Segullah's Blog, page 44

Ministering, Healing, and the Lost Sheep by Fara Sneddon

    “To really minister, to really help heal another, we need to not simply acknowledge the pain of another but enter in to it. Be surrounded by it and really feel it. When we witness the pain and suffering of those around us, when we stay and participate no matter how overwhelming it is,...

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Creating Wholeness

Do you consider yourself a creative person?

I ask this sincerely, though I’m biased in my belief that all of us are born with creative gifts of one form or another.

I’ve never liked the concept of talent shows because a) apparently I’m grumpy? And b) they favor the performing arts over every other myriad form of creativity. Playing instruments, dancing, riding a unicycle, singing—all are terrific gifts. But what about people who bake, or DIY their own house projects, or garden, or create lesson plans for teaching children or teens, or plan large family or charity events, or run businesses, or design a home environment to help children thrive, or create goodwill among people by treating them with kindness and compassion, or find creative solutions to problems with technology, or create mental harmony by running or practicing yoga, or write about the real things of life and post it all on the internet?

What about those talents?

The things we create daily may not be featured in a talent show, but they ARE creative in nature. This leads me to another personal bias: I see human creativity as an innate part of our eternal souls—as an inborn yearning to become like and return to our Heavenly Parents. We all just want to go home to those who know us best.

I was recently reading about the concept of entropy, which broadly refers to the second law of thermodynamics, which basically says that all matter is in a constant state of degradation, chaos, deterioration.

It’s life in a mortal world, guys, and it is, by definition, a mess.

If the world is always, inevitably, inexorably trending toward randomness, disorder, and a state of breaking down, my own life experience compels me to see the spiritual practices of faith and hope, of charity and creativity, as efforts working in opposition to entropy.

When we study Jesus’s life and try to pattern our attitudes and behaviors after His, we are creating something new. Essentially, we are re-creating ourselves–our spiritual, inner, real selves—by choosing obedience and casting off the natural woman in exchange for a closeness with divinity.

When we go to the temple, we learn about the order and purpose of human life. When we engage in creative pursuits, we observe and produce meaningful, beautiful, useful things. When we attempt to align ourselves with God, we push back against entropy in a journey toward balance.

I’ve personally found that when I am fully engaged in the intentional spiritual practices of living the Gospel of Jesus Christ, I am seeking equilibrium. And while there are times I can’t exactly tackle it and pin it down, balance doesn’t completely elude me.

I’ve written before about homeostasis, which could be described as an individual’s inner quest for harmony. One of my recent, related epiphanies is that social media makes a consumer of me. When I’m scrolling, I’m in a mindless state of consumption, which seems to be the opposite of creation. This finding hasn’t caused me to entirely shun social media, but it has made think about whether it fortifies, or in subtle ways, wounds my spiritual health. The best part of this exercise is that it puts me solidly in charge of me, my phone, and the internet. Listen up, lads. I am the captain now.

When I am teaching undergraduates, or working with my son on his occupational therapy homework, or reading about how Jesus treated people, or listening to someone who is currently being beaten up by the universe (stupid entropy), I find myself being creative.

It is this kind of creativity that Henry B. Eyring says is motivated by “a feeling of love,” including “the love of a Creator who expects His children to become like Him—to create and to build.”

Attempts at creating and producing tap into our inward divinity, and they invite the restorative balance afforded by the Savior.

All good things come from Jesus Christ. Here’s the hidden gem that’s revealed itself to me: when we are building up each other, our gifts, our spiritual selves—we can find wholeness.

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Temple Changes: Of Course, God Is No Respecter of Persons

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Photo by Rawpixel Ltd

It took me too long to attend the temple after the changes to the endowment ceremony, but I finally was able to attend in Indianapolis last weekend.

I admit that I didn’t have an earth-shattering experience, primarily because I have long believed that God loves His daughters as much as His sons, and that God is fair and just. It’s humans who insert inequalities based on gender—as well as inequalities based on race, ethnicity, wealth, education, physical ability, and a myriad of other categories for division.

The Book of Mormon shows people again and again being filled with pride and looking for ways to divide themselves from one another based on various human-imposed categories.

