazing things is to be on a still lake on a night like this because the stars reflect in the water and it feels like you’re living in the middle of all of them.

The night continued its gift as we took our little jaunts to the outhouses and it took my breath away while I waited for my little friend.  Everywhere I looked there were tiny pinpricks of light, stars—and who knows what else—absolutely surrounding me.  It was the most spectacular sight I’d ever seen.  I’d never been in such complete dark enabling me to see so much of the sky lights, and I was blown away.  I thought of what Mitchell (my 17 year-old son) and I had been talking about just the other night.

Together, all the galaxies in the visible universe contain an estimated 30 billion trillion stars. Yet that number may be a small fraction of all there are. Evidence suggests that we can see only about 5 percent of all there is (the rest is “dark matter” and “dark energy,” so called because it can’t be seen or detected directly by the instruments we have). The universe, in fact, may be infinite in size.  And God controls it all.  (R. Val Johnson, “Worlds Without Number,”)

How many earths are there? I observed this morning that you may take the particles of matter composing this earth, and if they could be enumerated they would only be a beginning to the number of the creations of God; and they are continually coming into existence, and undergoing changes and passing through the same experience that we are passing through (Brigham Young in Journal of Discourses, 14:71).

I couldn’t help but think of God and all His creations.  That each speck of light represented a star or a planet or even a galaxy.  It made me think back to that morning on the bus when I’d prayed for help finding my contact after I’d put all my stuff away and rustled my apron and been moving for awhile.  I knew He’d help me because I’d need to see during the trip, so I asked in faith knowing He’d come through.  Immediately I looked down and there it was safely balanced on the edge of my apron just calmly waiting for me to pick it up.  I juxtaposed that memory with the one I was imprinting at the moment and was humbled.  I knew everything I knew about God was true, He is real, I felt it deeply.

This is a paradox of man: compared to God, man is nothing; yet we are everything to God. While against the backdrop of infinite creation we may appear to be nothing, we have a spark of eternal fire burning within our breast. We have the incomprehensible promise of exaltation—worlds without end—within our grasp. And it is God’s great desire to help us reach it (President Uchdorf*).

Even with all His spectacular powers, His intelligence, His omniscience, I know He knows me.  And each of His children.  Just as we do ours.  He wants to be in our lives, to help us.  I know and feel that He loves us.  Not just as a collection of people, but as individuals.  I’ve had so many insights and experiences that have cemented that in my heart and I know for sure it’s true.  I loved that quiet time alone to feel that again.

Later that night, when we went to the bathroom again a little before the camp wake-up, I was intrigued by the intermittent lights now amid the tents where the road had been completely dark just hours before.  I noticed how much easier it was to see, even though the sun hadn’t begun to rise; it was just the small lights from each family illuminating the tiny area around them just a bit that helped us see where we were walking.

I loved the obvious symbolism of the dark world.  Even on the quiet plains of Wyoming with no one but coyotes around, I found it all a little disconcerting walking with just my 11 year-old friend and flashlight for comfort.  But on this last jaunt of the night, I couldn’t help but feel hopeful as I thought about what these lights represented.  Each person—as tiny as her light was—contributed to my overall feeling of peace and confidence.  I thought about how insignificant we think our influence is, how little impact we think we’re making, how I bet we don’t even notice we have a light at all.  But it took contrasting those small rays of light with the heavy shroud of darkness to witness how powerful each of us is—even on our own.  It wasn’t as if I needed everyone to crowd together in one area to provide enough light for our walk home, I just appreciated the tiny lights along the way, each person standing in place, doing his own work for the day ahead.  Each light contributed to the illumination of our path.  What a great metaphor.

It was just a glorious night of simple reminders that I think I’ll always reflect back on.  I think most of all it reminded me to stop and be quiet more often. To pay attention to the truths embedded in me.  To really think about what I feel.  To look up.  Most of all to remember.  I think that’s what the trek was all about.  I just feel incredibly blessed to have had one night alone with my thoughts on the plains, far away from distractions and the normal commotion in my head so that he could teach me and remind me of what I've always known.

*You Matter to Him

Trek

For anyone who knows us, you already know we’re a little different and it will likely come as no surprise that we would encourage our young people from all over the country (and world, for that matter) to dress up like pioneers and pull handcarts over desolate countryside for several days during the height of summer.  But it may shock you to know they consider it the highlight of their summer.  And possibly their young lives.

Our church hosted a trek just the other week for the youth in the area and planning took at least a year.  You simply can’t imagine the number of hands and hours required to put something like this together, what a logistical puzzle it was to move a group this size through five days and three different campsites.  What it took to feed nearly 400 people every day.  What vision and coordination it called for.  A mammoth undertaking for sure.  But I’d go again next week if they asked.  Because it made all the difference.

A ma and pa were called as volunteers to lead families of 6-8 kids, and each group included a big brother and a big sister.  We dressed in period clothes: long full skirts, lightweight blouses or dresses, aprons, bonnets or sun hats, suspenders for the guys, long sleeved work shirts typical of the time and long pants. Some sewed their own clothes, others shopped online.  Avery (our 15 year old) made skirts out of old sheets and pillowcases, and took apart another pillowcase to make her apron. I scooped up what I could find at Good Will, took apart a sundress to make a skirt, fashioned an apron out of muslin, found long-sleeved lightweight blouses for me and Avery and oversized, billowy shirts for Todd and our 12 year old son, and we were set.  Maybe not spot-on authentic, but our large group was pretty convincing. Assembling at the church to depart, I know it just gave the neighbors more fodder for their assertion that we are certainly a peculiar people.

This is the third trek since we’ve lived in the area, but we’d never really been asked to help before.  So I wasn’t surprised when we weren’t asked this time either.  I was honest when my friends would ask how I felt about trek, “I really don’t want to go, I just want to be asked.”  Of course Todd thinks I’m nuts.  But it’s the truth.  I just wanted to know someone thought I’d be able to do it.  But after not making the cut for the past three treks, I knew we simply weren’t what they were looking for; and honestly, I felt a little sad about it.  So I did my best to find other ways to serve as my kids and most of my friends around me were gearing up for the huge five-day pioneer re-enactment across the Wyoming plains.

