Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow, Isaiah. 1:18

I glanced at the watch on my wrist. 4:44 am.

Max, my seven month-old son, was crying, stirring from his slumber thirsty for some snuggles and milk from his mama. I wandered out of my room into his noting that the light in the living room was still on.

My in-laws were here for a visit this weekend and they were occupying our living room, sprawled out on the couch, a blow-up mattress, and a hunting cot my father-in-law brought for himself. I could hear my father-in-law snoring and as I sat and nursed and rocked my baby I wondered why the light was on.

I figured they had all fallen asleep with it still on and so I decided to wander into a mine field of sleeping persons to turn it off after laying my babe back in his crib.

Only it turns out someone was awake. My sister-in-law, an 8-year-old with spunk and a bossiness that comes from not having any siblings at home, was sitting on the couch wiping her nose.

“Oh…you’re awake. Are you all right?” I asked.
“My nose is bleeding.” She responded grogily, still heavy from sleep. She pulled her hand away and I saw a smearing of blood across her face and on her hand and on my couch and…..I sighed.

“Come here and I will clean you up.” We walked to the bathroom where I stopped the bleeding and washing the blood that was caked to her face and hair and hands. Then I decided to tackle the blood stain on my couch. After all blood is not something you want to let sit and settle.

Our couch is not a prized possession; in fact it was given to us by a church leader who needed to empty out a storage unit. He had a deadline and we needed a couch. It was a win-win. It is an olive green couch and I actually adore it. You sink in and never want to get up. That’s my kind of couch.

I wanted to save the couch from looking like a crime scene and so I traced my memory for stain removal. For some reason I used to think warm water was the key. For some things it is, but it has to be like boiling lava hot water. Plus couches are tricky since you can’t really put them into the washing machine. I remembered that cold water is magic for stains so I wet a rag and got to scrubbing. With my mother and father-in-law sleeping away right next to me, I gently rubbed and slowly the blood started to come out until you couldn’t see it any longer. I was glad my memory served me well, and after checking with my young sister-in-law to make sure she was all right and stopping the blood flow one more time, I turned off the light and went back to bed.

Except I wanted to make certain that cold water was the right thing. So I grabbed my phone letting the bright LED screen blind me momentarily. I searched, “remove blood stains” and saw that I was correct and in fact if I had used hot water I would have permanently set in the stain. PHEW! Glad my 5am brain was working.

Then I couldn’t get Isaiah 1:18 out of my head. Sins are like blood stains, scarlet and quick to set in forever. The Savior through his Atonement can remove those blood stains with living water. Now I don’t imagine living water was ever boiling lava hot. In fact, when I imagine it, it is like being so thirsty and being given a nice cool glass of water that perfectly quenches your thirst. But sometimes we don’t think clearly and when we see someone we love sinning, we forcefully hand them a mug of hot water. “Drink it!” we order. We try to force feed the Atonement by pouring the scalding water down their throat. Well of course this isn’t received well and usually that person we love is scarred and the blood stain of sin sets in, nearly impossible to remove .

Related posts:

1. Hating laundry? Read this.
2. “…All These Things Give Thee Experience and Shall Be for Thy Good.” — Doctrine and Covenants 122:7
3. Monsters and Mormons: The Living Wife

Mother’s day dawns and the women are grumbling. Most of the women I know don’t particularly like Mother’s Day. Growing up my mom hated Mother’s Day. She would sit in church and hear sermons in which old men talk about their dead saintly mothers who inevitably never raised their voice. And then on the drive home from church my mom would remind us that the only thing she wanted for Mother’s Day was for us kids to get along which was asking way too much. We’d quarrel more than ever and my mom would raise her voice, leaving her feeling even more guilty than she did in church. My mother-in-law cried most Mother’s Day’s because her mom was dead.

