Our guest post today comes from Maggie Judi, who is a 30 year old mother of four children, and the wife of one army dentist. When she’s not wiping tears, answering four questions simultaneously, and folding Mt. McKinley sized piles of laundry, Maggie loves to hike, run, read, and of course, write. She very much enjoys the chaos and hilarity of motherhood. Maggie writes about the perils of motherhood in Alaska with a sunny and humorous spin at magsandmike.blogspot.com

Part of the job description for motherhood includes driving one’s children “hither and yon” to various enriching activities. I’ve acquired soccer mom stickers, and dancing ballerina decals to plaster proudly on the back window of my van.  Three boys and one girl in my minivan demand varied activities, and although each kid only may choose one sport, we also add in music lessons and the newest addition, scouts. Soccer supplies skills in teamwork, sportsmanship, and dribbling; tumbling: coordination and grace. Now that I’ve got myself a cub scout, we’re exploring a new genre of after school activities. It seems a bit overwhelming, with all kinds of merit badges and requirements, but I’m hoping to fit Wolf scouts into the schedule. (read more…)

Do you think we’ll sleep in heaven?

I heard somewhere that we’ll eat in heaven, but that we won’t sleep. We’ll enjoy our same relationships, but there will be few words between us.

And sometimes I just can’t wrap my mind around this (because I’m tired and want to sleep). How do you contemplate the afterlife? What do you think it will be like? Or does that kind of thing matter to you: do you think about it? Or are you content to just trust that whatever it is, it’s perfect?

I try hard to minimize the amount of medication I take, but I have a pretty major sleep disorder, and drugs have been a heavensend in managing it.

When my sleep meds stopped working last winter, life got really hard. My health problems (undiagnosed chronic issues) predictably worsen when my sleep isn’t good. I felt awful physically. I felt panicked, even depressed. In desperation, I went to my sleep doc’s office, hoping beyond hope that he could help me figure something else out.

The combination he gave me worked. It felt like a miracle. I thanked Heavenly Father for this tremendous blessing. I shared my gratitude in the “good news minute” in Relief Society meeting at church. For someone who has really never slept well, to get a sense of what it was like to lie down and actually drift off to sleep (and to sleep more deeply, and for longer stretches) was sweeter than sweet for me. (read more…)

If  you would like to submit a guest post for Blog Segullah, we would love to hear from you!

Right now we’re eager to hear your stories for our ongoing “Up Close” series.  In July, our Sunday blog posts will focus on “Inactivity and faith struggles of loved ones.” We’re also looking for posts on “Living Single” for August.

If neither of those themes applies to your situation in life, submit your best posts on any theme. We publish several guest posts each month and are always looking for new voices to add to the Segullah sisterhood.

To submit a guest post, follow the link on the right sidebar. “Guest Post Submissions” are the fourth link in the “About Us” category.

We look forward to hearing from you!

A couple of weeks ago, the day finally arrived when our belongings would be delivered to our new house in Utah. The truck was scheduled to arrive at the house between 9:00-9:30, so I got up before the sun, tossed on my running shorts, and headed out the door. By the time I got back to my in-laws’ house, where I was staying, I was worried about rush-hour traffic. So instead of showering, I threw my bags in the car and headed up to the new house. If we beat the traffic, there’d be plenty of time to shower before the truck arrived. Miraculously, there was no traffic, and we arrived at the house a full hour before the movers were scheduled to show up. But when we turned the corner onto our street, there they were, waiting for us in the driveway, eager to start working.

