Only you

Our college-aged daughter has been home for just a spell before she heads back out.  With a  sporadic and flexible work schedule, she took the opportunity to go skiing for the day.  The other kids were in school, dad had work, I don’t ski, all her friends have moved away… it was just a day on her own.  Turned out that while she had a pleasant enough time, she returned home a bit early.  “It got a little lonely.”

As a young mom, I remember packing up the van, loading in the kids, and prepping with snacks and rain gear for all kinds of sporting events.  But we’re down to our last two kids in school and there are only a handful of times they have meets here in town each season.  When I go watch my son pole vault, all the families are kind of squished together in their chairs near the pit, so it feels like we’re all there together.  And same thing when I’ve watched cross country at the river.  But last season we were at a park half an hour from home with the race wide open, the course strewn all across the acreage.  Families weren’t all huddled near the finish line because in this scenario it was easy to move about the park and catch your child from different angles.  And also in this scenario it was easy to feel alone.  Most moms and dads had either each other or several kids with them.  Some parents had fellow mom friends from school or the team.  I felt exposed in the wide-open fields, noticeably on my own. Which was fine. But unsettling.  I wondered who I knew, who I would feel comfortable enough with, who wouldn’t mind me tagging along.  I found one friend with her daughter, but she left to follow her son.  I didn’t feel comfortable following her; surely she would’ve indicated if she had wanted that.  I felt excused and isolated in the middle of a crowded park.

It was a late summer evening last year.  A weekend night.  A time when others would have each other.  I’m used to my kids and husband flitting around on weeknights with their activities and meetings, but this felt different.  I imagined families gathered, friends over, people I knew celebrating the lingering summer light.  And almost always, that’s us. We love having friends with us, eating together on the back deck under our twinkly lights, a dreamy and familiar scene.  And if not friends, at least I almost always have Todd to be with.  On this night I was just puttering in the yard and even though I knew the night was arranged, a late work meeting, kids off with their friends, I anticipated their arrival, hoping it would be sooner than expected.  As the light began to fade, I remember noticing how alone in the world I felt.  We have a bit of land around our property, a couple of pastures, large gardens; I felt both cocooned within my fence and swallowed up in the expansiveness of it all: lonely and decidedly longing for company.

These experiences turn out to be so fleeting.  We can take ourselves home off the ski hill.  The race eventually ends and everyone goes back to their houses.  At some point, the family members return and we’re reunited.

Except when we can’t or they don’t.  When it’s more of an everyday reality.

The night in the garden turned my thoughts to my single friends.  I contemplated what it might feel like to always be the one to turn on the outside lights as dusk approaches, to entertain myself day after day, to cook for one, to wonder what everyone else is doing, to want to be invited but to not feel fun enough to be the host, to hear the sounds of the road and neighboring yards but only quiet within my head.  I wondered if they were used to it to the point it had become no big deal.

And yet I know there’s nothing wrong with being alone.  Most of the world might be.  But it’s only been very recently that I’ve started experiencing it firsthand.  I always lived with my growing up family, then roommates, then a husband, and shortly thereafter we started bringing kids in.  It’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve spent the majority of my days and weeks all on my own, many times 12 or 13 hours a day.  Which really is fine.  I lean introvert and can’t fathom being bored.  I love puttering and having my days to myself.  But every now and then I feel it more poignantly, not just the aloneness, but the loneliness.  While the more I’m alone, the more normal it feels, and at the same time, the more I long for association.  “I realize, for the first time, how very lonely I've been in the arena. How comforting the presence of another human being can be” (Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games).

These tiny experiences have stayed with me over the past several months, I believe, in an attempt to remind me to not take my people and joys for granted.  They continue to inspire me to reach out beyond myself and the contrived plans I make for my days to notice those on their own.  While I’m only vaguely aware of how many of my friends live, I find myself wanting to make more of an effort to both honor their independence and to join with them. I feel myself awakening to the idea that many around us, even those in the center of the arena, might feel as I have on occasion.  I’ve come to a new understanding of what that might be like and how simply extending myself as a companion can soothe and aid a lonely heart.

You too?

