Segullah's Blog, page 47

Book Review: The Book of Mormon (Maxwell Institute Study Edition)

When I first considered the Maxwell Institute Study Edition of the Book of Mormon by Grant Hardy to review, I suspected that this might be sort of like an institute study guide—heavily influenced by the male authors, with cross references to what we are “supposed” to learn, and so on—the kind of thing that sometimes tires me when I read about scripture. Thus, it took me a little while to prepare to read this book.

 

I include this detail because I love the Book of Mormon. We’ve been reading it as a family every night—or at least almost every night for a few

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years now. Our scripture reading is one of my favourite times in the day; in part because of the spiritual aspect, but also because it is a family routine that we have worked past (Knock on wood!).

 

But mostly, in our family readings, my children pick up on tiny nuances—quickly creating family treasures– that I had not previously considered in previous personal study. Speaking of that– sometimes in my individual study, I have been drawn to personal interpretations of some passages that are very important to me. Because of this, the Book of Mormon is personal, and sometimes, scripture study guides seem to ignore the personal, and focus on what some anonymous author thinks I “should” be learning from that passage of scripture.

 

Thus, it took a bit of courage for me to open the book and get into.

 

 

Gratefully, this book is nothing as I had imagined. It is beautiful, every whit, and in no way tells me what I “should” be learning.

 

 

Importantly, Emma Smith’s testimony is included in company with the testimony of the three and the eight witnesses, as well as her husband’s testimony. Having a woman’s witness is important for so many reasons, and it is a relief that the author also felt that including her voice was imperative to this printing.

 

 

The configuration of the text makes it easy to read. Bruce R. McKonkie’s chapter headings are gone, with softer, simple descriptor notes meant to simplify study. Plus, the layout is lovely. It is absent of the two-column newsprint style that is so familiar in scripture, making it more like I was reading a book. In this, I felt more allowed to sink in and enjoy the prose, wording, and message. In in many places, the most poetic parts are formatted as just that—poetry. As we also love reading poetry as a family (we might have a history of sneaking in poetry books to read during church), this format allowed my family and I to enjoy the lyrical and expressive flow of those words in a way the breathed new life, and warranted repetition.

 

 

 

Another magical thing about this book is the artful interweaving of Royal Skousen’s scholarship. Skousen spent –who knows how long- researching every detail in the translation and printing of the Book of Mormon throughout history. His work uncovered typos and printing errors, among other misplaced morsels in the texts of the Book of Mormon. These corrections are included in this book, neatly placed on the same page of the correction—offering a new way to pause, study and enjoy the work of many hands in this book of scripture.

 

Lastly, the woodcut prints by Brian Kershisnik. They are delightful. My only tiny criticism is the lack of females represented in the woodcuts. To be clear, there are female in some of the images, but I am always looking for more images of women represented in scripture. So I am a tough critic. But even with that, the woodcut prints added a combination of strength, grace and beauty to the book, in a way that only quality artwork can convey.

 

I quite frankly loved this rendering of the Book of Mormon, and hope to purchase copies to use for our family reading.

 

The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ (Maxwell Institute Study Edition) can be purchased at Deseret Book and Amazon, and this and more of Segullah’s book reviews can be found on Goodreads. Come follow us there!

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Tallying Comments in Relief Society

[image error]I talk a lot. In fact, my anxiety disorder (GAD) manifests itself primarily through compulsive talking. Also, I have worked as a college teacher for decades.

Consequently, I have to create systems in order to check myself.  For example, when I’m in small group settings, I often keep tally sheets to ensure that I’m not making more comments than the average person.

I do this when I’m in Relief Society.  I decided that I can make two comments of reasonable length.  If there are 20 women in the class, and everyone makes 2 comments at 30 seconds each, that would take 20 minutes of class time for just comments. That doesn’t even count the teacher’s lesson.

Sometimes I get carried away during announcements and make silly comments. Oops. Then I have to sit on my hands the rest of the class period.

When I served as a teacher in Relief Society, I would worry that I was droning on too long or that more reserved sisters were not sharing their thoughts with the whole class. Consequently, I would often break up the class into groups of 3 or 4 sisters per group. That way, more people had the chance to comment. And when we reunited into one big class discussion, sometimes the more outgoing sisters would paraphrase for the whole group the insights expressed by the reserved sisters during small group time.

Making the ratio of comments overt can be a shock to class participants.

Once when I was living in Wichita, the teacher gave a lesson on the body of Christ and the value of the individual. At the start of class, she passed out silk, long-stemmed roses to all of the sister and explained that before anyone can make a second comment, each sister has the invitation to make a comment.  As each sister spoke, the teacher collected the roses and put them in a vase that was on the table at the front of the room. The resulting bouquet of pink roses helped illustrate the concept of individual contributions.

One of the sisters who usually makes five or more comments was not happy. She said nothing until class concluded. She then went up the front and threw the rose on the table and said to the teacher, “Well, I feel as though you just muzzled me.”

