I don’t fear it. I don’t condemn it as inherently evil knowing that it is in my interaction and reaction to it that I learn and grow. I don’t feel a need to hide from it because every experience I’ve had has made me into who I am. And darn it if quite a number of my rough edges haven’t been rubbed off in the process. Am I broken because of some of my experiences? Yes. But isn’t the light reflecting from my broken shards colorful?

I guess I approach the world in a similar way as I approach modesty: I don’t concentrate on what NOT to wear or do, I spend my energy thinking about the amazing combinations of things TO WEAR and do that fuels creativity, displays personality, exposes me to more experiences AND learning AND progress. And if my Mormon doctrine is correct, isn’t that kind of, well, the point?

It probably seems naïve. As if thinking positively about ‘the world’ will keep my kids from being exposed to porn, from becoming addicted to harmful substances, or protect them from getting the next-door neighbor’s daughter pregnant. But I don’t and can’t think in terms of protect. I must think in terms of growth.  Because I value my sanity.

You see, fear has ruled me in a very real way. It ruled me when, as a teenager, I wiped the bathroom counters three times before I could sleep at night, or counted to 10 before I could enter a room, or picked up any and every piece of trash off the path upon which I walked (I was TIRED. There was A LOT of trash). These rituals ‘protected’ me (in my raddled mind) from evil. Or hardship. Or, gasp, mistake. Fear also ruled me as a young mother when perfection seemed my siren call and failure was both inevitable and unbearable. Sadly, it still rules me in many ways; I feel it when I awake, it sits by me while I read and cook and interact with others. It puts me to bed at night and infuses my dreams. My brain likes fear. A lot.

But God? God doesn’t like fear.  In 2 Timothy1:6-7, it says, ““For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.”

Thanks, God. I needed to hear that (especially the sound mind part). And this world that you created? I’m probably not the first to say it, but, well, brilliant.

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2. Halloween . . . meh
3. Broken

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

I ran 200 fewer miles in 2010 than in 2009.  I read 25 fewer books.  I spent a lot of time doing things I don’t enjoy like moving, volunteering in classrooms, baking (mostly) unsuccessful allergen-free breads and goodies, hosting parties and play-dates, and cleaning.  I gave up lifelong dreams.  I walked away from opportunities I thought I wanted.  I had another miscarriage, another D&C.  I continued to be terrible at things like Visiting Teaching (or any activity in which I have to use the phone), making deadlines, and mailing packages.  I spent more time alone.

In 2009, I took intensive German language lessons and attended the University and worked part-time.  This year?  Nothing.  When people ask what I do during the day, I have no answer.  I usually sideline their question by responding (with sass!) that I am a “lady of leisure.”  We laugh.  They then ask a question about my husband’s career and our conversation moves forward.  But I’m stuck in that moment just after the question leaves their lips when I realize (all kidding aside) that the answer to their question isn’t an answer at all, but just another series of questions.

During the week, I get the kids to school, walking them to their classrooms more for PR than anything else.  Face-to-face contact with teachers and administrators is important when your children are both the “new kid” and the “problem kid”.  I grocery shop daily.  I do pilates, I run.  I shower, do my hair, apply makeup.  Twice a week, I spend a few hours in the kids’ classrooms.  I clean for a couple hours of the day.  I cook for a couple more.  I clean up the mess from cooking for another hour or so.  I watch Hulu (a major advantage of moving back to the States) while folding laundry.  I oversee chores and homework.  I love my husband, holding his face in my hands when we kiss goodbye in the morning and hello in the evening.

I’m the last person to say that being a matriarch and mother is and should be all about sacrifice (as if every woman blessed with a husband and children is somehow not only a mother and wife but a martyr) because I don’t believe that.  I think motherhood, like charity, service, and love gives more than it takes, fills more than it drains; God’s math never being equal, the giver is miraculously always the receiver.  Zakes Mda, a South African writer, has said, “Our elders say that an elephant does not find its own trunk heavy.”

