Brave Enough

This morning I halted school and turned on the inauguration, as I've done in the past. It was beautiful. I was delighted by Lady Gaga's tasteful and lovely rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner. I loved the choice made by several of the women in attendance to wear purple, a nod to red and blue coming together. I deeply appreciated calls for kindness. I loved the talk of scripture and God, particularly the mention of James 1:5 in the invocation. I adored that The Pledge of Allegiance was presented in English and American Sign Language, both by the same person.

One of the most poignant parts of the day was the performance of The Hill We Climb, an original poem written by poet laureate Amanda Gorman for the inauguration. It was not only beautifully composed, but movingly performed. I read a bit about it tonight. She was about halfway done writing it two weeks ago, then the capitol riot took place. She stayed up late that same night and finished it.

As I thought about what I could write tonight to remember the events of today, her poem came to mind. So many lines resonated with me, but the last two are my favorite.

When day comes, we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade?

The loss we carry. A sea we must wade.

We braved the belly of the beast.

We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, and the norms and notions of what “just” is isn’t always justice.

And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it.

Somehow we do it.

Somehow we weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished.

We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president, only to find herself reciting for one.

And, yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.

We are striving to forge our union with purpose.

To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.

And so we lift our gaze, not to what stands between us, but what stands before us.

We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.

We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.

We seek harm to none and harmony for all.

Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true.

That even as we grieved, we grew.

That even as we hurt, we hoped.

That even as we tired, we tried.

That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.

Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division.

Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid.

If we’re to live up to our own time, then victory won’t lie in the blade, but in all the bridges we’ve made.

That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb, if only we dare.

It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit.

It’s the past we step into and how we repair it.

We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation, rather than share it.

Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.

And this effort very nearly succeeded.

But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated.

In this truth, in this faith we trust, for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.

This is the era of just redemption.

We feared at its inception.

We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour.

But within it we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves.

So, while once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe, now we assert, how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?

We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be: a country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free.

We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation, become the future.

Our blunders become their burdens.

But one thing is certain.

If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright.

So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.

Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.

We will rise from the golden hills of the West.

We will rise from the windswept Northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution.

We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the Midwestern states.

We will rise from the sun-baked South.

We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover.

And every known nook of our nation and every corner called our country, our people diverse and beautiful, will emerge battered and beautiful.

When day comes, we step out of the shade of flame and unafraid.

The new dawn balloons as we free it.

For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.

If only we’re brave enough to be it.

Love Your Neighbor

My heart has been heavy for the last two weeks as I've taken a hard look at the racial inequality in my country. Seeing so many people, so many children of God, treated like they're not even human because of the color of their skin is horrendous. Bryan and I have stayed up much too late several nights talking about the protests and the riots and the underlying causes. And I've asked myself over and over, "What can I do? How can I help?"

Tonight as a family we watched Remember the Titans. I got the idea from a friend who did the same with her boys. We paused the film several times to explain and discuss the racism that was portrayed. We connected that back to what's happening now and how we can make better choices than some of the characters in the movie did.

We have always taught our children to be inclusive and kind, but being direct and talking about these hard things tonight was important. It was a good beginning.

Catch

A few weeks ago, on a rare sunny day, Cooper decided he would finally learn to ride his bike. He could sort of ride it before, with several starts and stops, but he wanted to improve. When Bryan discovered that the tires were flat and the seat and handlebars were in the wrong places, then fixed those issues, Cooper's riding improved dramatically. Since that day Peter and Cooper have ridden their bikes together each day that the weather and the parents have allowed. 

Yesterday morning was chilly, but beautifully sunny. The big boys headed out to the garage to put on their helmets and take a ride. Topher, not wanting to be left out, climbed onto his trusty rolling horse and followed them as far as I would allow, to the laundry room. That's where I stayed with him while I also chatted with Peter and Cooper and loaded the washer.

As I checked pockets for trinkets before tossing jeans into the washing machine, I saw Topher inch closer and closer to the door to the garage. I thought that I was close enough to keep him with me. I thought that I could reach out with lightning fast mom reflexes and grab him if he attempted to roll down the step to join his brothers.

I was wrong.

As I saw his front wheel begin to cross the threshold into the garage time shifted into slow motion. I moved toward him and saw him make the abrupt transition to the lower step. I reached out as his horse made contact with the cement of the garage floor. And as I saw him begin to go head first over the front of his horse onto that hard floor I yelled, "Catch him! Catch him!! CATCH HIM!!!"

