I’ve been conflicted over letting my daughter get her blessing at thirteen. I received my patriarchal blessing when I was twelve, and later I regretted not waiting longer. But my blessing occurred under unusual circumstances: We were living in Australia at the time. Because my father was a bishop, and the Church sent bishops and stake presidents in Australia to one General Conference during their tenure, my father had the opportunity to go to General Conference the October that I turned twelve. And since my two younger siblings and I had been born in the U.S., my parents decided to take a month-long family trip to the U.S. so we children could experience American culture and spend time with our American relatives. Since my father’s grandfather—my great-grandfather—was a patriarch at the time, and he was advancing in years (to put it nicely), my parents suggested I get my patriarchal blessing from him during our visit.

Of course, I was excited at the prospect—how many people can say that their great-grandfather gave them their patriarchal blessing? But I don’t remember if I prepared much—or at all—for the occasion. I was having too much fun hanging out with my cool American cousins, and my aunt, who was only three years older than I was, and having sleepovers and putting together talent shows for the big family reunion. I was enjoying going trick-or-treating for the first time, eating doughnuts and tacos and other delicious American food, and going to a real American high school for a day with my aunt.

But I do remember that on the day I received my blessing, as my great-grandfather placed his shaky hands on my head and pronounced a blessing in his quavering voice, calm and peace enveloped me, and I felt a distinct impression of being loved and known by God. About six weeks after we arrived back in Australia, a type-written copy of my blessing arrived in the mail, and I eagerly perused it, thought about it and what my future might hold, and then tucked it away in my drawer.

Over the years my blessing has been a comfort and a guide, and I’ve seen some of its promises unfold in my life, but I’ve always had a nagging feeling that I got my blessing too young. I wish I’d better understood its significance at the time. I wish I’d prepared myself more. I’ve even wondered if my blessing would have been longer, or more detailed, if I’d been older and better prepared when I received it.

So when my baby daughter approached me at thirteen and asked if she could receive her blessing, I advised her to wait. But over the past few months, as I’ve seen her longing and her earnest desire to receive her blessing, coupled with her spiritual maturity, I’ve come around to the idea of trusting her to know when she is ready. She is far more prepared than I was at twelve. A couple of weeks ago she met with the bishop for her interview, and came out of the interview beaming, recommend in hand. After fasting about it again last Sunday, tonight she’ll be calling the patriarch to make an appointment.

I’m still a little conflicted, but mostly I’m proud of my daughter for wanting to take this step. And I’m looking forward to being in the room when she receives her blessing, to the glimpse I’ll have of who my daughter really is and what the Lord has in store for her. I’ll savor the peace and joy of that sacred experience, knowing that, just as God knew me when I was twelve and knew the future me, as well, He knows my beloved daughter and knows who she is eternally. And there’s no age requirement for that.

How old were you when you received your patriarchal blessing? How did you prepare yourself beforehand? Do you wish you’d waited longer or prepared better? What advice do you give your children about receiving their patriarchal blessings? How has your blessing been a guide and help to you throughout your life?

Related posts:

1. Fount of Many Blessings
2. just show up
3. Good-Bye

“We don’t believe we’ve got a monopoly on truth,” were the words that eased my dad’s welcome into a room full of Methodists.  My father is the regional public affairs rep in his area, which means this wasn’t the first formal gathering where he has spoken to about us Mormons to those who are not. This particular group was a group of single adult Methodists aged 30-50ish. The goal of their study group was to learn about various religions, ways that other people understood God.

My dad’s utterance, was not the first time I’ve heard that phrase used.  I just wish we confessed it more freely.  And I am wishful for a Sunday School class that studies the world’s religions. Sigh. I just haven’t seen it offered in the 3 hour block just yet. I just wish it were. I have come to understand my own faith so much more fully as I have studied and observed other religions.

I felt that way in a chapel sparkling with stained glass sunlight where I watched a friend’s Copic (Egyptian Christian) wedding. It was a spiritual experience for me. The richness of the symbols in the ceremony connected with similar ideas in our own faith. And I marvelled at the parallel. I read about religious meditation and think I’m sorely in need of that mindfulness in my spiritual ponderings. A documentary about Mecca resonated in my soul as I saw the to the fervent devotion in the prayers always on the lips of the pilgrims. Today it was a Benedictine blessing shared by an acquaintance:

A Fourfold Benedictine Blessing

May God bless you with discomfort

At easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships,

So that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger

At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,

So that you may work for justice, freedom, and peace.