There are times when I see my own fleshy form as something that hangs on my soul, inhibits my progress, wiggles and shakes as I try to run it off.  AND there are times when my kids hedge me in, make me feel like I live a sub-human and cave-like existence, slave to their maniacal desires (we don’t call our oldest son ‘Fidel’ for nothing).  But they’re my kids, my spouse, my burden, my joy, my trunk and although I carry them everywhere I go (even when I’m alone), they’re mine and I’m grateful; so often uplifted more than pulled down and loved (always) more than I deserve.

As 2010 comes to a close, I’m sad to leave it behind.  In a strange twist of fate, I achieved less but became more.  I don’t know why I insist on keeping track of the numbers, I’ve never been good at math anyway.

And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.

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Wasn’t it just a little while ago, when you yourself were ‘wedding and babyshowering’?  Didn’t you make a mean chicken salad sandwich with fresh grapes stuffed into croissants from Sam’s Club and talk about the details of your wedding as if the whole world were interested?

You did. It makes you sick to think about it.  You DID THAT.  You SAID THAT.  You feel embarrassed and grateful that those who know you and love you ‘put up’ with that kind of behavior for as long as they did.  I think of my poor mother, watching me go through these horrible and more importantly, ANNOYING stages of life with little less complaint than an occasional eye roll.  She’s a saint.  I’m going to send her to cjane to gain her wings.  She deserves them.

I wonder why I can’t STAND to be around newlyweds anymore.  Why when mothers start to compare their 9 month-olds, I bolt, swiftly, deftly, not gracefully, but still.  Why playing PTA mom makes me physically ill.

It’s because I’ve done it, said it, acted in a way ‘appropriate’ (if naively at times, stupidly at others, selfishly at the worst) to my stage.   And yet, I can’t cut others any slack once I’ve passed that particular stage.  And I realized, my annoyance isn’t about them.  As with so many things, my annoyance is about ME.  It’s the manifestation of my self-hatred, the ‘id’ that won’t give myself a break, that can’t forgive myself, that perpetuates my mistakes by not being able to move past hating myself for them.

I’m surprised anyone older than me can stand to be around me, knowing that most of what I’m saying is a direct reflection of my ‘stage,’ and that I will eventually grow out of that opinion or fear or compulsion.  My poor MIL, putting up with newlyweds and new parents over and over again as each of her children have matured.  Hearing the same complaints, the same untested idealism, the same over-cocked ideas about parenting.  The same, the same, the same.  But she’s kind.  She listens, even when she knows what they’re going to say.  She defends them if necessary.  I don’t know if I can do it.

But isn’t that why we’re here?  To realize when someone is being stupid and to love them anyway (even if they’re AS stupid as yourself at that age)?  To allow them to judge you, your parenting, your choices, and to know that they will understand you better one day when they’ve realized life doesn’t always fit one standard ideal?  To be patient while they weather their challenges, while their idealism is worn smooth?  To learn from their hope and their faith?  To get over ourselves in order to be teachable, even by those who we think are stupid.  Isn’t that what life is about?

And I guess that’s what God is doing too.  Listening, comforting, guiding, loving, even though he knows better.  Even though he realizes that we won’t always think this way.  Even when we insist on being perpetually stupid.   I think he allows himself an eyeroll now and then.  But not more.  He doesn’t close himself off to us when we’re annoying or self-centered or even hateful.

And I think of how much patience God has; I can’t even imagine.  If I’m ever going to catch up, I’ve got to change my attitude instead of playing peanut gallery at every bridal shower.  Laugh instead of running away.  Listen instead of preach.  Love instead of  judge.  Love myself enough to realize that I’m learning and growing and so is everyone else.  But patience isn’t my specialty and for now the realization that I need to do these things is all that I’m succeeding at.  Something tells me I’ll be waiting for my wings for a while.  At least I’ll be in good company.

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Today the trip is made with intent. I can’t get over something I’ve heard my mom say every time she hears of a child dying: “A parent should never have to bury their child.”  I agree.

The hall where the funeral is to be held is small, narrow, cold.  The ceilings are high, the stone is hard, white.  I sign my name, wishing that sick kids had not kept the rest of my family at home.  And yet simultaneously grateful that the reminder of my abundance is not here.

