Segullah's Blog, page 45

Patterns and “Up-cycling”

I noticed my eldest daughter struggling to choose something to wear to church on Sunday. Her most recent growth spurt, both in fashion sense and body, had outgrown what few “churchy” things remained in her closet. She was miserable. “Can I skip church, just today?”

 

But like my mother, and grandmother, I say, “God wants you at church, He doesn’t care what you wear. It’ll be okay.”

 

After spending two hours at church in a dress that fit her body, but not her mind, we went home and began looking through my sewing patterns and my ever-growing stash of bulk fabrics bought on sale for just the right time. A sewing pattern was chosen, but amended to include personalised stylings that only she could imagine (and I hoped I could sew!). A fabric was chosen next, but she really wanted to highlight the turquoise-peacock blue—her favourite colour.  “Hummm…” I mused… wondering how to make that work. Ribbon, contrasting fabrics, laces and so on were all discussed, and nearly everything in my sewing room–but for Christmas buttons–  was thoroughly examined for all possibilities.

 

[image error]I ironed the fabric and pattern pieces, then pinned them one by one on the folded cotton print. As I laid each piece, ensuring to get the correct grain and alignment in the fabric’s swirling design, I then began to measure. Next I added hand-draw alterations directly on the fabric with a blue crayola marker, all according to my daughter’s bidding.

 

I love doing this. I love sewing, I love brightly coloured fabrics with patterns of zeal and colour. I love seeing my daughters’ eyes come alive as we spy gorgeous sewing materials, and dream of what could become of them. I love working with my daughters to make clothes that fit each of them—their figures, their personalities, their passions. It is truly one of the things I love about motherhood– sharing art, and creating wearable, one-of-a-kind creations.

 

In many ways, I am repeating what my own mother taught me when I was a novice teen seamstress. At that time, I almost exclusively used a single sewing pattern, used and re-used so many times that I have since made in entirely by memory, absent of the well-worn pattern pieces.  After all, I was focused on the zealous and whimsical fabric colours and prints much more than the sewing patterns—inspiring my confidence in adjusting a simple pattern into shorts, a skirt, or even into palazzo pants.

 

I often think of my mother as I sew. I imagine her telling me that I do something very well, or telling me that I am doing something that I “might regret.” Better still, I envision her telling me that whatever I made was “very creative”—a phrase that I am still not sure was intended to express a compliment or shock for my most recent handiwork. I think of her hands, academically-trained in professional stitching, and how she showed me with a ruler to exactly match the grain of the fabric with the grainline on pattern pieces. I think of how she made pocket money when I was a child, in altering the dresses of newly endowed church members. She would add sleeves, or perhaps a bit of length, yet the frocks retained and increased in beauty under the sharp eye and gifted workings of my mother’s fingers.

 

I could never repeat any pattern- either in sewing or as demonstrated by my mother- to perfection. For a long time, that frustrated me. But I have since learned that is one of my gifts: I am pretty skilled at adapting and being flexible, yet whilst following a basic guide. I create a kind of dance-  using words, fabrics,or craft supplies— that includ pirouetting salsa bee-bops steps that few could try (or want to?) imitate.

 

For me, patterns are like rules. And as we all know, “rules were meant to be broken.” From earth tones with off-white accents, to regularly using and tossing out plastics, to slapping a child’s backside to as punishment for misbehaviour. Some patterns need to be amended, updated and stopped. But the core of the pattern remains: in-style purple paisley with peacock flowers, reuse and recycling, and most importantly, redirecting negative behaviour with love, patience and a firm yet kind voice. Patterns are good. But “up-cycling”, as my daughter would say, is even better. To “up-cycle” allows the original item to be retained, yet adapted to create something more beautiful, more personal, and more wondrous. It forgives the dated, often unsightly origin of the object, and breathes in new life, love and purpose. [image error]

 

I love doing this– it’s nostalgia with a twist. It is who I am, and how I hope to teach my daughters to be. So a part of me chuckles as I sew. I wonder what my daughters are taking from my crafting habits and nuances. And from my parenting and partnering. And I wonder how they will up-cycle these habits in their own lives and homes. It makes me excited for them, and for their future. It also makes me appreciate the past, and even forgive some of the stings. Patterns are good. Patterns of forgiveness are even better.

 

How have you up-cycled the patterns of your parents? What patterns have you retained?