People can be so tribal: DC vs Marvel, east side of town vs west side of town, foreign cars vs domestic cars, left vs right politics, Nike vs Adidas, men vs women, Coke vs Pepsi, U of U football vs BYU football, etc. In the Doctrine & Covenants, the voice of God instructs us to erase divisions:

“I say unto you, be one; and if ye are not one ye are not mine” (D&C 38:27).

We aren’t the first to be blinded by our cultural biases. In the Book of Acts, we see Peter, the head of the Church during the meridian of times, come to the realization that the God speaks to all of His children, and not just to the children of Israel.

Cornelius, a centurion who was not from the House of Israel, was directed by the Holy Ghost to find Peter and hear the gospel.  When Peter sees that a non-Jew received divine guidance, he responded this way:

“Then Peter opened his mouth, and said, Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons: But in every nation he that feareth him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with him.” (Acts 10:34-35).

A similar realization occurs for the leaders later in Acts when they discuss in a council the policy of circumcision before someone is baptized. Does someone have to adhere to the Mosaic law as a gateway to conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ? (See Acts 15.) It takes a while to sort through that question of what is an unchanging principle and what was a temporary one for a specific time, place, and culture.

Paul in writing to the Galatians asserts a similar understanding about how all are equal before God:

“There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28).

I have attended the temple regularly since the mid-1980s, so I quickly noticed the changes. And I felt a warm confirmation of what I have known all along: God knows me, acknowledges me, and loves me unconditionally.  I kept silently saying to myself, “Of course. Of course. Of course.”

The half dozen or so changes to the endowment ceremony reminded me of the time in the 1970s when I watched a woman way the opening prayer in Sacrament meeting for the first time. (It was Sis. Gates in the Cypress 1st ward in Orange County, CA.) At that time, I also thought “Of course.”  And when the priesthood was expanded to all worthy male members of the church: “Of course.”

We mortals gain instruction in the temple in how to move from the temporal to the eternal. A celestial view differs dramatically from the terrestrial view. Ultimately, we want to become a Zion people, but we have to stop creating and maintaining divisions:

“…they were of one heart and one mind, and dwelt in righteousness…” (Moses 7:18).

 

 

 

 

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Not a Blog Post

I haven’t written a blog post today. I was late to work because there was a serious and prolonged existential crisis about which shoes a certain child should wear to school today. (I’m glad she took the boots because I can see the clouds scooting down the mountains.)

On my lunch I ran over to said school to watch my oldest on stage crew for the play. (The irony of “watching” stage crew is not lost on me.)

I pulled my daughter out of class to watch the play because she had called earlier from the nurse’s office about a stomach ache. She snuggled up next to me and asked every five minutes if she could come back to work with me today. By the end of the performance, I was running out of ways to say no.

What do you do when it’s your ex-husband’s “day” and all you want to do is scoop your babies into your arms and home to bake cookies?

You tell them no. You tell them they have to stay. You tell them, I’ll see you Friday. And all the time your heart is pinching you so hard because two days separated from your children is a series of small deaths. Especially when you know the separation is a permanent thing. As the years go by the separation will only harden. And become a whale bone in your stomach. And theirs.

After the play, my son was exultant. It was in his arms and legs: he was so proud. So absolutely delighted that he got to boss around first graders in costumes. And I wanted to capture that happiness and share it with someone.

The same person I wish I could share my daughter’s separation anxiety and struggles with school.

But what do you do when there isn’t a person? I know I can call friends or parents (who are all so fantastically supportive), but sometimes you want there to be a person.

This parenting thing, we weren’t made to do this alone.

And so to all of you out there, who, for whatever mad reason, have no person (whether you’re single or divorced or in a relationship with someone who just doesn’t care), I hear you. I see you. I’ll be your person.

Like I whispered to my daughter while pushing her back into class: you are courageous and so so brave and you can do anything.

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Patterns: Volunteer Efforts

“You look tired.”



I am; “I think we all just woke up.” I muster a wink pressing my mouth into a half smile. I didn’t look in the mirror before leaving the house.