The first thing I notice in the room is the tiny coffin.  It sits on the large slab, out of place, tilted forward.  The child’s face is shown in a large photograph situated in front of the spreads of flowers.  It’s a small gathering, my first funeral outside of the United States.  Everyone holds their roses with the head down.  I wonder why.  After I notice, I put the head of my pink rose down too.

I see my friend whose wife brought home baby number 2 yesterday from the hospital.  He looks pale, shaky.  He explained that their ‘oldest,’ 16 months old, threw up in his bed because he was so upset during the night. I offer to bring dinner,–a pebble in the pale offering–he smiles and accepts.

The bishop speaks first, his four month old making noises at the back.  The father speaks next: I think he’s 25 years old.  He describes his son to us in detail (none of us got to know the baby other than through the loving writing of his father on his blog because he spent the 6 1/2 weeks of his life in the ICU), tells us the story of how they got to hold him, how he got to breast-feed, of how grateful he was for the time they had to spend together.  The mother speaks next.

I still can’t get over how calm this young couple is.  They’re hopeful and and proud and distraught and sad.  It’s upsetting knowing that they’ll go home to their apartment and very little will have changed except the knowledge that they have loved and lost everything.  She talks about how much fun she had with her baby while he lived.  She talks of the nurses who cared for him.  She has a list of things she wants to tell us about him. She closes after saying that she’s sure she has forgotten something.

Two men gather the flowers, one man carries the coffin to the hearse.  We walk behind the hearse past the cathedral, past a group of tourists being guided through the cemetery.  We walk under dry, falling snow.  If I were to take a picture right now, there would be a blue undertone to everything.

Those of us without fur coats are wishing we had them (no matter what our opinions on the matter of fur are).  After a time, my friend remarks on my skirt.  It looks like I’m one of the only people that wore one.  He says I must be cold.  And I am.  But I’m grateful to be walking in a group, grateful to have a leader, grateful for my aching feet, grateful for my sick kids.  Grateful for the warm hug I receive from the mother after I drop my shovel-full of dirt and my rose onto the tiny coffin that lies 12 feet below.  We take a picture after all have said their goodbyes to the baby.

We try to make small talk.  We try to suppress our tears.  And then I, at the urging of one of the elderly sisters, turn around and walk towards the street tram.  I offer her my arm, she’s freezing and her left leg is hurting her.  The smiles of the sister missionaries greet us at the tram stop.  When the tram arrives, we step into it and out of the cold.  We find a few seats and bask in each other’s company until we say our goodbyes, disembarking at our destination.

From what sources have you found comfort as you’ve grieved?  In what ways have people helped?  And hurt?  If you’ve also lost a child, will you consider sharing your story?

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The breakfast dishes are scattered on both counters, so are lunch and snack dishes.  The table holds the remnants of the dinner meal (held at 8 pm) and on the stove is the mess that I made while cooking.  By mid-cleaning, I’m tired and ready for bed.  And then I see it.  The wax that covers the circular cheese that the kids ate for a snack has been squished into the grout on the floor.  It is mocking my ability to clean, making its bid for permanent residency.  I swear.  Loudly.  And then I hear hubby’s voice again, he’s laughing at me, at us.  Inviting people to speak about charity one minute, swearing the next.

*****

They did an amniocentesis and discovered that my friend’s baby had a serious genetic disorder in her 5th month of pregnancy.  They told her that he could die at any time.  The ward fasted for a miracle.  My hubby gave the young wife a blessing. We held a baby shower, she was brilliant in her mother-ness, her hope.  The miracle of healing didn’t happen but a beautiful baby boy was born and loved and cared for.   7 weeks after his birth and after a few wonderful days of progress and nurturing, he slipped away to return to heaven.

****

McDonald’s isn’t the most inspiring place to talk but while my two kids are shoving fries into their mouths (the first time in hours that they’ve stopped complaining), it gives us a few minutes without being interrupted.  We talk about her friends who are pregnant, ready to give birth any day.  We talk about how she wants to raise the now-gone baby in heaven, how she wants to live well so that she can be with him again.  She talks about his progress, the small miracles that let them have him for as long as they did.  She has good days and bad.  She says that everything is different and yet everything is the same, strangely like before she had him.

