It’s not the time investment that’s stopping me. One line is a piece of cake to write. Until it’s the line that’s supposed to summarize all of my feeling, thoughts, and actions of a day. How do I give a day justice in just one line?

Plenty of nights I look at that blue book sitting there on my nightstand next to my alarm clock, all shiny in its newness, and try to compose an entry in my mind. Take last Sunday, for example. Do I write about the mix of different emotions that accompanied getting sustained in my new calling on Sunday? Or do I write about dancing around the kitchen with my husband and kids after dinner? Or maybe I write about how, at bedtime, as I was singing a song to my 2-year-old, he turned to me with his overly puckered lips and smacked continual kisses on my cheek until the song was over? Which memory trumps the others for the one-line-a-day? Or take last Wednesday. Can I write, “Busy with the same old, same old”? Because to actually record that the “same old, same old” means doing 7 loads of laundry, fixing 3 meals and countless snacks, cleaning up those snacks, sweeping the floor a bajillion times because I can’t stand to feel goldfish and Cheerios crunch under my bare feet, taking 8-year-old to basketball, reminding both older kids to practice their piano, helping 8-year-old study for his comprehension test, harping on 6-year-old to pick up her 4 pairs of shoes I keep tripping on before I pick them up and she has to pay me her allowance to get them back, and cleaning up the entire contents of the apple juice the 2-year-old spilled all over the floor, won’t all fit on that one little line.

The truth is, I’m not cut out for one-line-a-day conciseness. My husband says he knows this. When he calls to ask about my day, I can’t give a one line answer. But the memory book has helped me remember why it is that I can’t. (Other than I’m just not a concise person—no tweeting in my future!) It’s helped me remember that, most days, there are more thankful, memorable details and moments than I would have thought, and that what I do every day is valuable and worthy of mention.

So what about you? How do you record your memories? Do you even feel the need to? What works or doesn’t work for you? What would you do in a one-line-a-day journal—summarize your day, choose one detail to record—one feeling or one event? Try it now, if you’d like: write your one-line-a-day for your day so far!

Related posts:

1. O Remember, Remember
2. When Joseph Went to Bethlehem
3. Lyrically speaking

My writing is crap.

Also, if another child gets out of bed to tell me something “important,” I may actually start crying. REAL tears.

It’s not that I don’t want to listen to them tell me their importants, but I don’t really want to listen. (Because that makes sense.) (With the italics and all.) But by nine pm, my brain needs to not process anything else relating to a child. I’m serious. Math, friends, book reports, lost flip-flops, guitar lessons, oral hygiene or lack thereof, personal hygiene or lack thereof, pet feeding or lack thereof, and/or anything relating to any episode ever filmed in any season of River Monsters.

I find that my mental capacity these days is perfectly suited for something like Facebook: I open it. I scroll through the ticker tape of declarations. I laugh. I roll my eyes. I like a thing or two. And then, I’m done. It’s night-night time for me. Until my husband reminds me about our 90-day-reading-the-Book-of-Mormon challenge, in which case I roll over the pick my iPad back up off the floor and say, “OK. But NO DISCUSSING.”

And then, “Can you just read to me?”

Him: “Brooke?”

Me: “I’m just resting my eyes.”

There was a time I prided myself on being a fairly respectable mother, I mean, a fairly respectable woman. There was a time I felt smart and with-it and thought the ditzy lady antic would never touch me. But here it is—with cold, true fingers that grasp and won’t let go.

The issue of the moment is not that I stop mid-sentence to try and remember the end of the sentence. Or that I forget to tell my kids’ teachers that they (the kids) will be missing several days of school and need their homework and class work to take with them. It’s not even really all that problematic when the only thing I talk about with the baby when we’re home alone all day is about how much the dog stinks. (Because the baby has learned three words from that, “puppy,” “Sunny,” and “ewwww.”) No! The issue of the moment is that it’s almost my turn to think of a book for my neighborhood’s book club and I CAN’T THINK OF ANY!

So, dear Segullah readers, will you help a mama out? What good books have you read lately? What books make for good discussions? What books could I feasibly get through without having to pawn the reading off to my husband?

And what know you of a hopefully temporary brain-fog? Does it lift? And WHEN?