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Private Kvelling

To begin with, a definition of this excellent Yiddish word:

Kvell:

verb: kvell; 3rd person present: kvells; past tense: kvelled; past participle: kvelled; gerund or present participle: kvelling

feel happy and proud.

“my mom was kvelling—bursting with pride”

My oldest son just turned eighteen. Last week. Everyone told me it would go fast and I thought they were lying. The memories of him as a baby still seem so present: he’s sitting on his squashy legs, methodically stacking board books very high, when he isn’t even able to walk yet. I didn’t know yet how the persistence of the baby would manifest itself in the young man. I just thought it was cute, not realizing the way stacking board books impossibly tall would be a metaphor for everything he does.

I want to kvell about him, talk about all the good things he’s doing, but I restrain myself because… because why? It feels too braggy. Like I’m airing my clean laundry. I mentioned a couple of senior accomplishments on Facebook recently–he got into college, he got a scholarship–and I was grateful for the kind comments. Thankfully, my family and friends are truly happy for him.

And yet, I feel the injustice inherent in kvelling over public accomplishments when private ones are just as valuable. When a child with a quick temper is able to speak calmly, that’s a triumph, but I’m not going to post about it on Facebook. When any of my children go someplace they really don’t want to, or maintain their cool when things aren’t just so, or take initiative and organize some papers, or even, sometimes, just get out of bed, it’s a victory. I am grateful for these small but vital triumphs.

One of the points of parenting, I think, is being a witness to these private victories. A child who has amassed all manner of public triumphs has even more private ones to honor. God, the ultimate parent, knows about any success we experience, any small good thing we do, any act of discipline or sacrifice, any softened heart. He sees us, He sees how hard it’s been, and He kvells.

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Hello? Hello! We Thank Thee Oh God For A Prophet!

Years ago, I worked as an aerobics instructor at the Deseret Gym in downtown Salt Lake City. Now, if you know me well, you’ll find that slightly hilarious because I have no sense of rhythm, struggle with left and right and I’m an awkward dancer. Running was invented so people like me could feel like athletes. Still, I taught step aerobics, a weight lifting class and water aerobics. Deseret Gym was a sprawling facility with multiple weight rooms, workout studios, climbing walls, a nursery, a cafe, locker rooms for miles, steam rooms, hot tubs and not one, but TWO indoor swimming pools.

Then in the April 1996 General Conference, President Hinckley announced they were tearing down the gym and building a conference center. Yeah, that Conference Center. Now most of you just cheered and went on with your lives, but at the gym it caused a ruckus! There were heated conversations and petitions and letters to the editor about the glorious swimming pools. Probably because I was expecting my third child and ready to quit, and definitely because I had the privilege of visiting the Jerusalem Center, I remember thinking, “C’mon people. Let’s have some vision. I think the prophet might have loftier plans than weight rooms and a sauna.”

Every time there’s been an announcement or change since then, I’ve reminded myself, “Our prophet has a greater vision.” I just realized I’ve taken on the role at Segullah of writing about changes in the church back to when the mission age changed and discussions about Scouting (oh, those were great discussions, I miss the days when we really talked). I think something in me LOVES witnessing the rolling out of God’s kingdom, the progression of knowledge, the line-upon-line that draws us closer to the second coming of Christ.

As the changes roll out, I’ve occasionally wished I could be on those decision making committees. Have you? I’d especially love to join those who are creating the new youth programs. Will it look like Personal Progress (which I love!) but cooler and more fun? Will the scout camps be converted to youth camps? What are some other changes that might take place for youth in the temple? But as much as I’d love to join those committees and tell them all my opinions, I’ve realized they don’t need me. They have greater vision! There’s nothing I’ve thought of that they haven’t already considered. And they are coming up with far better ideas than my small mind can conceive.

Since I’ve had missionaries out for the last eight years, I’ve had several conversations with friends about what might make missions easier on families and missionaries. One solution we settled on was monthly phone calls. If we could just talk once a month our communication would flow freely and we’d avoid some of the pitfalls like medical issues, enrolling in school, purchasing shoes and contact lenses and just plain old sadness and homesickness. Never in my wildest dreams did I anticipate the announcement that we can now call, text, Skype, etc. ONCE A WEEK! It still feels too good to be true.

One of our friends teaches at the Provo MTC and an elder brought the announcement to class on February 15th and asked if he could read it aloud. He was only a few sentences in when she stopped him and said, “That’s not funny Elder. A lot of people here are really struggling.” She couldn’t believe it until she read it on the church website. And then she cried for happiness. I did too.