Just a simple interchange, I was getting my feet done for the upcoming wedding. I actually love and hate pedicures with equal strength. Love it all because of the warm water, the gentle scrubbing, getting rid of the hard parts, knowing that things are being handled, sort of the choosing a color part even though it’s kind of stressful, the leg and toes massage, being wrapped up in little plastic wrap shields, the smells, the chair that gently pokes at parts of me I didn’t know needed a little nod, a professional paint job that doesn’t end up all over my cuticles, one that lasts over a week, the Vietnamese decor reminding me of my best friend from 4th grade… what’s not to love? I guess the only things I really hate are the money—I have a problem paying for things I can do myself—and the part where it looks like I’m a princess and someone is serving me like I’m some pampered fancy upscale lady who does this every week, although I guess they can tell by looking at me that I’m not. I just like being on equal footing with people, I want them to know I know how to get my hands dirty (well they’d know that too if I ever went over to the manicure section), that I don’t see myself as “above” them, that this is such a highlight of my life, one of like 4 times I’ve ever had it done and it’s only because my daughter begged for us both to go and I love her and want to respect the quality-time people in my family that I’m here. I want them to know how much I appreciate their art, their travels to a new country, their work ethic, the quality and efficiency they exhibit. I am inspired by them. But a lot of that is lost in translation. And in my throat. I don’t know how to say all that. So I just make small talk and ask how long they’ve been here, what their family is like (even though I can see them all around us), what their aspirations are; I try for a bit until even I run out of things to ask. In preparation for the big day, I remember hearing that we shouldn’t shave our legs right before because there’s a chance of bacteria getting into the tiny cuts. As a result, even though I shave almost every day of my life, I held off today. And so I told my helper I was embarrassed because my legs were poky.

And this is the part that made me love the experience even more and that totally leveled the playing field, “Mine too.”

Isn’t that the truth? She was somewhere around my age, I’m sure she’s like most women and doesn’t always get around to shaving; she’s likely got a million things swimming around in her head and has a full schedule. I always choose to believe we have so much more in common than not, and here it was. This has stayed with me for weeks, I’m still thinking about it.

While I’m not legitimate in the way it was meant, back when we were supposed to write Me too in our feed, and I’ll admit I haven’t experienced the devastation that prompted the movement, I feel the power behind the expression and celebrate the ensuing validation and sisterhood. I felt that connection in this everyday woman’s simple words.

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one” (CS Lewis).

I was at lunch with two girlfriends earlier this week, and they were talking about their older kids. We always seem to end up at the part where we get wistful and nostalgic over it all. At one point one of them mentioned how they’re not into journaling/recording things. I, on the other hand, feel like journaling has saved me and mentioned how I’m regularly getting out my old ones as I share some little anecdotes with my kids in a weekly email. I admitted how fun it is to remember all the cute things they said and all the adventures we had, but I hate it because it reminds me of how mean I was. The one mom brushed it off, “We all were.” No, I told her, I was really mean. Like especially mean. She refused to accept it as anything out of the ordinary. “We all were,” she repeated. “We didn’t know what we were doing, we were so tired, we were overwhelmed, we had no idea how to be moms.”

I was skeptical. She didn’t know me then. The mean me. But the thought of it lingered. Could that possibly be the case?

I had never considered that maybe others felt the same way I did as a young mom. Everyone I was around seemed completely competent and composed. Never did I suspect that these women I hold in such high esteem could ever have had the same rocky start I did. And yet here were two of my most honest, say-it-like-it-is friends; I knew she was telling me the truth.

I know we know this. But here’s me. I easily assume we’re all just doing our best. But from my vantage point, it feels like some have a much higher best than I do. I sometimes wonder if I’m the only one in a world of frenetic, productive energy who feels the way I do.

Are other women my age struggling to know what their purpose is, what’s next? Everyone around me seems to have direction, their something figured out.

Do other women feel lonely and wonder what everyone else is flitting about doing?

Do other women wonder what God would say if they could just figure out how he talks to them? I feel like I’m the only 50 year old still trying to learn his language.  But I'd jump at any suggestion he'd give me... if only I could hear it.

Does anyone else feel she’s done irreparable damage to her kids, wondering how she can ever make amends, begging for a do-over while at the same time wanting to sweep all the ugly parts completely away and forget about it all?

Do they wonder what the balance is between self-care and selflessness, between serving our families and serving out there? Should we be doing more with our days or continue to be intentional with the quiet we carve out for ourselves? Are we using our resources in productive ways or are we just coasting? Does anyone ever have conversations like these with themselves or is it just me?

And while of course, the specifics vary a bit, the more time I spend engaging with women, the deeper my awareness is that we’re all struggling with and sorting through very similar questions and issues. All the lunches and visits, the walks and the talks, the quieter times one-on-one or within tiny intimate groups, they’ve all reminded me that I’m not alone in any of this. I feel myself calmly exhaling the second someone affirms that she’s felt the same, validated the minute she utters the magic words, Me too.

More questions than answers

My daughter just got home after being gone for several months and faced the herculean task of paring down her closet contents. She brought home two enormous suitcases and enlisted their powerful zippers to expand mightily, allowing room for all her wares. She also had a box shipped, in addition to the one we picked up this summer. Her methodology was straightforward: put everything on the bed, creating a teetering tower of color, pattern, texture, and mood, and then make cuts. It was a fabulous site and a daunting task: decide what to keep, what to purge, and what to think about awhile longer. She lined our stairs with shoes of all kinds streaming into the living room: sandals and hiking boots, dressy shoes from other decades and yesteryear formals, patterned platforms and so many Docs, snow boots and river wading shoes, running shoes and strappy heels. Fascinating how the blend of footwear, bags, clothing, and accessories spelled out her personality with clarity. I was intrigued by what she decided to let go of. But mostly by what she—minimally and very uncharacteristically—decided to keep.