And in that moment Cooper's hands flew out and caught Topher's face and head, about an inch above the ground.

The slow motion version of my life ended and I finally reached Topher. I scooped him out of the safe arms of his big brother and held him so close. Then I threw my other arm around Cooper and said, "Thank you Cooper. Thank you so much! You just saved him from a possible concussion, or worse. Thank you for being there and for catching him." Then I shook from fear and relief and shock while I waved to the boys as they rode away.

Topher was totally fine, though still a little bummed that he couldn't ride his horse-bike down the street with the big boys.

Practice What You Preach

I was listening to a book sometime last week (or the week before maybe?) and a phrase caught my attention.

"Practice kindness."

I've heard those two words stuck together before and my brain registered it to mean doing kind things for people. But this time a different meaning occurred to me.

When you want to improve at something, what do you do? You practice. My kids practice piano (sometimes) and math and reading. I spend time on this blog practicing my writing. And we know from research that deliberate practice yields much higher results than half-hearted, begrudging practice.

But how often to we deliberately practice being kind?

That's what I heard this time when the phrase "practice kindness" was said. The inspiration that came in that moment was strong. It said that my family needs to deliberately practice kindness. Because, unfortunately, we aren't doing so well at being kind right now.

I would love to blame the fighting and name-calling and critical words and judgement and hypocrisy and pride on being stuck inside a townhouse together for over five weeks. And maybe that's why it feels so overwhelming and concentrated right now. But the truth of it is that we've had these issues for a long time. Some of us have trained our brains to see the negative to the point that happy, good, uplifting things are not even acknowledged. We have practiced negativity and we're reaping the rewards.

Now, that doesn't mean that every moment is awful. But when a friend recently texted me how thankful she was for this extra time at home with her family because of how strong their relationships were becoming, I almost cried. That is not the experience we are having. Many days I feel like a broken record as I respond to the choices around me. "Please, just find a way to be kind, please."

That is why "practice kindness" struck such a chord with me.

I talked to Bryan about this on Saturday night, then introduced this idea to our kids at the end of our church lessons on Sunday and challenged them to think of ways that our family can practice kindness. I told them we would discuss it during Family Home Evening. Then, yesterday morning during our family scripture study we read Mosiah 4:13-15:

13 And ye will not have a mind to injure one another, but to live peaceably, and to render to every man according to that which is his due.14 And ye will not suffer your children that they go hungry, or naked; neither will ye suffer that they transgress the laws of God, and fight and quarrel one with another, and serve the devil, who is the master of sin, or who is the evil spirit which hath been spoken of by our fathers, he being an enemy to all righteousness.15 But ye will teach them to walk in the ways of truth and soberness; ye will teach them to love one another, and to serve one another.

I pointed out the importance of what we were reading for our situation. I was so excited to revisit those verses and make a plan last night for FHE to help us be kind. Then yesterday turned into an awful day. Really, really bad. I made the decision to postpone Family Home Evening by one day, to tonight. I could tell that we would not have receptive hearts and minds last night.

In spite of not having our official family council, I still asked the kids if they had thought of any concrete ideas to help us practice kindness. I was able to talk one on one with a few of them and hopefully keep their brains working on this topic.

What do you think? How do you practice kindness in your life? How do you teach and encourage your families to be kind, even when they're tired and stressed and would rather be mean? What council do you have for us as we make a plan to deliberately practice kindness?

Name Them One By One

This week has been hard. 

Tempers are running short, patience is running thin, stubborn refusal to do chores and schoolwork has been abundant. Cooper was up until 11 one night and 10 the next finishing the schoolwork that's only supposed to take two hours. Peter discovered today that he's not been checking the right places online for his assignments and he's missed several. Sophie switches between loving what we're doing for school and telling me how awful and stupid the work is. Phoebe is pretty self-sufficient, but is really missing her friends.

I'm feeling four weeks of no rest or break. Four weeks of only leaving the house a handful of times. Four weeks of getting almost no exercise and very little sleep. Four weeks of being "on" all the time for my job. Four weeks of incredible stress and worry. Four weeks of kids fighting with each other and with me while I work so hard to be the peacemaker. I feel it as a crushing heaviness in my chest. I feel it as a tightening of my breathing, my asthma on alert.