****

When my hubby got called I didn’t realize how much I could love people that I didn’t know, that I didn’t share a language or country with.  But I’ve also been surprised at my capacity for frustration and the ease of giving in to judgment and anger.

When everyone was praying for a miracle, for the baby to be healed, I was praying that this wish would not destroy us.  But we did see miracles.  The ward pulled together in thought and mind for a sweet if short period.  There was love and caring and openness that had previously been unprecedented.    The young couple looked and acted like they were being carried by angel’s wings.  Their smiles and love for this imperfect and beautiful child showed us all that love is not for those that are perfect anyway.

****

After hubby and I are both in bed and asleep, our littlest one falls off his bed onto the wood-covered-concrete floor.  We run to his side, both desiring to sweep him into our arms and quiet his cries (while checking for broken bones, of course).  Hubby wins, he gets there first.   And I’m left as spectator to a father nurturing his child.  The night is dark, it seems starless, but I know it’s not.  Sometimes, it’s just the cloud cover that blocks my ability to see the small twinkles of light that dot the night sky.

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It just makes me….want to classify them as something other than artists.  Activists, maybe?  Activism is a productive and rewarding way to spend a life.  But, it’s not art making.  And I’m not sure the two can be combined without tainting either the activism or the art.

I just finished James Joyce’s, ‘Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man‘ and although admittedly this is a better book to study than to read, I found his views on the philosophy of art very enlightening.

He says, ‘The feelings excited by improper art are kinetic, desire or loathing.  Desire urges us to possess, to go to something; loathing urges us to abandon, to go from something.  These are kinetic emotions.  The arts which excite them, pornographical or didactic, are therefore improper arts.  The esthetic emotion…is therefore static.  The mind is arrested and raised above desire or loathing.’

Proper art then, according to Joyce, is one that creates stasis in the mind of the viewer.  It does not promote action or hatred, desire or loathing, it’s not propoganda or oversimplification.  It is complex enough to force one to think about the piece before reacting to it, to try to understand it before making judgments.

Johnny Cash, after describing the depressing fate of a folk singing group that disintegrated after a brawl over politics, says, ‘Now this should be a lesson, if you plan to start a folk group.  Don’t go mixing politics with the folks songs of our land.  Just work on harmony and diction.  Play your banjo well.  And if you have political convictions, keep them to yourself.’

What’s your opinion on the mixing of art-making and politics?   How easy/difficult is it to combine the two?
Have you done it?  How?

***And speaking of successfully (?) mixing the two, Anne Lammott is featured in last week’s podcast of ‘This American Life.’ Go listen, you won’t regret it.

***And I highly recommend the ‘Writer’s Almanac,‘ a podcast hosted by Garrison Keillor as a great resource for new poetry and information about authors (and a great listen).  It’s short and succinct and if you like to read or write, it might be worth a try.

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“Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the Lord.” ~Psalm 27:14

When I was a little girl I believed in turning to God through kneeling prayers, but I often prayed with moving feet. Still do. I lifted my head from the sieve of my hands, and spent hours climbing the scrub oak in my backyard, where my sentences branched into heaven. I actually believed that the closer I got, the better my chances would be of getting heard. As an only girl surrounded by the thick swell of four brothers, I prayed for a friend, and I waited on the Lord. I grew into patience with my prayers, but I was still too fast-paced for the Lord, and through the years he gently slowed me down so that I could learn how to turn the scattered into the sacred. There were prayers offered in my childbearing years where I pleaded and waited, pleaded and waited.  Another set of prayers were threaded with the same words for ten years. I prayed to bring someone into the fold and influence them as I taught writing and literature as a part-time professor where talk of Christ was rarely found. I prayed, and once again, I waited on the Lord.