We’ve had a bit of time to talk about not only how her style is morphing but how her thoughts and feelings from the past few months have changed and how she sees things now compared to when she was in high school. I love that we can share what we’ve both been learning throughout the time we’ve been apart. There are so few people we feel we can be especially vulnerable with and with whom we can share our innermost leanings. Absolutely love it.

One thing I told her is how free I feel these days: light and open and at peace. At the same time, I have more questions than I ever have. I think that’s how it usually works, the more we learn, the more we realize how much there is to know. I feel like those earthquake-proof buildings, anchored yet flexible, with my anchor being Christ. He is my rock. My foundation. My one absolute. My truth. My Savior.

I have a firm conviction of the love He, my Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother have for me. These three are my lifelines. My everything.

A few years back I was like Avery and her bed of clothing. I went through a time when I felt like I needed to know what to do with all the stuff I’d both been given and bought into over a lifetime of collecting. So many different perspectives to consider, I questioned everything I thought I was sure about. And so I laid it all out, wondering what—if anything—I’d decide to keep.

I pared way down. Like those minimalist wardrobes they talk about. Keep a few key pieces and work with those.

I took Christ, God the Father, and God the Mother immediately.

And to be honest, that’s about it. I’m firm, secure, and certain they are real. Regardless of the talk around me, I’ve had too many experiences with them personally to deny their existence and their investment in my life. I know they are aware of me, care for me, and are guiding me. I feel their soft spirits, their strength, their love. I feel my identity in relation to them keenly, guiding every decision I make.

I know Christ came and lived here among people a lot like us, that he died and lives again. He is my one true friend who I count on for everything. I look to Him as my mentor, my safe place, my one ally who understands all the feelings of my heart. He is my go-to, my one sure thing.

As a result, I do believe he taught some things while he lived among his people. I believe he showed us a higher way to live. I believe there is a purpose to my life and to that end, true joy is my ultimate aim. I believe that although I declare that I know him and love him, I show my devotion best by following him.

As for all the other stuff, I have no idea. I have some leanings, I have some beliefs, yet I’m pretty wide open to other perspectives. I could be wrong about all sorts of things. I’m ok with that.

I have pages at the ends of my journals with questions. Every now and then I’ll go back and see if I can fill in any of the blanks. Sometimes I’ll have studied or learned something new in the interim and feel like I have some ideas to add, while at the same time acknowledging even these additional insights or “answers” could possibly change or be wrong.

But most of these questions just sit quietly unanswered, blank, waiting, unruffled, patient. And I’m not bothered in the least.

Because it doesn’t matter how many questions I think I need to have answers for. I will never, ever, ever have enough answers to satisfy me if I neglect to ask the right questions.

Did Christ live on the earth? Did he die and does he live? Is he the Son of God? Am I also a child of Heavenly Parents who love me? Does my life have meaning and purpose?

That’s it. Because when I’ve asked with an open heart, I know. And what I do with the answers to these questions makes all the difference in how I view and interact with the world.

Looking at beauty

I was sitting with an unassuming co-worker, a man in his 70s, who caught me completely off-guard by asking me, “Do you feel more beautiful now than you did twenty years ago?”  

I long for this kind of engagement, but so often I’m asked to talk about our farm or our renovations.  And yet, while I love probing questions, he hit on a sensitive topic, probably the one I have the hardest time with.  I couldn’t begin to gather my thoughts in one place or to think how to answer him succinctly.  So I resorted to being straight with him.

I prefaced my response with the obvious: at nearly 50 I’m definitely not getting any better looking, and I’ve never felt like I could possibly relate to the “pretty” people around me. Even as a grown-up I noticed years ago I didn’t feel entitled to have cute hair or fashionable clothes, I just felt that was all for the cool moms. I just figured beauty—in its traditional sense—wasn’t going to be part of my life, like not being an Olympic athlete or trapeze artist or talk show host; it’s just never been a stand-out characteristic of mine, and so I’ve simply tried to focus on other aspects of who I am.

And yet I admitted, in answer to his question, I honestly do feel more beautiful now than I ever have. It has nothing to do with my outsides; I am getting wrinkly and saggy, more rounded in the middle section, and less and less what the world would deem physically attractive.  In fact, as an ordinary middle-aged mom, I feel nearly invisible sometimes, which is actually my dream superpower.

But ironically, I feel more secure about myself now than I did when I was young and in better shape. I feel my heart softening and expanding. I’m calmer. Eager to understand and learn and admit I’m still learning. More relaxed.  Interested in others.  Wiser. More forgiving, accepting, open, vulnerable. Less judgmental.  Less inclined to gossip. Curious. Better able to see another perspective and to recognize pain and fear behind arrogance and brashness.  Not there yet.  Just more aware that this is the kind of person I’m striving to be.