Yesterday the word came down from the Governor that our kids won't be going back to school during this academic school year. We weren't surprised, but we were sad. This means no volleyball team or engineering team competition to Alabama for Peter. My kids all had really exceptional teachers this year and I'm sad they won't be able to benefit from being in their classrooms anymore.

So, as is my habit, I've been working hard to find the positives: 

• I am thankful that we're all home.
• I'm thankful that we have food to eat.
• I'm thankful that Bryan can work from home.
• I'm thankful that Bryan has a job.
• I would prefer setting my kids' curriculum myself, but I'm thankful that I have the ability to teach what the teachers have set. 
• I'm thankful that we have enough electronic devices for everyone to do school at the same time.
• I'm thankful that we have enough bandwidth for everyone to be online at the same time.
• I'm thankful that we established chore charts and daily expectations several years ago so the house keeps running.
• I'm thankful that today starts our four-day weekend Spring Break. 
• I'm thankful that I've got fourteen years of experience as a stay-at-home parent so this isn't completely new territory for me. 
• I'm thankful we are all still healthy. 
• I'm thankful that we can sleep in instead of rushing to the bus every morning.
• I'm thankful for Bryan's mom for giving me a sewing machine when I graduated from BYU in 2004, even though I had absolutely no idea how to use it at the time.
• I'm thankful that I've learned to sew so I can make face masks for my family.
• I'm thankful for video calls to helps us feel connected to family and friends.
• I'm thankful that we have a vast home library.
• I'm thankful that we're in this house at this time and have more room than in any previous house.
• I'm thankful that Bryan and I both are good cooks.
• I'm thankful that we have more time to study scriptures as a family.

I'm thankful for the messages that came from Conference last weekend. The talks that spoke to my soul were from Bonnie H. Cordon, Quentin L. Cook, Dale G. Renlund, Neil L. Andersen, and especially Jeffery R. Holland. His talks always go right to my heart. The most profound quote for me came near the end: 

We pray for those who have lost loved ones in this modern plague, as well as for those currently infected or at risk. We certainly pray for those who are giving such magnificent healthcare. When we have conquered it—and we will—may we be equally committed to freeing the world from the virus of hunger and freeing neighborhoods and nations from the virus of poverty. May we hope for schools where students are taught—not terrified they will be shot—and for the gift of personal dignity for every child of God, unmarred by any form of racial, ethnic, or religious prejudice.Undergirding all of this is our relentless hope for greater devotion to the two greatest of all commandments: to love God by keeping His counsel and to love our neighbors by showing kindness and compassion, patience and forgiveness. These two divine directives are still—and forever will be—the only real hope we have for giving our children a better world than the one they now know.

On Saturday night President Russell M. Nelson asked us to hold a worldwide fast today, Good Friday. He asked that we fast "that the present pandemic may be controlled, caregivers protected, the economy strengthened, and life normalized." We are adding our faith to that fast. 

This week has been hard. But I have hope for better times ahead.

At Home

We are sick. We are coughing, aching, sniffling, dripping sick. Our voices are getting gravely. My energy has disappeared. It is miserable.

And yet, I keep thinking how thankful I am that we're not in the hospital.

It was this week last year that Topher was in the hospital with RSV. That was such a long, awful, scary week. His recovery was slow and he still is the first one to catch whatever respiratory illness is going around. But he recovered. And we're sick, but we're sick in our own home. and for that I'm exceptionally thankful.

Rock-a-bye Babies

Recently, on a day when Topher was feeling out of sorts, I scooped him up in a blanket, held him close, and launched into my oft sung variation of Rock-a-bye Baby.

Rock-a-bye Topher in mommy's arms,

I will protect and keep you from harm.

And when you cry I'll hold you so near,

So rock-a-bye Topher, baby, my dear.

Phoebe and Sophie witnessed the musical snuggle and petitioned me for their turn.

While I sang to Sophie, Phoebe played the role of little mom and recreated the moment with Topher.

Hand in Hand

Young Men (for Peter), Boy Scouts (for Peter and Cooper), Cub Scouts (for me), and Activity Days (for Phoebe) all take place at the same time, which makes Wednesdays late nights for us. After we get home the boys inevitably want a snack and sometimes have homework to finish. It was nearly 9:30 when the boys finally fell into bed last night.

Usually Bryan does bedtime while I take care of Topher, and sometimes I'll take care of the girls routine and maybe even Cooper's if Bryan is working late, but I rarely tuck Peter in. Last night though, Topher was asleep when we got home so I tucked the big boys in.