But more ten or more women made comments that week when the norm was for five or fewer women to make all of the comments. It was particularly warming to hear from a sister who was widowed and recently serving as a full-time caregiver to her sister. Carolyn had a lot of gospel insights, but she needed a strong invitation to comment. I know that my hand often goes up before the teacher even finishes posing her question. Other sisters need two or three seconds of silence before they will raise their hands. Also, some sisters will comment if they are giving silence to write down their thoughts before the teacher invites discussion.

Granted, sometimes sisters sitting next to me wonder why I’m making tally marks on the back of my sacrament meeting program. It’s weird, but it keeps me from taking up more than my fair share of “air space.”  I end up learning a lot more about the sisters in my ward and about their views of the gospel if I consciously make note of comments.

 

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CHANGE: As the church makes adjustments, can we keep up?

Before I hit publish on this post, I clicked over to www.mormonnewsroom.org to make sure I didn’t miss some big announcement this morning. It can be hard to keep up.

You know what I’m talking about.

The church is changing as rapidly as my garden in spring: sticklike branches budding with leaves overnight, fresh green tendrils pushing up through decaying leaves, tulips beckoning in the corner, seeds planted long ago that are finally growing into the light. And when my garden flourishes, I have to change my habits– spend more time outside, get comfortable with the dirt, put on a little sunscreen and marvel at God’s great work.

This I know: “There are far better things ahead than what we leave behind.” My good friend C.S. Lewis taught me that truth and I believe it from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, from the corners of my heart to the brightness of my soul.

THERE ARE FAR BETTER THINGS AHEAD THAN WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND.

I’m not saying it doesn’t take some work. My garden always overwhelms me a bit, just as I’ve been overwhelmed by some of the revisions in the church.

Judge me if you like, but the age changes for youth progression and ordination threw me for a bit of a loop. I thought my daughter would be in an awkward position because of her birthday. And I’d truly believed 12 and 16 were sacred ages. I taught my kids about Christ going to the temple at the age of twelve. I taught my boys there was special significance about blessing the sacrament at the same age they could date– about the importance of having clean hands and a pure heart. With these changes, I had to adjust what I thought was true. Now I see it as a tremendous blessing and my daughter is just fine.

Alterations that slid in quietly are the changes to recommendation process for young missionaries. I’m not pretending to be an expert. But from what I understand these changes expands what it means to serve a mission.

My friend Bryce is currently preparing for a six month service mission. His wise bishop calls Bryce ‘a pioneer’ and greets every part of the process with enthusiasm. Because of some challenges, Bryce worried for years about serving a mission. Now that door has been opened to him. His parents still worry about how people in the ward will react to a service mission. They worry if he’ll be judged by girls he wants to date in the future.

AS THE CHURCH CHANGES WE MUST GROW AS A PEOPLE.

We must grow out of judgment, out of self-righteousness and false assumptions. Just as my thoughts about blessing the sacrament at age sixteen were wrong, some of our thoughts about missions are flawed. I think of all the fabulous kids I know who’ve struggled to serve and ended up leaving the church. We can’t afford to lose one more beautiful kid.

Every soul is precious to God. I hope every child, every teen, every missionary, every lonely woman in Relief Society, every man in the vast expanse of the Elders’ quorum, is precious to their ward, to the church, to each of us. When Bryce announces his call in a few weeks, I pray he hears only kind words, enthusiastic voices, sincere expressions of gratitude for his sacrifice. Six months to serve the Lord at age nineteen is truly a sacrifice! Bryce will delay his schooling, put his social life on hold and live all the missionary standards. I honor him for his decision.

As followers of Christ we are constantly called upon to grow, to perfect ourselves, to be more like Him. As the church grows and changes (and we’re going to see so much more), I believe we are all called to expand our hearts, to LOVE with a greater capacity than ever before. To love God with our heart, might, mind and souls and extend that love to every one of his children.

How do you feel about the changes in the church? Have any of the changes been difficult for you to understand? Easy? 

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Perceiving

My doctor occasionally asks me about my exercise patterns.

The occupational therapist and I frequently discuss my seven-year-old’s behavior patterns.

The internet keeps an eye on my online shopping patterns, and then floods me with ads for (currently) swimsuits and YA fiction.

My phone keeps a tally of my screen-time patterns (which I don’t want to know, actually. I happen to listen to scripture and read quite a lot of books on my phone kthanksbye).

Netflix monitors my TV-viewing patterns, and then offers me shows I might like. #thoughtful

And because it’s January and culturally we care about improvement, I’ve been examining my snacking patterns, sleep patterns, and awful-task-avoidance patterns. Awareness is the first step, I am told.

I made a list on my phone before the new year, titled January Things. It was a short list of things to look forward to during the bleakest month. And now, halfway through said grey-scale season, I’m finding that these cold weeks of winter are rife with unexpected opportunities for recognizing patterns of refined spiritual awareness—of listening, seeing, and feeling with greater spiritual sensitivity. It’s a good surprise.

While it’s brittle and foggy outside, inner me is actively seeking a pliable plasticity, a state of openness to whatever my Heavenly Parents want to teach me at this moment in time.