I remember making a list years ago, just a random sampling of skills or characteristics I wanted.  One entry was “to feel beautiful.”  Not that I’d have to necessarily be beautiful, but I wanted to be able to feel it.  Given that I believe a large part of beauty is simply confidence, I realize I am beginning to truly feel that beauty inside.

Interestingly, it was just after this exchange a friend called.  We talked for nearly an hour in the parking lot about the very idea the grandpa and I had just discussed.  She’d posted pictures and thoughts recently and is on a mission to switch up the narrative we women have about our bodies, how we view them, and our outward appearances in general.  Yes, of course, love it, for sure.  But she’s typically beautiful.  Like in a way the world would accept: young, thin, blond, attractive features, just basic good looking for our culture. Easy for her to feel confident and to be a spokeswoman for embracing ourselves as we are.  I told her that and she says that’s what everyone says. :)

This topic comes up frequently between us.  She knows my insecurities, and while she lives in a culturally acceptable and celebrated body, we still talk frankly.  This past week we were texting more about this.  I told her the whole looks/body/beauty thing is so all over the place for me. While I’m game for being vulnerable about nearly every topic she can throw at me, I hate opening up about this because it’s so personal, an area of my life where I’m not completely confident—especially around her. I’m still working on ignoring the advertising and expectations of the world, trying to really figure out how I feel, and reconciling feeling so ugly as an elementary school girl, average in high school, and just meh ever since with wanting to honestly not worry about it.  There have been moments, singular instances or photos where I have felt congruence in how I’ve been portrayed with how I feel inside, but mostly I try to ignore my appearance because there’s not a thing I can do to change it.  It’s very uncomfortable to me when people say my girls look like me.  I have no response, I feel very awkward about acknowledging them; they are cute like in a girl-next-door way, and I have never felt that way ever. 

But I don’t think pretty and beautiful are necessarily synonymous.  While the world elevates and celebrates the handsome and glamorous people based on what is currently acceptable and idealized, not many in the entertainment industry are what I’d consider truly beautiful people.  The definition paraded has to do with youth and body shape, which is so limiting and destructive.

I think my 73-year-old mom is attractive.  And I have noticed some very striking grandmas with modern gray-white spiky short hair in on-trend classy outfits—I absolutely love this look.  But others are soft and wrinkly and lumpy and sweet, the smiley warm kind with twinkly eyes you just want to cuddle up with while she reads to you, accepting, loving, cookie-making grandmas just oozing beauty.  All very beautiful in their own ways.

I remember in a class years ago the man not much older than me talking about his career as a photographer.  He has captured some of the most “beautiful” people in the world in his photoshoots.  But he mentioned one woman in a leprosy colony.  He emotionally told us, with all sincerity, that she was the most beautiful woman he has ever known.  This impacted me profoundly and has stayed with me through the years, helping me notice true loveliness in people.  I think we just know it when we see it.  To me, it’s light, courage, authenticity, humility, contentment, confidence, resilience, selflessness, humor, and a willingness to engage, listen, and relate with others.

I’ve had several conversations with girlfriends about the incessant nonsense bombarding us and our daughters.  It’s nearly unavoidable, and it takes intense strength to not get sucked into the unrealistic expectations and dramatic pulls, even as an older mom. But in spite of this backdrop, I feel like I’ve been very intentional with my daughters because I know the power of truth. I’ve tried to teach them of our worth, our identity, and how none of that is tied to appearance.  We’ve talked about the purposes of our bodies, the gifts they are, humility, including others, being a true friend, working hard, trying new things, being aware of and kind to others. I love that they feel free to express themselves, that they wear little to no makeup, that while they want to take care of themselves, they embrace their bodies without any kind of degradation or even a sense of worry.  We talk about being healthy, why it’s important to eat well, to sleep, to exercise, to manage stress, to look at the big picture; and I hope they’ve internalized a desire to use their bodies, strength, intellect, personalities, and minds to do good in the world, rather than using their bodies as ornaments or accessories or for attention.  I feel like we’ve talked about true beauty in this sense, not ad naseam, I don’t want it to be a major discussion point, but I feel like they get it.

I love my friend’s pursuit, her quest to help women recognize they are more than what they look like on the outside.  I love that the mannequins and posters in many stores are showcasing regular people with believable bodies like the real people we know and are and that their personalities seem to be the focus rather than a flawless rendition of only a body.  I love that they use models of all types: freckly, petite, full-figured, long kinky hair, short funky hair, mixes and shades of skin and ethnicities from all over the world. Some of the current advertising I applaud is reminiscent of the Benneton ads from the 80s, some of my absolute favorites from my teens, so forward-thinking for the era. I feel like we are making strides in focusing on diversity as beauty, and I’m impressed with the campaigns to fight the onslaught of the counterfeit paraded as real, attainable, normal, and desirable. I love that we are making an effort to look beyond our physical appearances and that we are appreciating intellect, creativity, kindness, boldness, problem-solving, strength, tenacity, and individuality.