May God bless you with tears

To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger, and war,

So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and to turn their pain to joy.

And may God bless you with enough foolishness

To believe that you can make a difference in the world,

So that you can do what others claim cannot be done,

To bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor.

– Sister Ruth Fox, OSB

I was struck. Often we pray for nice things like peace, charity, kindness. This prayer by Sister Ruth Fox, a nun from the Sacred Heart Monestary, doesn’t. It embraces humanities commonly seen as weakness as appropriate and desirable for the right moments, and as signals to seek peace, exercise charity and share kindness. We don’t come from a tradition of scripted prayers, and so reading this one makes me stop and wonder about all of the prayers and meditation went into this one before Sister Ruth penned it. I add this prayer to my own.

I kind of like knowing that I don’t have to have at all from Mediterranean Place to Boardwalk. We all learn line by line, precept by precept. I am thankful for the many lines I do have, a gospel with so many more, and for the opportunity to borrow a few from others. Personally, I understand best as I learn about the world around me and relate and adapt it in my own life. Whether it is law of physics, a math principle, literary device or an additional meaning from another denomination, I want to seek out wisdom from the best of books. I love that our thirteenth article of faith ends on this line: If there is anything virtous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.

How have you found truths elsewhere? What other principles have enriched your understanding?

Related posts:

1. The [Mama Trying] on the Mount
2. A Blessing for Mothers’ Day
3. When Faith Makes it Harder

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?

Related posts:

1. Hey, Everybody! Let’s Give It Up for…
2. Spiritual Resiliency
3. Patriarchal Blessing

And it’s in that spirit, and in the spirit of gratitude, that I want to sing praises of my own, so to speak, to my God today. My prayers are too often full of petitions and pleas while being scarce on thankfulness and praise. What better time to give thanks than Thanksgiving week?

But first, a few thoughts on gratitude. On Sunday, after hearing Brother Boye sing in sacrament meeting, we talked in Young Women about how gratitude helps us cultivate meekness and offset pride. I taught my Beehive class that the commandment to be grateful, like all other commandments, is given by a loving Heavenly Father for our benefit: gratitude blesses us—it reminds us there’s a greater power beyond ourselves; it makes us happier, helps us better handle our trials, and counteracts selfishness and bitterness. And then that night I listened to Stephanie Nielson speak in a stake youth fireside about gratitude during adversity (two brushes with fame in one day!) and as I listened to her give heartfelt and loving thanks to the Lord for sustaining and blessing her through her trials, heard her express her gratitude for being able to perform simple tasks like making her kids’ school lunches (a chore I often bemoan) and buttoning up her daughter’s coat, I knew I needed a serious gratitude check.

So here’s what I feel grateful for right now as I write this post: the sound of my daughter playing Christmas songs on the piano, which fills me with a tender mixture of nostalgia and comfort; my dog snoozing next to me on the couch, her legs twitching as she chases a bird in her sleep; the sky aflame with pink and orange as the sun slips below the horizon. I’m grateful for the turkey thawing in my fridge, and the prospect of family gathering to eat good food on Thursday. I’m grateful for my laptop. I’m grateful for scriptures, for the Conference issue of the Ensign, which I’ve been reading over the last couple of weeks and which has soothed me and nourished my soul. Most of all, however, I’m grateful today for the tender, compassionate reminders I received last week that God is mindful of me and, more importantly to me right now, my children. I am grateful that He knows my heart, my fears and concerns, and my longings, and that He hears me when I cry out to Him in my extremity. I know that all good things come from Him and that He is the source of my joy and salvation.

I echo the words of my missionary son, who wrote the following in his email last week after struggling with a difficult companion for the past month and a half: “I’m learning [so much] about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. It’s changed me. I don’t know if I’ll be recognizable when this is all over, because He is changing me so much. And I never deserved it, never deserved any of this, but it’s a gift He freely gives us. I cannot express with words how much I feel the Savior’s love, even and especially in this most difficult part of my mission.”