When I do bedtime with the three middles I have them pick a song, then I hold their hand and sit on the edge of their bed while I sing to them. I did that for Cooper last night, he asked for Hush Little Baby, or the mockingbird song as he calls it, his usual choice. Then I asked Peter the same question. He asked for the moon song, I Don't Want to Live on the Moon from Sesame Street, his favorite from when he was small. I settled down on the edge of his bed and started singing.

That's when something unexpected happened. As I sat, holding his hand, I had a flashback to when Peter was still an only child. When he was a one-year-old he and I took many walks through the Provo neighborhoods around our apartment, his small chubby hand in mine. Then I came back to the present, singing the song I'd sung so many times before, his hand in mine. Except now, my hand is the small one. Tears filled my eyes and I had to slow down the song a few times to keep my emotions from over powering the singing.

When I finished Peter said he was glad he wasn't a typical teenager who was too cool to hug his mom, then he gave me a big hug.

Oh Peter, I'm glad too.

Hard

Today has been hard. We thought he was perking up yesterday and last night, but then this morning his breathing got worse and his fever came back. He hasn't had energy to stand or play or laugh or even sit up. His oxygen level is great, an improvement from Sunday, but his respiratory rate is way too high and his heart rate has gotten high too.

The doctors said he could keep nursing, as long as it didn't interfere with his breathing treatments. After his long hard day, that decision was reversed. He now has a feeding tube in his nose. I'll pump instead of nursing him and they'll use that supply in the tube. Hearing that I wouldn't be able to nurse him was really hard. And then watching (or rather listening since my eyes were closed but I was in the same room) them insert the tube into his nose as he cried finally unlocked the flood of emotions I had so tightly kept inside.

This is hard.

And scary.

Before the feeding tube.

Instant Best Friends

On Sunday after church we had a lovely visit from my friend Liz and her two daughters. Liz was part of the epic MBASA book club that I was in while Bryan was in grad school. She was a good friend and we've kept in touch. I was delighted to get a message from her last week saying that she was visiting family near enough to come see us and asking if we were available. Of course I said yes!

Her younger daughter Adelaide and Sophie were born the same year. Sophie loved that she had someone just her size to play with. In fact, Sophie shared our riding horse on wheels with Adelaide, but was quite upset when her older sister Zara rode it. I asked Sophie what was going on and she said, "She can't ride it. It's only for little blonde girls." So I guess Adelaide's blondness earned her points as well.

Zara and Phoebe are only a week apart in age and they used to play together during those MBASA years. Neither girl remembered the other, but by the end of the reunion they had each pledged to be BFFs, were planning future visits, and were terribly heartbroken to be parted.

Phoebe was so sad in fact, at Zara's departure she dressed herself in black and announced she was mourning.

Seriously.

Thanks for visiting Liz! We loved it and looked forward to seeing you all again.

Deep and Abiding

I love when February 12 falls on a Monday. It always reminds me of that date in 2001, which was also a Monday, when I woke up bright and early with a new title: fiancee. Bryan and I had stayed up late the night before, first while he helped me lock up the buildings in Heritage Halls at BYU, then as we sat on the back steps outside my apartment and talked about things of an eternal nature.

It's a little hard to believe that that was seventeen years ago. And it's amazing to understand how much fuller and deeper the love we have for each other is now compared to that morning in February 2001. New love is great and fun and exciting, but love that has seen hardship and joy and sadness and growth and trust and faith is beyond what I could have comprehended those many years ago.

Happy Engagement Anniversary Bryan!

If At First You Don't Succeed

I had the opportunity to sing in Sacrament Meeting yesterday. It was a song I'd sung a few times before, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, arranged by Sally DeFord. My friend/accompanist and I met a few times to rehearse and I felt fine about it until Sunday morning. That's when a nervousness I couldn't quite explain crept into my thoughts.

The talk before I sang was a beautiful message about humility. While she was speaking, I had the thought, "Oh dear, I hope I'm not about to have a personal lesson in humility while I'm singing." I even prayed that I would let go of any pride that I might be feeling before I sang.

When it was my turn, I walked to the pulpit and began. The first three verses went well. I hit the key change on the fourth verse with strength and clarity, I remembered to slow down where the accompanist had requested because of a difficult key change. Then I hit the first note of the fifth and final verse.

And it was wrong.

I tried to recover, not quite sure what had gone wrong. I sang the next phrase and it was clear that I was not singing what the pianist was playing.