Related posts:

1. Marriage Has Many Pains
2. Singleminded
3. Inheritance

I went home for Christmas, begrudgingly. I tried to talk myself out of it this year, for several reasons: plane tickets are a few hundred dollars more now that we live in Rhode Island; my husband is quite possibly going to a really expensive grad school someday so I might as well not buy anything for the next five years; we just saw everyone in August when all seven of us crammed into our one-bedroom house in Utah for two weeks while we prepared for my sister’s wedding.

“I do not need to go home,” I told myself. “It’s too far away, too cold, too dark. It’s Kotzebue, Alaska.”

In the past I’ve habitually described my hometown, while introducing myself, with some sort of variation on this theme: “Hi, I’m from Alaska. But not the pretty part like in The Proposal. Kotzebue is north of Nome and south of Barrow and it’s flat with no trees, moose, or salmon arcing over the mountains to eclipse the sun.” And the usual barrage of questions and answers follows:

“Yes, it’s dark all winter and light in the summer.”

“Yes, it’s cold, like -25 on a good day.”

“Yes, it’s small, I graduated in a class of 26.”

“Yes, I’ve eaten whale blubber, and it kind of tastes like chewing on a mouthful of rancid, oily rubber bands.”

It’s a quiet, remote, town above the Arctic Circle. Like other rural Alaskan villages, Kotzebue has high rates of alcohol dependency, suicide, and apathy. It’s a hard place. My husband, from Southern California, loves Kotzebue in the winter—even the frostbitten cheeks after chopping down the Christmas tree on a 24-mile roundtrip snow machine ride and having to pay $10.99 for a gallon of milk at the one grocery store in town. Kotzebue is strangely exotic for him because it’s so shockingly different from anything else he’s known, while I’ve been conditioned to think nothing of it.

This time, the novelty of roaming around town with a new digital slr camera gave us something to do other than bask in the warmth of the woodstove at my parents’ house. We spent three days trying to catch a glimpse of the sun in the polar twilight. Based on trial and error, we determined that the shot we wanted could be captured around 2:35 p.m., about one hour after the sun just poked up above the horizon before dipping back into an orange and blue haze. When the photo was taken all I thought of was the wind chill that dropped the temperature to about -60 to numb my toes.

It was too cold, then, in the moment the photo was taken, to remember what I never should have forgotten: I was baptized here. Time and distance and years of taking on too many responsibilities than I could manage gracefully made me forget that for some reason beyond my comprehension, LDS missionaries found me in a place where hope sometimes feels like a foreign word.

I look at our picture of the tundra sunset now as a remembrance of things other than the cold: life with my family; the place where I first knew the Spirit’s influence in a moment of truly concentrated, focused effort in a search for divine guidance that would lead me to baptism, to BYU where I met my husband and to temple marriage. The vista of ice and snow now reminds me that even the hard places can leave an indelible mark on your memory, when you share them with the right people.

What does home remind you of? What “I-didn’t-want-to-but-I’m-glad-I-did” stories do you have?

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The other film was the new Woody Allen movie, “Midnight in Paris”, which I did not expect to like, not being a fan of Woody Allen, nor of the movie’s star, Owen Wilson. But in fact, I loved the movie, in which the OW character hops a Peugeot between present day Paris and the Paris of the 1920′s where he hobnobs with the likes of Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, and the Fitzgeralds. It’s a film about nostalgia. About longing. About the illusions we harbor that a life other than our own, a time other than now, might be–surely would be–better.

Sometimes I wish I’d been a Latter-Day Saint in the early days of the Restoration, when Joseph was feeling his way toward clear doctrine, when the saints gathered in awed anticipation of each new revelation, fear and joy mingled in their hearts. We’ve only vestiges left of the bonding that occurs amongst a people under siege.  I miss that.  And I would have reveled in the more open expression of the spiritual power of women, paradoxical in that day of limited rights. I wouldn’t have liked the clothing, but wouldn’t have minded the outhouse. I would have loved the sense of adventure beginning, that first stage of an important journey, the same way I love Mondays and New Years and sunrises.

And sometimes I look forward with longing to the days of the New Jerusalem. I’m not a city girl, but that’s a city I long to live in! Oh, for those days of peace and productivity, when we can raise our children and do our work in a world ruled not by Lucifer, but by Jesus, a world clean and singing. What might I accomplish if I didn’t have to spend so much energy battling the demons of my own soul?