Tuesday morning, my son called from Montreal and we were able to able to gather 9 out of 10 of us on Facebook messenger. It was loud and wild and genuine and real. The call didn’t carry the weight of those Christmas and Mother’s Day calls. We didn’t cry when we hung up, because we get to talk again soon. My kids are great about writing to each other, but we gain so much more from a true conversation. Xander will keep writing his weekly emails for friends and extended family and I feel a little less anxious about sending out my fifth son next year.

Just before General Conference in October– when we were all hearing so many rumors– I heard several people say, “Some of the changes will drive the less faithful out of the church.” I’m still confused by this because in my opinion all the changes have been happy and good. But I’ve also noticed that even with the happiest of announcements– two hour church! calling home every week!– I’ve heard naysayers.

I don’t think anyone needs to worry. Missions are still plenty hard even with a phone call a week. We can learn plenty at church (probably more) in two hours. We just need a little vision. We need to trust our Prophet’s vision. And oh, we thank thee oh God for a prophet!

What changes are you excited about right now? Would you enjoy sitting on the ‘change-making’ committees? How are you adjusting to changes in the Church?

 

 

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Refinement

There’s a meme which begins, “I was today years old when I learned…” and then proceeds to reveal some seemingly basic information the meme writer apparently just discovered.

It’s a means of showing vulnerability at only now recognizing something sort of obvious, but also a way to share this knowledge and connect with other people who probably haven’t learned it yet either. It’s hashtag relatable.

I would include some examples, but they’re mostly visual and I’m super lazy about uploading images on this blog. You can google it (see, I’m hashtag helpful).

I’ve been thinking about this meme as I’ve recently had a few personal epiphanies of my own. These realizations have struck me with their simplicity.

For instance, as I vacuumed the stairs this week (one of my least favorite tasks—the kind I put off far longer than I should), I realized two things. First, vacuuming the stairs takes roughly five minutes, and really isn’t worth the weeks of procrastination I assign this household chore. I mean honestly, I spend more time lamenting the fact that I don’t want to vacuum the stairs than I spend actually vacuuming them.

And second, I began to see this job (and other tasks I don’t exactly love) as transformative in that they a) give me space to think while doing something repetitive and b) reinforce in me a sense of responsibility and gratitude for the things which my Heavenly Parents have provided for me.

In other words, cleaning my dirty floors and toilets makes me thankful for a house to clean.

In Sunday School this week, our teacher told the class about a work trip he’d recently taken to Kenya to a resettlement camp where 60,000 people are living. The camp has four portable toilets. Four toilets, total. He described a sanitation initiative which increased the number of toilets to ninety, which is surely an improvement, and yet…60,000 people.

You could say that this story gave me a perspective shift, and you would be right. But it was more than me feeling glad for my house.

The other Big Realization came while I was folding laundry and matching socks, which is another chore that my entire being seems to resist. I like producing clean clothes for my family, but the process of making that happen is so…boring. And endless. It’s truly a job that’s never done, and that’s just the nature of laundry. Ugh.

As I folded endless piles of boys’ pants, tees, and socks with dogs on them, I had questions and time to mull them over. Questions like, why in the year 2019 have we not invented technology to automate laundry from start to finish, including folding and matching socks? (Before you suggest that I delegate more chores to my kids, please note that they do have household jobs, but due to their ages and special needs, they can’t do everything).

A bigger and more important question is this: why do 60,000 people have to live in a resettlement camp in Kenya with inadequate sanitation, while I get to live in a house in the U.S.?

I mean, seriously. Answer me that.

And while we’re asking questions, why did we have to have three-hour church for 10,000 years when two-hour church is clearly far superior? And why did the temple language have to be as it was for so long when now it is different, glorious, better?

Why???

At this point in my laundry-induced ennui, I had a clear impression. As I was surrounded by piles of clean clothes and mentally meandering through a day-dreamy state, the Holy Spirit pressed upon me this phrase: It’s refining.

Refining. That’s the Holy Spirit’s word, not mine.

The parts of life that aren’t fair and aren’t pleasant are refining.

I am given circumstances in which I can learn, line upon line.

We are all given opportunities for growth, one piece at a time. These opportunities look different for everyone, but will likely employ repetition, dirt, boredom, frustration.

And yet, the undesirable things we face open up a space for subtle, steady spiritual refinement.