For the first time in nearly thirty years of solo singing in church settings, I stopped the song. Yes, I've made mistakes (like the time I forgot where I was and dropped a phrase from a song), but I'd never stopped mid-song before. I took a step back from the microphone, asked the pianist (who was laughing out of nervousness) to take it back to where the mistake had happened, then stepped back to the mic. We finished the song strong.

I walked back to the bench near the front of the chapel where my family was sitting. Bryan, sitting on the far end with all the children between us, mouthed the words, "Are you okay?" I shrugged. The next speaker, a member of the Bishopric, thanked me for the song, but the words felt empty. I spent the duration of the last talk making myself stay in the chapel because all I really wanted to do was crawl into a hole.

As we sang the closing hymn, the feeling of disappointment threatened to overwhelm my emotions. I wondered how I was going to make it through the next two hours of church.

As soon as the closing prayer was offered, a friend in the ward rushed over to me. She hugged me and whispered in my ear, "Thank you, thank you so much for messing up." I let out a surprised chuckle and she pulled back far enough so that I could see tears in her eyes. She quickly explained about her teenage daughter, a talented violinist who suffers from a great fear of failure during performances. It's almost to the point that she doesn't want to play anymore. My friend continued, "She saw that you messed up and it was okay and you were able to finish the song. You may not realize it, but that was for my daughter. Thank you."

I was surprised by this reaction, but touched. Over the next two hours I had several people, including a few talented musicians, comment on how much they enjoyed the song and that they were impressed I kept a smile on my face. I joked that I was glad I could provide an example of humility in action, that I was just trying to drive home the lesson of the talk. And then another mom said something similar to what my friend had said, she was so glad her girls had seen me stop and start again, that it would help them in their piano performing.

I apologized to the pianist and she hugged me and laughed and claimed all responsibility for the error. "I really have to work extra hard to pay attention to the music when you sing because I just want to listen." Her words were kind, but of course I couldn't let her take all the blame. Maybe we both hit the wrong notes at just the right time? I don't know, but I do know what counts is that we finished, despite stopping and going back a few lines.

I'm singing again on Thursday at a Relief Society activity. Let's hope whoever goes before me doesn't talk about humility this time...

A Finished Work

Last night, after the kids had gone to sleep, Bryan came into our room where I was exercising and, without speaking, handed me his phone. The message, which had just come from his mom, told us that Bryan's Grandpa Ned had finished his time on earth. He had been declining for some time, so we had been expecting this. His wonderful wife and all of his children were with him when he slipped peacefully from this life to the next.

Ned was the first person that I met in Bryan's family. When Bryan and I were just crossing the threshold from good friends to dating, Ned had come to pick Bryan up from BYU to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with them. I had stayed to work in my job as an RA, so I was there to walk Bryan to the car. I remember noticing how much Bryan looked like his Grandpa, so much so that I wondered if I was getting a glimpse into the future of what Bryan would look like. His Grandpa was warm and friendly to me in the few minutes we interacted. And he continued to be welcoming and kind and loving through the nearly seventeen years I was able to know him.

After hugging each other and shedding tears, Bryan and I discussed how and when we should tell the kids. We had told them a few days before that Grandpa wasn't doing well, and that he was probably in the final days of his life, so they had been prepared. We debated if this additional news would ruin their day, or if it would be worse to withhold the information until the afternoon.

This morning Bryan and I got all the kids up for school, but instead of telling them to get dressed, we brought them into our room and had everyone snuggle on our bed. And then we told them.

Phoebe, who feels everything strongly and deeply, cried the hardest. Sophie, our nurturer, put her arm around her sister and said, "It's okay Phoebe," and continued to soothe her until it was time to get ready for the day. Cooper climbed onto my lap and leaned into me while I held him. Peter, who has the most memories of Grandpa of all our kids, didn't visibly react much. Bryan asked how he felt and Peter said he was sad, and his voice caught just the tiniest bit.

On the last day of our trip to Utah this summer, we had an unexpected few hours before we needed to be at the airport. We decided to stop by Bryan's grandparents' house one last time. They were delighted by the extra visit and we gave lots of hugs. As we were about to leave, I felt very strongly that we needed a picture with Bryan and the kids and Grandma and Grandpa. I took several, and at least one person is making a face or closing their eyes in each one. But the fact that we have those pictures brings comfort to our hearts and may help Phoebe and Sophie remember their only Great-Grandpa that they got to meet in mortality.