I don’t even have to leave my own life’s era to pine over lost love or fantasize about the freedom of retirement. Why is it so easy to look back on certain periods of our lives–say, high school, or that year abroad, or early motherhood–and think “Ah, those were the days!” Or to long for the future, dreaming of our life without kids–or with kids,  with a partner–or without, with a job–or not. Why is the grass always greener in our own time-distanced yard?

That kind of longing for what is not is obviously not helpful. There is, however,  a kind of dreaming–a visualizing of a desired outcome–that can move us toward goals in a productive and useful way. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something more, something different, if what you have or what you are does not suffice or satisfy. I am reminded of those lines from the hymn: More purity give me, more strength to o’ercome, more freedom from earthstains, more longing for home.  More fit for the kingdom, more used would I be, more blessed and holy–more, Savior, like thee. The whole song begs for more.

More longing for Home. That is the root of all my longing. I suspect it is the root of many of our ills, both personal and communal. I am homesick here. Despite my real love for the planet, it is not Home unless and until my Parents are here, and my Savior. I actually ache with longing to be in Their presence. I long for both the premortal past and the celestial future, because They are there. I don’t want to go back, though; I want to move forward, toward more purity, more strength, more freedom, more holiness. I want that celestial future more than anything. And I’m hoping that this sort of deep longing, this heart’s Desire, this soul-thirst for the divine, is sufficient to propel me into the presence of God. Sometimes it does, even here, even now.  And those small snatches of communion with Divinity light my way Home.

What do you long for?

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It’s not just public bathrooms that make me uncomfortable; I’ve long preferred my own home to public places. I never understood my college roommates that preferred to study on campus in the library. I couldn’t concentrate unless I was at home curled up on my familiar bedspread or tucked into a corner of my couch with my shoes off. The formality and, well, publicness of being on campus were just too much for me. Even after I graduated, grew up, and had children, I still liked being at home with them. I have family members that tease me a little about the fact that I hate spending time in my car, but I bought a house in the middle of town just so I wouldn’t have to spend inordinate amounts of time out and about running errands. I’d rather eat my lunch at home at my own kitchen table (and use my own master bathroom with its comfortable seat, pretty plants, and fancy scented soap).

Last year I had to go back to work, and I was surprised by how hard it was to transition back into being away from my own home for so many hours each week (I’m currently working part-time, but it still felt like a lot at first). Yes, I miss my kids and I miss being there for them at important times of the day, but my homesickness was a separate feeling. I missed my cozy couch, my (generally) uncluttered schedule, and my ability to eat lunch without having to clock out and walk across the building to the shared break room to microwave my little Tupperware container before eating by myself. My job really is quite nice and I’m grateful that I generally love what I do, that I get to work with the public, and that I do get breaks and other perks that many people don’t enjoy at their places of employment. But I still miss the “stay at home” part of being a stay-at-home mom.

One of the highlights of my first day of work was being shown the back room where staff work. I share a cubicle with someone else, but I’m learning to love my own little office space. After a few months I finally got around to bringing in a framed picture of my kids, and now I have a little fabric snowman that was a Christmas present from a co-worker. There are piles of papers and little reminders all over the place, and even the clutter is starting to feel comfortable. Tonight when I got to work I looked at my desk and realized something: it’s starting to feel like home, and that’s OK. I still wish I had my own private bathroom, though.

What about you—do you like to stay home or do you mind being out and about all day? If you work, do you feel comfortable there? How do you feel about public bathrooms?

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“That’s where you need to be,” I said to myself. So I chose her class. And by the end of the evening, it was Tina’s words that stayed with me most. They hung in my mind for weeks. She so revolutionized my study and thinking that, with her permission, I share what she taught here.

Tina first talked about the mechanics of effective scripture study. They were the standard “should-dos” until she got to #4.

 

Wow, I thought. I jot down notes, scribble in the margins, underline in various colors, but looking for patterns, themes, and messages over time? That hadn’t occurred to me.

Then Tina got serious, because we were short on time, and she said, “Now I’m going to tell you what I feel strongly you need to hear.” We were listening.

“The battle today, between Babylon and Zion, is being waged between the synapses of our brains.”