I believe it, though I can’t adequately explain it, just as I can’t effectively compare the hardship of living in a temporary camp in Kenya to suffering through three-hour church with three boys with autism for the last fourteen years. They’re not the same thing. Perhaps the commonality is that somewhere in facing the hard thing comes transformation.

I’m learning to accept that growth comes with sitting in that uncomfortable, tedious, telestial space.

I guess what I’m saying is, I am willing to engage with discomfort while I work at and wait for refinement.

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2018 Whitney Awards Finalists

Segullah has long supported the Whitney Awards, and we are excited once again to showcase talented LDS authors from the previous year. We share the following press release and encourage you to seek out and read these books. Please don’t forget to nominate your favorite 2019 books by LDS authors. If you want more information on this year’s finalists, you can click on each book here on the website for more information.

The 2018 Whitney Awards finalists were announced on February 11, 2019 in nine genre-specific categories. The winners will be announced at the eleventh annual Whitney Awards Gala, to be held on Friday, May 10, 2019 in Provo, UT.

The Whitney Awards is a fiction awards program for authors who are also members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. The program was founded by author Robison Wells ten years ago in hopes of acknowledging and encouraging exceptional writers of that faith. “What began as a way to encourage quality in a relatively small community of writers,” says Wells, “now includes New York Times Bestselling authors, as well as self-published and first-time novelists. It’s exciting to see the awards grow and expand the way they have.”

The 2018 finalists are as follows:

Romance

Perfect Set by Melanie Jacobsen

Love at Lakewood Med by TJ Amberson

Silver Star by Lisa Swinton

Match Me if You Can by Lindzee Armstrong

Until We Kissed by Heather B. Moore

Historical Romance

Promises and Primroses by Josi S. Kilpack

My Sister’s Intended by Rachael Anderson

Seeing Miss Heartstone by Nichole Van

The Truth about Miss Ashbourne by Joanna Barker

Flame and Ember by M.A. Nichols

General

As Wide as the Sky by Jessica Pack

The Other Side of the Bridge by Camron Wright

The Unlikely Master Genius by Carla Kelly

One Candle by Gale Sears

Anna the Prophetess by H.B. Moore

Mystery/Suspense

The Darkling Bride by Laura Andersen

Second Look by Julie Coulter Bellon

A Familiar Fear by Kathi Oram Peterson

Tripwire by Traci Hunter Abramson

Conviction by Robbin J. Peterson

Speculative

Veins of Gold by Charlie N. Holmberg

The Arawn Prophecy by C. David Belt

Witchy Winter by D.J. Butler

Aether Spark: Book One of the Clockwork Calamity by Nicholas Petrarch

Chaos Queen – Blood Requiem by Christopher Husberg

YA Fantasy

Iron Garland by Jeff Wheeler

Stolen Enchantress by Amber Argyle

The Plastic Magician by Charlie N. Holmberg

The Traitor’s Game by Jennifer A. Nielsen

Frozen Reign by Kathryn Purdie

YA General

Shoot the Moon by Kate Watson

Once I Was a Beehive by Carol Lynch Williams

The awful wonderful Story of Us by Jolene Perry

Girl at the Grave by Teri Bailey Black

Good Girls Stay Quiet by Jo Cassidy

YA Speculative

Blood Creek Witch by Jay Barnson

First Kisses Suck (Minnie-Kim: Vampire Girl) by Ali Cross

In Her Dreams by Joanna Reeder

Shatter the Suns by Caitlin Sangster

Willow Marsh by Jo Cassidy

Middle Grade

Grump: The (Fairly) True Tale of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves by Liesl Shurtliff

Resistance by Jennifer A. Nielsen

Squint by Chad Morris & Shelly Brown

Passage to Avalon by Mike Thayer

The Three Rules of Everyday Magic by Amanda Rawson Hill

Best Books by a Debut Author

Girl at the Grave by Teri Bailey Black

Blood Creek Witch by Jay Barnson

The Three Rules of Everyday Magic by Amanda Rawson Hill

Passage to Avalon by Mike Thayer

In Her Dreams by Joanna Reeder

Aether Spark: Book One of the Clockwork Calamity by Nicholas Petrarch

The Truth about Miss Ashbourne by Joanna Barker

Any reader can nominate novels for the Whitney Awards. Panels of judges select five finalists in each category. Winners are then selected by an academy of industry professionals, including authors, publishers, bookstore owners, distributors, critics, and others. For more information on the Whitney Awards, to nominate a book, or for information on purchasing tickets to the Whitney Awards Gala, visit www.WhitneyAwards.com.