Then out of nowhere, three or four weeks before it began, we were asked to be replacement ma and pa.  I all of a sudden had to face my insecurities.  I also had to deal with my bruised pride of not being a first choice.  My initial reaction was no way.  I was glad I’d already committed to watching another kid while her parents went, grateful that Todd was short on vacation days, relieved that it was so near with no chance of us being able to work out the details.  I told her sorry, we just couldn’t swing it.  But it just wouldn’t leave my mind.  I finally acquiesced and told Heavenly Father fine, if He really wanted us to go, He’d have to clear the path and help things fall into place.  Todd was ready to go from the first mention of it.  Days off were no issue.  Finding places for our kids turned out to be a breeze.  It really was up to me by this point.  And I vacillated.  Calling to say we’d do it was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.  Kind of like lining up for the upside-down roller coaster with your friends, wondering what you’ve just agreed to.

Speaking of roller coasters, our month felt like one.  Todd was at scout camp for a week, we had company for the entire month, we spent a week in Minnesota arriving home the week before we were to leave again, we scheduled two family meetings with our “kids,” our real kids had their own family meetings with their own ma’s and pa’s.  We shopped for skirts and shirts, we made aprons and armbands.  We bought buckets and bug spray.  We turned decorator pillows into camp pillows and made pantaloons out of scrubs.  We found hiking liners and ponchos, flash lights and Permethrin spray.  We packed spritzing bottles and neck coolers.  We walked and walked and walked.  We went to Target almost daily near the end, remembering Gold Bond and AD ointment, hard candy and gum, wipes, sunscreen and hand sanitizer.  I  had lists all over the place and continually consolidated.  As a ma and pa we were to gather family gear: four tents and tarps, water jugs, song books, pioneer names (each person walked in honor of an original member of a handcart company), first aid and sewing kits, hatchet, extra stakes, tent tape and para-cord.  We also assigned devotionals to be given each evening, prepared family lessons and threw in cards, dice, and juggling balls for good measure.

Since each family would be assigned a 4x4 foot handcart, standard procedure is to use 5 gallon buckets (doubling as seats for our gatherings).  So for weeks our bedroom had a line-up of 18 gallon totes, buckets and backpacks, and each day another item or two would go into its appropriate vessel.  Slowly it started to come together.  Our last family meeting was several days before we were to leave, providing the perfect deadline to assemble our gear.  I’d left the entire week wide open for last minute preparations, but when it came right down to it, I realized we were ready and had loads of free time!  So I took an entire day to clean the windows, we ran all sorts of errands, got the oil changed, saw the dentist.  We went for ice cream, worked in the yard, and just took our time enjoying a few slow days before our adventure began.

It seemed to consume the lives of nearly everyone we knew, and as the time approached I heard them stressing about everything from the lessons they were to give and being able to handle the physical demands to getting outfitted and the money it was costing.  I’ll admit I was also nervous.  Not about camping or not showering for five days.  Not the spiritual stuff.  But I’d heard a lot about the fifteen mile hike up Rocky Ridge we’d be doing in one day and the potential for blisters, so I had that in the back of my mind, hoping our preparatory walks would be sufficient to pull me through.  Truly though, I think my nervousness was unique.  I was most apprehensive about our little family we were assigned to head up.  I’m not a kid person, I’ve told you that a million times.  I like my own kids and obviously I’m comfortable with them.  It’s just that I wasn’t cool the first time around as a teenager, and things like that don’t improve with age.  I was afraid they’d wish they were in a different family, that we wouldn’t be fun enough, that they wouldn’t relate to us, that it’d be awkward, that I’d have to endure yet another failure.

Yet I knew I couldn’t fake it.  So I did what I always do when faced with obstacles, even funny ones like this.  I prayed.  I asked Him to help me love the kids.  Help me be what He needed me to be.  At one point I wanted to ask if we were really supposed to be doing this, I wanted confirmation that we were the right people for the job.  But then I stopped.  I supposed it simply didn’t matter.  We were who He had to work with, we were available and willing, and He would just have to make do.  I knew I couldn’t all of a sudden turn into the hip, cool, fun leader teenagers always prefer to be around, but I knew I had God as an ally and that love is powerful.  And so over the weeks leading up to our trek, this was my simple prayer.  And my growing love for our kids sustained me.  And surprised me, to be honest.  I hugged the girls one dark night as we were leading them into their tent and told them I loved them.  It was as natural as telling my own kids.  My eyes would spring leaks whenever I thought about how much I loved this new little band of kids, three young men (15 and 17) and four young women (11, 12, and 15).  I only knew one daughter well before this trek, I’d heard of two other names, but the rest were complete strangers to me.  I met our youngest daughter for the first time the morning we were gathering at the buses and she became my little buddy on the trail.  

We rode on deliciously air-conditioned buses for nearly six hours that first day as we made our way to the most remote part of Wyoming the drivers could find.  We were to learn more about two ill-fated handcart companies who left late in the 1856 season, and so we walked where they walked.  Hundreds died along their way through the midwest en route to Utah, and so we heard story after story of courage and sacrifice, faith and selflessness, strength and hope.  We were unabashedly overcome with emotion upon hearing the songs they sang and as we sang ourselves—400 strong—united by the same faith they had.  It was a powerful experience to leave our phones and distractions, to walk the Oregon/Mormon trail for miles each day, to feel hot and tired and sweaty and sore.  To set up camp after getting up at 4:30 earlier that morning and walking 15 miles all day in the wind and the heat.  Much like our fore bearers did.

An obvious metaphor for life, I think the trek made the youth think about their own journeys.  We shared stories of conviction and how that faith sustained the pioneers, many who were teenagers themselves.  We acknowledged their pain and suffering, their sorrows and hardships.  We learned about obstacles they faced and how they endured.  We talked about life today.  And how our luxuries and comforts con us into believing our lives are easy.  That our struggles simply can’t compare.  And yet we told the kids they are pioneers too.  Blazing a trail of goodness and faith through dark and uncertain plains of their own.  We talked about the trials they face and how they can use the stalwart examples of old to forge ahead.

Of course, our challenges are different today, but they are no less demanding. Instead of angry mobs, we face those who constantly try to defame. Instead of extreme exposure and hardship, we face alcohol and drug abuse, pornography, all kinds of filth, sleaze, greed, dishonesty, and spiritual apathy. Instead of families being uprooted and torn from their homes, we see the institution of the family, including the divine institution of marriage, under attack as groups and individuals seek to define away the prominent and divine role of the family in society.