Fall semester 2006 brought a different slant of light and a full Composition class of incoming freshman at Westminster College. They were ready to embark on their journey to find a place in this world, and I had an entire semester to teach them about the power of words. This is when I first met Sarah. I kept wondering where I had seen her before. How did I know this girl without even reading that first personal essay?

Our journey started to wind in and out of weeks until one day after class Sarah stopped me dead in my tracks to talk about religion. The next thing I knew, I was picking her up in front of the dorms on Sunday morning and our three girls were thrilled to have one more girl on the bench.

I often wondered if Sarah was a friend from heaven and how our lives finally threaded their way back together. How was she so profoundly placed upon my earthly path? Was she the answer to this constant prayer of mine to be able to influence someone for good and teach them about Christ through the testament of my life? For years I listened to people give talks in church stating that we need to bring others into the fold and do missionary work. They made it sound so easy, but while this experience pressed upon my life, there were times of great discouragement as I prayed to help Sarah feel the Savior’s love. And once again, I learned to wait on the Lord.

2007 went by and Sarah still forged through questions and opposition as she slowly placed together her testimony of Jesus Christ. Every piece was beautiful, but not every piece was easy. After a year and a half of attending church with our family, on Valentine’s Day 2008, she walked into my classroom—with the sun streaming behind her, and said, “I am ready to meet with the missionaries.” Sarah’s journey continued with the missionaries until she was baptized three months later.

Our three daughters watched Sarah come into the fold of Jesus Christ, and as a family, we are continuing to watch her grow grace upon grace in her knowledge of Jesus Christ. Her parents are still finding ways to understand her choice to become a member of this church, and we continue to pray that the Lord will grant us the capacities to guide her step by step as she continues to make her way home to heaven. She gave her first talk in a student ward where she spoke with the spirituality that she brought to this earth. She is awaiting her patriarchal blessing, and often talks of temple marriage. The gentleness of angels pressing upon me was something that I longed for ten years of prayers, and I realized that as much as I was waiting on the Lord, He was waiting on me.
People often ask,“What does God do for us?”
If you ever wonder if this is where you really belong and if this gospel is really for you,   and if you wonder if it is worth it to go to church every Sunday, it is worth every effort you make no matter what your season. The gospel of Jesus Christ needs your contribution to the light in a much-needed world. We believe not because it is a psychological crutch, but because it is the very thing that will water our souls down and fail us not.

Have you had prayers where you have waited on the Lord? How have you slowly lived into the answers?
My prayers still bookend my days, and I am slowly learning to thread the words together—what will you have me do with the gifts you have given me? What part of the vineyard should I place my feet? I pray with those moving feet and I wait, and once again, he waits for me.

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In early August 1990, Iraq invaded Kuwait. At the time my father was working as a military contractor, and by the end of August he was in Saudi Arabia with a group of Marines. My mom spent hours watching TV, often accompanied by a friend from our ward whose husband was also deployed. I was twelve years old, and for six months of my life the Gulf War formed the background to my awkward attempts to navigate junior high. I remember shaving my legs for the first time with CNN playing in the background. A little less than two years later, a jury acquitted four police officers accused in the beating of Rodney King. My mom and I were listening to the radio on our way to my orthodontist appointment. Los Angeles was already in flames by the time we got back in the car an hour later. The first presidential election I was eligible to vote in was Clinton versus Dole; I think I actually didn’t get around to voting since I was a brand-new freshman and maneuvering absentee balloting was over my head, but I was going to vote for Clinton. I’m not sure why exactly, probably just because I was raised by Democrats.
I’ve been pondering these experiences of my youth lately because of a horrifying thought I had the other day while walking across campus: the freshmen beside me were born in 1990! While LA was burning, they were toddling around oblivious. Bill Clinton is a blip on their memory, the background to elementary school. Bosnia, Oklahoma City, and Rwanda are as distant to them as Iran Contra, Nicaragua, and the Berlin Wall are to me. While I was watching in horror as news of Columbine unfolded on the TVs in the basement of the BYU bookstore, they were probably happily playing during fourth-grade recess. Events that have formed a key part of my journey from childhood absorption to adult awareness are completely unknown to them.