If you’re sarcastically thinking, “Well good for you. I’m over here just surviving winter and its seasonal depressive qualities while eating cookies,” I get it sis, (and would happily eat cookies with you. I’ll bring some over). I’ve spent many a January in survival mode, which is to say, in a deep, dark emotional pit.

So how is it that this winter is proving instructive, rather than static, for me? What patterns have awakened this openness to spiritual insight? I’ll share my ideas, then I’d like to hear how you foster patterns of seeking and receiving.

I have been deliberately practicing patterns of:

Attending the temple with regularity.

At the risk of sounding irreverent, I believe that going to the temple can be accurately compared to going to a thrift store or to Nordstrom Rack (hear me out; don’t throw your vintage garb & discounted higher-end shoes at me please). By this I mean that a successful trip to the temple, much like a visit to a thrift/outlet store, depends on a) checking in frequently, and b) really scouring the place for gems. The more you go, and the more focused your search for that thing you just really need, the greater the odds you will leave with something amazing.

Paying attention to my dreams.

Okay, so I actually always do this because I have some WILD & INTENSE dreams, you guys. Not all of them are memorable or meaningful. Some of them are just weird, bubbly concoctions of subconscious fluff. But some of them are detailed and vivid. They stay with me, and my spirit reacts to them—recognizing patterns of meaning before my conscious mind does. I’m writing them down and analyzing them later. Not everything makes sense at the moment we receive it. Time, new information, and even more sensitivity with one’s spiritual eyes and ears can allow us to connect the dots. I’m learning that I hone my spiritual reception when I pay attention.

Praying for help in knowing how to open my spiritual eyes and refine my spiritual gifts.

Why haven’t I thought to do this before??? I mean, honestly. It’s kind of so basic and obvious that maybe we don’t even think to do it.

This is what Elder Uchtdorf said this week in a BYU Devotional about this idea of learning to “hear the music of the Spirit.” He teaches that light comes in God’s way and in His timing, but also as we believe. He notes:

“There you might say, ‘In order to have greater belief in God, I have to believe? But, that’s exactly my problem. What if I can’t believe?’”

His response pinpoints the issue at the core of all spiritual expansion, at least in my life’s experience. Uchtdorf replies,

“Then hope. And desire to believe. That is enough to start. To desire to believe does not mean to pretend. It means to open your heart to the possibility of spiritual things, to lay aside skepticism and cynicism. Eventually, that seed will grow until you can begin to believe. Those first glimpses of belief lead to faith. And your faith will grow stronger day by day until it shines bright within you.” If you need me, I’ll be laying aside skepticism.

Taking inward note of “random” thoughts that enter my mind.

I’m finding that these insights are instructive, and that they teach me when I cease to be dismissive of them. Being receptive invites more opportunities to be receptive.

Paying attention to how my spirit feels in response to various stimuli.

This morning at work, I looked out the window at a scattering of snowflakes blowing across the cold concrete of a university plaza and my spirit felt a brightness of wonder at the snatches of beauty even in the most colorless times. All of this is to say that I am…

Choosing to notice things.

This includes obvious and blatant things, like celebrating the fact that my son with sensory processing disorder has been able to tolerate staying at church THE ENTIRE TIME since it’s shorter (hurrah for Israel), and we’ve learned how to help him manage his overwhelmed inner engine.

It also, significantly, includes the subtle, *invisible* things, like the moment of pure, burning grace I felt in the celestial room with my mom last week. It’s a powerful thing to begin seeing what the physical eyes can’t behold.

It’s the opposite state of being that prompted Nephi to tell his brothers, “Ye are past feeling.”

Seeing with spiritual eyes requires sitting, living, residing in a state of feeling—of not dismissing but perceiving. Of recognizing and paying attention to the real, illuminating feelings which the Spirit is waiting to gift to our spiritual selves.

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Renlunds Equally Yoked at the Pulpit

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Photo by UHLMAN via Creative Commons

Because I didn’t marry until I was in my mid-thirties, I attended a lot of young adult activities for a dozen years, including devotionals. For the last twenty years or so, I have been married, and I haven’t had a calling with the young adults, so I’ve been missing some great devotionals, I’m sure.

This morning, I woke up to find that #ldsdevo appearing in a lot of tweets on my feed. I was glad to read that Sis. Ruth L. Renlund joined her husband Elder Dale G. Renlund at the puplit where they delivered the devotional in a tag team manner. I also learned that the topic was faith and doubt.

That was enough to goad me into watching the 33 minute devotional, which took place at BYU-Hawaii on Sunday, January 13, 2019.

I decided to neglect housework in favor of watching their devotional.

(You can find the devotional on YouTube on the Mormon Channel. Note that the Renlunds approach the podium after 1 hour and 13 minutes. Before that, the channel plays music and shares several photos from social media of attendees from around the world. For a summary of their talk with a lot of great quotes as well as screen shots and photos of the BYU-Hawaii audience, read this report by lds.org. I particularly was moved by the paraphrases of John A. Widtsoe’s remarks on faith and doubt, which are quoted in this lds.org summary.)