This is not to suggest that our challenges today are more severe than the challenges faced by those who have gone before us. They are just different. The Lord isn’t asking us to load up a handcart; He’s asking us to fortify our faith. He isn’t asking us to walk across a continent; He’s asking us to walk across the street to visit our neighbor.  … He isn’t asking us to die a martyr’s death; He’s asking us to live a disciple’s life.

This is a great time to live, brothers and sisters, and it is up to us to carry on the rich tradition of devoted commitment that has been the hallmark of previous generations.… This is not a time for the spiritually faint of heart. We cannot afford to be superficially righteous. Our testimonies must run deep, with spiritual roots firmly embedded in the rock of revelation. And we must continue to move the work forward as a covenanted, consecrated people, with faith in every footstep (M. Russell Ballard).

And so this is why we did it.  Why we had fundraisers and dressed a little funny.  Why we spent hours gathering supplies and prepping food.  Why we made it a priority in our stake and in our families.  Why we gave our money and time and comforts for even a few days’ glimpse into lives of real people who loved God just like we do.  Who were willing to sacrifice everything for their faith.  And who remind us that we share that same faith today, that we can do hard things just like they did.  The trek was and is a little different for each of us, but walking where they walked helped us see that God is with us along our trail too.  Every step of the way.

The teenagers and me

Our kids’ best friends stayed the week with us while their family was gone (work/drivers ed); they’re 18 and 15 and here so often, they feel more like our nieces and nephews than our real ones do.

I remember first getting to know this family.  Our kids all started becoming friends at school and so that first Christmas theirs was one of the families our kids chose to take treats to.  I was so nervous walking up their stairs.  I hate scary situations like these, not knowing people, introducing ourselves at the door with nothing to hide behind but a paper plate of cookies and our smiles, pretending like it’s totally natural, something we do all the time and not a big deal.  But of course you know how things like that work out, usually just super.  They have kids for every age in our family and our paths eventually started to cross more regularly and we’ve become great friends.  We absolutely adore and love this family, from the parents all the way down to the littlest.  They’ve all spent countless hours at our house, and our kids would give us up in a heartbeat if they could live at their house.  So having two of their kids for a week was heavenly. 

And so when my son leaves in just a few weeks, he’s taking his friend with him.  I can’t wait to hear all about their adventures.  I’m terribly excited for them; they’re itching to try on their independence, and I’m anxious to live college all over again.  From a distance.  But what’s surprising me is how much I’m going to miss not only my son, but his friends, especially the twins from this family.

Because I’ve loved it so much when they just walk in, that they know where our cups are.  I love that they seem to feel completely at ease and comfortable here.  I love that we can all sit around the table and talk and talk and talk through the evening.  I love that they play games with Todd and the other dads as if they’re all the same age.  I love that they ask us questions and for advice.  I love hearing their opinions, their take on high school and the world and girls.  I love that they have a plan for the future but at the same time not exactly.

So this week was fun.  I loved falling asleep listening to them playing games.  I loved that there were more people to cook for and to care about, to make sure they had rides and snacks.  I loved having another big brother and sister around for my littles.  But now they’re gone and our house is decidedly emptier.  I’ll put away the beds and wash the towels.  I’ll cook a little less tomorrow night and I’ll have to face leftovers, something they were so good at taking care of for me.  I know I’ll miss them.

I think what I loved most was just all the talking, just sitting around laughing and teasing them, hearing what they think about all sorts of things.  I love that they were comfortable with us, that they’d hang out with us.  I guess they’re pretty used to being with all their adult friends, they’ve grown up and become friends to all of us over the years, not just our kids.  And maybe that’s just it.

Because I’m not normally a teen-person.  Wasn’t even as a teen.  I’ve always felt awkward around teenagers.  I think because I’m so serious and practical and literal.  An older spirit, or at  least old-fashioned.  Decidedly un-fun.  Not really into gossip or drama or pop culture or even politics.  I like to be alone and go to bed early.  I’ve never been cool or hip or the grown up that the kids want to ride with.  I endured life as a teen, but I’ve managed to avoid teens for the most part since except for an occasional stint as a substitute teacher or short-term leader here and there.  Until the past few years since we’ve had teenagers.

I love that because we've had our own teens, we've automatically interacted with other teens more.  In incremental ways that have helped me feel at ease.  Our kids and their friends have been so open and patient as they teach us what’s going on in school and in their circles.  What the culture’s like, what they’re thinking.  I just love having these young people around, a fresher, less jaded version of adults and yet with sound insight and perspective.  We've been so blessed over the years to have all sorts of teens around, some have moved on already, but they've all managed to become embedded in our hearts.  They have grown up to be some of our closest friends, and I'm just so grateful for the chance to have played a small part in their lives, so glad they've trusted us, that they've accepted us, that they've let us share these years with them.  I love hearing their news as they continue on with their lives, I love that they check in and hug us as if we really are the aunt and uncle I feel we are.

As these teens left after the week, I knew not to be too sad.  I knew I’d see them in a day or so.  I knew we’d hang out again with their family, we always do.  It was more than just enjoying their company though.  It was being a mom to a couple more kids, just like I’ve always wanted.  Especially as our kids continue to leave, I mourn the fact that we have no more littles at the bottom of the ranks and that they’re taking these friends we’ve grown to love with them.  I didn’t expect to have my heart wrapped around them like this, but even with a little ache as the time winds down, I continue to love and cherish the teen years.  I may have floundered the first time around and with most teens still, but I have absolutely loved having teens of our own.  Todd and I both agree these have been our favorite years with our kids.  And I think part of that has been that our family has been enlarged as they’ve brought friends like these into our lives and our hearts.

Epilogue

It was late for us, nearing 11 and I was contentedly working on a puzzle when Todd finally came and sat beside me.  I suggested he read my latest blog since it was about our family.  He asked if it would make him cry.  Not completely forthcoming, I lied.  No, you’ll be fine.  But then I heard him start sniffling in the quiet dark of the evening on the couch beside me and I felt a little chagrined.  Maybe just dust from working in the yard all night?  When he finished he didn’t say a word.  I realized he was trying to compose himself.  Why do you have to write like that, he wanted to know.  Like what?  I was just writing what was going on.