As I was talking with Todd on our long fall drive about the mixed messages surrounding beauty, I asked for his perspective and he asked for mine. Unexpectedly, sharing about my physical appearance stirred some very deep emotions for me. As I talked about how I felt about my physical looks I felt weak, less-than, helpless to be anything more than what I was naturally born with, resigned, like hiding.  But then I explained how the older I get, the more confident I feel.  I have lived a long time, and I continue to feel so much stronger and sure of myself. As I shared this perspective, I felt emboldened, calm, secure; I sensed the power of these characteristics parting the fog and cacophony of the world voices. As we continued to wade through the variables, we concluded it’s simply a matter of how we define beauty.  But for us, we are less drawn to perfection and picture-perfect models and more inclined to authentic everyday people who make us laugh, who are regular with flaws and personalities, who are intent on adding their strength and gifts to the world, and who have beautiful hearts and minds.  This is the beauty we believe in.

Leaving the chore chart behind

I was wiping down the oven and made my way to the side of the fridge where my mom lists are.  But after all these years of re-writing it, trying different configurations, making individual lists on sticky notes right there on the kitchen counter, I think I’m just going to be done. I ripped the chore list off the fridge and didn’t just toss it into the trash; I crumpled it ceremoniously.

I had to go back to what the purpose of chores is.  Obvious.  I just want my kids to know how to work.  The last thing I want is to raise slackers who will be a burden to future roommates and spouses.  I want them to recognize what it takes to keep a house running, to know how to take care of their possessions and areas, to notice when there’s something needing to be done.

And yet despite my best intentions, I have felt like a failure in this department in recent years.  When the kids were little and home more, it was easier, matter of fact, routine.

But these days I’m the absolute worst at enforcing chores.  And so is Todd.  He, because he’s never around.  Me, because I am.  And I see their crazy lives.  They leave at 6:30 every weekday morning, and Fridays they usually have work till 7, go out with friends and get home at 11.  Most Saturdays in the summer B has to be downtown by 7 to make/sell crepes at the Farmers’ Market and works the afternoon shift at Great Harvest.  Callum also heads out early in the summer to get his lawns done before he also works the afternoon at Great Harvest.  Until just recently C worked at the gymnastics club and B at a local pizza place on top of their other jobs. They also do cross country and track and have rigorous school schedules.  So I’m seeing all their comings and goings and get it.  They’re hardly ever home. But when we finally gather at night I see B up till 11 with her flashcards, C in bed with his scriptures… I take it all in.

Am I being soft? Perhaps lazy? Should I push harder and be the parent?

Callum was unexpectedly home for maybe 2 hours yesterday afternoon, so I told him now that his mowing was done for the season he could put away the trimmer, mower, etc. that had been sitting on our driveway for the past seven months, which he did.  But then I suggested it would be the perfect time to get his chores done since he’d be leaving at 5:30 the next morning to go hunting with work all afternoon then his fancy dance all night.  He said he should’ve stayed gone.

I remember a similar exchange with an older son many years ago.  I’d be on him to get finish his scouts, to look for scholarships.  Until he confided it was why he stayed away so much.  Which is precisely when I let it go.

So here I am again.  I’m done dealing with a list of chores.

Because here’s what I see happening.  They clean out their vehicles every weekend and go through the car wash regularly, they get their oil changed on their own, they pay for their gas and phones and entertainment and most of their own clothes. Their beds are made every morning, they do their laundry, their rooms are unusually tidy for people their age, their drawers are organized, clothes are hung and folded according to category.  They empty and load the dishwasher, clean up after dinner, mow, plow, and help with yard and house remodeling projects.  They’re never here mostly because they’re working their real jobs, at which they do dishes, bathrooms, floors, trashes, counters, etc.

It occurred to me that they are learning to work.  They’re not exactly slackers.  They’re learning the value of money since they’re earning it themselves and have to buy so much on their own.  They’re noticing what needs to be done partly because their employers have taught them. I know they like to do a good job and take pride in their work because we’ve talked about different work styles.

But I was getting hung up on them not doing their dusting and vacuuming, wiping down the cupboards and appliances, the stuff I actually love to do.  I spent a good chunk of yesterday doing that type of housework and was in my glory.  I actually hated giving those jobs to them because I love them so much, but I was intent on teaching them to work.

But here’s the bottom line. I feel like they’re getting it. And I feel like they’ll continue to learn.  Living with roommates will be a life lesson all of its own.  They’ll have to decide if the person they eventually date to marry will have the same ideas about keeping up a house and whether they’re willing to accept whatever that is.  They’ll have to use their eyes to see what needs to be done when they’re in charge of their own homes.  We’ve all been there; we’ve all adjusted and figured it out.  I’ve just noticed how much easier life is when our homes are orderly and tidy, how good it feels when items have a specific place, how centering and calm it feels when it’s clean, how a good work ethic is possibly one of the most important traits a person can have.  I guess I just want the kids to want that too and to know what to do to achieve it.  I want them to be valuable employees who put in an honest day’s work and who notice what needs to be done without being told.  I want them to appreciate what it takes to keep up a household.  I want them to be responsible and to be hard workers.  I think we all want this for our children.