It was assuring and calming to my soul to hear the Renlunds talk about faith and doubt. My attention is often pulled in a dozen directions at once by paid work, volunteer work, family responsibilities, and hobbies that involve a lot of reading. And the Internet.

In fact, Sis. Renlund observed: “The blogosphere cannot replace scripture study and reading the words of living prophets and apostles.”  It’s true that I could spend more time on scripture study and less time scrolling for the latest headlines on celebrity romances.  This was a worthy challenge for redirecting my attention, and related to my New Year goal.

This year I’ve abandoned doing a New Year’s resolution in favor of adopting a focus word. I chose GROUNDED, and their devotional helped me to feel more grounded, not just in the content of their remarks, but in their mode. Within the first minute of their opening remarks, I was struck by the harmony the Renlunds showed in how they delivered the devotional as a team.

My heart was doing cartwheels to see Sister Renlund equally yoked with her husband during this devotional.

First, they harmonized in their appearance by wearing black suits with teal accents. They also shared the time equally, taking terms in an orderly, warm manner. I kept thinking of Marshall McLuhan’s quote, “the medium is the message.” These two were equally yoked and sharing parallel testimonies of the same principle—faith and related concepts. He frequently put his arm around her; she was confident and held her gaze into the camera in a calm, compassionate manner.

Second, they shared parables, personal stories, and scriptures about the same topic–faith and doubt. Many times, they used the pronoun “we,” which showed harmony and unity in their approach to the topic. It was evident that they wrote this talk together. The tone and style of their comments blended into one voice.

Third, they also shared equally in the “heft” of the topic. It’s not that she told stories and he expounded on doctrine. They both used a variety of genres in approaching the topic—ranging from lighthearted and personal to serious and doctrinal. I have long been annoyed that new families moving into a ward often have a division of labor in their first talk: the wife gives the personal details and the husband expounds on deep doctrine. The Renlunds did not divide up duties in limiting gender stereotypical ways.

I was the most tearful when Elder Renlund shared a story about his own aged father who had a dream about the Savior’s love. He showed a lot of tenderness and vulnerability. (This happens about the 1:39 mark.)

Finally, the Renlunds both bore strong testimonies of the role of doubt as a means to question but the necessity of choosing faith and acting in ways that bolsters faith. Yes, he is an ordained apostle, and I was particularly moved by his closing testimony with a challenge: “God will bless you as you engage in personal, private acts of devotion and serve and minister to others.”  However, I was equally served by her remarks.

Part of their talk encourages people to look to others who walk in faith. She was that person for me today. Seeing a devout, knowledgeable, experienced, grounded woman speak on faith in harmony with her husband helped increase my own faith, encouraging me to do more, to be more.

 

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Further Light and Ambiguity

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For over a week now I have rejoiced and grieved/danced and wept/ felt free-at-last and still a tad bit bound. Sorry to be so oblique. I’m sorry, also, that I have been instructed that “oblique” is the best I can do. (That isn’t an apology; it’s a regret.)

The other day, weighed with these joys and burdens, I fell into a deep three hour nap. As I surfaced back to consciousness a crisp thought came to me: “Find peace in ambiguity.”

The first time I heard this phrase was from Virginia Hinckley Pearce, a former member of the Young Women General Presidency, who spoke at the book launch in 2017 for the fabulous volume called At the Pulpit: 185 years of discourses by Latter-day Saint Women . At that occasion those words resonated like a crystal bell for me. They were an answer to a prayer I hadn’t known I had been praying. (I have now discovered the Gilda Radner coined her own version of it. See above.)

With all the turbulence of recent changes on top of my previous 4+ decades of conflicted temple experience and faithful church service I had briefly lost track of that mantra. (I will add that 9 of those 40 years I served as an ordinance worker which was both a sacred and a head-scratching experience for me.)

Ambiguity is the territory I inhabit where I roam without gagging too much on any particular roughage or weed that might come my way. I invite you to join me in my pasture land.

Here I offer two musings. For me they are related and significant. For you they may not make sense. As with parables – suss out what you find useful and don’t fret about anything more.

#1 – Yin and Yang of Mourning the Injuries of the Past

Yin:

Back in 1990 – 29 years ago – I was impressed by an interview I watched between journalist Bill Moyers and the poet Robert Bly. They were talking about men and the psychic wounds that are exacerbated by not grieving. Here’s part of the transcript:

Bly: We hired four presidents in a row who promised us that we would not go into the grief about the Vietnam War… if Lincoln had been alive, do you know how he would have gone into that grief? He would have gotten everybody five years after the Vietnam War, and he would have said, “We’ve killed so many people, and these veterans are here, we have destroyed them! “Aaaah! Let’s all weep! Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!” (soul-wrenching wails.) That’s what Lincoln would have done. He would have encouraged America to grieve over the losses in the Vietnam War.

MOYERS: America never really has come to terms with the shadow of its past.

BLY: That’s right.

MOYERS: The Indians, the blacks.