“That night went fast.”



Tell me about it. It’s daylight savings spring forward Sunday at 6:00 AM and I’m at waiting for my carload to gather so we can get out of this overly lit church gym and into the dim, warm car. I turn on the seat heaters and classical music to make it extra delicious. Or to distract myself from the sometimes odor of unwashed bodies.

My small town has an interfaith rotating shelter in the wet winter months. Once a week- usually Sundays- I drive a few carloads of people from the hosting church to the Jack-in-the Box downtown to wait out the darkness with a cup of coffee or to collect their bicycles from the intake center at yet another church.



It’s a very small thing. I don’t tell people unless they ask. It’s completely out of my comfort zone. (Also the reason I do it). I fear that the guests/vagrants/homeless- what do I call them without sounding judgemental-  judge me. My heated seats, the trunk that only closes with a button, my lot in life against theirs. Writing this out, I know this is flipped. They are the ones who are judged the most- their unwashed bodies, petitions for charity, the tumble of choices or circumstance that have brought them to a cot in a church gym and living out of a duffle bag. I’m almost thankful and always humored when I look so bleary-eyed and sloppy in my leggings and oversized sweater I slept in that I’m mistaken as someone needing a ride. 



I try to make conversation. Sometimes people talk and give up part of their stories. Former university professors, veterans, chronically ill. A 3-month old they get to see this morning at 10. I listen and let them switch the radio. I can’t shift anything, but I drive, hoping that for those few minutes they are comfortable and heard.



Sara Downey, elderly and elegant: tidy hair, turquoise knit scarf, and handbag, says nothing until we arrive at intake. Then confusedly asks where she goes inside? There isn’t anything. The day shelter is on H street and the library doesn’t open until 1 on Sunday. She reminds me of my grandma. Another passenger, who made me laugh on the ride over, talking 80s music with me and compiling a best-of list of Black Sabbath music to win me over to his favorite asks for money. I suck air. I want to. I’ve certainly given 50 cents for lesser entertainment. As volunteers we’ve been told not to- I surprise myself with how fast I lie. And hate it.



Though I’m supposed to stick to the 2 designated destinations, Sara is still standing on the wet pavement baffled. She reminds me of my grandma. I load her life in a duffle bag back into my car and drive on. I can’t leave her here with the bag she can’t even lift.



The shelter with bunks, food, and hot showers isn’t open yet. It’s raining. I tell her it will open soon and she can wait on the porch and pull out the bag. She whimpers, and mumbles about her illness and a mess of troubles I can’t translate: a surgery and how she’ll get pneumonia and can’t be out. I believe her. She reminds me of my grandma. I sit in the car, she stands on the porch, and I call the only people I know who could maybe help her get some help. I’m fumbling. I see her look up to the clouds with far more desperation and do the same.



No one has answers and instead tells me who they will relay the urgency to. In the end I’m back at Jack-in-the-Box rummaging a few dollars from my wallet, telling her to buy coffee and stay warm and hoping the man on the other end of the line, or the workers and Jack-in-the-Box that know my passengers well will help with the handoff. I can’t change anything. But the bleary eyes I started my morning with have sobered. I just don’t know.  I just don’t know. I don’t. But I’ll wake up early again to stumble in the dark to help in the smallest way again.



I drive home with my heated seat, classical music, and home to my house as the sun is coming up uncertain but thankful for it. I’d like to tell my grandma, but I don’t know how to put it all to words nor do I want to have anyone try to tie a bow on it, praise me, or say I was wrong or right or it’s not my responsibility. It’s just there; a handoff to God on this rainy morning.

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2018 Whitney Awards Finalists: Best Book by a Debut Author

[image error]Since 2007, the Whitney Awards have been recognizing writers of novels by members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  Some previous finalists and winners have included Orson Scott Card, James Dashner, Jessica Day George, Shannon Hale, Brandon Mull, Jennifer A. Nielsen, Brandon Sanderson, and Dan Wells.

The categories have shifted and expanded over the years. This year there are nine categories of novels with five finalists in each category.  Among those finalists, seven are nominated for Best Book by a Debut Author. This year the awards banquet will be held on Friday, March 10, 2019.