(I’m no neurologist, but I’ve had enough physiology to know that synapses are how our brains process messages. They are crucial to the biological computation of perception and thought.)

Tina explained that in this information age when messages, images, and information are coming at us almost faster than we can receive them, our brains are creating new neural pathways to accommodate the input. The first time we see an image on a screen (we’re not talking about pornography here, although it does apply) – like a blog page, a news feed, texts, or facebook – our brain creates a new neural pathway to process that image. It is the same with new sounds or any stimuli to the senses, but let’s use the visual image for this discussion.

Input always travels the path of least resistance. So the second time we see the new image, it will travel the same route. And before long, the new neural pathway has been stimulated enough to “desire” of itself continued activation. A habit is born.

After that, when the brain is not currently occupied, we long for that image. That is why we constantly check our phones or email. That is why, when we have a free moment, we click onto a favorite blog, check facebook, and tweets, or any other source of input we frequent. Without realizing it, we have begun to crave these places of input, hunger for them, to the point where they can surreptitiously dominate our time.

Tina said the only way to counterbalance this is with ancient and modern scripture. We must expose our brains repeatedly to the image or sound of God’s words. Printed, glowing on the page, read aloud, or discussed with friends. That is where God’s Spirit lives. It is where His mind and will can rise out of the texts we read or the conversations we share, and filter into our lives, allowing revelation to move through us.

Satan knows the physiology of the brain. He knows if he can encourage overstimulation through an overload of mundane or technical information, he can increase the odds that we will not seek more spiritual sources for input, thus making scripture study tedious.

Recent studies have also shown that when our minds are over-stimulated, we begin to make decisions without considering the consequences. Much of the time, these quick decisions are not the best ones for us. An abundance of “information” prompts reactionary responses and elevates feelings of anxiety. All of this distracts us from the peace the Lord offers through His Word, and deprives us of much needed pondering time – time when our minds can reinforce more spiritual pathways.

Then Tina said this,

“Your time with the word of the Lord is your personal Urim and Thummim. It is there that God will speak to you. Frequent the scriptures often enough that your brain craves that kind of input – that your day feels incomplete without it.”

Have you been there? That place of truly feasting on God’s word? I have. And I’m sure you have too. I love how Jeremiah describes it.

“Thy words were found, and I did eat them; and thy word was unto me the joy and rejoicing of mine heart” (Jeremiah 15:16).

I have also been in that place where I don’t crave the scriptures, because my reading is sporadic, even neglectful. And in retrospect, I can see I have filled my precious time with things that matter much less.

After hearing Tina talk, I realized I can’t afford to neglect my time in the scriptures. I can’t risk being a voice to my children, my friends, or the Relief Society sisters I teach, if I am not partaking regularly of God’s word. Time with the word of the Lord is its own system of checks and balances for me. It’s how the Lord rights me, keeps me on course.

Naturally, the sources of input mentioned here are not bad things. But Tina’s words have helped me make a conscious effort to open my scriptures each day before computer time, reading any other book, or another leisurely activity. I have started recording impressions. And it is astounding the level of happy confidence I have felt. I am still working on the habit, but I’m getting better at hearing as I go. “The words of the Lord are pure words, said the Psalmist, and I am discovering that within them we can see things “as they really are and as they really will be” (Jacob 4:13).

What about you? How is your scripture study going? What do you think of this battle in the brain? 

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1. Feast Upon the Word
2. Improvement
3. Purging

“No thanks.”

“But I haven’t said anything about him!”

“You said you know a guy.”

“I do!”

“You said ‘nice’”

“So?”

“You’re trying to set me up.”

“Um, yeah?”

“No thanks.”

I do not need a husband. I’ve had one and frankly the model I chose required significant work and then developed fatal safety flaws which broke my family into pieces. I’m reluctant to get another one. There’s too much hassle, too many unknown variables, and that’s just getting to the abandoned car yard of Single Adult activities. I’m quite happy just looking at the top models (thinking David Tennant, Jason Statham, John Scalzi, Stephen Fry and The-Rock-Whatever-His-Real-Name-Is here) and cruising along in my one-adult-two-kid jalopy.