BLY: We didn’t mourn over the death of the Indians, and we didn’t mourn [regarding slavery.] Lincoln did moderately well in mourning the Civil War. But after that, it’s been a process of not mourning. Alexander Mitschlich in Germany has written a book called The Inability to Mourn, about the Germans after the Second World War. Now, we’re in that same situation. We have an inability to mourn. So again, you see, how can we have men or women if we can’t go into grief at all?

Yang:

Elder Dallin Oaks, a former Utah Supreme Court justice, on the topic of improved civility in discourse surrounding LGBTQ issues, said in 2015:

I know that the history of the church is not to seek apologies or to give them….We sometimes look back on issues and say, “Maybe that was counterproductive for what we wish to achieve,” but we look forward and not backward….The church doesn’t seek apologies,” he said, ‘and we don’t give them.

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Comfort those who stand in need of comfort.

#2 – the Healing Power of Apologies

In a radiant essay called “Pastor to Pastor” in 2012 my friend and author Margaret Blair Young describes the occasion when Pastor Cecil “Chip” Murray, the pastor of the First African Methodist Episcopal Church in Los Angeles, visited  BYU and met with professors and Church leaders. The founder of Pastor Murray’s church had been Biddy Smith Mason, a slave to Mormon Pioneers, who was “given” as a wedding gift to her master. When Pastor Murray met then President of the Church Gordon B. Hinckley, President Hinckley offered him an apology for the LDS Church’s participation in slavery and in racism.

Recalling this occasion Pastor Murray said:

President Hinckley is a true messenger of our Lord. Two years ago, I was invited to Salt Lake City by the LDS Church, and President Hinckley took his personal time to sit with our small group that was touring the many ministries and apologized to me in front of the group. That was amazing! Now the [LDS] Church pushes Blacks to learn their lineage via the Church. That will open eyes and doors that will open new avenues of life.

In the April 2006 General Conference, President Hinckley minced no words:

No man who makes disparaging remarks concerning those of another race can consider himself a true disciple of Christ . . . . How can any man holding the Melchizedek Priesthood arrogantly assume that he is eligible for the priesthood whereas another who lives a righteous life but whose skin is of a different color, is ineligible?

In response to Sister Young’s request for help with a family relationship, Pastor Murray suggested a script much like this:

My dear one, I want to ask your forgiveness. Forgive me for whatever things I have done or failed to do that caused you such anger and anguish of spirit. Forgive me for the months and years and feeling your hostility and knowing that in some way you were responding to me, convinced that I trigger these negative feelings in you. Forgive me for not having asked forgiveness before. Forgive me for not being able to sit with you and ask about your pain. Yes, I know that there are two sides to every question, but my side is not important right now. You will see a change in me from this moment on. I ask no change in you, just that you notice a change in me. I accept you just as you are. Now I shall sit and listen to you. I love you.

I find it healing and expansive just reading his words.

Specialists in the field of psychology are among the first to praise the benefits of appropriate apologizing and forgiveness.

Elizabeth Scott, MS, writes:

Apologizing opens up the doors to communication, which allows you to reconnect with the person who was hurt. It also allows you to express regret that they have been hurt, which lets them know you really care about their feelings; this can help them feel safer with you again.

When seeking to understand how to apologize effectively, it’s important to understand the value of expressing regret. Taking responsibility is important, but it’s also helpful for the other person to know that you feel bad about hurting them, and wish you hadn’t. They already feel bad, and they’d like to know that you feel bad about them feeling bad. “I wish I’d thought of your feelings as well.”

Beverly Engle in Psychology Today writes:

Almost like magic, apology has the power to repair harm, mend relationships, soothe wounds and heal broken hearts. Apology is not just a social nicety. It is an important ritual, a way of showing respect and empathy for the wronged person. … Apology, when sincere and intentional, is a powerful, perhaps even life-altering, tool for both the giver and the receiver. There are also two important underlying aspects of an apology—intention and attitude. These are communicated non-verbally to the person to whom you are apologizing. If your apology does not come sincerely, it will not feel meaningful to the other person.

Perhaps you have found some resonance with my two musings. My task is to continue to find peace in ambiguity – as Virginia and Gilda recommend. I also want to be counted as “a repairer of the breach” for all our ancient and neglected mournings, and a celebrant in all our further light and knowledge:

And they that shall be of you shall build the old waste places: you shall raise up the foundations of many generations; and you shall be called, The repairer of the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in. Isaiah 58:12

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Confessions for 2019

“A confession has to be part of your new life”. –Ludwig Wittgenstein.*

I’m very bad at resolutions. I almost never make them, and when I do make them, I never keep them. I remember one year I was very diligent about resolutions, and we had a big FHE about it and we all had our goals and we wrote them down, oh yes we wrote them down and then we even posted them to our fridge because posted things on the fridge are VERY IMPORTANT and then in April I took the slightly greasy/grimy piece of paper off of the fridge and threw it in the trash because none of us had changed much and it was making me tired and stressed just looking at it.

So there’s my first confession of 2019. I hate resolutions.

But I like the idea of progress coupled with the idea that you can not actually progress until you truly know who you are and feel accepted and loved exactly where you stand. That was a radical thought shared with my by a therapist, and I have never forgotten it. People don’t progress in therapy until they feel loved and accepted as exactly who they are in that moment. Which, incidentally, is also the definition of unconditional love and ALSO sort of fits exactly with the gospel of Jesus, but that might be another post entirely.