He doesn’t take long to get ready for bed, a little teeth brushing, sets his glasses on our headboard, done.  Me, I’ve got contacts and a skin care routine.  Flossing.  Lotion.  It takes a minute.  But even after all this time to catch his breath, he was still sniffling.  So we laid there in the dark while I asked what he was thinking.  He confirmed what I’d just written about.  It’s just hard to believe it’s all ending, that our kids are leaving.  He confessed he has a lot of regrets about his relationship with Mitchell.  I knew this was the crux of his breakdown, and at this point I left him with his thoughts. I knew they were too raw to talk about then, it was also for him to sort out alone.  I have regrets of my own to figure out.

But the next morning on our walk we talked a bit more.  He revealed his regrets at having had pushed so much, that they’d butted heads so often.  And I asked him why he thought that was.  Too much alike or too different?  Probably too much alike.  He could see himself in Mitchell.  Todd’s always confessed his greatest weakness is laziness.  Which, if you know him, you’d never guess.  But I know what he’s talking about.  Not that I agree, just that I know how hard some things are for him to get going on.  He’s afraid that with all his potential, the strengths and opportunities Mitchell has been given, that he’s just wasting them.  Because he’s been there himself.  And that’s not hard to understand.  But I reminded him that our parents let us fail.  That we’ve learned because we were allowed to have regrets of our own.  We can’t take that from our kids.  Our parents insisted we make our own choices.  And that we deal with the consequences.

I know Todd wishes he hadn’t pushed so hard.  But that’s more a lesson for us than for Mitchell.  In so many ways we thought we knew what was best, that certain situations required intervention, or at least our input.

And yet, in nearly every single case, we were wrong.  I’ll admit we’ve insisted on a few things like thank you notes, chores, applying for jobs and follow-up with his BYU scholarship (that he almost lost because he didn’t read the fine print, good grief), but most things are his to own.  Scouts, still not done, he’s got a couple months.  Duty to God, doubtful.  Stack of graduation cards to acknowledge, someday.  Checks to cash, hmmm… Room decluttering so it can become our guest room, not happening.  Sigh.  There’s more, you’re parents, you know there’s more.  But I think what we’re learning is who cares.

I guess we’re just seeing that all that really, really matters is that he knows we love him, that we’re tight, that we’re going to be here.  Not hovering, but in the background.  To answer questions, to give some feedback when he asks for it.  To just teach but then stay out of the way.  I’m not saying we’re not interested in some of his choices, we’re just learning to remain patiently behind the curtain waiting to see how it all plays out.  So often we’ve concerned ourselves with the outcomes of decisions that we’ve failed to remember our real desired outcome, which is to maintain a solid relationship of love and acceptance within our family, between each other and with our kids.

I would hate to think a child would hide something because he didn’t feel safe, because she wasn’t sure what our reaction would be.  How sad.  But I think we’re still learning how to be completely safe, to love unconditionally.  I think that’s what Todd was getting at.  Our kids are leaving, it’s going so fast, are we good?  Do they know how much we love them?  Especially the ones, like with him and Mitchell, where they haven’t seen eye to eye?  Will what we’ve tried to do be enough?  Will he leave knowing how proud we are?  How much potential we see in him?  That we absolutely know he’ll do great?  There’s no way to have him leave without regret, those are our issues to own.  But we can send him off assured that he has always been loved, that we will continue to love him through whatever he does or doesn’t do.  We can help him know he’s to live out his own dreams, that we trust he’ll do his best.

I think this was what brought on the quiet tears.  Knowing now what we have so poignantly and slowly—ever so slowly—been learning over the years.  That none of that stuff we’d been concerned about really, really matters.  And we regret that we even made issues out of any of it.  But how do you know, as a young parent, when to prod and when to stand back?  When you’re encouraging and when it’s nagging?  When to drop your own dreams for your kids and when to let them pursue their own?  We’re still learning, and I think Todd thinks we’re out of time.  We only have two months left.  I think that’s what he was mourning.

But what I told him was this.  You still have two months.  Tell him.  Tell him how proud you are.  Tell him how much you love him.  Tell him nothing has brought you more happiness than to be his dad.  Show him.  Wrap him in your arms and remind him you will always, always love him.  Simply because he’s your son.

I know it’s not much.  We’re reeling from seventeen plus years of botched days and badly-handled situations.  But I hope we can somehow still convey to him the depth of our love.  That even though we didn’t always go about it the “right” way (whatever that is), we have always, always parented from our hearts, with love.  So maybe there’s still time.  It’s not the absolute end, it’s—like all the cheesy graduation speeches relay—simply a transition.  For him and for us.  To let go even more.  To let him live unabashedly, fearlessly, to move forward knowing his parents absolutely love him, that no matter what mistakes he makes, regardless of setbacks and disappointments, we’re here.  I think that’s what Todd wishes he had said so many years ago.  But couldn’t.  I think parenting is more about teaching the parents than teaching the kids, and it’s taken us some time to get here.  And we’re just sorry it’s taken so long.  I think that’s what Todd was trying to tell me.

The emotions of May

It’s not as bad as it was a couple years ago, but I can’t pretend life is just marching on as if all my littles were back in elementary school and we’re simply looking forward to a few weeks of summer vacation with all to resume as it should in a couple of months.

I think my trigger was downloading a bunch of pictures from Andrew’s freshman year of college.  As I was looking through his Facebook pages, I ran across some he’d been tagged in that I’d never even seen.  Some from his senior year of high school with his track buddies, his prom group, dates with long-time friends. Funny poses, young people I’ve loved forever, a few that I hadn’t remembered but then I did. Others went back to when he was 14 and on a pioneer trek.  He and his friends (who are now all on missions) look so little and obviously so young.  He was making a tortilla on a rock in his pioneer clothes.  I had to stop and take it in.  This was a period of his life when I don’t know that I really knew him, so I took some time.  Then some of our closest family friends posted pictures of him and the others from a New Year’s Eve several years back.  And another when they were all gathered around a table eating little kid lunch food, I think he may have been six.  Memories came reeling in just like that.  I was back in my friend’s kitchen.  I was that young mom all over again.  So glad that we had let them make such grand messes.  Mostly the basement stays clean now.  So I love that as a young family we somehow had the foresight to allow popcorn and ice cream and drinks and mattresses to fill the belly of our basement; our house will never don the pages of those slick magazines, but it’s been lived in and is as comfy as an old pair of slippers.  It was a video in quick motion, panning over years and decades with friends he’d had—we’d had—who had lived in our house beside us.  In just a few minutes a slew of memories reminded me of how quickly today turns into yesterday.  As all moms of older kids can so keenly attest.