I too have had Mother’s days where I’ve wondered about the holiday. I remember as a young mom trying to host my mom or mother-in-law for Mother’s day and at the end of day feeling frazzled and not too appreciated. There’s a long list of other reasons women might not like holiday: she is not a mom and wants to be one, she is a mom and does not want to be one, her kids are failures and she blames herself, her children are successes and have moved far away, she doesn’t get a long with her mom, she adores her mom but her mom is dead or living far away, no one appreciates her. But probably the biggest reason women don’t like mother’s day is guilt. Like my mom most women seem to compare themselves to an unrealistic ideal and fall short.

A lot of women just skip church on Mother’s Day. Some congregations try to downplay Mother’s Day. I have a friend who was asked to speak on Mother’s Day the topic was prayer. She was told there would be no special musical number, it would be just like any other Sunday. At some point in my life I might have thought downplaying or eliminating Mother’s Day was a good idea. But right now even as the approach of Mother’s Day gives me a heavy heart and dreams of my dead mother, I’m looking forward to a day devoted to reflection on motherhood. I’m in awe of mothers.

As a young woman I did not think much of mother’s. They were dowdy women who drove mini-vans and talked about nothing but their kids. Then I became a mom. I had no idea–no idea the courage, sacrifice and love that beat in the hearts of those dowdy women driving mini-vans. Each stage of raising my kids has been revelatory. Mothers get up in the middle of the night and clean up poo or vomit or both and then gently put children back in bed. Mothers go with out eating, mothers gain weight. Mothers stay up late waiting for a child, mothers get up early to drive to seminary. Mothers drive children everywhere. Mothers clean, harder still mothers teach children to clean. Mothers pray for children adrift, mothers yearn for children on missions. Mothers listen to long mind-numbing incoherent play by play accounts of video games.

I am currently in the trenches of Motherhood and I have seen some amazing things. I’ve seen a single mother work back to back shifts through the night to provide for her family. I’ve seen mothers pushed into depression as their children grow up, move out and move on. I’ve seen mothers helplessly watch on as their children suffer divorce or cancer or both. I’ve watched gentle quiet women deal with the perplexing problem of angry uncontrollable toddlers. I’ve watched women torture their bodies with hormones and procedures all in the hope of becoming a mother. Almost every woman I know holds some heart ache because she loves (or wants to love) a child so much. I think of this heartache as a mother’s heart.

There is a scripture I love in which God gives Enoch a glimpse into His heart. And seeing this the prophet’s heart like God’s “swelled as wide as eternity; and his bowls yearned: and all eternity shook.” (Moses 7:41) As wide as eternity–the perfect description of a mother’s heart. No wonder so many women cry on Mother’s Day.

Mothers are courageous enough to make their hearts vulnerable. I remember driving home from the hospital with my fourth child and thinking what will happen to this child? And knowing that no matter what even if he makes perfect choices and lives to a ripe old age, that loving this child will bring me heartache. One more person to love, one more person to miss, to worry about, to mourn. Each person we let into our hearts, our hearts swell wider. No wonder women’s hearts are so tender.

So we need to be gentle with each other on Mother’s Day and our selves–not compare or dwell in guilt. But acknowledge the beauty of self-sacrificing women. Mother’s day is a day to be in awe of the miracle of mothers–that walking on this earth (or driving mini-vans) are women whose hearts swell as wide as eternity.

Related posts:

1. Home, Home on the Range
2. Do Holes Make You Unholy?
3. 100%

Today’s guest post is from Chelsey, who has neither hot nor cold feelings for Mothers Day; although, she sometimes wishes that more women spoke in church on that day. She thinks they would be more interesting and less inclined to make it all rainbows and unicorns. She does understand the desire to give women the day off, so it’s a toss up. Chelsey has been a mother for seven, lightening-fast years, and still, apparently, has a lot to learn. She blogs at: http://www.penelopespad.com/

Dear Ruby,

I am the 1st Counselor in our ward’s Young Women Presidency. Last week I went to a fireside. While I was gone, you broke your arm. Unable to get a hold of me, your Dad prepared to take you, your three younger brothers and your sister to the emergency room.

A couple from our ward walked by as he was getting you all in the car, and offered to watch the other kids. Your Dad was free to take just you, and I relieved them when I got home.