I know that death is not the end, only a temporary separation. I am certain that Ned was joyously met on the other side of the veil and that he is happy to be free of the pains and aches that he had felt for so many years. Death is sad for those of us still here, because we will miss him while we continue our work on Earth. Despite that knowledge, we still grieve, and that's okay.

Whenever we left their house, Ned would hug us and whisper into our ears "Remember who loves ya." We do, and we always will.

About Face

Today I woke up feeling brave, so I took the kids to the local zoo. After seeing many of the animals and feeding a hungry giraffe, we found the playground. The kids got right to the business of playing. At one point, Sophie was at the top of the play structure, waiting to go down the "sloopy slide," her name for enclosed corkscrew slides. An older boy, maybe around Cooper's age, was in front of her.

Suddenly, he turned and looked at her. His face contorted into an expression of shock. "Oh my gosh!" he exclaimed. "What happened to your eye?"

Sophie hears this question asked on a regular basis, though it is generally directed to me about Sophie and is often asked by well-intentioned elderly people. This was the first time a kid had used this particular tone to speak about her face, to her face.

After pausing for a moment, she looked at him and said, "It's my birthmark."

Again from the boy, hushed this time, "Oh my gosh."

During the exchange I could feel an unpleasant tightening in my chest, a dropping in my stomach, a clenching of my jaw.

Then another girl, this one closer to Peter's age, walked up behind Sophie. She addressed Sophie, "What did he ask you?"

"About my birthmark." And Sophie pointed to her face as she turned toward the girl.

In complete sincerity the older girl responded, "Oh! I love it! It's so beautiful!"

The grimace that had rested on Sophie's face was quickly replaced by a wide smile and she was bouncing when she hopped off the bottom of the slide.

I looked up at the girl and said, "Thank you, for what you said about her birthmark. Thank you."

"I meant it! It's beautiful!"

Isn't it amazing how just a few sincere, kind words can change a situation? I am thankful for that sweet girl and her effect on my sweet girl.

Hold On

Each evening, after we've read scriptures as a family, prayed, and gotten everyone pajama-ed, we get the girls to sleep. They say their prayers, we sing to them, sometimes a story is told, then Bryan plops down next to Phoebe and I lie on the floor next to Sophie's bed, ready to hold her hand.

Tonight, after staying with this arrangement for the duration of a few classical pieces of music that Bryan was streaming off his phone, he got up to begin the bedtime routine with Cooper. I announced that I would hold Sophie's hand for one more song, then I would go cuddle Phoebe for a few minutes.

Not wanting to let me go, Sophie tightened her grip on my hand. She stayed that way until I announced that the song was almost over. Then she smiled down at me from her toddler bed and said, "Okay, I will let you go. I won't hold on so tight." And she loosened her hand, still holding on, but in a more relaxed way.

I looked at her as she closed her eyes, the memory of the smile still sitting on her lips, and I heard her words again in my mind.

"Okay, I will let you go. I won't hold on so tight."

Unexpected sadness settled down on me. Oh, I thought, she will let go someday, I'm not ready! Keep holding on!

But someday, she will need to make her own choices, be an independent adult. How will it happen? Will it be a gradual release, dropping one finger at a time as she steps toward adulthood? Or will it be in one great rush? Will I watch as she bolts into her future?

She's only three, she's still far away from that. And yet I understand that the time will speed by and as I work to catch up, she, and her siblings, will be grown.

I will hold on as long as they need me. Then I will wait, for I know from my own experience that sometimes, even as a grownup, I need to reach for my Mom's hand. And just as she is there, ready when I need her, I plan to be here, ready to hold on tight.

Reflections on Resolutions

My brain has been full of thoughts of resolutions. 2016 has been a particularly difficult year, not one that I would choose to repeat. Many of the circumstances of 2016 have been outside my control, but I have been mindful of what is in my power to do differently next year.

However, there are a few things that I would continue to do.

1. Learn. I was faced with the choice over and over to become bitter and hopeless, or to pull some sort of lesson out of the mess. Some lessons have been minor, others life-altering. I have learned so much this year. Bryan and I agree that we are not the same family that started this year: we are better, kinder, closer. We have learned so much this year.
2. Listen. This was my word for 2016. I wanted to listen to my children, listen to Bryan, listen to other loved ones, and listen to the Holy Ghost with more attention and focus. I have not always succeeded. Some days my brain felt split in too many pieces as I tried to listen to everyone at once. But occasionally I would realize that I was listening with my whole brain. Listening and learning go hand in hand.
3. Grow. This has been a year of growth. All that learning and listening had to lead somewhere. I finally feel like I've become a real, actual grown-up. I have grown in understanding and patience and ability. I have grown weary of pettiness and unkindness. I have grown even fonder of quiet moments and soft snuggles. I have grown in my awareness of my own inadequacies and shortcomings.