So even though the chore chart is no more and the formality of a checklist is in the past, I feel ok about it.  Because even though we’re maybe giving up by tossing out a tradition that’s been in place for decades, I feel that it’s time. I feel like it’s been time for a while now actually.  I think in a round-about sort of way they’re learning what we hoped for all along.  Which has been a lesson for me as I think about other parts of life. The past few years I’ve felt more free to let go of prescribed practices that are simply A means to an end rather than the only way to get there.  Loving it.  This feels good.

My perspective on God

I’m having a hard time discerning when the transition happened. Was it a moment of clarity or more gradual like the wakening day? 

Thankfully, we weren’t a highly orthodox family growing up.  So that gave me plenty of room to figure things out for myself; I’ve never had to overcome familial teachings or culture.  More of that came from the church and my own limited understanding of doctrine. 

However, in high school, I clung to the church and its teachings—or what I assumed were its teachings—because I longed for the “ideal.”  I remember wanting so desperately what I considered the traditional, “happy” Mormon family and felt drawn to and fell in love with what I learned at church and even, I’d say its culture. I loved everything BYU and it was my focused goal to go there someday. I had quotes and posters all over my room with motivational thoughts and scriptures. I kept a journal, read my scriptures, and if there was a church gathering of any kind I wanted to be at it; I soaked it all up. I dreamed of having kids and wrote to and about them throughout my journals. I wanted to create the ideal within my life.

But I think growing up in the 80s shaped me in a way that led to self-righteousness and rigid thinking.  And looking back at old talks, books, and even seminary and leaders, I can totally see where I got those thoughts. I wanted to be “good.” There was a definitive right way and wrong way to live. Why I didn’t realize there could be a different way of thinking, I’m not sure. Except maybe that felt risky, unsafe, disrespectful? There were definitely all sorts of people I encountered who were doing life all kinds of ways.  Most of it looked pretty good, but I leaned heavily on wanting to be “righteous.” I think I just wanted a happy, peaceful life for my future family and somehow pieced it together that the church was my vehicle.  I cringe, though, looking back at how judgmental, pious, and self-righteous I have been throughout my life.  I feel now that it’s because I just didn’t have a strong foundation of who God was; I didn’t understand His nature and the basic doctrines of Christ’s gospel.  He was a far-off God that I couldn’t relate to; I just wanted maybe to please him, make him proud, prove myself? I was naive and young in my learning all through college and young motherhood.  I felt guilty for the choices I made that weren’t in alignment with gospel teachings because I felt I should know better.  But I didn’t have the wherewithal to recognize that I could ask for help and grace, that there was so much power available; I relied on my own willpower and grit, and I floundered.  Intellectually, I knew I didn’t have to actually be perfect, but I thought I should be striving for it.

I’ve listened to, read, and attended so many discussions of ideas that have been instrumental in shifting my thoughts.  So that’s going back years and years; my paradigm gradually began to relax through college.  And this is where it gets fuzzy.  I know as a young mom I berated myself for getting things “wrong.”  I think, looking back, this was new territory, and what I did affected not only me but my family.  I wanted to do all the things I dreamed of as a young person to create the family life I envisioned.  Many of the traditions and habits we started were good, and I’d do them all again.  But many times I’d overwhelm myself with expectations, certain that God was disappointed with me.  I had so many good ideas (ideals?) circulating in my head that I felt overloaded, wanting to do and be them all.  This kind of thinking made me tired and frustrated sometimes.  I know I had good intentions, I was just a little misguided.

I also used to fret over whether people came to church or not. Given the backdrop of my youth and the teachings I misconstrued, it weighed on me.  Although it’s taken many yeas to get to this point, I honestly can’t imagine stressing over it. I just trust that they’ll figure things out on their own and come to whatever conclusions they decide on.  I have absolutely no urgency for needing people to be anything—including myself.  The only urgency I feel is in feeling that I have so much to learn, so many people I want to help, so much good I want to do… I can’t WAIT to get up in the mornings and get so annoyed that I have to sleep.  I just love being up and doing God’s work, truly.  I have so much more energy now because I’ve taken everyone else’s life off my to-do list, including my husband’s and my kids’.  They all know what they need/want out of life; I’m free to do my own living and it feels glorious.

Like most of you, I’m way, way, way less judgmental since becoming a parent.  I can totally understand how a mom can want to strangle her child or how she can sink into depression and want to watch tv and eat all day.  I get that teens wear and say and watch and do whatever they want; nothing I say really changes any of that—if I care about agency at all, which I totally do.  I have strong thoughts about how and why we do things as a family, a couple, and individuals, but I’m trying to let people do their own lives and love them, parents, kids, all of them.  I want to align my parenting with the way God parents: full of love and allowance.