This couple now adores you and your little brothers and sister because of the service they gave to us.

This week, after you go to bed and are sleeping, I will: visit teach three sisters, organize and attend a combined activity for the Young Men and Young Women, and go to a stake leadership meeting.

I hate it because I was gone last week when you were hurt, and now I will be gone again.

I hate it because my most dreaded task in the whole entire world is to make phone calls, and I will need to make many this week.

I hate it because after a long day of caring for you and your brothers and sister, I need some quiet time. Alone.

I hate it because I will have very little time this week to do things that I want to do — just for me.

I hate it because I know that at the end of the week, I will be very tired, and most likely impatient, and probably snappy. The house might not be very clean, and I probably won’t feel like playing.

I hate it because I would like to be able to do those things.

But, I will do it.

I will do it because when I went to my room this afternoon to cry and to pray and to seek counsel, I read President Monson’s talk.

I read about Laman and Lemuel murmuring, saying it was a hard thing that they had been asked to do.

I read about Nephi responding that he would go; he would do.

I read about a mortally wounded soldier, who dragged an even more mortally wounded soldier to safety, while whole men watched.

I read about President Monson, busy as Bishop and father and businessman, writing 23 personal letters every month to soldiers in the field, one of whom did not answer for 17 months.

He didn’t mention the widows this time, but I know about them.

As I read, I remembered that my number one goal is to guide you into righteous womanhood.

I remembered that the Lord is a better parent than I am, and that as I serve him, He will send his angels and servants to protect you and watch over you, like he did last week. He will enrich my relationship with you, and. He will give me the inspiration I need to better parent you.

I’ve chosen to have faith in those promises.

I wish that I could say that I’ll do it because I love the Lord and want to serve Him, but I’m not that far yet.

I’ll do it because I love you, Ruby.

Love,
Mom

Related posts:

1. Working Ourselves Out of a Job
2. Users Manual: Handle with Care
3. Face of a Prophet

My father calls and wants to know when I will write. Often.

And I’ve talked of vacillation before. Yesterday the sky was perfectly blue. This morning was grey, but wait! Now again, it is blue with swirly white strands of cottony clouds. Last night I had very little sleep which lends itself to a morning of need. Yesterday, I was a tinge frightened by the apathy I felt toward the (necessary) dependence I should feel on my Creator. And so as I approach Mother’s Day I take an assessment. (Really, always, everyday.) One of my children breaks me. Every single day. And it has always been. From the day she was born I was broken, and I am just not sufficient enough. Every morning we do the same dance, and I think: Really? Really? It is like some kind of SNL skit. At some point I think it must improve, but it doesn’t. And I fall flat. And there it is, this hardness, a difficulty that is really more than me. Sometimes I think back on former episodes of my life. And about change. About times when the Lord’s grace seemed to bubble over from inside and change seemed to take place quickly. But I am on no fast track now. I am slow to learn, I find myself often confused. But when in the right place the question arises: have you felt to sing the song of redeeming love? And I have! I have! The Lord’s love and grace is about change. And when I come to Him with my broken pieces (over and over) and childish questions (because I am such a child) I am never condemned, there is never a Really? Really? And this grace defines. It defines people as God’s children. By love and not by their sins. And not by mine. And so tomorrow I will try again (and the next day). And I know I will keep coming up short. I don’t know what this will mean, for my daughter or for me or for anyone else. But every hardness I’ve encountered has been a gift, a treasure that has brought me steps closer to my Savior.