What will I change next year? I feel that my normal list of goals will be inadequate to help me meet 2017. So, here are a few things I want to work on.

1. Be present. Present is my word for 2017. I want to be in the moment more rather than appear to be paying attention while actually thinking about something else entirely. Wouldn't continuing to listen cover this? No, I can listen to what you're saying while still thinking about other things. But that just makes me feel stressed and fractured. I want by brain and my eyes and my ears and all of me to be in the same place at the same time.
2. Prepare. I feel like I'm always racing to finish one project or meal or chore, only to move right on to some other emergency that needs my attention RIGHT THIS SECOND! Part of this is simply the nature of having children; it is hard for them to distinguish between immediate and future wants and needs. But another part is my natural tendency to procrastinate everything I possibly can. The semester that Bryan and I got engaged I didn't procrastinate anything. I was totally ahead in all my homework and housework. It was magical. I'd like to recreate that magic. Yes, it does seem to contradict my first goal of being present, but I believe that if I plan and prepare more in advance, I will really give myself the brain space I need to be present. This means organizing my time and sleep more effectively, both of which have continuously eluded me.
3. Forgive. Forgiveness is a process, at least for me. I'll have a few good days where my heart feels free of hurt and sorrow, then I'll be punched in the gut with a remembrance of some of those hard things from 2016. By continuing to study and embrace the Atonement, and by repeatedly forgiving the small things, I hope to shed the last vestiges of pain and have a fully forgiving heart.

So long 2016. Welcome 2017.

Edelweiss

As part of our nightly bedtime routine, each child picks a song for Bryan or I to sing or play. Phoebe likes to stick with Christmas favorites (regardless of what time of year it is) and rotates between Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Away In a Manger, and Silent Night. Cooper goes for a medley of Hush Little Baby and one verse (it's different each night) of I Am a Child of God. Sophie actually gets several songs because she asks for a playlist I've curated of classical music featured on Little Einsteins. Her favorites are Eine Kleine Nachtmusik by Mozart, Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven, and Peer Gynt Suite No. 1 by Grieg. Peter almost always asks for Edelweiss from The Sound of Music.

I was nearly done singing Peter's song tonight when I registered a few of the words in a way I'd never heard them before. "Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever." Now, the song is talking about a pretty little white flower and the patriarch of the Von Trapp family is wishing for its, and his homeland's, safety.

But suddenly I wasn't singing about a flower. I was singing about a boy born during winter, one that has been uprooted and replanted far too many times. A boy who is growing tall in body and mind and spirit.

I finished the song and I said, " Peter, my hope for you is the same as the singer's hope for the flower in the song. I hope that you bloom and grow forever." And then we talked for just a few minutes about what that means.

That insight was a tender mercy for this mom. And maybe for that not-so-little boy going through a hard time. He has the ability and capacity to bloom and grow and flourish, sometimes despite opposition, and sometimes because of it.

Hard Things

Why, hello there.

Did you miss me yesterday? Did you notice I was gone? I noticed, but the day was so full, I didn't have a chance to write anything until after midnight. I've run into this problem before, and I usually post something really quickly and backdate the publishing time. But last night I was just done. I feel like I've been running, burning the candle at both ends, juggling too much for too long, basically the whole time we've been in PA. And last night I was simply too tired.

Because, you see, it's been a difficult few weeks. Lots of very hard emotional stuff has been going on. I'm going to be obnoxious and not go into details, because not all of the details are mine to share. But at least one thing I can tell you is this: Peter is being bullied at school. A lot. He's been punched and kicked and pushed to the floor. Kids have called him stupid and other names on a regular basis. And on Tuesday one of Peter's classmates told Peter, "Everyone wishes you were dead."

So.

We've spent the last two days talking with and listening to Peter. We've notified the school and counseled with our parents. Bryan gave Peter a lovely blessing of comfort that reminded him of his natural gift for happiness. We spent several hours last night trying to figure out what to do.

And that is why I didn't blog. My heart and my mind were simply too tired.