And yet, they have their own formative events seen from their own perspective. I think of my perplexity as my mom tries to explain to me the church before the 1978 revelation on the priesthood and realize that every generation has its cultural touchstones. I’m really not all that old, but sometimes I feel like it. I think I’m in a weird in-between stage—aware of how far I’ve come, yet simultaneously aware of how far I have to go. I know that in ten years I’ll look back on this moment and laugh at how “old” I felt at age thirty. But I also know that in ten years perspective will change again. It’s so hard to remember the past, and so easy to forget about it or to misremember it as new events find their way into the fabric of popular history. Part of why I write, both on my blog and in my journal, is to attempt to fix my perspective and my feelings at a particular moment in time. So when my grandchildren ask me what it was like when Obama became president I will hopefully have something to tell them.

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As a recovering perfectionist, my natural tendency is to lean towards an extreme.  So, when I’m righteous — boy howdy — watch out.  I’m banging down your door to visit teach you.  I’m literally praying in my heart. all. day. long.  When I had my son, I did EVERYTHING one is supposed to.  I read books.  I made lists.  I checked those lists off.  I implemented strategies.  And I failed.  Miserably.  My sons (they multiplied!) were unhappy and unhealthy.  So was I.

And yes, falling off that cliff of self-assurance led to a very bloody and painful landing.  When I had the strength to lift my head and take a look at the mess I had created, I mourned anyone’s ability to know, anything.  I doubted myself, my God.  I doubted my family, my heritage, my children, my faith.

I can’t say that I’ve been able to restore my ‘knows’ in the Gospel or in my faith or in my life since then.  But I can say that more than being restored, I have been rebuilt; through perseverance and teeth-gritting transformation, I have learned that progress is more important than perfection and parenting involves so much more than lists and strategies.  I have also learned that being a religious person in a modern world often requires more creativity than knowledge, and more charity than self-assurance.

My family lives in Austria now.  I’m sure you know more about  Austria than I did when I moved here (what bathroom am I supposed to use… ‘Damen’ or ‘Herren’?), but they speak German here.  German is a little bit NOT like English.  I’ve been attending church here for a whole year.  At first, I understood 0% of what was said.  I’ve gotten more use out of the smile and nod tactic than even Sarah Palin.

I’ve sat through many worship services where the only word I understood was ‘love.’  One day in Relief Society, I understood ‘For me…”.  The next week I understood the word atonement.  In a very real way, I’ve been forced to start over.  I’ve had to learn about the gospel and myself and my faith from the beginning.

Making a wreck of your life can sometimes lead to the most liberating sense of freedom.  Being forced to give up my ‘knows’ led to a strong and reliable set of ‘believes.’  I’ve learned how to trust in something I can’t control, to perform actions because they bear fruit and to avoid actions that hinder progress.  And believing, for me, has made all the difference.  Filled with belief instead of knowledge, faith instead of assurance, I go, I serve, I accept, I trust. One day, I’d like to know.  But for now, I’m enjoying believing very much.

What do you know?  Do you use the words ‘I know’ or ‘I believe’ when speaking of religion?  Why or why not?  Is there any value in ‘not knowing?’  If so, what?  If not, explain?

And if you’d like to hear more from other Segullah authors, here’s a poem from Melody Newey about inspiration, the best story on mothering I’ve ever read from Arlene Ball, and an inspiring tale about giving up control by Emily Orton.

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Top row, left to right: Kylie Turley, Justine Dorton, Sharlee Glenn, Johnna Cornett, Melissa Young, Courtney Kendrick, Michelle Linford, Kathryn Soper

Bottom row, left to right: Angela Hallstrom, Melonie Cannon, Brooke Benton, Emily Milner, Darlene Young

ABC-4 and KSL were there. Check out our KSL clip! We sold over 100 copies of the book to benefit Stephanie and Christian Nielson.  Thanks Deseret Book (who really didn’t know what they were getting into when they invited the crazy Segullah ladies to have a party) and thanks to everyone who came!

***Were you there?  Tell us how it was (some of us, sniff, were not able to make it and would love to hear a report).

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