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Causing Trouble on Church Trips

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Photo by Shelby L. Bell via Creative Commons

It was probably the summer of 1977.  Our ward organized a trip from Cypress, California to Manti, Utah so that the youth could attend a church pageant.

As the years have worn on, I don’t remember much about the pageant, but I do remember the police tailing our bus from San Bernardino to Anaheim because of my misguided attempt to impress a boy.

Our youth leaders very kindly organized a trip for the youth 14 to 18 so that we could watch pageant scenes depicting events from early Church history as well as scenes from the Book of Mormon.

I remember feeling impressed by the scale of the performance and the size of the crowds. But I recall more vividly my attempts to catch the eye of a young man named Greg who was often the center of attention, particularly with the young women.

He wasn’t really a bad kid, but he possessed a devil-may-care attitude. He was also handsome, witty, and known to bend the rules at church and at our high school. His disregard for rules got him banned from the school’s computer lab. Rumor had it that he kept a map of the most ideal make out locations in the church meetinghouse.

Heathcliff, Lord Byron and John Willowby he certainly was not. But he was the closest thing to the bad boy stereotype that ever existed for me outside of a library book.

I was the bookwork type and quite awkward. I wore glasses and had braces. I frequently was so lost in thought that I forgot to comb my hair. No one ever asked me to a school dance. I was the funny sidekick, the one who helped boys with their homework. I wasn’t their romantic interest. I never really flirted with anyone before. If I talked with boys, I was making bad puns about current events, history, politics, and literature. The topics of conversation on this church trip were significantly more casual. I wasn’t sure how banter with a larger group of teens who were chatting in the back of our bus as we were heading home through the Nevada desert.

We had recently crossed the border into California when the group noticed a white pick-up truck with two tough looking occupants in the front seat. The group of teens started joking around, “What if we hit the truck with something?” People started rummaging around in their sack lunches.

Thinking that this feat of strength would surely impress Greg, I volunteered to take someone’s Hostess chocolate turnover and aim it at the truck.

I leaned out the window at the back of the bus and hurled a portion of the flaky, gooey treat.

It’s important to note that I was the type who was picked last for team sports and the type who skipped gym to escape the humiliation of displaying my poor eye-hand coordination in front of my peers. When that bit of turnover hit the truck’s windshield, I felt a mixture of shock, pride, and humiliation.

The group cheered, but that wasn’t the end of the event. For the next hour, the truck followed our bus. Because their windows were open, the occupants had hair that whipped around as they yelled at us. They both wore tank tops that revealed their impressive biceps that fueled their shaking their fists. I shrunk down into my seat. A couple of the chaperones came back to ask what happened. Since there is no honor among themes–or vandals–I was quickly identified as the culprit.

When we hit greater congestion of Anaheim, the white truck saw a police car and waved it down. The bus, truck, and police cruiser pulled over to the side of I-91. The bus driver, who was a member of our church, grabbed a bottle of spray cleaner and a rag. He marched over to the truck and cleaned off the smear of chocolate filling from the windshield as the stocky, red faced women yelled directly into his face. I don’t know the specifics of the conversation, but I was thankfully never removed from the bus, never stuffed in the back of the cruiser.

When my mother found out, I was grounded for two weeks. The next Sunday, I had to meet with the bishop for a stern lecture. And Greg? Well, he was more drawn to dewy-eyed ingenues and not with young women who tried to match his bad boy vibe. Bonnie and Clyde we were not destined to be. And so ended my brief life of crime.

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Writing towards love

Every month, when I tell my husband it’s time for my post at Segullah, I ask, “What should I write about?” And without fail, he says, “You should write about how awesome your husband is.”

(For those who have been paying attention, I have been writing for Segullah for over ELEVEN YEARS, which means we have had this conversation close to 132 times. It’s an old and very tired joke. And will probably never die.)

But it’s Valentine’s Day, after all, so a post about love might be appropriate. And I can’t talk about love without talking about my husband, so whattyaknow, he’s going to get his wish. (Heaven help us all?)

I’ve known my husband since I was 17 years old. We met in 1993. We met at a time before cell phones, when having a car phone in your car meant that you were extra super cool, and it wasn’t unheard of to try to meet a group of people somewhere, have cross communication, and then sort of miss each other because you can’t call each other to figure out where you are. So went one of our early dates, where I was supposed to meet him at a marina at the Great Salt Lake and go sailing. Instead I ended up getting hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of roads around the lake and finally gave up, hoping he wasn’t too disappointed, that he would guess what happened. (He did. Also, he now knows my lack of sense of direction is astonishing.)