[image error]Barker, Joanna. The Truth about Miss Ashbourne. 272 pages. Covenant Communications. Published November 1, 2018. (Also a finalist in the Historical Romance category.)

Set in the Regency era, the protagonist, Juliana Ashbourne, rises in station from a governess to an heiress when an aunt leaves her a fortune large enough to start a school.

The will has a stipulation that Ashbourne visit the family estate, Havenfield where she must learn how to navigate a world of the rich and well connected. There older women who are suspicious of her and younger women who are jealous. And then there are eligible bachelors, some who give her unwanted attention and some who give her mixed signals.

[image error]Barnson, Jay. Blood Creek Witch. 354 pages. Immortal Works. Published March 13, 2018. (Also a finalist in the Young Adult Speculative category.) Note that There’s a smattering of vulgar language in the novel.

The reader quickly becomes immersed in the backwoods of West Virginia when the orphaned protagonist, Jenny Morgan, leaves the Chicago metro area to live with her Aunt Hattie, who has “The Sight.”

As Jenny meets the locals and a couple of other newcomers, she learns that there are more than panthers prowling in the woods. She meets a number of fierce creatures, including a snallygaster.  But in order to fight off creatures natural and supernatural, she must learn about local history, the rules of magic, and the reaches of her own power.

[image error]Black, Teri Bailey. Girl at the Grave. 336 pages. Tor Teen. Published August 7, 2018. (Also a finalist in the Young Adult General category.)

This is categorized in the YA General category, but a love triangle inches this novel towards YA romance for me. The triangle features Valentine Deluca (the “girl” in the title), Rowan (the rich, handsome young man whom all the girls desire, and who happens to be the son of a man Valetine’s mother murdered) and Sam (who is her best friend but from the “wrong side of the tracks”).

Set in 19th Century New England, the readers learn about the fraught connections between townspeople as Valentine tries to understand the past so that she can better negotiate her present.

[image error]Hill, Amanda Rawson. The Three Rules of Everyday Magic. 192 pages. Boyds Mill Press. Published September 25, 2018.  (Also a finalist in the Middle Grade category.)

Kate is a tween girl trying to manage some of the traditional conflicts of middle school–getting the courage to give an oral report, making new friends, learning how to talk to boys, and responding to shifting loyalties when her best friend starts spending more time with another girl from school.

Kate must also respond to some exceptional situations, namely her father’s absence due to his untreated depression and then her grandmother’s increased memory problems.  Truth be told depression and dementia affect a significant number of families, so Kate’s situation really isn’t as exceptional as she and other youth might realize.

[image error]Petrarch, Nicholas. Aether Spark: Book One of the Clockwork Calamity. 448 pages. (Also a finalist in the Speculative category.) 

The novel has a steampunk feel but concerns itself with the workings of alchemy.  Chance is an apprentice to Ashworth in the field of clockwork mechanics, an endeavor to create prosthetics by the use of mechanical elements. But these two also explore the use of alchemy, trying to find ways to further extend life.

This is another iteration of the Faustian myth. When humans dabble in the realm of the divine, disastrous consequences are possible.

[image error]Reeder, Joanna. In Her Dreams: In Her Dreams #1. 333 pages. Reed It and Weep. Published March 22, 2018.  (Also a finalist in the Young Adult Speculative category.)

Protagonist Emily Chandler is a teen who regularly has dreams where she observes people from the past in intense situations. This odd behavior starts to dominate her day-to-day life when she starts to dream repeatedly about three different people from three different time periods.

She starts to explore a weighty possibility:  Can she alter the past by intervening rather than just observing?

[image error]Thayer, Mike. Passage to Avalon: The Epic Adventures of the Techno Wizard #1. 280 pages. Hooligan Press. Published March 29, 2018. (Also a finalist in the Middle Grade category.)

