Blog Segullah

Worldwide Roll Call

Michelle L. — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 06:08:47 +0000

While our American readers attend parades, eat ice cream and light fireworks today, let’s have everyone outside of the U.S.A. raise their hand.

Yes, you. That means you! And if any of you U.S. of Aers are skipping the pancake breakfast, feel free to join in the discussion too.

We are indeed a worldwide church, but it’s easy to be Amerocentric sometimes. And in some ways who can blame us?

I’m in beautiful Vienna, Austria right now and while shopping at a Viennese grocer this morning I heard American music piped through the speakers, saw posters for American movies and noted that the tabloids feature American celebrities.

In a world where there’s a McDonald’s on every corner and each school child learns English, it’s hard not to feel like we are the center of the universe.

But we’re not.

God is the center of the universe and unites us all.

So tell me, please. What efforts have you seen to make the church friendly to different cultures and peoples? How can we do better?

Scout Mom

Guest — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 13:22:42 +0000

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.

When I was a four-year-old Sunbeam, I spent a lot of time playing hooky. I was the lone girl in a class of five rambunctious boys, and developed a knack for escaping the treachery of sharing time for the safety of my mother’s company. I usually ended up exploring the church, but inevitably someone would find one of my exasperated parents who took me into their reluctant custody. One particular Sunday, Dad found me on his way to be set apart for a new calling. The bishop smiled and told me to have a seat. I climbed onto a black upholstered chair and let my legs dangle off the edge. The quiet of the room broke into my imaginative reverie, the softness of the spirit making itself apparent. The Bishop and counselors set my dad apart to be the deacon’s quorum adviser, which included being the Scoutmaster. They said a small and simple prayer to help a young father tackle a demanding calling, but it was also a spiritual milestone for a small girl struggling to find her place in church. The mantle my dad received would remain in place 15 years and change innumerable lives, including my own.

And so began my education in all things scout-related. Most summer weekends growing up we were inundated with keyed up twelve-year-old boys, itching to be let loose in the forest. The treachery of sharing time suddenly seemed like small potatoes. My sisters and brother and I received nicknames, and noogies. A twelve-year-old is infinitely better equipped to tease a little girl than her kindergarten counterpart. Our lawn was usually littered with camping remains; olive green socks, dented canteens, backpacks and bedrolls. As Scoutmaster, Dad took it upon himself to haul tweens “hither and yon” across the vast mountainous and desert landscape of San Juan County, Utah. They hiked and camped, argued and learned, sunburned and swam, and all of them thought my dad was the greatest. They called him Mr. B, and he helped them along the scout path of merit bags to the ultimate accomplishment: The Eagle Court of Honor. Over the years they morphed from gangly, scrawny boys to strong and confident young men.

One of the favorite scout activities of the year became the redrock biking trip. Dad would pack up the boys and their mountain bikes and drive towards Arches National Park. People come from all over the world to ride the scarlet trails of Moab those young scouts could ride. A mountain bike for dad was never in the budget, but he always had a buddy to borrow from and the slickrock trail became a yearly adrenaline-pumping tradition. One year his troops secretly raised money to buy him a highly-rated mountain bike. I’ll never forget the gaggle of boys presenting it to their humbled scout master in the living room of our house. Tears rolled slowly down Dad’s weathered cheeks, it was a tender moment for years of sacrificing time with his own family to mold the sons of another.

Everything I know about being a scout mom I learned by watching mine. Mom always encouraged Dad to keep going. Fifteen years of camping can get old. She told him once, “You never know which one of these boys might grow up to marry your daughter.” My sisters and I didn’t marry a scout molded under dad’s tutelage, but we all followed our mother’s example of choosing an Eagle Scout. I think of her hard work, not just for her son but decades of deacons. She rolled sleeping bags and patched backpacks. She made an extra lunch or two for the scout who would inevitably claim he didn’t know he was supposed to bring one. She kept my brother going towards his Eagle. Even when he dragged his feet and procrastinated, she never let up. I don’t remember her complaining or being upset by any of it. She must have known her part in the greater picture.