Related posts:

1. A Woman of Grace
2. An Epistle to my Good Senses
3. Brief Comfort

 Today’s guest post is from Emily Ogilvie Sharp. When asked to tell us about herself, Emily said: 

I graduated from Brigham Young University with a degree in Elementary Education.  I currently use that knowledge as my husband and I raise two daughters, ages 2 and 4. I spend my days playing dolls and dress-ups, but am looking forward to playing cars and trucks as we are expecting a boy in September!  We live in Southern Utah where we enjoy climbing red rocks and basking in warm weather.  I sing in the Heritage Choir, train for local triathlons, and love to cook, read a good book, and write on my blog http://mormonmommymusings.blogspot.com/

My body has always been what I like to call curvaceous. My husband tells  me he loves my curves.  That is wonderful, because sometimes I do not. After giving birth to my first daughter, I weighed over 200 pounds. My self-loathing, like my weight, was at an all-time high and I knew I could not be the healthy, confident mother I wanted to be unless I changed. I dieted and exercised and lost 60 pounds! Then I got pregnant with my second daughter. The weight came on fast and after nine months, I broke the scale once again.  I trained for two triathlons, ran a half marathon, and ate every salad like it was my last meal on earth.  I still had a little muffin top, but I was strong and healthy. Now I am pregnant with my third baby. Guess what? The weight is coming back on. It may have something to do with cravings for ice cream at 11 p.m., but who knows?

The other day, my neighbor came to the door. She must be a size 2. She wore skinny jeans with a belt cinched over a stylish cardigan, which accented her tiny waist. I stood there looking frumpy in my dirty sweats with a messy ponytail, a common outfit for a mother who chases down toddlers all day. I smiled and chatted, but after she left I did what any other self-assured woman would do: I walked into the pantry and downed six Oreos with a glass of milk. Maybe it is the pregnancy hormones, but I doubt it.

Comparing is a dangerous game. To take pride in being “better” at something than someone else is to fall victim to vanity. Vanity is a bad word, right up there with pride. Yet to focus on our weaknesses results in falling victim to Oreos. Or maybe self-pity. Sometime they are one and the same for me. When we pity ourselves, we sometimes think it is hopeless to even try to change. Or we criticize other people who have accomplished what we have not.

The solution is to remember we are all equally loved by Heavenly Father because we are His sons and daughters. “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (D&C 18:10). This scripture includes all souls; not just slim souls, or witty souls, or on-time-to-church souls. We are all invited to partake of eternal life. I do not believe that our Savior, who atoned for each and every one of us, wants us to compare ourselves. To compare implies that we are in a competition. Yet the road to heaven is not a race. We should not compete with each other; we should serve each other.

We have been designed with specific strengths (and even weaknesses) so we can help each other make it to the heaven together. “For all have not every gift given unto them; for there are many gifts, and to every man is given a gift by the Spirit of God.  To some is given one, and to some is given another, that all may be profited thereby” (D&C 46: 11-12).  And because God loves all of us, we should love each other too.  Pure love leaves no room for jealousy and criticism.

I have friends and family who are skilled at sewing quilts, designing crafts cute enough to sell, combining mismatched clothing into fashionable ensembles, and taking professional photographs. I benefit from and am inspired by their talents. I share my gifts every time I make people laugh, sing in church, or deliver a loaf of homemade bread to a neighbor.

Whenever I begin to envy others and pity myself because they have an experience, ability, or possession I lack, I ask myself, “Would having that affect whether or not my family makes it to the highest level of the Celestial Kingdom?” If it would affect it, then I work to incorporate it into my life. If it would not, I do not worry about it.  By keeping this eternal perspective, I allow myself to be the woman who is happy with her identity simply because she is a beloved daughter of God. I am jam-packed with self-worth and recognize that my road to eternal life is specifically designed with me in mind and should not be compared to anyone else. I cheer other people on! Then I can love my baby-birthing body and talk to my neighbor while eating only two Oreos instead of six!

Related posts:

1. ‘Tis the season to give each other goodies (but I really wish we wouldn’t)
2. Thoughts on my Thighs
3. The Case for Shopping

Today’s guest post is from Samantha Strong Murphey, who aspires to be the next J.K. Rowling, but so far, every time she sits down to write her masterpiece, it comes out as a masked version of Harr

I have wedding demons.

Like my own hell-bent ghosts of Christmas past, they follow me, haunt me, shame me. They keep me company.

The dress — cheapest one I didn’t hate — picked to prove something.