The protagonist, Sam Shelton, is a tween from a couple of decade into the future from our present. During an earthquake, he is somehow transported to New Zealand centuries prior, into a feudal realm where he needs to find another friend transported at the same time and then figure out how to get back home. Luckily, his backpack filled with tech equipment travels with him. His solar power batter allows him to use these devices to solve a series of problems. And miraculously, he finds an Internet connection every once an a while, allowing him to communicate with friends and family back home.

He also needs to figure out who is friend and how is foe. The first half of the novel has him collecting friends to help him on his quest. Towards the end of the novel, he engages in a series of battles that grow larger in scale and import. The second book in this trilogy is already published.

I like Thayer’s Passage to Avalon enough that I’m buying his trilogy for my friend’s 8th grade son who is obsessed with gizmos himself.  And I also want to buy several copies of Hill’s Three Rules of Everyday Magic and distribute them to several of my friends and extended family members. It’s my favorite of this group of debut authors. Hill present’s the grandmother’s dementia in a way that still preserves her humanity, dignity, and value to the family.

I applaud all of the authors for publishing their first novel. It’s a daunting task, and they all present engaging narratives with compelling characters.  After Hill’s novel, I am most likely to reread Barson’s Blood Creek Witch because it had some strong female characters. I have to admit that I lived in West Virginia for eleven years, so it was amusing to see the folklore–but natural and supernatural–come alive in the pages of a new release.

Whatever your taste in fiction may be, there are 45 finalists to explore. Support these seven and other Whitney Awards finalists by reading their books, writing reviews, and sharing reviews on social media.

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2018 Whitney Awards Finalists: Historical Romance

Although this year’s Historical Romance finalists for the Whitney Awards have similar covers and similar settings, they still offer a variety of storylines. You can read about love that develops quickly, love that builds slowly over years, first love, second-chance love, love that overcomes dysfunctional family histories, and even love that comes after marriage. There are many LDS writers in the field of historical romance fiction, and this year’s finalists showcase some of the best.

[image error] My Sister’s Intended by Rachel Anderson

For years, everyone in both family’s has assumed that Prudence’s sister Sophia would marry their neighbor Lord Knave. However, now that they are of age and beginning to court, things are awkward between them and their relationship is struggling. As an aspiring romance novelist, Prudence steps in to help her sister, but instead find some unanticipated consequences from meddling in the lives of others.

This was a light, quick read that I finished in just a few hours on a quiet afternoon. Unfortunately I  kept feeling distracted because the Regency setting was very much in the background and the protagonist felt much too modern to really fit into the time period. Many of the historical romances I read have this problem, but this book was particularly egregious. If you aren’t a stickler for a strong sense of setting or historical accuracy, this book is a lot of fun. Prudence is a spunky character and I loved reading about her.

 

[image error] The Truth About Miss Ashbourne by Joanna Barker

Juliana Ashbourne is shocked when she learns that she has received a large inheritance from the grandfather she never met. The only condition is that she has to spend a month with her mother’s family at their estate. Although Juliana arrives at Havenfield wary of spending time with the people who disowned her mother, she gradually learns to let love into her heart, both from her newfound family and an unexpected suitor.

One of the things I like in romance books is a sense of real growth in the characters; this book did an excellent job showing Juliana’s gradual change from being guarded and defensive to opening up to the love and care of others. I really liked the relationship between her and William, and I loved all of family members and wish I could spend some time with them on their estate.

 

[image error] Promises and Primroses by Josi S. Kilpack

After losing his wife, Peter Mayfield is not ready to fall in love and marry again; he is simply looking for a governess to care for his two daughters. Julia wasn’t looking for love either and is happy with the independence she has as a governess, but she fits so well into Peter’s life that they soon realize their relationship is becoming less professional. Unfortunately, further complications arise with their families, and Peter and Julia must decide whether they truly want a future together.

Josi Kilpack can always be counted on to create memorable characters. Peter and Julia are both so delightful that it’s easy to root for them from the beginning. This was, unfortunately, a bit of a weakness for the book, since neither character needed to grow or change much. The conflict in the book was fairly low-stakes, and I kept waiting for something more dramatic to happen.This book was a pleasant read and I had a good time with it, but I wish it had been a bit more substantial. There are going to be more books about the Mayfield family, and I look forward to reading them.