After a few minutes of reminiscing, I turned back to the task at hand and continued sending shot after shot to Costco for printing, but got stuck every so often, scenes I was glimpsing for the first time and others that were so familiar.  How I absolutely adore the people in each photo, I’ve loved their friends like my own kids, and I couldn’t help but return to my young mom memories, stretching this undertaking throughout the morning.  Ridiculous. Because it awoke emotions I’d been squelching or at least ignoring all spring.

Buffered by a to-do list I knew I’d never complete, May had come and gone without me having to contend with the deep feelings that the season should evoke.  I endured by quietly keeping abreast of each day’s obligations, looking just far enough ahead to send out the next birthday card, to make sure we had food for the next gathering, that beds for the next group were made, that I had the right time for each concert and award assembly, and that I sent the prescribed number of cookies for each celebration.  Without much time on my own, I simply set aside surmising what the ramifications of the month’s festivities would mean.

But now that the groups of company have subsided, the birthdays and celebrations have come and gone, the camping gear is all aired out and stashed away, I’ve dealt with the aftermath of sheets and towels along with a mother load of recycling and Good Will donations, I exhale as we shift gears.  Of course we still have trips coming up, we have a fully stocked calendar with commitments all over the place, but it’s the doable kind of month, I see some white.  And so I know I’m going to have to face the inevitable.

Now that all the hubbub has died down, it’s time to re-focus on Mitchell a little, to assess what he needs as he prepares to launch.  And this is where I might start to feel.  As I had earlier in the year when he was starting his last semester of high school.  Those early winter months are emptier and we’re home more, and I consciously took snapshots in my mind of these easy, breezy everyday moments that I knew I’d want to cinch in a tightly drawn remembrance sack.  I still see them, they’re not lost yet, but I’m making a point to notice them more because I know we don’t have much time left.  I haven’t cried, I’m still not there yet.  I’m tentatively hoping we can make this transition riding on the wings of jubilant anticipation of a great adventure instead.

But I know myself.  And that my heart has been welded to this kid since the moment I first held him as a 9 lb 2 oz newborn.  He was a dream baby, a wildly creative, ingenious, and messy toddler and kid.  And teenager.  He’s headstrong and intelligent, infuriatingly stubborn and intoxicatingly sweet.  Smarter than anyone I know, it makes me laugh to see him seemingly incompetent when it comes to real life application.  He’s fiercely independent, yet calls on us for the tiniest complexities of daily living.  We can’t stay upset with one another, our hearts are just too soft for that.  And for each other.  His absence will leave a hole in our family, as every departing child does. I thought I’d be used to the idea by now, what with Andrew having been gone so long.  But this is almost harder in a way because I know what to expect.  I’m remembering that I’ll never have times quite like these again.

Just the other day, after a weekend wedding celebration, he continued swing dancing with his sisters in the kitchen, dodging both me and the open cabinet doors.  I loved the enamored look on our little 10 year-old’s face, to be in favor with her usually-distant older brother.  Forties music was blasting from Pandora and I was in my happy place.  His friends were over just the other night, eating my cookies and playing Attack and watching Alone with us between moves.  A Thursday not long ago he attended a political rally and downloaded, engaging all of us and our company over dinner.  Lately we’ve talked about classes he’ll want to take, what his plans are for the upcoming year and beyond.  We’ve sat outside chatting on the back porch, we’ve huddled close by the fire late at night.  We’ve made pizzas in our little brick oven with friends.  We’ve written to Andrew and watched movies as a family.  We’ve gone on day trips and out to eat and on our Sunday walks in nature.  We’ve camped and sat talking with friends who are like his aunts and uncles.  We’ve worked in the yard nearly every evening since it’s been warm. I love that he works right beside us and that he talks as he follows us around.  I love how he tends to his little herbs.  And how he knows he still has to mow and weed even though he’s no longer in high school.  I love that we’ve played games and eaten ice cream and cooked together, that we’ve watched stand up comedy and discussed the news.  I’m going to miss it all so much because I’m living my dream.  It’s been such a good phase for our family.  One of our best.  We’ve loved having teenagers so much, these have been my contented years, our pay-off years, my favorite so far.  I worry that it will never be this good again.  I love that he and his 15 year-old sister are tight, that they’re each others’ safe haven; nothing warms my heart like seeing them together.  I love sending them off at 6:15 every morning together, the way he takes care of her and watches out for her.  I love seeing them dance and tease together and cuddle together.  I love that they take off to shop together, that they have adopted values of thrift and industry and creativity.  I love it when their friends—who feel just like cousins—all come together and our family expands.  I will miss them almost as much.  I love our talks about every subject under the rainbow.  I love the controversial ones the most because I value his opinion and angle. I love that our kids are open to talking about all sorts of things, even the hard stuff.  I love our messy kitchen, the way they dig through our pantry and make treats with their friends.  I love believing our home feels like their home.  I love it all so much, and so I’m trying to not let the everyday days just absorb into another week.  I’ve lived through a few summers with kids now.  The older they get, the faster they go.

And I’ve lived long enough to know what comes next.

Losing your first-born just knocks the wind out of you, but what about the next? I’m pretty level-headed, and you know I’m not sentimental.  Except when it comes to being a mom.  Like you, I see my kids as my greatest investment.  While I don’t take credit for their successes, and I can’t take their short-comings personally, it’s the one thing (besides my marriage) I do that really even matters.  And so with another son leaving, I mourn the life we’ve shared, the regular days that are now relegated to only memories.  I gave so much, I held back more than I wanted but less than I needed to.  I cared so much, I wonder if it showed.  I tried so hard, I wish I could do it all over again.  Better this time.  But I’m so incredibly grateful for even the blunder-filled days, the days I wanted to wish away, the exhaustion, the exasperation of it all.  Because we’re good.  It works out.  I just thought it’d get easier to say goodbye to it all the second time around. 

I feel like I’m losing my grip on motherhood.  I want to stay exactly where we are.  And yet you know I don’t.  I absolutely can’t wait to hear how his first day of college goes, if he’ll think it’s hard, what job he’ll find, what he’ll do with his roommates on the weekends, who he’ll meet, what he’ll discover about himself.  We long for him to experience what we did as freshmen, to fall in love, to meet amazing people who may be his friends for the rest of his life, to realize how much there is to learn.  We want him to figure out what he believes.  We want him to own that, to know for himself.  You know that’s what we want.