BUT in the interest of being accepted for who I am and also self reflection, I offer not resolutions to you for 2019, but some confessions, in the hope that in confessing them, I can put myself in the position of change.

(I’m not super hopeful about this idea, actually, but it’s a fun exercise, and I can’t wait to here y’alls confessions because it’s fun to reveal weird and crazy things about yourself and read crazy and weird things about other people, but I have to say please don’t get TOO crazy or TOO weird because at some level, this is still a family blog.)

So, for progress’ sake, here are some confessions:

1) I love McDonald’s apple pies. I mean, I like McDonald’s in general and it doesn’t help that there is one very near my work that almost never has a line, and they serve $1.00 32 oz Diet Cokes. But there are few things in this life more satisfying than a cold Diet Coke and a hot apple pie from McDonalds. Yes, yes, I KNOW I KNOW, you are shouting at the screen “THAT IS SO GROSS!” Please forgive me and accept me for who I am.

2)I hate walking my dog in the dark, and will go to great lengths to avoid it, even so far as to call my husband to come home early to walk the dog because I AM TOO SCARED TO WALK HIM BY MYSELF IN THE DARK IN OUR SUPER SAFE SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD. One time I even swore somebody was following me, because I kept hearing this weird ring tone and thought, “Surely only a murderer would have that kind of ring tone” and I seriously sprinted with my dog the last few yards back to my house because I was so freaked out. The ring tone turned out to be somebody practicing a brass instrument outside in our neighborhood somewhere, most likely a high school band student. (OR A MURDERER. You just can’t be too careful.) Also, you might think my very large 100 lb Labrador retriever would protect me in the event a murderer came to abduct and murder me, but trust me, my dog is super wussy. And also food motivated. He would either run away from the murderer or check the murderer’s pockets for snacks.

3) I am a super duper over the top animal lover and love all creatures, including even the less cute ones, like snakes and lizards and cool spiders and cool bugs, but oh how I hate cats. I’m allergic to them, which doesn’t help, but cats are the worst. It’s hard to admit that as a self-identified animal crazy person who has been known to demand her husband pull the car over so she can get out and pet a dog, and who currently has 5 pets in her house (two birds, two fish, and the above mentioned wussy lab dog) but it’s true. Sorry cat people. Don’t hate me.

4)I am obsessed with celebrity click bait. I stand in line at the grocery store and scoff at the headlines leering at me. Jennifer Aniston is moving in with Brad Pitt? Sandra Bullock is adopting twins? Whatever In Touch and Ok! magazine. I am not that stupid, thank you very much. But when my Apple news pushes a story on my iPhone or facebook feed about how Lindsey Lohan claims her girlfriend Samantha and she were “just friends”, I think “Really girl? That’s so not fetch!” and I click into it just to see how not fetch it was. Celebrities who were pregnant while filming TV or movies? Click click click. Top 10 actresses who everybody hates and will never work in Hollywood again? I NEED TO KNOW!!!

This one actually isn’t harmless. My clickbait habit opened doors for sneaky viruses and programs to invade my computer, and my husband tried to fix it and he called my computer a cesspool of swampiness. So in 2019 I will try to be more discerning about clicking through the TOP 10 WORST ACTRESSES IN HOLLYWOOD lists.

(BTW, Katherine Heigel is on, like, every single one of those lists. She must really be a nightmare.)

(Yes, maybe I’ve clicked through that headline a few times. One needs to compare research notes, after all. For accuracy.)

(Also, Tom Cruise supposedly has the lowest IQ in Hollywood. See all the things I learn? And now you know them too. You’re welcome.)

The rest of my confessions veer into the TMI area, and nobody wants that. So let’s hear it for 2019, and hit me with your best confessions so I can tell you that you are special just the way you are, ala Fred Rogers, and then maybe we can all go binge Frasier on Netflix for the third time in a row.

*I confess I had no idea who Ludwig Wittgenstein was when I put that in the post, it just sounded like a good quote. Apparently he’s like, some big philosopher. My husband was appalled at my ignorance.

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Are You My Smother?

Yesterday, I behaved badly. I got home from work absolutely fried. It had been a difficult day. I thought I had made plans for every eventuality and still nothing had worked out. My boss was visibly disappointed in me. I wanted to crawl into a hole.

I walked in from the garage and my kids were watching tv and the house was a disaster and there was no one in the kitchen making split pea soup and homemade bread.

I barked at everyone and told them to get in the car. We drove to get takeout and parked in an abandoned parking lot to watch the sunset on the mountains. I don’t know how our conversation got us there exactly, but somehow it came up that the kids’ stepmom asked them to call her “smom.” (You know, “s” for stepmom.)

At first I thought that they were just saying mom very strangely, until I heard the explanation. Violet patiently told me it’s because their stepmom just had a baby and she needs them to call her “smom” instead of her first name (like they have for the past five years) so that her little boy doesn’t get confused. (I still can’t figure out how “smom” is any less confusing than her first name, but that’s probably irrelevant.)