I absolutely don’t see this life as a test the way I did when I was growing up.  I see every experience in my day as a way to learn and as practice.  I feel like I’m just taking it one day at a time and learn a little bit each week or month.  I also feel like I’m in constant communication with Heavenly Father, and so it even feels a little forced to kneel down and pray, so formal and so extra when we’ve already been talking all day.  I don’t get down on myself as much anymore.  I just try to quickly acknowledge to myself and whoever it affects and to God: that wasn’t my best, got it.  I’ll try super hard to remember to not do that again, but I might still, oh well. That’s what I tell my kids, “Let’s try again.” And I feel like God is saying, “Perfect, let’s move on, we really have so much we need to do and that I want to show you.” And I agree; I hate wallowing and wasting time in regret. But that’s really the extent of my repentance process. It’s not stressful. I do it a million times a day.  But I don’t think of God being mad at or disappointed with me.  I feel like he’s my coach, and I just work side by side with him all day and try to remember all the things I’m learning so I can keep doing better moving forward.  Not so I can look better, but so that I can love and serve better.  I know now that I have his spirit with me all the time.  I don’t need to gear up for it when I have a question or need to ask for his help, I don’t worry that I haven’t read my scriptures long enough that day or even if it’s been a few days.  I just know he’s there, totally eager to help with anything.  And I mean this about God the Father, God the Christ, and God the Holy Spirit—interchangeably. 

But this has been my thinking for so long now that I can’t even remember when it changed. I’ve never been afraid of him or thought he was a harsh or judgmental God.  (When people make a big deal about the God of the Old Testament, I’m amused.  I can’t imagine a God like that; for people to debate about it feels like a complete waste of time.  Just ask Him who He is, it’ll take one second for you to know that’s not Him.) No, I just felt bad disappointing him because I love him so much.  But I don’t feel that way one bit anymore, not at all.  I just feel absolute love and confidence from him like he’s cheering me on and motivating me to keep going. I feel a deep love between us—me for him and him for me.  I see myself literally as a child, and when I mess up I see myself recognizing what didn’t work and maybe why I did it.   I give myself a ton of grace and just realize I’m human; I’m young, I’m still figuring things out, and I honestly feel like I’ll be doing this for a long, long time. :)  I feel a lot more peace about my shortcomings and misguiding thinking and the things I say or do that aren’t all that great.  I recognize that most of the time I’m acting out of ignorance or pain or fear (not from God, but from judgment of others maybe?) when I’m not my best self.  But I honestly move through things pretty quickly.  The times I feel anguish is when I’ve hurt someone’s feelings or said/done something without thinking.  There’s nothing about God in it, just that I feel so sad for not having been more sensitive or thoughtful.  Not to say this is always how I operate, just more now than in the past.  I still get stuck sometimes.

My mentors are humble people.  My favorites are the ones who do the ground-level work in the world, serving in small ways no one sees; I can’t dismiss the feelings of goodness I feel emanating from them.  I love it when people are honest and open, not glossy and fancy and perfect.  I always feel like we have most things in common.  I figure we all want to be noticed and loved.  I think we all want to contribute and belong.  I admire those who recognize this in others and who are trying to encourage and lift people.  I don’t care what they look like, watch, drink, wear, or do; I just love being around people who go about doing good and making the world better.

All I know is that the older I get, the less I care about most things that maybe I worried about as a teenager and even as a younger mom.  What I try to focus on now is knowing how to love better, like Christ does.  I want to understand people, I want to hear them, I want them to feel God’s love, I want them to know the God I know, I want them to access his grace and power and love and stop making life so hard for themselves.  I feel very little rigidity, and I feel like I’m only sure about maybe 4-5 things. I feel tons of peace even as I admittedly feel the heaviness of the world.  I just sense myself becoming a little softer, a little kinder, a little less judgmental over the years, and I really like the way it feels.  I feel a lot more confident because it feels like I have God’s power and love with me.  I’m not trying to earn it or prove myself to him or anyone, I’m just living with it all the time.

New mom

Like the first time around, I had a vague idea of what to expect because I was a reader. I’d never been around babies before and none of my friends had babies yet. I’d hear snippets of conversations from others more experienced, I’d see a bit here and there, but I honestly had no idea what it would feel like up close and personal until I actually had my own babies.  Fast-forward twenty-plus years and I feel like I’m doing it all over for the first time. Because as our sons gradually became more serious with their now-wives, it started to dawn on me that, as comfortable I’d become in my role as a mother, I was now venturing into unfamiliar territory. 

To be honest, I’m amazed at the ease in which I go right back into my mothering role when I babysit a young child, even this far removed from having toddlers of my own at home.  I know to cut up the food in small bits, and I use the little cups.  My board books take me back decades, reminding me of the comfort of small bodies next to mine as we read on the couch, and I relish the simple pleasure of young company as we water the flowers and watch the chickens together.  It comes back effortlessly, familiar and easy.