And yet, for just another day, I’ll gladly remind him it’s his day to mow and that the dishes need to be unloaded again.  I’ll try to remember where he’s working and what time he said he’d be home.  I’ll take his tall, gentle hugs, his late nighttime talks, his enthusiasm for his homemade guitar and his cardboard-plastic-wrapped boat.  I’ll bask in his smile and listen attentively as he talks about the girl he likes.  I’ll chuckle inwardly as he learns the basics I took for granted he knew.  I’ll forgive the piles of clothes that have littered his bedroom floor for years.  And I’ll leave the cobweb above his window.  Just because it’s so fitting. For now I’ll pretend it’s just another ordinary summer day, that we’ll be able to keep doing this for as long as we want.  For just as long as I can, I’ll take swing dancing in the kitchen.  And ice cream in the basement.

Inspired

Another Wednesday morning, the one day of the week my kids can count on me to drive them to school. And have a little less free time on the playground; I’m always racing the clock on Wednesdays (how do working moms do it?!)  I love this mid-week ritual of spending time with them on the way to school—usually their dad’s place.  And in a nonsensical way, it rejuvenates me to go to school again.

After years of floundering, not really sure where I’d feel comfortable, I’ve found my niche.  I tried volunteering with small groups back when my youngest started school.  We’d work on their reading and spelling.  One on one, sometimes up to four.  I was always relieved when recess came and I could just make copies instead.  So then I spent a few more years splitting my time between making copies and paper booklets and packets and working in the library; this year I said no to the rest; focusing on the library has been heavenly.  Just a few hours on a Wednesday morning to shelve the returned books and tighten the rows, to repair and reinforce the patients in the Book Hospital, to find just the right book for the littles who come asking. I have to admit, in a most nerdish way, it thrills me to find a book out of place, whales in the enjoyment section, a picture book in the fiction shelves.  For a type B person, I’ll admit I do have some A leanings.

I’m in my happy place, my glory even.  Enveloped in the smell of books, privy to learning from open-doored classrooms across the hall, immersed in upbeat chatter.  As one of only a handful adults in the library, I’m available to help the students, but mostly I’m invisible. Told you I was in my happy place.

This past week I started in the Book Hospital, bandaging those who just needed a little extra protection, reinforcing those who have become weakened by much love, glueing the innards back into their bindings, securing them with rubber bands while they heal, supporting spines with taped splints, noting bar codes and other identifying labels as they peel, replacing plastic lamination as needed.  The work is simple, holistic in nature, therapeutic, mindless.

I finish what I can and let the patients rest while turning my attention to the three carts: enjoyment, fiction, and non-fiction.  I start with the picture books, the most tedious of all shelving duties: skinny little books squished into messy rows, my cuticles rubbed raw trying to extricate the ones that have been pushed behind while holding a place for a new member.  Yet it’s a brilliant trip down memory lane, I feel like the little girl Caren and the young mom me all over again.  I can’t help but recall reading each of these small books myself as a kid and again with my littles over and over and over through the years. 

I move on and start scooting the novels forward, using my left arm to brace them as I straighten the rows.  I can’t help but peruse these titles as well.  So many familiar from my growing up years, others that I’ve discovered as an adult through book groups and Newberry Award lists.  So many I wish my kids would read, others that I’m glad they’ve read and loved.  I cherish this time of memories and hopes flooding over me with equal intensity.  I check a couple beloved titles out every now and then, with anticipation of my kids gleaning the same joy as I once did from these timeless classics.  And try to hide my giddiness when they do.

The non-fiction is just as thrilling, so many biographies, stories of how life came to be, theories of science and history.  Every week I’m reminded of my ignorance, and I wonder where I’ve been all my life to have missed so much.  Most of them aren’t that long or difficult (their school only goes up to eighth grade), but I made a goal years ago to read at least one kid non-fiction every week.  I’m not the best, but I’ve read quite a few on subjects ranging from prisons and rags to riches stories to Birds Eye Frozen Foods and expeditions to the far reaches of the planet.  I’ve read about Houdini and the building of the Panama Canal.  I’ve learned about the people and mail system of the Grand Canyon and I’ve taken a walk back in time as I learned about Steven Speilberg’s film career.  I’m always carting an armload home with me.  This week I took ones about Target and the history of sneakers, and 100 Most Disgusting Things.  I’m bad. And so lacking in general information.  I’ve looked at them over my afternoon snack and on the drive in the evening.  I have a thirst for knowledge; but to be honest, I’ve allowed myself to occasionally wallow as I’ve crouched up and down amid the rows of books I’ve never read, discouraged that there is still so far to go.

I come to the school library as just a regular mom every Wednesday morning.  But the three hours I’m there remind me of who I want to be.  Educated, well-read, knowledgable, capable, intelligent, conversant in a potpourri of topics.  Instead of succumbing to my inadequacies and ignorance, I grab a couple titles and add them to my stack in the back to take home for the week.  I might not get to them all, I might even forget what I’ve read, but I like the idea of exposure.  I love the lives of people I meet inside the pages of the books.  I love knowing the answers to questions I’ve always wondered about even though I could never explain them back to anyone.  I love being reminded of an event in time I knew about but never really learned about.

Just the other week, as I was finding just the right homes for the novels, I recognized how charged these mornings make me feel.  I knew I’d always loved my Wednesday mornings at the school, but I love every day of my life and maybe I assumed Wednesdays felt especially fine because we were half-way through the week.  

As the weeks of my life go by faster and faster, I feel like I’m finally learning to enjoy the everyday moments, to be more present.  A habit Todd’s been after me to embrace for years.  And so, instead of trying to hurry through and get home to my list, I’ve simply set aside this time in the library each week to spend on whatever chores need some attention.  I’ve started to just savor these hours as I’ve shelved books and contended with the glue on my fingers.  I’ve basked in the school scents and sounds.  The familiar tone of different ages and grades.  And noticed that I’ve felt something familiar and comfortable every week working in the library.  It took me some time to place it.  And then I realized our little school library and my tiny contributions were coalescing into feelings of inspiration.  I realized my few hours here and there weren’t lost as the work would inevitably unravel during the week, but they were actually an investment.  They were persuading me to elevate myself, to seek learning, to revel in how much knowledge there is to absorb.