Of the many things I learned about scouting, the foremost idea in my mind is this formulated recipe: take one obnoxious boy, coat generously with sunscreen, toss him into the wilderness with two adult leaders and lots of his friends, make sure to occasionally lose him, teaching him to pray in scary situations. Add a large helping of silly scout songs, dutch oven potatoes, and a dash of freezing nearly to death in a pup tent and Wal-mart sleeping bag. Don’t forget to omit bathing for at least a week. If the recipe is followed correctly, a mother can expect to receive back a teenage boy who has accomplished something rather remarkable. We’ll call him an Eagle Scout.

So, I buy the $25.00 cub scout shirt (a little big so it lasts longer), and a wolf book.It will require lots of reading, goal-setting, gentle nudging, reminding, and maybe some threatening, to finish. I also know first-hand that it will be worth the investment.

Today my eight year old son pinned a small tie tack to a simple ribbon hanging loosely around my neck. It had a little bobcat on it. His first goals realized and first reward earned. The pin is for me as a thank-you for helping him. This help mostly coming in the form of driving him “hither and yon” to pack meetings. I take in this moment when his arms and legs are skinny and awkward, when he stumbles a little during his first flag ceremony. I think of the sunburns, and prayers, and also of the leaders who’ll be molding him. I imagine him morphing into a stronger, confident, and spiritual kid. I wonder if all those lessons on honesty and integrity will seep into my everyday actions as well. Can scouts make a mom a better mom? Will I mature along with Quinton, will my spiritual arms become leaner and stronger? I think of my Dad, the many weekends we went without him. The scout paraphernalia on the lawn, the nicknames teasing scouts gave us, and the admiration in their eyes when they were about to embark on another adventure with Mr. B. I think of all this and I am grateful to know what scouts can do for a boy, and maybe I’ll come to know what it can do for his mother.

Because this is what I’m really thinking about this morning:

Brooke — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 12:26:44 +0000

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?

“All Things Must Fail”

m&m — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 08:21:54 +0000

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.

But after a very short time, the magic combination stopped working. (The drug he gave me had a side effect of helping with sleep. My body quickly adjusted to the drug and the side effect went away.)

To say I was devastated is an understatement. Not only was I back to being physically behind the eight ball, but spiritually and emotionally, I was in a hole, one that felt deeper than before. Hope and gratitude gave way to feelings of helplessness and grief. Why had something that felt so miraculous been taking from me? And what was I to do now? I was angry, worried, weary.

It took a few weeks and a few significant experiences to remember a sobering scriptural phrase that helped me reset my perspective.

“Wherefore, cleave unto charity, which is the greatest of all, for all things must fail.”

The word ‘must’ intrigues me. Is it possible that one of the only ways I can learn to lean on the Lord is to have all the other things on which I tend to rely fail me? I wonder…. Does this scripture tie into what it means to be compelled to be humble, or to have weakness revealed?

I’m reminded of Elder Holland, who said:

Life has its share of some fear and some failure. Sometimes things fall short, don’t quite measure up. Sometimes in both personal and public life, we are seemingly left without strength to go on. Sometimes people fail us, or economies and circumstance fail us, and life with its hardship and heartache can leave us feeling very alone.

But when such difficult moments come to us, I testify that there is one thing which will never, ever fail us. One thing alone will stand the test of all time, of all tribulation, all trouble, and all transgression. One thing only never faileth—and that is the pure love of Christ.

For me, it’s one thing to talk about faith in the Savior — it’s another thing to really try to live it, to really trust Him, regardless of what specific things may (or may not) be happening in my life.

How have you learned to lean on the Lord more in your life, to “cleave unto [His] charity” — especially when other things have failed?