While I pride myself on staying remarkably calm in front of my children when it comes to their dad, his choices, and their aftermath, I wasn’t able to keep my opinions to myself. I got angry. I told them it was ridiculous. I told them no one was their mom but me. Smom be hanged!

And after I got done taking everything out on this women I hardly know and my kids and anything else that was in the car that evening, Henry looked at me and said, “If you don’t want me to call her that, I won’t.” And I looked at his face. That face I have loved so fiercely for every moment it has ever existed and I realized I was asking him to choose between making her happy and making me happy. I never wanted to do that to him. I got quiet and spent the rest of the evening apologizing.

But, I can’t help it. Quietly, to myself, I kept thinking of creative ways to add “s” to monikers that their stepmom could considering using. You know, just in case she comes looking for help in the nickname department.

Svomit Cleaner
Staxi Driver
Smarried Your Dad
Sbaked You Dinner
Smecond Smom
Snot Your Mom

And, my personal favorite,

Smother

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Can Toner Change Your Life? + A Few Other Suggestions

That might seem like a funny title to talk about trust and testimonials, but it’s totally true.

A few years ago I read “It’s time to use toner.” Even though I’ve probably read that elsewhere plenty of times and the dauntingly large beauty aisles at the drugstore would lead me to believe I need all the products- I just never did. But that particular post came from someone I trust. So this last year, I finally did.

And ho-leee cow. That trust was well placed. Adding toner has changed my life- the pores on my face visibly shrunk after using it (almost) daily for a week. A week! Never mind the bottle sat in my bathroom cupboard for almost a year until I finally got to it. But, but, but- I did. I stared at it long enough and remembered what the trusted person had said about it. Her words finally propelled me to crack open the bottle. Bless them.

Ditto that with recommendations and blessings for friends and such people I like, follow, and trust for new music, glass water bottles, electric throw blankets, menstrual cups, and Straus Creamery ice cream (the mint chocolate is a revelation- even if you’ve been bored with the flavor for 2 decades).  Things that seemed weird, unnecessary, or goofy (or I was just feel swamped by options) were opened to me because someone I trusted pointed me to them.

Thinking about how it works took me back to Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point.

“When people are overwhelmed with information and develop immunity to traditional forms of communication, they turn instead for advice and information to the people in their lives whom they respect, admire, and trust. The cure for immunity is finding“When people are overwhelmed with information and develop immunity to traditional forms of communication, they turn instead for advice and information to the people in their lives whom they respect, admire, and trust. The cure for immunity is finding Mavens, Connectors, and Salesmen.”

Mavens, Connectors, and Salesmen are all personality types identified in the book- but I’ll simplify and say they’re people with advice you can trust.

(Side note- I self-identified as a maven [folks who love to seek out and share knowledge to help others- the person who always has a restaurant recommendation since they keep a mental index of information] when I read it years ago- any other mavens in the audience?)

New ideas included.

I would have never started running barefoot, meditation, or even wearing pants to church (which are the best for teaching junior primary and nursery and cold Januarys so HURRAY for that win for that option for sister missionaries 6/7 days a week) if someone I love and trust hadn’t planted a possibility in my brain.

So, collective wisdom (as I’d like to call all of you) share some of your grassroots ideas below. I’d love to know what’s been your rose witch hazel toner- or at least something worth sharing.

I promise to trust your advice and try out a few and see what sticks.

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M&Ms: Making New Friends

“And this is for you!” My nine-year-old said as she proudly handed a small parcel to me. We decided as a family to make plates of homemade cookies and deliver them to friends on this particular Friday. I had already noted that cookie deliveries within our ward were quite possibly non-existent, but at least very uncommon. Nonetheless, I like stories about baked goods being delivered, and I like baked goods being delivered to me. So at my encouragement, we decided as a family to live what we love.

As night crept up more quickly than anticipated on the date of our planned roguery, my husband and I decided to “divide and conquer” for the actual dispensing portion of our adventure. Thus, we segregated our cookie delivery list into two geographic areas and took separate cars lest we be out past our children’s bedtime.

I am the baker of the family, and a self-proclaimed foodie. I like cooking –and eating- and trying new recipes. I have often called cooking a biodegradable art form—because if it’s really terrible, it will biodegrade quickly–  as if nothing happened. Sort of like Banksy’s Girl With a Balloon… but without the mess being more valuable post-destruction. Thus, there was little question of who in our family might’ve been the master-mind and master-chef of the cookie caper.

My car load was home first. This was owing to reserved conversation of the startled recipients we knew only from church: they didn’t know us well, and though clearly delighted, were unsure of what to say. “Mission accomplished,” my eldest smiled at me on the drive home. “I like surprise good deeds.” My husband’s car was second, as it was insisted that they stay at the last delivery spot for the father in their home, who would be but ten minutes later. They waited, presented the cookie plate, had a warm and friendly chat, and then left, gifted with a reciprocal parcel.