Unfortunately, some people take my reluctance and disinterest as a personal challenge. Or they only see the fact that I and He-Whom-Is-About-To-Be-Spruiked share the same marital status of “single/divorced”.

“Hey, I should introduce you to my brother! He’s single!”

“Is he a good bloke?”

“Yeah, he is! He doesn’t have a job at the moment, and is living with my Nanna but-“

“You want to introduce me to your unemployed, living with your grandmother brother?”

“Um… yeah?”

“See, that right there? That’s why I’m not dating. Or being set up on a blind date.”

A recurring refrain is “You just need to get married – problem sorted!” Dear Delusional One, I don’t think so. As President Hugh B. Brown is quoted as saying, marriage gets you to the end of your troubles – the front end. I understand that people care about me, and want me to be happy and share my life with someone who loves me, which is why they are keen for me to get hitched. Regardless, it seems, of if it’s to a rusty farm tractor or a bullet-proof Benz. “I’ll give you two years to get married,” my former Branch President told me, “then I’ll get involved if it hasn’t happened.”

Two years? My brain staggered off to peer groggily at the calendar. Two years? You mean the next two years in which I’m trying to finish my nursing degree, raise my sons to be something more than fighting, messy barbarians, earn money to feed, clothe and educate those same barbarians and maybe fit in a couple hours of sleep? Those two years?

Sure, why not. Sounds like a plan. “Deal!” I told him, then promptly scrawled “Getting me married” onto my “Things That Prove My Friends Are Undeniably Insane” list. Obviously I need to worry about porcine pilots more than planning any future nuptials.

“If you just signed up for LDSingles/wore makeup more/let yourself go a little/stopped watching sci-fi movies/didn’t read so much/didn’t worry so much…” – I’ve heard all sorts of ‘helpful’ (to quite stupid) suggestions. I loathe “If you just [insert stupid/unhelpful here]” comments. Like the person saying it has the inside scoop on the situation. Against all odds the person has the simple, obvious and surely never before considered solution that would just –POOF!- sprinkle happiness and success all over your life, with zero ongoing costs, no hidden expensive extras and absolutely nothing to worry about ever again. It’s a solution, but rarely do the people offering the advice have the full picture of what your driving history is, your personal preferences, and the grim reality of the limits you have on your choices, whether they are financial, emotional, health related, familial or a combination of everything.

“If you just exercised…”

“If you just became a distributor…”

“If you just stopped dying your hair those colours…”

“If you just thought before you spoke…”

I know I’ve been the one guilty of saying “If you just [insert super-tactless here]”. I was trying to help, yes, but nowhere near the right way. I should have carefully negotiated the curves of the compassionate route instead of yelling out the traffic report from my superior Icarus-class helicopter. Accidents happen, brakes fail, sometimes our indicators don’t show where we want to go, but we do tend to keep going with the new damage, often getting lost in the process. The road to hell may very well be paved with good intentions, and I’ve driven along that stretch for more klicks than I’d like to admit to.

So please, for my own education (and no doubt mortified sympathetic laughter as well), I’m interested in the “If you just [insert stupids]” you’ve received or delivered^. Have any of them dinged your fender? Made you wind up your windows and shout “I’m not listening!”? Ran anybody over with your own enthusiastic, well-meaning mouth?

^Unless you’re typing “If you just met my brother/cousin/neighbour/mechanic/weird guy from church…”, in which case I’m incredibly NOT interested.

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In my young adulthood fasting became much easier, of course, but Fast Sunday wasn’t exactly my favorite Sunday of the month. Fasting was something I did more out of duty than devotion, and I admit that as a young mother I was secretly glad for the excuse not to fast whenever I was pregnant or nursing. Yes, I had the occasional meaningful fast, but usually my fasting was pretty rote—give up two meals, try to ignore growling stomach, attend church meetings, say a couple of quick prayers through the day, make big Sunday dinner (mouth watering), and then gratefully break fast—and oh, roast chicken and potatoes never tasted so good.

Of course, my children weren’t enthusiastic fasters, either (do you know any children who are?). In our case, we decided to break our children into full-fledged fasting by having them give up one meal when they turned eight, and then the full two meals when they turned twelve. Still, we’ve had our fair share of moaning, groaning, weakness, grumpiness, and complaining on Fast Sundays. And to be honest, though I know the law of the fast was given to us for our benefit, I don’t think I fully understood or took advantage of that law, and the spiritual benefits that result from keeping it.