Hey, all you writers and bloggers out there, read this!

Shelah — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 15:40:09 +0000

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!

“You live in Utah now, put on some clothes”

Shelah — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 15:28:39 +0000

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.

Each time, I suppressed an inward groan as someone else showed up, and found myself apologizing for my shivering, immodest, hairy-legged state:

“Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to shower this morning.”

“I don’t usually dress like this.”

“They showed up earlier than I thought they would.”

In Texas, I never would have dreamed of apologizing to the neighbors for my running shorts. In Texas, I never would have shivered on a June morning. In Texas, I hardly knew my next-door neighbors’ first names.

I don’t feel bad about what I wear for exercise, but I’m starting to realize that maybe I hang around in my shorts and tank tops longer than is strictly necessary. Most mornings, when I get back into the house after a run, I’m met at the door by one kid who wants a drink, another one who needs a new pull up, and a sink full of dishes and unmade beds calling to me from every bedroom. Usually the last thing on my mind is getting into the shower and more modest clothing. Here, I’m embarrassed when I take out the trash mid-morning, hours after I’ve gotten back from my run, and say hi to my neighbors in my barely-there shorts. But maybe I should be embarrassed. Maybe my embarrassment is a subtle nudge to do better in this part of my life.

Last night, after Sunday family dinner in the dining room, after Family Home Evening, my DH turned on a PBS documentary about giant squids for the boys. I was sweeping up from the floor 90% of a piece of cake my four-year-old had “eaten” for a treat. We heard a knock at the door. We’ve heard more unexpected knocks at the door in the last three weeks than we did our entire four years in Texas. Last night it was a neighbor family, members of the ward with kids close in age to ours, bearing brownies. I apologized for the mess as I took showed them around the house, apologized for the tv blaring in the family room, and once I was finally done apologizing, had a great time talking to them.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been so impressed by the kindness and friendliness of our neighbors here. I’ve never lived in a place (other than BYU) where my ward members and my neighbors were the same people, and these people have really gone out of their way to make us feel welcomed. If I can just stop apologizing right and left, I think I’ll be really happy here.

But first, I need to go take a shower…

Taking The Long Way Home

Guest — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 12:00:13 +0000

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.

* * * *

Hours later with eyes swollen from lack of sleep and tears, the days events were running as scheduled. Events that had been carefully planned out days, weeks in advance to make the most of our brief time together. The birth father and I had each picked out a children’s book to read alone with Cameron. We dressed him in a new outfit of our choosing. A father’s blessing was administered jointly by the birth grandfathers.

At the appointed time my social worker from LDS Social Services arrived with an armful of paperwork. It was the only time I was not happy to see her loving face. My uterus contracted with pain; a subtle insult to injury that I wasn’t allowed my narcotic pain medication until after signing the legal documents. The birth father and I sat at the edge of my hospital bed, with Cameron lying in between us. One nurse stood in the doorway as a witness and shed silent tears. In one sentence I acknowledged that I was his legal birth mother, and then signed that right away while his wrinkled newborn fingers laced around my pointer in the Palmer Grasp reflex. The emotional and physical pain of that moment was almost more than I could bear. The small hospital room was thick with the Spirit and I sensed that we were not alone. The Lord says in Doctrine & Covenants 84: 88, “And whoso receiveth you there I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.”

Riding home in the back of my parents car with an empty womb and empty arms my thoughts turned to the experiences that brought me to this decision…

Pages torn from wedding magazines littered my bedroom floor as I searched for an empire waisted dress to hide my expanding belly. My freshman year of college was over and I was four months pregnant, living at home with my parents and two time zones away from my boyfriend. Long nightly phone calls were an emotional roller coaster as Ben’s dialogue turned from marriage to another option: adoption. My nightly prayer to God was that he would change Ben’s heart and tell him that our child deserved a two parent home and he therefore should take responsibility and marry me.