And I couldn’t help but think about other activities or moments that inspire me.  Occasions in nature and my hours at church came to mind.  But there have been times when it’s been as simple as a free concert downtown or a even an Amish quilt show, a college dance performance or a particularly beautiful and tasty dinner Todd’s made. 

I used to leave dance recitals or concerts feeling a little gloomy.  (Is that the word?)  Maybe more like amazed, but also discouraged that I had so little to offer in the talent department.  Maybe I felt less gifted, lacking, compared to the performers.  But I sense I was missing the real message intended for me as a member of the audience.

From wood working displays in the 4-H booth at the fair to the bagpipe band back in high school, from BYU Ballroom dance exhibitions to seeing my friends’ sewing projects in their homes, from being surrounded with a million books I’ll never get around to reading to being encased in a spirit of peace at church that I’m not sure I’ll ever comprehend, I’ve been inspired nearly every day of my life by the people I’ve known and the experiences I’ve had.  It’s just that the older I get, the more determined I seem to be getting.  Instead of pitifully thinking I have nothing to offer, I’m realizing it’s up to me to get up from my concert seat and do something.  I might not ever be fantastic at anything, but I figure none of these displays is meant to make us feel inferior.  Certainly they are intended to uplift us and to encourage us to share our own talents, to look for new ways to express ourselves, to try something out of our comfort zone, to focus on what makes us unique.

I admire this about my husband, who is constantly trying out new hobbies.  Lately he’s been whittling spoons and bowls.  I love how my daughter likes dabbling in water color, a hobby she simply wanted to try.  They remind me it starts with a desire, finding an interest, and in simply starting. I don’t have any fancy talents that I could display in a building or perform on a stage, but now when I see others who do, I feel a spark of excitement instead of sadness.  I’m encouraged to seek out my own abilities and interests instead of worrying that they won’t be show-worthy or that I’m too old to start now or that there is too much to learn.

So as I head to the library again this week, I’ll be bringing back some of the books I’ve borrowed and I know I’ll take another armload home.  I’m not an intellectual by any stretch, nor do I ever expect to be; but I relish reading and learning.   Neither am I a scriptorian, but I can keep asking questions and digging for answers; and I know I’m stronger than I used to be.  I’m not a musician or artist or dancer or even really a writer, but people who are inspire me and I’m optimistic that I can develop whatever embryo of a talent I have with a little perseverance just as they have.  Whether I’m at a concert or a rodeo, the library or a church service, relaxing on a log by a fire when we’re camping or sitting in a squished fold-up seat in a college basketball arena, I know now to expect to be changed.  For good.  That these simple times away from regular life will continue to spur me to action.  No longer do I leave in shame, but emboldened with purpose.

For mom

I totally get it.  A few weeks back I realized our mom’s 70th birthday was coming up and, like most of her holidays, I had no ideas for her.  But then I did.  I knew, as well as I know myself, she’d like something written.  I’m always telling my kids, just write me a note; they’re my favorite gifts bar none.  Little kid notes on the chalkboard, construction paper with hand drawn pictures of mom and me, booklets with lined paper on one side to tell about the picture they drew, the little cards with prompts to write what what they like about mom, letters from our missionary son, a random card from my teen daughter.  I’ll take it all.  And I’ll tuck them away in my old-fashioned suitcase from earlier last century.  Knowing her, I had a hunch that’s all she’d really want anyway.  Easy peasy.

Until I realized the problem, even for someone who will write about anything.  Once I come up with an idea, I can run with it; but where to start, how to sum up a life, a relationship with one of the most important people in my whole life, what slant to take, how to be concise but thorough? I’ve put it off for so long partly because of unanswered questions like these, and partly because I’ve somehow plugged more things into my days than I’ve had time slots available lately.  But here we are, deadline looming, my thoughts a jumbled heap.

I just hope she realizes that the time she’s been on the earth hasn’t just been a joy ride to see the sights, she’s made a significant impact on me and my sisters and our family, like most every mom I’ve ever known.

I see now why her head would bob come 8:30 or 9 at night as she sat at the table letting her nails dry.  I’ve been known to take naps at 7 or even 8 in the evening just to get over the last hump of the day.  We fall asleep at movies, we get up early, we hit the day running, and we peter out just after lunch time.  We need loads of sleep; I rarely get it, yet I love the way she’s always made it a high priority.  Even when I was growing up and she was working full-time, the house would mostly all get to bed around 9.  And she’s still that way.  Which I appreciate to no end when I go visiting; one thing I look forward to more than I should is going to bed early and getting the extra sleep that I so often go without.  Heavenly to just sneak downstairs and turn in early.  Just like her.

In a similar vein, she reminded me as a young mom to take care of myself.  She always told me it was up to me because “no one else will.”  She was talking more along the lines of pampering ourselves, taking time not only for sleep, but for our nails and hair and looking our best.  Which advice you know she takes to heart.  Obviously, I never completely adopted her stance and am still waiting to the nail fairy to swoop down, “Hon-ney!!! Look at those cuticles! Let’s go!”  She sets a standard that even after 44 years I fail to live up to, and yet it amuses me and inspires me to no end.  Everyone’s comment is, “Your mom is so beautiful!”  I already know.  I grew up with her, I love that she’s always made the effort to look her best.  I was always proud of that, that she took care of herself and made herself a priority.  Truly, who else is going to care about you more than you?  Great advice.

Along those lines, always making me chuckle, is her line, “You don’t have to be rich, you just have to look rich.”  I always found that rather shallow advice until I realized she just wasn’t using a word choice that resonated with me.  A simple swap and I figured she was telling us even if we didn’t have a lot of money, we could make the most of what we have.  She taught me to buy quality clothing, to wear colors that work best, to “look presentable” when we’d go shopping, to dress nice when traveling on an airplane (it’s true, you really have no idea who you’ll end up meeting), to be modest, to be appropriate, that classic never goes out of style, and to adorn with essential jewels; in her case: the bolder the silver, the better.  And to always, always, always have your lipstick.

I’m impressed by the way she surrounds herself with other forms of beauty as well, from the music she plays and the movies and books she entertains herself with to the furnishings and wall touches in her home and the way she dresses and does her hair.  I love that she’s always dressed and decorated in her own style, never really heeding trends simply because something’s said to be “in style.”  As a result, she’s always been in style because she’s classy and classic.  Her ways lift me and make me want to try a little harder to embellish my life with the beauty she invites into hers.