The flowers, rushed.

The cake, expensive and tasteless and who cares about cake?

The tables, sloppy vision, blah and blah.

The photographer, perfect. Just perfect. But it’s hard to forget my misplaced pickiness and bridezilla moments with her — ugly moments hovering in retrospect.

The organization at the reception, messy timing, needless waste.

I could go on. I do go on — in my head in moments of weakness, too frequent moments these past 20 months. I stew and regret and then hate myself for caring — and for still caring — and for seeing no end to the caring in sight.

If I could go back, I’d get married in February. I’d wear a fluttery, fairy-like tea-length dress, sparkly pumps, hair down, no veil, tomato red lipstick. I’d have a little bouquet, something white and fluffy-looking. I’d have a cozy little open house at the clubhouse in my parent’s neighborhood in Midway the night before. No toasts, no speeches — those could come at a low-key luncheon at some low-key restaurant the next day after the ceremony. But I would perform some well-rehearsed, over-the-top karaoke love song that night. Just me. No one else. Then we’d sit by the fire on the big stone hearth and chat with friends and family. There’d be mossy little tree stumps on the tables with our initials carved in a heart on each one. More white, fluffy flowers — peonies? Ranunculus, maybe? Ice cream cookie sandwich bar. Glitter everywhere.

But I can’t go back. And even if I could change the silly details, it wouldn’t matter in the end, because the result would be the same — I married the love of my life that day, the honest-to-goodness love of my life.

I chant that to myself when my imagination heads straight for the dead-end past of superficial wedding would-haves.

I force-feed myself mature thoughts.

The fact is, the day I got married was a bright and wonderful day at the end of a long train of dark ones. My engagement was a time of confusion for me, pain even. My wedding day — for all of its charms — was a product of that period. It felt a little messy, a little unsettling. It felt, in short, like a wedding planned by someone else. And, in short, it had been.

My wedding was planned by a girl in turmoil and experienced by a girl at peace.

And someday — hopefully someday soon — I’ll make my peace with that.

Related posts:

1. Here comes the bride…and cake and flowers
2. Marriage Miscommunication
3. No Hearts

I climbed over stones on the roof of the church and down a ladder to a railing overlooking the main courtyard of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. It was Orthodox Maundy Thursday, the Holy Thursday before Easter, and the Greek Orthodox Patriarch’s ornately embroidered robes were being removed while another man sang. When the Patriarch was wearing a simpler white robe, he knelt down and washed the feet of twelve of his clerics.

A few weeks earlier on Palm Sunday I had walked with Catholic and Protestant Christians from Bethphage down the Mount of Olives into the Old City toward the Church of St. Anne. We cried hosannas together as palm branches waved above my head. Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, indeed.

Later I went to Dominus Flevit, a church on the Mount of Olives overlooking Jerusalem. In contrast to the hosannas we shouted at St. Anne’s to remember Jesus’ triumphal entry, I remembered His weeping over the city.

On Orthodox Holy Friday we walked the Via Dolorosa with thousands of Christians. I mostly heard Arabic around me and watched different groups carrying crosses together, stopping at the stations of the Cross to sing and pray. I stopped to ask an Arab Christian what name he used for Good Friday. “Al-jumah al-hazina,” he replied. Sad Friday.

On another Sunday I sat in the traditional site of the Garden of Gethsemane and sang “Reverenly and Meekly Now.” Later I would go inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where I watched Christians from all over the world enter and kneel at the anointing stone. They kissed its worn surface, smoothed over centuries of devotion. I wound around to the stairs leading to the chapel of St. Helena, tracing my fingers in the crosses etched on the walls by pilgrims who had traveled far to reach this site. I sang “More Holiness Give Me.”

Those buildings and the people who serve and worship in them taught me about the Easter traditions of Christians from around the world, so different from my own LDS background. I met Ethiopian and Syrian Christians holding on to a corner or a roof of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Baptists from Georgia who had come as pilgrims, Armenians who taught me their alphabet and their beliefs, and Palestinian Christians who maintained their faith in their ancient city. Their faith reinforced mine as I celebrated their traditions and festivals with them.