Only the Lord knows what those words meant to me. With deep love and reverence I add my voice to David’s in the eighteenth Psalm: “I will love thee, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust….I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised…for who is God save the Lord? Or who is a rock save our God?…The Lord liveth; and blessed be my rock…Therefore I will give thanks unto thee, O Lord…and sing praises unto thy name.”

And like Alex Boye, I want to lift my voice in song and praise and declare, “How Great Thou Art.”

What are you feeling grateful for this week? How do you teach your children about gratitude? And have any sacrament meeting musical numbers stirred your soul lately?

Related posts:

1. Singing My Praises
2. In Praise of Youth Leaders
3. More Righteous

And then Sis Beck announced that President Uchtdorf would be speaking and I felt like I’d just won a golden ticket. =) Yes, the rest of the meeting had been great but oh, how I love President Uchtdorf. Now, I love listening to Pres. Monson and I feel his prophetic mantle every time he speaks, and I think there are few people on this planet as articulate and gracious and well-spoken as Pres. Eyring. But Pres. Uchtdorf, well, he’s my secret favorite General Authority (and I suspect many women in the Church feel the same) and I always LOVE his talks. His messages are unfailingly astute and timely, and he delivers them in such a personable, kind, and loving way, with that dash of wit and those unforgettable analogies, that it’s impossible not to feel a zing of joy every time he delivers a sermon. And, as one of my Segullah friends so aptly put it on Sunday night, “Wow, does that man understand women, or what!?”

Yes he does, and his talk Saturday night was just what I needed; I’ve been pondering over it ever since. So today I thought we could discuss what we loved about President Uchtdorf’s talk and how it relates to us individually. Each of the five points he covered could be a sermon in itself, and each of them gave me so much to think about that it’s going to take me a while to internalize the whole talk, but here are my initial thoughts on the five “forget nots” (and will you ever be able to look at a forget-me-not again and not think of President Uchtdorf’s talk?):

1. Forget not to be patient with yourself. As someone who often feels discouraged by her weaknesses and who tends to compare herself to other more successful, accomplished, talented, organized, intuitive, loving, and patient LDS women, wives, and mothers (I’m sure you don’t have this problem, however), I really needed to be reminded that turning my weaknesses into strengths is a long-term goal, and that I need to extend the compassion I often give others to myself.

2. Forget not that some sacrifices are better than others. Oh wow. If I had a penny for every time I stayed up all night, cross-stitching the RS lesson’s theme onto pot holders…..okay, I’ve never done that, but I have spent a lot of time (and even stayed up all night on occasion) on relatively unimportant projects, tasks, assignments, and even hobbies while neglecting the better part—my physical health, my spiritual and emotional wellbeing, my family. Figuring out what’s really important and the difference between good, better, and best is an ongoing challenge for me, so I needed this timely reminder.

3. Forget not to be happy now. Especially pertinent to me! Finding peace and contentment during times of stress and trouble has never been my strong suit; I tend to just endure or mope through the present (especially when the present is hard) as I wait for some elusive future joy. But lately I’ve been trying to savor the everyday beauty and sweetness that surrounds me now. President Uchtdorf’s talk reinforced those attempts and motivated me to continue.

4. Forget not the why of the gospel. I loved this. How often do I focus on the what and how instead of the why? About 90% of the time, I’m guessing. But, oh, how I want to live the gospel motivated by the why. And I want to help my children internalize the profound truth that living the gospel gives us purpose and joy. Much easier to teach if I focus on the whys.

5. Forget not that the Lord loves you. Such a simple truth, but one I need reminding of often. I stand with the young women in our ward every Sunday and say, “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us, and we love Him”—and yet sometimes—especially when I’m slogging through a trial—I fail to recognize the miracle and reality of this truth in my own life. So let this fact sink deep into our bones, into our souls: God loves us. He loves me. He loves you. He loves each of us with a perfect, infinite, abiding love. He won’t ever overlook us or forsake us.

And that’s something I never want to forget.

And now it’s your turn. What did you enjoy about the RS broadcast? Which talks resonated with you? What did you love about Pres. Uchtdorf’s talk? How does the counsel he gave apply to your life?