That year I went to college on the other side of the country. Paying for long distance phone calls was still a thing, and while email was the new up and coming technology, it was only accessible if and when I had access to the computer lab, which wasn’t every day (very few of us had a personal computer—one of my roommates even brought an electric typewriter with her to school and I used it once or twice to write papers. My goodness I am SO OLD). So we did what most people did at the time to communicate. We wrote letters. Lots and lots of letters. We were still in touch when he went on his mission, and so we continued our letters. They weren’t love letters, they weren’t even very interesting letters. He kept a lot of them from his mission, and trust me, nothing is more boring than reading about a 19 year old complaining about her biology professor and asking deep questions like, ‘Who am I REALLY?’.

But the letters meant that we got to know each other through our writing. It’s not a bad way to get to know somebody, actually. There’s a truth about somebody that is revealed through writing. I got to see it a lot during those years when we were sometimes half a world apart. Of course at the time, I didn’t know we were heading towards marriage at all. Indeed, my love life took lots of twists and turns along the way, including a serious relationship that ended painfully and another engagement that ended when I gave the ring back. During that time our correspondence dwindled down to nothing, and there were a few years without a letter from him. When, in 1998, we were finally living in the same zip code again and started spending time face to face again, things moved very fast and we were engaged after about 2 months of dating. We joke that it didn’t take 2 months for us to get together, it actually took 5 years.

One day after we were engaged, Nate was poking around my old journals. We pulled them out to read about what I had written at the time (and maybe laugh—is there anything worse than reading a journal about a 19 year old complaining about doing her laundry at the laundromat and asking the deep questions like, ‘No, seriously, WHO AM I REALLY??’), and Nate said, “Your handwriting is very familiar to me.” I thought it was a weird thing for him to say, but then he handed me some of his journals, and after years of not seeing his handwriting, I was a little shocked how familiar *his* handwriting was to *me*. I was amazed at the emotions I felt at seeing his handwriting again, but mostly amazed at the comfort of it. I knew this person. Here he was, on the page again. I knew how he was feeling by how he shaped his letters–angry if they were tall and sharp, tired if they were small and cramped, full of new ideas and thoughts if the letters were loopier and flowing, like he had been writing fast. I could picture him writing, hunched over a desk, or perched on a chair, mouth moving as he formed the words he wrote. Objectively speaking, my husband’s handwriting is atrocious and not that easy to read, actually, but not only could I read it, I understood what it meant beyond the letters (which sounds super weird and cheesy and new-agey and is exactly the kind of thing that makes my husband roll his eyes, but deep down I know he likes it).

In the first years of our marriage, we wrote letters to each other on Valentine’s Day and on our anniversary. These were bonafide love letters, different from the angst-filled ones from our youth (WHO AM I!??!). But that habit has dwindled in the face of two decades of marriage, and yesterday my husband’s Valentine’s gift to me was roses and a case of meal replacement shakes I drink to help with the nausea caused by my bad kidneys. Best gift ever.

The days of love letters, for better or for worse, have morphed into the practice of pragmatic gifts and funny text messages. And that’s okay, it really is, because I already know my husband really, really well. But as I watch my almost adult son navigate the waters of relationships, I wonder if he is missing something by not getting to know a girl first through her writing, and what he’s missing by not learning to recognize how she forms her Ts. There’s a lot of beauty in handwriting. It’s a shame how much we’ve lost that.

Regardless of whether or not you have a special someone in your life, I hope that everybody had a February 14th full of chocolate and good naps. But if you do have a special someone, try writing them a love letter and introduce them to your handwriting. It could be a powerful gift.

(If you don’t want to do that, you can also always give them meal replacement shakes. That’s a slam dunk gift, guaranteed.)

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The Only Life You Could Save

It is better for the heart to break, than not to break.

Mary Oliver taught me that. This isn’t an ode to Mary, exactly, now that she’s moved on to a vast prairie or the lip of the water or the crook of the moon to watch the rest of us muddle through but I need to say goodbye: publicly and raw. Because I think she would approve.

What does barbed wire feel like when you grip it, as though it were a loaf of bread, or a pair of shoes?

Five years ago, you know, my (then) husband packed a duffle bag and said he was moving out.

In that moment the world was flat and he kicked it over, without flinching, tumbling me to its edges.