Then came the night that will forever be imprinted on my soul. The night when I poured out my fears to a loving Father in Heaven, who, when I was humble enough to ask His will for this child, spoke to my heart and enlightened my mind. From that night on I knew the child I was carrying, although biologically my relation was not mine to raise in this life. I realized that part of his mission on earth was to change the course of my life and to help me find my way back to the gospel.

Empowered with this knowledge my focus changed as I became a vessel to help Cameron find his family. The first file I read at my social worker’s office sent a lightning bolt through my body. His home had been found. One week before Cameron entered this world, Ben and I met his parents in a small room at LDS Social Services. Tidal waves of love and hate crashed through my heart. Love because they were happily married in a house of the Lord, had completed education, went to Lake Powell every year, were prepared to receive this child into their family. Hate for all the same reasons. Someday I wanted to be just like them.

* * * * *

Two years later my social worker was the last person out of the sealing room in the Salt Lake Temple to congratulate my husband and I on our marriage. We embraced and I whispered in her ear “I made it”. “Yes you did” she whispered back, “yes you did”.

You’re Invited: Segullah Studio Night

Leslie — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 01:07:58 +0000

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!

That’s Nervy

Justine — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 06:04:01 +0000

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.

I’m terrified.

I’m not sure what I’m afraid of, exactly, but I do know this. In the last decade, part of me has disappeared. In the mid-90’s, I had a secretary, I traveled all over the place, I walked with confidence, and spoke with authority (probably even arrogance). I negotiated contracts, wore power suits, and once even scolded Julio Eglasias.

Now, I’m a big fat mushy pile of warm and melting jello. I don’t know who that person was all those years ago. I don’t know how to find her. I don’t really want all of her back. I don’t want the office or the meetings; the pressure and the travel schedule.

But I would like to do something. Something!

I’m just so afraid I’ll blow it. Am I capable of all those things anymore? Has my mind been forever muddled by Big Bird and Pampers? Should I just be content to ramble on a blog that has to take me because I’m free? Maybe I’ll just take up Sudoku.

I’m looking for ways to gird up my loins, to square my shoulders, to jump back in the saddle, to ply myself into any one of a number of appropriate trite phrases.

I’ve become a willow, and I’d like some of the old oak back.

Find It!

Heather H. — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 16:33:17 +0000

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.

In fact, I spent a couple of hours last week reading blogs trying to find copycat cookie recipes for some stellar bakeries here in NYC. You can call me silly if you want, but I found it invigorating. I was so anxious to experiment, taste, and share. They turned out FANTASTIC! I always share my recipes. I figure, share the love, none of this keep it secret nonsense. However, you do have to actually follow the recipe, and that includes sifting when it says to sift, and room temperature butter and eggs are not optional if the recipe says “room temperature”. Baking is a science people! Anyway, that’s a tangent for another day. Because I don’t want to scare you away from trying new stuff. I want to remind you that the best way to learn is to do it. I gave an excellently delicious oatmeal chocolate chip cookie recipe to a friend of mine and she still hasn’t tried it. I asked her, “What in the world are you waiting for?”

“I’m too scared to try it. I’m afraid they won’t turn out as good as yours.” I gave her the recipe THREE YEARS AGO! But fear of failure is a real thing. Whether it be about cookies or something bigger. And here’s where I make my English major leap to an article from the last issue of Segullah, Finding Courage by Nicole Trone. She shares her first experiences as a missionary with a nervous trainer during a steamy Ukraine summer. Go read it and relate. We have to find the courage to overcome things that scare us. We have to admit our fears and face them. The things that follow may be scary, and we may even fail, but we’ll grow; we’ll learn.

The first batch of dark chocolate chocolate chip cookies were over baked and a little too cakey, but next time around I’ll use less baking powder, more soda and bake them less. I only know because I’ve tried. Gotta run, I can smell cinnamon and sugar and yeasty delicious rolls about to be ready in the oven.