So instead of warming up with a hot shower and a pair of jeans, I stood in the drizzle on the driveway for the next four or five hours, shivering in my running shorts, checking off numbered boxes as the rolled off the truck. Pretty soon, a steady stream of neighbors started to come by the house, introducing themselves as the Scoutmaster, the Bear Den leader, the former owner’s mother, and the Visiting Teaching Coordinator. (read more…)

Amanda is a thirty-something stay at home mom who enjoys creating with the written word, fabric, cashmerino yarn, and produce from her garden. Most of her time however is spent picking up after adorable children, wiping noses and searching for the always missing Sunday shoe. While born and raised in Utah, she now hails proudly from New England and sporadically blogs at Down East Family. (Names in the story have been changed)

The autumn morning began before the sun’s rays came creeping over the peaks of the Wasatch mountains. Cameron was crying unconsolably and at 19 years I knew little about how to soothe a fussy newborn. It was nearly 4:00 am when I did as so many other new mothers do when they need help, I called my mother.

“Mom,” I said through sobs, “ he’s crying and I can’t get him to stop. I think he knows what’s going to happen.”

“It’s OK, I’ll be right there” she whispered in her hoarse middle of the night voice.

What was probably fifteen minutes seemed like hours as she navigated the streets up to the hospital. Quietly she opened the door to my hospital room, cradled her first grandchild in her arms and rocked him back to sleep. (read more…)

Where: Shelah’s house (Salt Lake)

When: Thursday July 9, 7pm

Why: Come meet, mingle, chat, and create with Segullah friends. Leslie Graff will be there to help you try your hand at painting. 

What to bring: You can bring your own supplies or else we will have everything you need to do an acrylic painting on canvas board (11×14″).  Prismacolor pencils and Mi-Teintes paper will also available if you prefer to draw. Please bring $5 to cover supply costs, unless you plan to use only your own stuff. Bring an image to work from or an idea. 

RSVP: Leave a comment and email shelah[at]gmail.com. Let us know if you are coming, whether or not you are bringing your own supplies and we’ll email you directions. Space will be limited to 20.

Any other studio questions email Leslie at lesccls[at]gmail.com

See you there for summer fun and of course delicious treats too!

My youngest is pre-school age, and in the fall, I’m likely to have some time to myself for the first time in 13 years. I’ve been considering some ways I might pick up some freelance of part-time/at home work, just to make some extra pocket money. Teach piano lessons? Start a neighborhood pre-school? Do some more serious writing? Contract at my old job? All seem like lovely ideas to expand my mind and broaden my possibilities.

I’ll be perfectly honest, and please don’t trample on my delicate offerings. (read more…)

I’ve been in the kitchen making cinnamon rolls this morning. In fact I got so excited about baking this morning that I temporarily forgot that I had signed up for a Segullah post today. My good friend had a baby last week, so in the grand tradition of Mormon women everywhere I am going to serve her by baking. I love baking. I love feeding people my baked goods. I love the praise I get and the smiles that follow. I love eating them too, which is partly why I can’t ever give up running, even on the days I just don’t feel like getting out of bed I figure the cookies I get to eat will make it worth it. (read more…)

Last Thursday, I buried my mother.

My dad offered the family prayer while I stood by her coffin, patting her shoulder and running my fingers through her hair. She clearly wasn’t in her broken body anymore, but it was sacred to me, and I loved touching her hands and face and running my fingers over her thin bruised arms– bruises she gained in her fight to stay alive for me.

After the ‘Amen,’ my Dad and sister leaned in for a final kiss on her cheek. Then everyone stood back as I tied the veil around her lovely chin, kissed her cheeks and hands and gently pulled the sheer fabric over her face– never to be unveiled until Christ comes again. I sunk down for one more moment with my head on her shoulder, her cheek against mine as I left tears on her face.

Last month I wrote about my mother: her humility, her sweetness, her knowledge of the atonement. I was just beginning to understand. (read more…)

Today’s Up Close: Adoption comes Kimber Dawn Brouse who lives in southwest Florida with her husband and three children. She homeschools and spends as much time as possible teaching her children to ride horses because it’s so much more fun than math. The whole family are avid readers, and it’s not uncommon to find one or more family members reading during meals. Kimber Dawn has even been known to ask her kids to tell her when a traffic light turns green so she can read a quick paragraph at a red light.