Every year I wish I had a LDS community with whom I could share Holy Week, especially Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, and Holy Friday. Holy Week, like the sacrament, is communal. But even though I don’t worship weekly with that sort of community, Holy Week is a chance for me to reach beyond my LDS roots and feel part of all Christianity. I count that as a blessing.

Christ the Lord is Risen. We are so blessed to know that whether we are Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant, or Mormon.

How has the faith of others strengthened your own?

Related posts:

1. Holy Week Awareness
2. The Fourth Commandment
3. Proverbs 9:10

I can still vividly remember the first time I hit my daughter. She was about eighteen months old and didn’t want to get in her carseat. I was frustrated by her wriggling and whining, and somehow my hand came up and slapped her on the cheek. Her eyes widened and filled with tears, and so did mine. I Iooked at her sad little face and vowed never to do that again.

But I did.

After that first time with my daughter and her carseat, I felt horribly guilty for several months. But then I got pregnant right around her second birthday and things started to slip out of control. I was tired, hormonal, stressed because my husband was working two jobs and applying for graduate school, and trying to figure out how to parent a very willful toddler. Then my son was born early with complications that necessitated an emergency c-section and I began a very dark period in my life. We moved to another state when the baby was only a few months old so my husband could begin a graduate program. I didn’t know anyone and now I had two small children to take care of while my husband went to school and worked.

Most of the time I did an OK job with parenting: the kids were always clean and well-fed, the house stayed in order, we went to the library and the playground. But I couldn’t seem to control my anger, and as my son became a toddler I often found myself vigorously spanking both kids, roughly slamming my grouchy toddler back into his bed when he didn’t want to sleep, and even sometimes slapping them as I had done that one time with my daughter. I never thought I would be an angry mom. I never thought I’d be the kind of mom that spanks her kids simply because she’s mad at them, or who gruffly yanks her kids by the arm and pulls them away from the playground when it’s time to go home. Each time I felt horrible guilt and shame; I knew I was a bad parent, that my kids would be damaged forever, and that I could do nothing to stop it. Sometimes I threw things or yelled when I was angry, and I even kicked a hole in the door of a closet in our apartment. The anger seemed to come from some place deep inside me; I didn’t always understand why I was so angry or why I couldn’t seem to make it go away.

Thankfully, one day I got up the courage to see a therapist. I didn’t dare tell him the truth about what I did to my children, but we talked about anger. Through his help, and a few other things, I managed to control my anger and became a better parent. It has been several years since I have ever put a hand on my children in anger. I now have a toddler again, and even though she can be extremely frustrating, I’ve never hurt her. I made a vow to never touch my children when I am angry, and even more importantly, I don’t feel as angry as I used to, so keeping that vow has become easier each passing year. Here are a few things I did that helped:

1. I learned about anger. My parents had a volatile marriage, and as a child the only lesson that I learned about anger was that it was scary and dangerous. So I vowed never to get angry; I become the ‘good girl’ that never bothered her parents, never talked back, and never spoke up about anything. Unfortunately I never learned how to do anything with anger other than to stuff it away inside. For the record, that doesn’t work. From my therapist and several books I read, I came to accept that anger is a normal human emotion. In fact, anger often is really an outgrowth of other, more difficult emotions like shame or anxiety. I learned that most of my anger at my kids was actually anxiety; I was nervous about being a good parent and I was worried about my marriage and my family’s financial situation. My son’s traumatic birth also triggered post-partum anxiety that manifested itself as anger (if I were to go back in time, I would make myself speak up about my post-partum feelings and I would get medication right away). I learned to listen to my body and my feelings, and to take a moment to identify my real feelings in a heated moment. Often just the acknowledgement of the fear or the depression helps cool things down.