Not that I fully understand or take advantage of it now, but I think I’m finally getting closer. I’m not sure when the shift occurred for me, but most months now I find myself actually looking forward to Fast Sundays. I’m learning that there is something truly profound and sanctifying about the simple act of giving up food for twenty-four hours—if I do it purposefully, prayerfully, with an attitude of devotion and love. On those Fast Sundays when I try to put off the natural woman for a time and focus on spiritual things; when my fasting moves beyond the realm of rote and duty and when I truly come hungering before the Lord, seeking, humble, earnest, and yearning, then my fast becomes a feast. And yes, over the years I’ve witnessed some dramatic and direct answers to prayers through fasting, but the real miracles, I’m coming to realize, are the subtle and incremental yet significant changes that occur in me each time I fast with devotion and purpose.

None of this is new or earth shattering, of course, but it feels new and important to me, during a period in my life when I need the extra help and spiritual sustenance that fasting provides. Isaiah described the blessings of fasting best: “Is not this the fast that I have chosen? To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens?….Then shalt thou call, and the Lord shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am….And the Lord shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones; and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not” (Isaiah 58: 6, 9, 11).

It took me forty or so years of Fast Sundays to go from that little girl starving in the backseat of the car and sneaking mulberries in the backyard to a woman who delights in the “fatness” and soul-quenching bounties of fasting.

And it was worth every hunger pain.

Do you struggle with fasting? Have your feelings about fasting changed over the years? What do you do to make your fasts more meaningful? How do you help your children live the law of the fast? Are there any experiences you’ve had with fasting that you’d like to share?

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Last Sunday, as I was sliding into a pew in time for sacrament meeting, one of the ward leaders motioned me over. Did I have any bread at home? Well, do they say ya’ll in Texas? Of course I did, I always do. There was no bread for the sacrament, and could I run home and get some? I did. I rushed home, grabbed the loaf in the cupboard and got back to the church with my bread. That loaf was one of my prized recipes, a 100% whole wheat loaf made with wheat that I ground and buttermilk I cultured myself. And because I don’t have a grinder, I am currently using my blender and sieve; it takes a little extra time, but how else am I to use the small silo of wheat in my house? It is good bread. And good bread is worth it to me. And oh, I do so love good bread. The crackly crust and chewy crumb of a perfect loaf is heaven to me.

I can’t extend that same love to all bread. It may seem sacrilege that even think of it, but the often cheap, plastic-sleeved bread typically brought in each week for the sacrament at church is hard for me to swallow. The token to remember Christ is most often chemically preserved, bleached and bromated bread, and a bit of a distraction for me. I have to choose to stop thinking about it—is that bad? I know what D&C 27:2 says, but I still feel that when it is something that has substance in my life, shouldn’t the bread that symbolized it have some as well? Should the bread we use for the sacrament matter; or am I overthinking this one?

Back to that Sabbath morning. I got back to church with the bread. The ward had been stalling. The first speaker was up when I popped into the chapel and passed my loaf over to the priests waiting at the sacrament table. The priest accepted it and looked down in confusion and exited the room. The loaf I brought was unsliced. A young men’s leader follows after the priest, where he found him in the prep room, trying to slice the loaf. That young man had never dealt with an unsliced loaf of bread before—it didn’t occurred to him to break it, as the Savior broke the first sacramental loaf.

I love the symbolism of the whole loaf being broken; Christ’s body being broken for us, and then we as the body of Christ taking in pieces of that whole unto ourselves, that as we come together as saints, we are unified in Christ. Sliced bread has changed all that; we don’t see the breaking of whole loaves so much anymore, and even when I brought one, it was a source of befuddlement. The priest sliced that loaf, brought it back into the chapel and proceeded with the regularly scheduled program. I was humored and then humbled.

As the bread was broken and passed it felt very personal. It was the work of my own hands, but really a small and simple thing made of basic things. But it was the blessing and breaking that made my good bread into something more, and not just for me alone. What I had made was good, but the blessing from God made it sacred, and then shared. A small thing that I had done, blessed to become the sacrament for so many. That was holy.

