S e g u l l a h
Intent to Do Good
It's 7:15 Monday morning. I'm on my knees on the hardwood floor, searching for Pre-schooler's socks under my bed, where my dear husband kicked the clean laundry. The uncomfortable maneuver is made more difficult by Second Grader hanging on my shirt chanting “I need food, I need food,” echoed by the hungry cries of Infant in my arms. Fourth Grader unloads a barrage of faulty logic at me, trying to convince me that she should stay home from school even though she has no symptoms of illness. I try to tune them all out, but I still hear the questions and complaints racing through my own mind—Why am I doing this? I hate it! I want to spend my life doing something that really helps people, something meaningful, like Gandhi, Mother Teresa or Martin Luther King Jr. did. I can't believe my best intellect and creativity are needed to find socks. And then I remember . . .
Overbright Wyoming sun bears down on my shoulders, rays so hot they are heavy, weighing me down. So bright—I squint at my bleached-out surroundings—the dried-up lawn in the teeny yard of our decrepit rental home, the neighbors' worn houses, this small town in Wyoming. How did a girl like me end up in a place like this? A few months earlier my husband and I had both been full-time students. Finishing my degree had seemed important to both of us, and so we shared housekeeping and childcare responsibilities equally. Our toddler had perched on Shane's hip as he taught undergrad geology courses and frolicked on a blanket in the middle of my medieval Spanish literature study group. It worked. I graduated, and Shane accepted a summer internship with a “real” oil company in this place. I gladly followed with my two-year-old child and seven-month-pregnant self. I remember the warm sunny day we drove off, leaving behind our equal student personae, and entered this small town in our new roles as a 9-to-5 breadwinning man and his seven-months-pregnant, stay-at-home wife. I hadn't thought any of this through—I didn't realize we were both interns for the summer, trying out our future careers.
The mosquitoes feasting on my shins bring me back to the task at hand—standing in the teeny yard, trying to hang out to dry the mountain of wet laundry balancing on my shoulder. The mosquitoes are murder, but swatting is impossible. The Largest Pregnant Belly the World Has Ever Seen and the shooting sciatica pain it causes make bending over nearly impossible. It is the middle of July, the hottest week of the year, and I've already passed a miserable half hour in this antique house with no air conditioning, washing dishes by hand in hot soapy water, wondering if the trickle tickling the side of my neck is sweat, condensation of the steam coming off my hands, or tears of frustration. I finally got the two-year-old asleep for a nap, and somehow dragged the million-pound hamper of wet clothes out of the car and into the yard without going into labor. I'm almost in tears again. This is my job; I want so badly to do it, to feel capable, but I had no idea it would be so hard; I had no idea it would hurt so much.
I've got a few items on the line now, and take a minute to balance on one foot (like The Karate Kid, or a very large flamingo) to scratch the shin of one leg with the heel of the other. I'm moving slowly, trying not to drop the clothes, trying not to drop the clothespins, trying not to hit the sciatica. Success! Both feet back on the ground, I move to hang the next item. Crisis! In slowest motion my foot comes down wrong on the uneven turf, and starts to turn under. I shift my weight to avoid a sprained ankle, and the clothespins fly out of my hands. I grab at them, knowing I won't be able to pick them up if they fall. But the sudden shift is in the wrong direction, and sciatica pain shoots down my leg like an electric shock. The clean wet clothes fly off my shoulder into the dust. Seriously afraid of falling now, I grab the clothesline, and manage to right myself, but at the cost of the clothes already hung. My grab bounces them off, and they land in the dust with the rest. I'm upright and whole, but the clothespins and laundry are all over the place. The yard is littered with debris from the Battle of the Laundry. And I have lost the battle. I retreat into the shade of the house, and find myself on my knees, in tears. The crying is not the polite upset of a pregnant woman, but the deep wracking sobs of a soul wrestling with the purpose of life.
It's so hard! It's all encompassing, overwhelming, this business of being pregnant, taking care of the home, the children, the family. It's impossible! No one can do all of it! And how is there time for anything else? How will I ever make a contribution to society? How will I ever live the gospel? I want to “feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and administer to their relief” like Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King Jr., or Gandhi. But how will I ever do all that if I can't even get my underwear clean?
I'd managed to ask my burning questions, and didn't expect a reply. But one came anyway. In my mind I heard my voice repeating Jacob 2:19, but this time it was accompanied by memories of what I'd done that day. I saw myself again struggling to clean the dishes in the stifling kitchen and understood that to be a part of “feeding the hungry.” My entire struggle with the laundry was part of “clothing the naked.” Kissing my two-year-old's hurts was definitely “administering to [her] relief.” And then I thought of the baby I would soon give birth to, and really considered how naked, hungry, and helpless he would be. Without feeding, clothing and care, he would not make it. I felt reassured that that while the world surely benefited from the work of Mother Teresa, my mothering contributed too. I was astounded as the mental light went on. Service was not something to get to when my work was done; my work was a way to serve.
It's 7:18, same Monday morning; everyone is still loudly voicing their needs, and I don't have time to reminisce any longer. But those few moments will do to remind me of the clarity of purpose I felt on a hot Wyoming July afternoon, when I gratefully committed to being a mom. With a slightly improved attitude, I forge on to find the socks, make breakfast, check a temperature, and do all that a mother does.
The most important of the Lord's work you and I will ever do will be within the walls of our own homes. [1]
[1] Harold B. Lee, Stand Ye in Holy Places (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1974), 255. Quoted by Howard W. Hunter, "Being a Righteous Husband and Father," Ensign, November 1994, 50.
AILENE LONG graduated from BYU in `96 with a double major in Russian and Spanish. Originally from Northern California, Ailene now lives in Houston, Texas with her four exceptional children, and her equally exceptional husband. Her children have at times been the Naked, the Hungry, and the Afflicted. She made time to write this essay while the baby napped, stopping only when the baby's cries proclaimed it was time to liberate the Captive.