 

[image error] Flame and Ember by M.A. Nichols

Simon is tired of being unattached and still pining for the woman who turned him down several years previously. Mina is nearly thirty and resigned to living the rest of her life helping her brothers with their households. When Simon proposes a marriage of convenience, Mina decides to take a chance on him. Despite Mina’s initial feelings of attraction for Simon, falling in love with your spouse after marriage proves to be more difficult than either of them planned on.

This book’s unique plot kept me reading and I finished it quickly. I particularly loved Mina’s character, and although at first Simon really irritated me, as he grew and changed, I grew to like him as well. My only two quibbles with the book were that the ending was too abrupt and that it needed one more good pass with an editor to clean up some of the awkward phrasing and repetitive word choices. Other than that, I think M.A. Nichols has a lot of strengths as an author and I look forward to seeing more from her.

 

[image error]Seeing Miss Heartstone by Nichole Van

Belle Heartstone is doing a fine job running her father’s business after his death, but her mother won’t stop trying to match her up with possible suitors. In an attempt to take control of her life, Belle proposes marriage to Colin Radcliffe, since she knows he is short of cash. To her surprise, Colin turns her down. Instead, Belle arranges to use her fortune to secretly become his business partner, and as they exchange letter through the years, friendship blossoms between them. However, when Colin returns to England, they have to decide if their relationship can continue to grow after her secret is revealed.

I discovered Nichole Van a few years ago through the Whitney Awards and have enjoyed every book of hers that I’ve read. This book had some great twists and turns as the romance between two headstrong people wound its way to a satisfying conclusion. Although it dragged a bit in a few spots, this was mostly an excellent book. I loved the many little details in the story and Van’s talent for turning a clever phrase, but more than anything I loved read a book that showed two imperfect people learning how to communicate, forgive, and grow into real love.

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If You Only Knew…How much a Heavenly Mother meant to the Motherless

Today’s guest post is from Keira Shae (Scholz). Keira lives in the Rocky Mountains and holds the undisputed title for the Nation’s #1 Worst Baker. Her favorite animal is a human, and that’s why she is in psychology and is married with three sons. Her memoir How The Light Gets In was published in 2018 by BCC Press; you can read our review here and purchase the book here.

I lost my mother long before I became one.

My mother isn’t dead, but she is dead to me. She succumbed to drug addiction when I was still a child, showing up in my life without a pattern, like a butterfly.

Or a volcanic eruption.

It is because she is still alive that I take her loss in small daily doses, like a bitter medicine. She is not always a missing chasm in the landscape I navigate; sometimes her absence is a ghost that sends a brief but forgettable chill during a vulnerable moment.

Still, my unending question is: how do you mother without a mother?

I have faint memories of a time when her body and voice were warm and soft. When life was full and she was kind. I was the oldest, so my younger siblings never knew even that memory. Those are hardly memories enough to make an entire career of motherhood out of. I find myself knowing what not to do, and not the faintest idea of what to do. You can find that question as a line just off center in between my two eyebrows.

I mourn in multiple dimensions at once: First, I am in the present. My three children scream and cry and whine and beg for simple things that I often didn’t receive: a warm meal, a kind word, protection while in danger, comfort from fears, assurance of love, adoration and gentleness. Giving these things doesn’t always come readily–sometimes the well is dry. I curse my mother for the well being dry. I’m angry because I can’t call her and trust her with my children so I may sleep. That lack of trust extends to others–I hold my treasured children close in fear, knowing how cruel and twisted people can be. That means assistance is limited by choice, and I carry much more alone than I probably need to. You can find those experiences in my bent, but unbroken, neck.

Second, I am triggered by small happenings. They aren’t always horrible, like losing a child in a store. Sometimes they are simple things; my child choosing a Halloween costume and not being ridiculed, for example. I try to be present for my children, yet I am instantly transported (without my consent) to another lifetime. The lifetime where I was worthless, hideous, fruitless. I remember feeling insignificant and labeled as having ill intent. I spend all my energy validating and sorting through memories, while extending love and attention to my children. You can find that in my eyes, which flicker between full of mindfulness and completely vacant.