Real bread—flour, salt, liquid, and leavening—is a sacred thing to me, evidence that transformation is possible. Simple ingredients when properly combined and worked become something so much more. I think that is why I love baking so dearly. I take ingredients and change them irreversibly; through grinding, sifting, mixing, kneading, shaping, rising and a shock of heat they become a new thing, chemically changing in the process, insomuch that the final product does not resemble the raw materials at all. The original ingredients become something more. I’ve promised myself that when my son is older and assigned to bring the bread, I will be making it with him. I want him to understand transformation more fully, to see the simple ingredients become so much more, to sift, work and shape them, change them into something new. He should know that true change is possible, understand why bread is the exculent symbol of God above all other food.

In the scriptures we read more about bread than any other food; there are more than 100 references to it. There is even a recipe for it. People unite to break bread. God gave the Israelites daily bread. Bread has been a reward, reminder, and a blessing. Christ blessed the five thousand that hungered with miraculous bread and told them that He was the true bread to satisfy their souls. Bread is the symbol because it has meaning. We eat bread by the sweat of our brow to live. It is life, as Christ is ours. Bread is a result of changes, work, and unity; coming to Christ is a similar process.

Week after week, I am regularly offering my very simple raw materials, trying to transform them to be enough, hoping to be something better than I have been. And as my bread was blessed as the sacrament table, I am too. I am changed. There is meaning in bread; I feel it as I take the sacrament, crush it between my teeth and break it down with the moisture of my tongue, and take in the miracle of change.

Should the bread we use for the sacrament matter? What is bread to you? Do you make it or buy it? (No judgment on that one—I have done both at different stages).

Related posts:

1. What is wrong with food?
2. The Power in You
3. Pot Luck?

On Monday, Jan. 23, 2012 at 7:45 a.m. the eyes and ears of many in the world of children’s literature will be on Dallas. That’s where and when the Association for Library Service to Children (a division of the American Library Association) will announce the winner of the 2012 Randolph Caldecott Award. The award, named in honor of nineteenth-century English illustrator Randolph Caldecott, is awarded annually “to the artist of the most distinguished American picture book for children.”

Figuring out what makes “the most distinguished” illustrated book for kids is an arduous task performed by a 15 person committee of librarians selected by the ALA and intentionally diverse. For the generally subdued subset of humanity that children’s librarians constitute, there can apparently be very heated exchanges during the process and snarky controversy after the fact.  I’m not wild about every selection. I guess it’s a case of “beauty is in the eye of the book-holder.”

As an artist and a writer, I love picture books. Some women like jewelry. I would rather have new beautiful picture books.

As a mom I love them, too, and made good use of them when my kids were young back in the ‘hood (Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, that is). We had a nightly routine of huddling together and reading one picture book and one scripture story, generally from a children’s scripture version. Once, when we read a kid-friendly version of the story of David and Bathsheba, my daughter interrupted and said, “I guess it’s like Mr. Rogers says: The very same people who are good sometimes are the very same people who are bad sometimes.”

Some of our family’s favorite picture books  include:

Brave Irene and Pete’s a Pizza by William Stieg

Mr. & Mrs. God in Creation’s Kitchen by Nancy Wood, illustrated by T. B. Ering

When the Relatives Came by C. Rylant, illustrated by S. Gammell

And, a more recent one, Pocketful of Posies by Salley Mavor

I’m eager to see what the 2012 Caldecott judges pick. Some of the books getting a lot of 2012 Caldecott buzz are:

Grandpa Green by Lane Smith

Blackout by John Rocco

Me…Jane by Patrick McDonnell

I Want My Hat Back by J. Klassen

Brother Sun, Sister Moon by Katherine Paterson

Heart and Soul by Kadir Nelson

Press Here by Herve Tullet

Blue Chicken by Deborah Freedman

I guess I’ll just be nibbling my nails until Monday morning.

In the meantime, distract me from my Caldecott angst. What are your predictions for the Caldecott? Do you have strong opinions about any of the ones mentioned above? What are some of your favorite picture books – even if they’re not award winners?  What about books that your kids love but you don’t? How would you define “most distinguished American picture book”? How do you incorporate reading into your children’s lives?

Related posts:

1. Book of Miracles
2. How Do We Know?
3. The Stories of Christmas