That time

I thought I could not

go any closer to grief

without dying

I went closer,

and I did not die.

In the ensuing years, I have hurt and ached and watched in the mirror as my self confidence started to wear black, my sense of self curled in the safety of a tree root, my faith in love dissipated into the air—the brief humidity after a rain.

I felt worthless in a way that perhaps you can only truly understand if such a betrayal has happened to you.

I’ve been rebuilding myself, piece by piece. But I would be lying if I tried to make you believe that insecurity isn’t in the lining of my coat, underneath my morning egg, in the ends of my hair. It clings to me like a toddler, weighing down my legs.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Sometimes I take a thousand steps forward, only to look down and see that my feet haven’t moved at all.

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.

And sometimes I am so brave I move mountains, lift them up and carry them in my pockets, pluck them from their roots and hang them in the sky.

One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began.

I went to my uncle’s funeral last week. The thing about funerals is the gathering of people who haven’t gathered in ages. I walked into the church and was swept up in the arms of people who love me. So many people. And they love me. They have loved me across years and mistakes and burdens and aches and brilliance. They have never walked away.

And, through my tears, I thought, perhaps what I believe about myself isn’t true.

Perhaps his leaving does not define me.

The stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do–

determined to save

the only life you could

save.

— Mary Oliver

Perhaps his leaving only defines him.

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Botched Murder Plots, Unwritten Dress Codes, and Morning Yoga

The night of my baptism I went to sleep disappointed I hadn’t been murdered. I figured showing that I was big enough to demonstrate my devotion to God and also the absolution of a life cut off early, unburdening me of the hard work of actually living out my devotion seemed like the best option. In fact, in the weeks leading up to my baptism, I planned it out to the point that I expected it to happen. I would be standing at the refreshments table, enjoying my cookie, glowing in my damp hair and new birthday dress and a shooter would break into the building, take me out in a clean shot, I’d give up my last breath telling my family I loved them and lights out. So, when I was standing at the refreshments table after the service, eating my cookie, I did not focus on all the nice people that showed up to be with me, but I spent the time preoccupied, looking over my shoulder, waiting for the shooter to end my life according to plan. Surely, somewhere in the universe, there was someone who had the other half of my plans twisted in their brain, and would play the demented part in my fantasy baptism-murder saga.

But they never came, and it turns out I was just a cryptic kid, who woke up the next morning saying, so since I didn’t get murdered, what’s plan b?

Looking back on it now, I’m a bit horrified at my bizarre plan and at the same time impressed with the power of the expectations I invented. I decided on what I wanted: glory and no work and contrived a plan to create it, then wrote up expectations in my brain of exactly how it was going down.

I guess I accountable, but not really logical at eight years old.

A recent chat with a life coach let me know I have a pattern of creating expectations that let me down (albeit, less cryptic than that murder fantasy at 8). For example, my children valuing clean clothes.

Yesterday, I noticed one child wearing snot-smeared pajamas when I left to teach a class and then still when I returned. And still, when he emerged for asking me what I was making for dinner. Why? I asked the undisclosed child about the situation and they acted completely baffled that this could be a problem or a tidy appearance was desirable. “After all, Mom, there’s no school today.” Facepalm.

Are non-snotted daytime clothes only expected for school days? Are my expectations galaxies away from theirs- that living well on a school holiday is staying in PJs and not worrying about a few snivels (or several remnants of a minor bloody nose) that end up on your shirt? Ick. 



Clearly, we had different expectations. I didn’t write up or send out a copy of Dressing for Self-Respect and Decency nor did I receive this child’s unscripted brochure on Taking a Day off from School, Public Norms, and Tissues. Gah.



They can’t understand why I don’t understand it their way. Obviously, I feel the same. (Though I really would tolerate it better and even be humored if said child did write up that brochure- hopefully with illustrations.)

But some occasions we break the pattern and communicate. Usually that’s on Saturday mornings when they come to announce their rooms are clean and their chores are complete.  Sometimes, they stop themselves, knowing what I’ll ask sometimes before I do–



“What would I say if I walked in?”



“Yeah, mom- I know what you’re going to ask- I even got the socks behind the bed and the piles.” I grin; hopeful. Maybe my angels- in snotty pajamas- have been “silent notes taking” on my audio version of How to Clean Your Room Completely: Vacuuming is Fun, Socks Under the Bed are a No, and Piles of Papers Shoved Behind Furniture Isn’t Really Doing Any Good.  Or at least hid them better where I wouldn’t notice.