I always knew that on my birthday, if on no other day of the year, my mother was thinking of me. My birth mother that is. My real mother thought of me constantly; of that I was never in doubt. I was adopted when I was only a few days old, and the only thing I knew about my birth mother was that she was short with red hair, was a member of the church, and had been very young at the time of my birth.

Growing up I imagined a whole realm of possibilities for my genetic family tree. My favorite one (aside from the one where I was a real-life princess who would someday inherit a fortune) was that my birth parents grew up after I was born, realized they were eternal mates, married in the temple, had a wonderfully large family and a place for me in it if I could ever find them. I dreamed my mother was Relief Society President and she wanted nothing more than to find me and give me all the love she had not been able to give me before.

Then the time came when as an adult, I actually met her. I just knew that she would tell me she had thought of me every year on my birthday. Instead she said, “Every time I heard of some little girl being abducted, I hoped it wasn’t you.” Then, “You were born in the end of February, right?” I was astounded! I am her flesh and blood and yet she didn’t remember when I was born! “No, actually it was the end of January.” “Oh, that’s right, you came early,” she rejoined. And so began my relationship with this woman, my mother, my flesh and blood, who was and is so very, very different than I had imagined, so different from me.

(read more…)

I hear voices, not regular voices per se, but a gospel choir. They sing to me in my head. They wear blue satin robes with white collars and are quite soulful. At various times throughout the day I hear…

“Can I get a witness, wit-ness
Can I get a witness, wit-ness”

They are clapping and swaying very enthusiastically. My children join in with me and my choir and we jive, clap, and sing in the kitchen often during dinner preparations. So either I have some deep unfulfilled need for affirmation, or maybe this is spiritual call for me to witness to others. Whatever the reason, the singers are there.

Why a gospel choir? Not exactly sure. It certainly does not come from the choir of my religious heritage, the good old Mormon Tabernacle Choir. MoTab doesn’t break into quite such rhythmic,  exultant jubilee (although they are known to wear blue).

Maybe it’s because a few years back I served in an inner city branch of our church. The best thing was when you gave a talk, the branch president would gently nod his head in approval as you were talking (or at least if you weren’t preaching any false doctrine). If you said something good you would get an audible “mm-hmm” as you spoke. It was very affirming. If the congregation liked your words, well sister, you got especially loud “Amen” at the end. I loved the way others truly witnessed with you.

(read more…)

Watching my nineteen-year-old daughter begin to navigate the college dating world (deep breaths) has reminded me how often I fall short as a mother, because I just realized this week that I have yet to impart all of my hard-won wisdom about dating and courtship and marriage (she’s my oldest, so I’m a little clueless sometimes). Sure, I’ve shared tidbits of advice along the way, but most of that advice could be summarized in eight words: “Don’t get married until you’re at least twenty-five,” which I realize is completely useless and probably counterproductive. So the last few days, as I’ve been thinking about how to counsel my daughter, I’ve been reminiscing about my own dating experiences and cataloging the boys I liked/loved on my way to marriage—and thanking my lucky stars that I didn’t marry them. For my daughter, then, here’s a partial list of my near-misses: (read more…)

Six years old, I stood behind my mother, staring up at the tall, dark-haired stranger framed by our front door.

“You don’t know who I am,” he began.

“Well of course I do,” Mom replied warmly. “You look just like him. He isn’t here now, but please, come in.”

It was Greg, my father’s grown son. A son I had never known about. A son who had been adopted by another man when he was a small child.

Later, my father explained some of the details to me. His first wife left him, and he allowed their two very young sons to be adopted by her second husband. In those days family judges didn’t grant custody to single fathers, and he thought it was best for them to have an intact family. He didn’t meet and marry my mother until years later. It was years more before they learned my mother couldn’t have children and adopted me.

(read more…)

I remember when I first discovered my dad’s love of poetry. I was struggling with my homework, voicing my frustration with audible groans and sighs.

“What are you working on?” he asked.

“Analyzing poems for English,” I grumbled.

“Which one?”

“‘Thanatopsis’,” I said, convinced that the title alone would elicit sympathy. (read more…)