But this isn’t mothering in any way I’ve ever known.  Because I’m not their moms.  Not in the sense that I’m who they’ll want in a delivery room or who they’ll ask advice from as they raise kids.  They have their own mothers.  And yet there’s still mother in the title of who I am.

I think that’s because of the love that naturally comes as we see our sons choosing their life partners.  It’s inherent with the label. Out of nowhere, even as I was and am still getting to know each of them, I feel the same unconditional, overwhelming love I had for my own babies as I met and started to get to know them.  I didn’t know what to expect as we welcomed these women into our family; I just never realized I could love other children the way I love my own.  No one ever mentioned this to me, maybe it’s so obvious that no one needed to.

I pray for these new daughters just as I do my sons.  And when I do, I visualize little hearts exploding around them like the emojis we all know from our texts, hoping they can feel the love Todd and I have for them across the miles. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I like the visual; it makes me smile wishing that it could be for real, kind of like the glitter and confetti that spilled out of our jr. high locker notes. We love hearing them with our sons on the other end of the phone on late Sunday nights and having them come for long weekend visits.  We are constantly impressed with their accomplishments and learn so much from their perspectives: young and educated, fresh and forward-thinking. We love their blended personalities that are the perfect complements to their husbands; we couldn’t have arranged any better companions for them.

As far as what I’m to do with it all, it’s both complicated and straightforward: nothing much.  Just as I constantly asked more experienced moms for advice when I was a young mom, I’ve started asking some of my younger friends what they like about their in-laws.  Overall, the consensus is, “Don’t give advice and don’t talk about family members.” Fair enough.

I also ask my grandma friends what I’m supposed to be doing. Their responses make me laugh.  I’ve never seen my competent, wise, accomplished, able, resourceful, and experienced friends look so uncertain.  They shrug.  They regrettably have nothing for me; they still aren’t sure how to do it themselves.  Just like no one really talks about the realities of nursing, not many are forthcoming when it comes to parenting adult children.  Most of my friends just shake their heads and admit it’s the hardest part of all parenting.  But when pressed, they finally tell me to just love them.  There’s nothing more to do. Easy enough.  My only question then was how to love them so they know and feel it.

I heard a friend speak a few weeks back, and he answered this perfectly.  He mentioned how our young kids need our time while our adult children need our acceptance. Even as I sort of intuitively felt something of that idea in the back of my mind, I wasn’t sure how to articulate it.  Until he said it, I’d never heard it so succinctly, so clearly. It felt spot on.

I know I’ve always wanted my own in-laws to be proud of us and the family we’ve created.  I’ve wanted them to be happy with the wife their son chose all those years ago.  I’ve wanted them to be proud of the way we’ve raised their grandkids and lived our lives as a family.  That’s all I’ve ever wanted from them.  We can mostly work out things ourselves, we’ve figured out money, what jobs to do, where to move, how we want to parent, how to make our marriage work.  There are books, friends, and a million online resources to help us with all that.  But validation and acceptance, that’s something we long for from our parents as adults.  Luckily I’ve only ever felt love and warm acceptance from both sets of parents.

So now as a parent myself, I long for these beautiful new daughters of ours to know how thankful we are to have them in our family.  We know they have their families with their own parents, we get that.  But we welcome what they bring to ours, their traditions, their personalities, their perspectives, their ways of making a life for their new family unit.  We love hearing their opinions, how they see the world, what they hope for the future, and how they’ll do things in their own families.  They are miles ahead of where we started, so wise and polished at such a young age.  We marvel to ourselves all the time how lucky and grateful we are to have them in our family.

It’s only been a year or so that we’ve known these women.  But how can they possibly know how much we already love them and how much joy they’ve added to our lives?  It’s all the tiniest things.  Her cute little accent and how English is still a little confounding for her and how patient she is as our son tries to learn Spanish and as she tries to figure out all the games he wants her to play.  It’s the thoughtful way she knows exactly the right gifts to get us and how she makes her home so comfortable and warm and reflective of them.  It’s their intellect and their strengths, the ways they express themselves, their laughs, the way they instantly became big sisters to our other kids, their work ethic and drive, their adventurous natures and willingness to try new things, their love for the outdoors and exploring, how they look at our sons, the dreams they have for the future, their mothering spirits, the way we can just tell they will be fabulous moms.

I don’t mean to gush, but it’s so similar to the enthusiasm I felt as a first-time mom where I wanted everyone to see my babies. It just feels exciting to me, these additional children coming to us all these years later, the rest of our family filling in.  I’ve always been disappointed we couldn’t have more children, but I didn’t ever realize the fulfillment that daughters-in-law would bring.  I’m still so new at this, admittedly clumsy and awkward, with so much to learn, but I’m hoping to eventually get the hang of it.  Just love them. I guess I’m hoping they will someday realize how deeply we love them, how much they’ve added to our life just by being in it.  But I don’t know that they will until they’re mothers-in-law themselves.