It’s all in the expectations- those I communicate and so many that I don’t. There’s so many that I fail to meet as with my kids who really aren’t sure about the stanky socks behind the bed part.



In parenting.

In marriage.

In work.

And at 5:35 AM, when my alarm for yoga goes off.



If I tell I don’t share my future expectations in advance with my then 5:35 AM, potentially snotty pajamaed self, there’s no way I’m getting up and into lycra and public.

But, I’ve recently discovered something that’s working even better than expectations that I may or may not disappoint- a feeling. When it’s 5:37 and I’m vacillating between the comfort of my bed and the yoga mat, I remember how I feel at the end of practice. The radiance of limber muscles, energy, and the need for a shower- that feeling moves me in a way no expectation can.

Even if I barely get there with my contact lenses in the right eyes, because I let go of that expectation a while ago because I know I can still get there when I get that thing wrong.

Which is why I’m pretty I know the pattern of when my kids do clean their rooms following my lengthy titled guidebook, How to Clean Your Room Completely: Vacuuming is Fun, Socks Under the Bed are a No, and Piles of Papers Shoved Behind Furniture Isn’t Really Doing Any Good- that’s when they hug me first, because they know and seek the feeling of when I’m proud of them.

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Patterns: The Magic Eye

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Back in the 1990’s computer generated visual “puzzles” – like the one above – became a thing. I still love staring into these “Magic Eye” images until my eyes do in fact become magical and see something that wasn’t on the surface at first. Some folks tell me they have never been able to make them work. All they ever see are the bright colors in the odd splotchy patterns. Then they look at me funny as though I’m trying to trick them into making fools of themselves.

Take a few moments now to stare deeply into (or beyond) the image above and tell me what you see. (I’ll give you a hint: it’s a celestial body. If you actually get it to work, you’ll be able to identify it.)

If it didn’t work for  you, I’m just going to tell it to you straight. There really is a “there” there!

Perhaps one of the reasons why I enjoyed staring at these images in the 1990’s was because that was a difficult decade for me. We made a two significant geographic moves with our three kids. My husband changed jobs. He turned 40 in 1995. He was a bishop of a singles ward. My mother died. By the later part of the decade, all three kids were teenagers and my oldest went away to college. While the term “faith crisis” hadn’t been coined yet, I dealt with that phenomenon from a variety of angles. Each of these circumstances could (and in some cases did) provide funding for therapists’ exotic vacation travel funds.

So back then any time I could take a few minutes and put a book to my nose and stare until I saw something that wasn’t there, I would. It made me feel zenny somehow. Like how I imagine smoking pot might make me feel – but without the smoking and without the pot.

After a while I realized that I could see deeply – beyond the surface images that showed up as colorful splotches or, say, bunnies jumping through circus hoops – and the deeper image was often completely unrelated to the bunnies and hoops. Maybe there were suddenly dinosaurs or glorious butterflies or entwined hearts or the word “Peace” once I got to the deeper level.

THEN I realized that I could take that kind of “seeing” and apply it elsewhere. Sometimes things felt off or odd or out of place about my Church experience. (For example, “bunnies and hoops” could translate into the conundrum of why there weren’t yet changing tables in the men’s rooms in the ward building.) They were getting in the way of my seeing something deeper, and “realer” than the surface images. Sometimes being made aware of the disconnect urged me to action. (I am pleased to say I say I was part of the solution. There ARE now changing tables in every bathroom in that building.)

I developed a new pattern. I could metaphorically stare into or beyond a Church problem (like lack of parity in practice or principle, or issues of historicity, or problematic quotes from General Authorities, etc.) and hunt for deeper, more everlasting, 3-dimensional core ties that keep me tethered to the Gospel.

I spoke at a BYU Women’s Conference during that  difficult decade of the  1990’s. I was chatting with two friends after a session when Elder F. Enzio Busche (now an Emeritus General Authority) came up to us with his wife, Jutta. (They knew my friends.) Out of essentially nowhere, Elder Busche said (something like this), “The Church is the earthly structure through which we believers live the Gospel on the earth; it is the Gospel that is eternal and everlasting.”

That’s the pattern of vision I want to keep sharp. I want to see beyond mortal surface patterns – that can range from the sublime to the ridiculous – to see the deep, everlasting, immutable truths of the Gospel and base my actions on those. Parsing those distinctions can be tricky, but thanks in part to Magic Eye images with their peculiar patterns, I have hope, confidence and patience to keep at it.

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