2. I also learned better parenting skills. I read some books and I took some parenting classes offered through my daughter’s preschool. Before having my own children, I didn’t really have much experience with small children. Toddlers can be very difficult; in fact, rates of child abuse are highest between the ages of 1 and 3. Learning better parenting skills as well as learning more about child development and age-appropriate behavior reduced both my own frustration and that of my kids. One of the key things I’ve been doing, especially as my children have gotten older, is talking about our feelings and appropriate ways to express them. My children and I understand that feeling angry or scared or sad is normal, but we have to choose acceptable ways to express those feelings.

3. I started taking better care of myself. I learned good ways to speak up for what I need and to express my displeasure in constructive ways. I’ve also learned that getting enough sleep is vital, even if it means sacrificing some of my precious ‘me time’ after the kids are in bed. Exercising, eating well, and keeping up my scripture study and prayer habits help me not feel so anxious and angry.

4. I just decided to stop. This sounds simplistic, and it would not have been possible without the help of a therapist and some of the other things I mentioned. But, I did have to one day simply say “this is wrong and I’m not going to do it ever again.” Anger is addicting and feeds on itself. It can be habit-forming. When I first made the decision to never touch my kids when I was upset, it was really hard at first. I had to use great self-control to do it. But, as time went on, my angry responses to things lessened. As I quit expressing my anger inappropriately (including throwing things or slamming doors), I actually felt less angry.

I am certainly not a ‘perfect parent’ now, by any means. But, I can say I am a much better one than I was five years ago. I still deeply regret the way I treated my two oldest children and I’m not sure I’ve totally forgiven myself yet. But I also know that I didn’t have the courage to change until I realized that I could. When I assumed that I was just a ‘bad parent’, I didn’t think I could do anything about it. Then I discovered that there were reasons why I kept making the choices that I did, and that I didn’t have to act that way. A key moment in my decision to seek out therapy was when a woman in my Relief Society shared her story of dealing with a terrible depressive episode that left her hospitalized; another key moment was reading a blogger’s story of suffering from post-partum anxiety and recognizing myself in it. I’ve debated for a long time about writing this blog post, but I hope that sharing a little about my life can help others realize that they are not alone and that they can change.

Related posts:

1. It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad world
2. Paradigm shift
3. Parenting and Happiness

I love magazines. From opening the mailbox to find something besides bills to the quiet moment when I am able to sit down with my (non-alcoholic) drink and pore over their colorful contents, they are one of life’s little pleasures. For other moms it’s watching the latest installment of “The Bachelor” or surfing Facebook; for me, reading my magazines is my own mind-numbing, guilt-free activity where I indulge myself without judgment.

I also happen to be a decadent, imperfect human being that owns way too many pairs of shoes. And ten minutes into my reading, I realize, I’m already mentally organizing a shopping list of ‘needs’ for the upcoming spring season. New shoes, cropped pants, oh—and that dress on page thirty-three…

So perhaps, there is a little bit of judgment—that annoying voice in the back of my head that criticizes me as I skim an article entitled; “25 Ways to Spring into Spring!” featuring a full-page, glossy photo of some teenager jumping into the air while simultaneously sporting a pair of wedge heels that I’m pretty sure would look fabulous while I grocery shop at Target with my two-year-old. Hmmm…maybe not.

Fine. I think, giving in to the little nagging voice and tossing my highly anticipated breath of fresh air onto the coffee table. What should I be reading then? It is at this moment that I glance up and see a copy of this month’s Ensign peeking out from underneath the reading material I had just disposed of.

With much less enthusiasm, I picked up the Ensign and began my required reading.
I’ll just get through a couple articles, then I’ll go back to the other, I comforted myself, snuggling up onto the couch.

The funny thing? I never did.

After perusing the Ensign was amazing to me the stark contrast between the way I had felt not five minutes earlier (full of longing, greed and doubt) to a calming peace and serenity as the Ensign articles reminded me of the simple things that had been pushed to the back of my mind. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to find any reference alluding to “me time” or great ads selling material goods in a church publication, as opposed to the hundreds upon hundreds of eye-catching covers of women’s magazines that scream “You deserve this!”