Third, I am living motherhood with new perspective on my suffering mother. As the victim, I fully embraced my resentment and hatred toward my abusers, the main perpetrator being my mother. Then, I became a mother and stopped seeing her as a monster and started seeing her as a hurting human being. They look very similar. I softened in my sentencing of all guilty parties. It has now become one giant circle of hurting humans in that dimension. There is no way of discerning up or down. We are all wailing. I carry that within my heavy soul as I also carry my sons through life. You can find that sorrow in the bags under my eyes.

I collapse into bed, my day consisting of having time-travelled through hundreds of years and weaving multiple dimensions, hoping to create harmony within my family and within myself. You can find evidence of my weaving in my undone dishes and my lack of skill in real-life homemaking. I am a knitter of souls–a realm no one sees, when the work is done right.

How do you mother without a mother? It is quite a simple answer, really, when you’ve missed it all your life: do everything that you wish someone had done for you. Stroke another’s hair like you wish someone had lovingly touched you. Your voice says those long-awaited words, “It’s okay to feel just like that. I would feel that way, too, if I were you. I love what you are. You are precious to me.” You make sure there are enough vegetables and you don’t buy the refined sugar. You give yourself and your children a bedtime. You make sure that every time you are parted from loved ones you insist they hear that you love them one more time. You listen intently to their words and tell them how proud you are of their efforts, however small.

I give my children all I wished for and more.

Then I climb into bed. Not always, but very often, I stare into the darkness and my heart matches the empty night. There is a hole where the Mother fits. I don’t imagine my earthly mother anymore, but a Heavenly Parent. This unique to Mormonism knowledge has been my balm of Gilead.

I don’t have a face for her. I try to imagine she smells like fresh bread. I imagine her body is soft. I imagine how she might whisper some nickname for me that I had simply forgotten… That special name that makes sense and makes me feel known and cherished beyond measure. Like a secret password between us.

There is only so much I can do on my own. I can put broccoli on my plate. I can set an alarm. I can say the words that keep me from insanity. I can reach out to mother-like friends who swoop in to help.

But, like Cosette, I have a castle on the cloud. I go there in my twilight. It is a place where no one’s lost, where crying is not allowed. There is a Heavenly Lady in white who holds me and sings to me. She’s nice to see, and soft to touch. She says, “Keira. I love you very much.”

Until one day I rest, I self-soothe.

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Sort of I Get It Mostly I Don’t

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I like to think I’m too good for The Bachelor, and 93% of the time I am, but here I sit, watching this season for the first time (are we on season 247?), not able to look away. Judge me if you will, I know I have rolled my eyes in disgust at this very act many times, but the relational drama lures me into a stupor. To my discredit, someone on social media said the scene I was watching was “Like the most real moment that has ever happened on that show.” Please.

But why? Why do scenes like this compel us to abandon our female indignation and gaze transfixed? The horror! The horror! Oh hey, look at that awkward hot tub kiss! I wonder what she uses on her thighs to get rid of cellulite. Ugh.

I don’t know. And I’m not sure I’m going to have a satisfying enough, or a sensible full-circle-wise-yet-pithy-relatable answer by the time this post ends. Fair warning.

Conclusive evidence from prior seasons suggest disastrous results at the expense of the contestants, and maybe the mental sanity of viewers, yet many fervently defend and fight for the right to let mean girls and suave bros battle out love in front of three cameras and two umbrella lights.

Sort of I get it. Mostly I don’t.

And yet, I think as I sit and watch, here I am. My computer open, mocking my attempt to get any work done.

Like jogging at night, you should only join in and watch with good friends who can accurately call into question dangerous behavior, and pull you out of a dark alley into a well-lit, nearby home. What is the alley in this metaphor gone awry? Is it the show? The Bachelor himself? The 22-year-old self-employed assistant? Is the well-lit home changing the channel? Or maybe a book? How about Jane Eyre? I recently heard a perspective on NPR, by the way, asserting Jane Eyre perfectly enforces the trope that glorifies women falling in love with domineering, manipulative, older men– thus shattering part of my adoring Brontë heart. Okay, I digress.