Thankamony

I am thankful.

I am thankful for Bryan, Peter, Cooper, Phoebe, and Sophie.

I am thankful for my whole family, those far and near.

I am thankful for the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

I am thankful for Heavenly Father, who knows and loves each of us.

I am thankful for Jesus Christ, who gave everything so that we may live with Heavenly Father again.

I am thankful for my testimony.

I am thankful for the Priesthood.

I am thankful for the Temple.

I am thankful for a warm house in which to live.

I am thankful for healthy food to eat.

I am thankful for a sharp mind and a strong body.

I am thankful for my friends.

I am thankful for those that teach my children.

I am thankful for the earth and its beauties.

I am thankful for loud, chaotic dancing parties with my small people.

I am thankful for quiet snuggles with those same little dancers.

I am thankful that I have a real partner and best friend through the chaos and the snuggles.

I am thankful.

A New Beginning

A year and a half ago, our little family went to the Cherry Blossom festival in Washington D.C. While there, we hoped to see my brother Ian and his family. When I reached out to him about our visit he was distracted and stressed, but he agreed that we should get together. I wasn't sure what was happening, I just told him that we would stay in a hotel and looked forward to having them join us on the route.

The morning of the parade my brother called. He told me the source of his unrest: he and his wife were separated and likely heading for divorce. My heart hurt for my brother, for his wife, for my niece, and for my nephew. The divorce was finalized in February of this year.

In March, Ian met someone. Soon after that they were officially dating. I started to get to know her long-distance over the summer. I was impressed with her love of literature, her deep and articulate comments, her obvious affection for my little brother. Through the magic of Facebook, I watched their relationship grow and blossom. I saw how well her two girls got along with his two kids. I read the beautifully written posts about how wonderful she thought my brother was.

I met her in person at the beginning of September. She was warm and kind and generous. Her girls were sweet and took to us right away. She and I got along swimmingly and had so much to talk about right off the bat.

This past weekend, Ian and Sherlin were married. There were lots of fabulous moments, some very exciting (in an oh-no-how-do-we-solve-this-emergency-that-has-popped-up kind of way) moments, and some deeply touching moments. I had the privilege of serving as a bridesmaid. My main jobs, other than walking and looking cheerful and serene in a gray dress, were to edit and sing. I love when I get to play to my strengths.

And now, a slew of pictures!

My beautiful bunch waiting for the ceremony to begin, photo taken by my brother Jordan's girlfriend, Leah.

The newlywed couple, photo taken by the bride.

My handsome brother and my adorable nephew, photo taken by...someone.

Before this weekend, I had one nephew and one niece on my side of the family. Now I have one nephew and three nieces! Here are two of them, Aeva and Clara, who danced down the aisle as flower girls. Photo taken by my sister-in-law Falisha.

The somewhat distracted wedding party, photo taken by Falisha.

Here are the bridesmaids, reinforcing gender stereotypes as we imitate the groomsmen, photo also taken by Falisha. 

We should have taken a family picture since we had all the siblings and my parents and Grandma there. But we didn't. I'm kind of kicking myself over that. Oh well, at least we all appear separately in the pictures, even if it's in the periphery.

After the wedding, we headed to my brother's church building for the reception. It was a fun party with delicious food and lively dancing. Phoebe, Aeva, Clara, and Sophie enjoyed the photo booth props, as seen in these pictures taken by Leah.

Here I am with my two sisters-in-law. This photo was taken by my Mom and is one of my favorite from that day.

Jordan baked one of the tiers of this cake. Sherlin used her mad skills to decorate it. I don't know who took this picture...

For me, one of the highlights of the reception was getting to sing with Bryan. Sherlin asked us to sing I Knew This Would Be Love, but I couldn't find the sheet music anywhere. We agreed that I would learn it by ear, but Bryan wasn't comfortable doing that, so I prepared for a solo. Two of the three hours of the drive down to the wedding were spent singing in the car. Most of that time Bryan sang a really beautiful harmony. I asked if he was going to sing with me and he said he didn't know.

Thirty minutes before I was supposed to sing the song, I asked my parents to watch our kids while they ate and danced at the reception so Bryan could come listen to me sing and give critiques. That's when he decided to make it a duet. The song was nice as a solo, but it was beautiful as a duet. I love singing with Bryan. Our voices blend so well. I'm thankful to my brother Jordan for taking this picture of us.

Congratulations Ian and Sherlin! I'm so happy for your whole family!