We have heard cautious words from the prophets, explaining to us that the media is trying desperately to paint a false picture of happiness—what women should look like, dress like, think and eat…when in reality these magazines are dangerously flaunting and encouraging the negative standards that the world would have us measure ourselves against. If we were to base our self-worth on what the media depicts as beautiful or what we should buy to accomplish this beauty, we would only end up falling short in the end because youth, like wealth, is fleeting as it is only a temporary state.

Yet the “Lord looketh upon the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7) In this day and age, when women have more choices open to them than any other time in history, let us not forget that our most important calling as a wife and mother is to nurture our families, as The Family Proclamation suggests.

These articles can be particularly damaging as they take a seed of truth and are able to spin it around so that it becomes a hazardous lie. Are we terrible mothers if we take a quiet moment for ourselves to just “be” after all the work we complete daily, whether in or outside of the home? Of course not. The danger comes only when we consistently place our wants above our family’s needs. In this light, the answer isn’t to simply ignore our own desires to rest and regroup, but to re-prioritize our goals. There’s no reason to waste precious time that could be spent either with our families or completing a task or hobby that can allow us to grow and develop as an individual.

I am not a perfect mother by any stretch of the imagination. There are always challenges, doubts, struggles and worries that each of us carries with us daily. Yet if we are faithful, we will be blessed with an eternal perspective that allows us to see ourselves as the Lord does. While we undoubtedly encounter different circumstances, if we can make the time to devote ourselves to our families we may find that we gain more by “letting ourselves go” than by a relaxing pedicure or night out alone. We may even find that in the long run, when we look to serve our husbands and children, we have truly “found ourselves” and our true purpose.

Related posts:

1. Discerning
2. I read a men’s magazine today
3. Worth

Many strange things have happened to me as a mother. I’ve watched my abdomen balloon to the size of a basketball and independently wobble with life inside; I’ve become completely tolerant of touching many disgusting bodily byproducts; and, random line-ups of toy cars are an integral part of my interior decoration scheme (just to name a few). But, perhaps one of the strangest things that occasionally happens amidst all of the things I’m trying to find (sunscreen, keys, the card, the grocery list, the email responses, the dirty diaper, where Atrain may have put Fin McMissile, which side I fed Jdog on last, etc. etc.), is that it’s easy to lose myself in the mix.

It’s strange, really, when I search for the familiar sense of self I thought I knew so well, only to find pieces of that person and some undefined stuff in between. I hear my voice and the nagging, “Please obey me when I ask you the first time,” words I speak and I idealize the former version of myself, wondering where the fun, sweet, spontaneous me went. Next, I lose focus, which then inevitably leads to a harrowing, guilty conscience. Yesterday, I actually asked my mom, “Why do we do it?” The words tasted biter and full of regret as soon as they left my tongue.

Of course I know why. And the only reason I asked my mom such a stupid question was because I knew she would understand what I really meant: help. After a few good conversations and some un-tethered time catching up on my scripture study, LDS conference council and enjoying my kiddos sans household duties, my perspective is a lot clearer. I am a mother because I love God. I am a mother because I love my husband. I am a mother because I love the little souls I am blessed to nurture—so much that I want to turn myself inside out to protect them. I am a mother because I know that raising good kids is the greatest contribution I can make. Nothing is more important than this responsibility I chose to bear.

Perhaps that is why it is so difficult; I want to be the best mothering-me I can be, but I am still learning who she is. I’m sure I will always be, and I am ok with that. Recently, the words of a familiar scripture wrote themselves so clearly in my mind, and took on new meaning:

Matthew 10:39, “He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.”

I want to get lost in motherhood. I don’t need to be concerned about that me that I was when I didn’t have kids and how she compares to the me that I am now. I am going to focus on who I am becoming, rather than who I was. And, when I’m wishing for a little more of myself to go around, I need to remember that God can make more of me than I could have ever make of myself.

Related posts:

1. Through My Window
2. Comments I Did Not Make Yesterday in Church
3. Lady