But can we be real? Is that possible in a blog post that’s kind of about The Bachelor? There are obvious problems and sexism happening in the show and in society. We see flecks of that in our own world—all around us, but can some expected and accepted norms be innocuous and some be dangerous? Can it be that basic? Can it simply, just depend?

I think of the line in Father of the Bride when Brian explains his choice to give Annie a blender for their anniversary. He says, “You know those banana shakes she like to make, right? Well, that’s why I thought she’d like a blender. I guess I can see her point. A blender does suggest a certain 1950’s reference to sexual politics. But I swear it never entered my consciousness at the time.”

Here’s the part where I don’t have the answers or word count to unpack everything (see said fair warning above). What I will try and say is I believe Brian here.

Because of his awareness.

He noticed the reaction, questioned his choice, and later had a conversation about it. I knew my countless times watching this as a tween would pay off one day.

I don’t like to see women used as props and damaging stereotypes played out on syndicated television. I don’t think any of us do—obviously. I also know that I’ve heard one of the most encouraging conversations between two 17-year-old girls about worth and identity because they watched an episode of The Bachelor. Could a conversation could have happened without it? Of course, but they used it as a way to notice behavior and question it. To then up-level their own consciousness.

I’m not going to draw the line in the sand; this is mostly random thoughts trying to coalesce into some semblance of an idea. But for me, it’s the noticing. It’s the awareness to question, assess, discuss, and then make a decision for ourselves.

But wait! You say – can’t it just be simple mindless entertainment? Sure. Yes. But. It’s all in how you look at it.

I’ll leave you with one of my favorite stories about blissful ignorance turning into positivity.

I was at dinner with two friends. One looked at us and said, “I have something to tell you guys about work.” She went on and said, “They put me on a P.I.P.” To which, the other friend joyously yelled, “Well look at you doing great things!” as she lovingly smacked her arm. After some nervous smiles and confusion, the first friend replied, “P.I.P stands for Performance Improvement Plan.” After a short blank-stare moment, the uproarious laughter ensued.

View, use, and be aware in order to turn questions and questionable consumption into a better perspective. That is all, dear reader.

The post Sort of I Get It Mostly I Don’t appeared first on Segullah.

Timshel and the Art of Creative Captivity

If I could collect all of the hours I’ve spent waiting at appointments and lessons over the years, I would be rich with time. Here are a few of the regular visits and necessary errands I attend with my family:

Dentist appointments

Orthodontist appointments

PTA meetings & misc school functions

Church meetings

Dermatologist appointments

ENT appointments

Annual doctor visits

Counselor visits

Grocery store trips

Violin/piano lessons & concerts

School plays

Art shows

Track/soccer practice & meets/games

Post office

Car related stuff: tune ups; DMV

The list goes on.

Most of the time I’m prepared. I’ve learned that if I’m going to be stuck somewhere for more than a few minutes, why not use that time instead of resenting it? I’m old school and prefer to bring a book to read plus pen and paper for notes, poetry, or other musings. Further ideas to fill time waiting:

• Write a letter/email/text to a friend or family member you’ve been wanting to reconnect with

• Google a city/person/career/food, etc you want to learn more about

• Daydream

• Memorize a favorite quote

• Meditate

• Pray

When we are anticipating the next thing, we find ourselves stuck in “time out of time.” Held captive by the upcoming appointment, long grocery store line, lesson, practice, fill-in-the-blank-thing. If we keep in mind that we have a choice when we are in that holding pattern, it might help us see that time as valuable. Instead of sitting stranded and fuming when will it be our turn, we can cultivate a state of possibility, of creative captivity. Consider it a time to reboot, restructure your thoughts. Sit and be.

In John Steinbeck’s East of Eden, the concept of timshel is the cornerstone of the book:

“The Hebrew word, timshel — ‘thou mayest’ gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. …Thou mayest!”

– John Steinbeck, East of Eden

The way is open.

What lovely invitation we have, then, to choose what to do with a few extra minutes before an appointment, in those long moments when anything is possible.

What do you do in your spare time before appointments?

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