The parcel was a collection of M&Ms wrapped in clear, but thick plastic. This man works at an M&M factory. Though we love him and his family for who they are, there is something magical about knowing someone who works at a real-life chocolate factory.  Knowing him and his family, even if he were to find work elsewhere, the magic would remain: they are good people. Good, righteous people. We are honoured to know them.

One of the many fun things about this family is that they know what kinds of M&Ms each member of our family likes best. My favourites are peanut M&Ms, thus the parcel was entirely peanut M&Ms. He knew I was the cookie delivery mastermind. I like that. But these were not just any peanut M&Ms—even better, they were the rejected peanut M&Ms.

Delicious as any others (and more delicious because peanuts) these were M&Ms that were misshapen, oddly cut, or doubles, or even triple-peanut-ed that were excluded from the pristine M&Ms that would be packaged and sold. Only employees are privileged enough to get an entire package of these – – some would call them mistakes–  but we love them. Because they are rare, and hidden from public view, they become clandestinely scrumptious in our minds.

Being a parent, and therefore forced to “set an example” by sharing, I poured the M&Ms into a family share bowl. It was wonderful to gaze at the splendour of the misshaped candy that we –knowing an M&M factory insider- were lucky enough to acquire. As with french fries and carrot sticks, we compared and competed with them- largest blob, strangest shape, tallest morsel, most chipped, etc. But every now and again, a perfect M&M would show its face in the mix. Or at least we could see no flaws in it, and presumed that by mistake this seemingly perfect M&M ended up in the rejects lot. Yet because we were competitive, we were disappointed in its perfection. We wanted flaws! The perfect ones were a disappointment, and if we didn’t try to damage them, thereby creating imperfections, they were the first to be “disposed of” as they were unfit for competition or contrast.

As I rifled through the rejected M&Ms, revelling in the flaws, I thought of the people at church. Sure, all the typical tropes came to mind about how each of us is imperfect. After all, we are all mortally insufficient. We need the perfection of Jesus to heal us, cleanse us and make us worthy. This is the foundation of Christianity; not the perfection we wish we were, but rather how much our imperfection and our striving to improve makes us who we are. It is the doctrine of the flawed M&M-  imperfect, yet delicious, loved, valued and highly desired.

[image error]But what lingered then—and still now, was the perfect-looking M&M in the bowl mixed in with the defective, hazy confection of red, blue, yellow, green, orange and brown. The “perfect” M&M I was looking at in that moment had a bright green shell, and a perfect ‘m’ monogram. It was my favourite colour, and my favourite kind of M&M. There it was, in its thoroughly unflawed shell, crisp and large. If I found it in a commercial bag of purchased M&Ms, I would salivate for it —wondering if it had an extra-large nut or a bonus layer of chocolate, and then I would savour it, sensing the salty roast of the nut, contrasted by the crunch of the shell, and the smoothness of the milk chocolate.

Yet, at that moment, among all the obviously imprecise M&Ms, all I could think about was how to damage it. How I could bite or smash it, then declare it a winning oddity, “most erratic shape!” or “freakiest chunk!” or “longest side split!”

I sadly confess that I have done that same thing at church. “She looks too perfect, I wonder what her baggage is…” It is a demeaning, wicked habit, borne from my own insecurity, loneliness, and the bitterness of being the new person. Again. And again. For the past few years, we moved house regularly. We had changed wards, branches, stakes and districts seven times in five years (one of those years had three international moves alone!). Like most people, we put our best foot forward in meeting the long-time residents, polishing ourselves like pristine M&Ms, hoping to make good impressions, and make lifelong friends. I don’t know if the “good impressions” we intended worked. In most cases, the lifelong friendships we hoped to foster did not knot. Rather, it seemed that we crafted a collection of silken ribbons: acquaintances far too feeble and glossy to create tethered relationships. Our “move in” and “move out” needs robustly outweighed any contribution we might have made in getting to know people… even though we did surprise “cookie drops” in each place we lived.

In our current location, we have put down roots, mortgage and all. We have been here a year, but it hasn’t been easy. Our shiny candy coats which stealthy hid our imperfections for so long have become ruthlessly hard to crack. We look pristine. Untouchable. Possibly even snobbish.

Perhaps that is why some of the gossip spoken about me in this most recent ward has hurt so much: they were trying to crack our shells to misshapen us into regular, mal-formed folks. Or maybe it’s the other way around—because we are still quiet, finding our feet, learning how to not be constantly moving—we are yet unknown. So we appeared as the ones carrying the bulbous, unwanted, factory-imperfect, bonus nuts. Thus, we stood out, sitting like misshapen saccharine kernels being silently roasted on a freshly commandeered church bench.

So I am learning. I am learning to love the perfect M&Ms as much as I love the globular M&Ms. I am learning to not try to polish myself so much that I let friendship slip away. I am learning to love the mix of the perfect and imperfect, the weak and the strong. I am learning to feel more comfortable in a mixed together in a bowl that is free from competition or destruction.  I am embracing the imperfections, and not trying to bite apart the M&Ms that look too good to be true.

It’s a new year, after all. And M&Ms are a great way to start it.

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