All posts by Rosalyn

About Rosalyn

(Prose Board) currently lives in Southern Utah with her husband and three small children, where she teaches writing part-time at the local university. She has a BA in English from BYU, and an MA and PhD (also in English) from Penn State. She served a mission in the Hungary Budapest mission. In her spare time (what's that?) she likes to read, write, try new recipes (as long as she doesn't have to clean up), watch movies with her husband (British period drama is her favorite), go for walks, and generally avoid anything that resembles housework.

Surprised by Mercy

I’m not a fan of surprises (temperament type INTJ on Myers-Briggs). I like to know what’s coming, so I can anticipate or plan for the worst. I don’t deal well with uncertainty. (Ha! Welcome to parenthood. And life.)

But I’ve been wonderfully surprised by a few things in life, particularly mercy.

The other morning, I was wrestling with my oldest son. He’s nine, and so far, he seems to have inherited all of my worst qualities. In the mornings, when we’re both sluggish and irritable, we’re neither of us at our best. The day before, I’d sent him to school while we were both still fuming—and spent the rest of the day thinking, what if something happens to him and our last words were angry ones?

I resolved to do better. And I did okay, until he shouted at his sister and squeezed her until she retreated, crying, to her room.

What were you thinking? I asked him.

He snarled at me, which didn’t help my temper. I sent him to his room to finish getting ready, thinking of all the things I wanted to say: what is wrong with you? Is this really the person you want to be? If you keep this up, you won’t have any friends.

But something stopped me. In fact, I had the distinct impression that what my unlovable child needed most was love. Continue reading

The Gifts We Bear

One of my favorite parts of Christmas is the gifts. As a child, of course, I loved presents (especially the anticipation). As a grown-up I find I like giving gifts better. I love the satisfaction of matching the perfect gift with the perfect person, of seeing my kid’s face light up with surprise and delight.

Adoration of the Shepherds - Bartolome Esteban Murillo

But for the past few weeks I’ve been thinking of different kinds of gifts—not the tangible things I can wrap in shiny paper (sans bow, because I’m not that on top of things). I suppose broadly I could call them spiritual gifts, but they extend past the list in 1 Corinthians 12.

I’ve been thinking of the abundant gifts others have brought into my life: Continue reading

Gratitudes

To be honest, the last couple of weeks have been a rush: stress piled on top of illness (nothing exceeds the generosity of a toddler sharing his cold), and just as I’m catching my breath, the holidays are upon us.

There’s a lot I love about the holidays: friends and family and food. And a lot I don’t love: navigating expectations that never quite match the reality, the physical details of travel, trying to maintain some semblance of schedule for my order-loving oldest son.

It’s easy, for me at least, to get caught up in the rush and to mumble through the things I’m grateful for because it’s part of what we do at Thanksgiving.

But at church yesterday I was reminded–again–why gratitude isn’t just one more activity to do at Thanksgiving, but something I need daily. Continue reading

Passion: Bridle Your Passions

The first time I really thought about Alma’s advice to his son Shiblon about passion–“bridle your passions, that you may be filled with love”–it was in the context of a seminary lesson on sexual purity. And for years afterward, I assumed that was all there was to know about this scripture: physical passion is a good thing, in moderation.

But lately I’ve been coming back to this scripture and wondering if there isn’t more to it. The quarterly theme for Segullah is passion, and thinking about passion in a broader context has me rethinking Alma’s advice.

Continue reading

Memory of Place

The red rocks of Capitol Reef loom over us, at once imposing and fragile, the sandstone fragmenting in oddly symmetrical sheets.

We’ve come to Capitol Reef many times in our marriage: for us, it’s come to represent a place of refuge and retreat, a place for family renewal—and a place for grief.

I’m convinced that places have memories (the battlefield at Gettysburg, for one. And the sacred grove). Beyond that, I believe that places have a significant dimension in our own memories. The Romans, who were among the first to study ars memoria, or the art of memory, called the mental storage places of memory loci, the same root in our word location. Memories take place, both literally and figuratively.

Driving into Capitol Reef on the fringes of a thunderstorm in mid-September, all the linked memories of the place come flooding back to me, forming a kind of spiritual palimpsest over the rock and sage landscape. Continue reading