Her commitment to looking her best is more than skin deep, although she did always tell me to start young so I wouldn’t have wrinkles.  She walks on her treadmill and she’s always up for an early morning walk around the graveyard when I visit.  I love her pantry and nearly-empty fridge when I go see her, yet it’s hardly enough sustenance in my book: raspberries and grapes, bananas, yogurts, a few eggs.  And plenty of baking supplies and chocolates.  I think she subscribes to the philosophy that if we eat well and exercise, there’s always room for a little treat.

Speaking of food, she taught me strictly by example that dinner mattered.  That Sunday dinners were special and worth the effort.  Even working full-time, that was just a given.  They weren’t fancy during the week, just normal stuff we all ate in the 70s and 80s, but Sundays she went all out and we ate till we were stuffed.  All my friends still think she is a great cook, and I love it when she cooks for us.  It still feels like home.  I love that she instilled in me a desire to cook for my family, to carry on the tradition of reuniting over the dinner table each night.  A small tradition with proven carry-over.  She always told me three things worth splurging on were air conditioning, heating, and good healthy food.  (However, I’ll admit the only one I agree with her about is the food.)

She taught me the merits of old-fashioned manners, from using our forks “right” to bringing hostess gifts.  She’s always been generous, from making sure there’s plenty of food when we have people for dinner to buying thoughtful gifts.  I never remember her telling us about thank you notes, we just somehow picked up on the idea that they were part of the gifting process.  I’m continually grateful that she instilled that habit in us.

I love how she didn’t fuss over things she simply couldn’t get to.  I don’t recall a single photo album in our home, just that huge box of random shots, an occasional Polaroid mixed in, like the prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box.  She didn’t save special baby clothes or art work or other memorabilia; she left that up to us.  There just wasn’t room in our apartment for the unnecessary, so if we wanted it, we had to store it.  Love it.  Practical, realistic.  I know we’re not the most sentimental women around, but I’ve discovered that I feel less anxious when I have less stuff.  I have loads of good memories, like the photos in the big box; I just pick one out every now and then.  I don’t need to feel the little dress I wore when I was three, the pictures suffice.  I know we might be weird, but if you know my mom, you know we don’t care what people think.

I love that she read constantly.  She’s like me in that we teeter between novels and non-fiction, but we especially love biographies.  She’d drive down the street on a Sunday afternoon to read in her car alone.  I guess she felt she needed that after working a full week in the bank.  I likewise look for pockets in my day to read simply for pleasure, taking a cue from her.  She pored over the newspaper and continues to pile up her papers until she can get to them.  She loves being informed and one of my favorite tidbits from her life is the way she constantly tries to improve her vocabulary.  I bought her a dictionary one Christmas and it sits right next to her computer.  I guess that’s why I have a little book for all the words I should (but don’t) know with their definitions written beside them.  I’m impressed that she does this after all these years.

I love how tidy she is, her mantra always, “Clean as you go.”  I hardly ever remember to keep up and am usually left with an unsightly kitchen, but she still inspires me and I see the wisdom of her ways.  Except for her paper stacks, there is a place for everything in her home.  Little dividers in every drawer, boxes for bows and ribbon, special plastic bags for her blankets and beach towels.  She makes me rethink how I could corral my items more efficiently and I can’t bear the thought of throwing out the zippered bags that bedding comes in, thanks to her.  She’s still cleaning houses and thrills at the chance to clean my blinds with me when she comes to visit.  My sisters and I have spent a lot of time over the years cleaning all sorts of houses with her; I don’t know if it’s in our cells or just habit we’ve picked up from her, but we’re all pretty into our cleaning and organizing even though none of us can compare with her.

I can’t help but notice how she interacts with others, best friends with her seat-mate after an hour-long flight, a warm leader managing branches of the bank in California, a grandma to all the kids she’s cleaned for over the years, a friend to my friends—sending them Thinking of You cards and letters and texts across the miles.  I love how she isn’t desperate; she accepts when people aren’t interested and she moves on, something I’ve grappled with over the years; I admire her confidence.  To me, she’s a comfortable mix between an open novel and a locked diary, depending on your relationship with her and if she can trust you.  I can appreciate that and I guard my heart more than I used to, thanks to her.  And I’m more willing to let people in than when I was younger, also thanks to her.

I love her no-nonsense approach to living, her guilt-free attitude.  She just shrugs and says, “I did the best I could.”  She doesn’t stress about a little indiscretion here and there, which amuses me and makes her laugh because in some ways we’re just so different in our thinking.  She’s always telling me, “It’s all about how you treat people,” which mantra I wholeheartedly embrace.  It’s just interesting how we can be so much alike and so different at the same time.  She makes me think about my motives, and I feel so much lighter when I admit I have done what I could, there’s only so much of me, only so much energy I can expend before I need to refuel.  I appreciate that she knows her limits; it’s help me find and protect mine.  And to worry way, way less about the things that don’t matter, allowing me so much more freedom for the things that do.

In a million ways her example lingers in my heart and mind even though we’re miles apart.  I imagine her in my kitchen and the vision propels me to be a little neater.  I remember her reading to my kids and I want to hold on to the tradition myself.  I think of her stacks of newspapers that she saves and eventually gets around to (it usually takes a road trip to fully catch up) and I likewise look forward to traveling partially for that very same reason.  I think of the way she puts herself together and I try to instill that care in my own kids, like dressing a little nicer when we’re going somewhere for dinner.  I think of how hard she works when she’s awake and how deeply she rests when she’s asleep.  I see a little bit of her every day whether it’s because I’m reading or enjoying a show with my feet up, savoring the sweetness of whatever delectable treat I’m in the middle of, or worrying less about the shoulds and instead living according to my own dictates.  Because of her, I see ways we can care about people all around us and try to act on those impulses the way she would.  I can hardly let a friend’s birthday pass without acknowledging it; I can’t help but think of her mailing shortbread to a friend in San Diego and a blouse to a friend in Ireland.  Her ways have leeched into my soul until I hardly know where she left off and where I began.  In so many ways she’s taught me that every life is worth examining, every one has a story, and we can learn something from every one we encounter.  But especially from a parent, and most especially from a mother.