Related posts:

1. Slow Down
2. Judge Not–Or Should We?
3. Creation and Compassion

My United Methodist Confirmation Class. I'm on the right in the front row.

I know this may be tempting the fates, but I have never yet served in the Young Women’s program. When I joined the church in college in Massachusetts, I joined a university ward that only had adult programs. I had all manner of wonderful role models – male and especially female. I had mentors of great wisdom, devotion, intelligence and commitment. Rather than saying I stand on the shoulders of giants, I like to think I was nurtured in the laps of sages.

There’s a gap for me, though. What is it like to grow up in the Young Women’s program? Would I view things differently if I had? What did I miss?

I was a devoted Christian of the Protestant stripe when I became a Mormon. I had been president of the youth group of my congregation. I wasn’t searching for anything new or better. Boys and girls were taught the same thing in the same classes, and those were all good things: how do we become better disciples? What does it mean to forgive and repent and love? What do the scriptures say and mean?

I’m also the youngest of three Midwestern daughters of an accomplished mom and a busy dad. I never knew any boy scouts well. I had friends who were boys and occasionally I had boyfriends, but gender differences weren’t a significant part of my life. I went to a women’s college – Wellesley College, one of the few that still exist – and it didn’t seem strange to me to be surrounded by and compete with competent, sometimes outspoken women. Even in coed classes I was never shy about voicing my opinions or taking the subject matter seriously. That’s just what people did.

These many years later I am bemused by how roles for men and women get parsed or pedestalled in LDS circles. I am surprised to still find myself one of the only female voices piping up in Sunday School class. Is that just because of where I live? While I was delighted to marry my husband, I had already decided that if I were going to live my life single, it would also be full of purpose and joy. When my husband and I married we were still in a singles’ ward which was also where most of our friends were. We chose to stay in the singles ward with them. Why would so many people assume we would want to change to a married ward?

If you went through the Young Women’s program – or have served in it – what are the fundamental messages you received or teach? What were some of your most foundational experiences shaping you as a young woman growing up in the church? (Good or bad, shared in a spirit of good will, of course.) If you, like I, never attended Young Women’s, what’s your take and perspective on the topic?

Related posts:

1. Pot Luck?
2. Launching our youth into adulthood
3. Goodbye Old Ward!

Most people who know me probably wouldn’t use the word “patient” in a description of my characteristics. I have numerous scars on my hands and fingers that are the result of impatient actions—vigorously washing dishes and breaking them; quickly grabbing for some sharp implement and hurting myself; cramming something into place that actually needed gentle coaxing and causing a cut or a slash on my hands. It’s a gene-pool thing according to my husband: he worked with my grandfather and great-uncles. They were usually set on “high,” “fast,” and “zoom”. I know, we aren’t lackadaisical. I used to think my gung-ho style was an asset. (And sometimes it is—don’t get me wrong.) But, in a spiritual, philosophical, metaphysical way, it is a handicap. Let me explain.

The other day in Sunday School, I got a new outlook on an old principle. We were reading from D & C 21: 4-6. It is God telling us how the Church should give heed to His prophet. When the prophet is walking in all holiness before Him, and receives commandments, then we should receive these words from the prophet “as if from mine own mouth, in all patience and faith.”

The last four words were what got my attention. I’ve known about the admonition to regard prophetic statements as “if from mine own mouth”—referring to God’s mouth my entire life. But that day, as we contemplated this scripture, I was struck by the Lord including the need for us to show patience with our faith. I have a lot of experience with faith. I’ve had mine tried over and over. I’ve exercised faith in many situations. Faith is my friend and companion and hero. But patience is an infrequent partner of mine.

We humans are always measuring time. I know that the nine-year-olds with whom I spend my day generally only consider the moment. Their whole life occurs in that day. I can ruin their life or make their life. It is an awesome power I don’t take lightly. As we grow older, into our 20′s and 30′s, we don’t get much more perspective than my fourth graders. Oh, sure, many of us learn to budget our time and plan enough to complete college or some type of vocational training. We learn to be an employee or a parent. We know we have to save up our money, defer gratification, go to work on time, wait for the green light. We learn lots of things that nine-year-olds can’t do well. Those young adults that don’t learn this end up in jail fairly often. But still, we do not really know about patience yet.

Finally, as a woman of A Certain Age, I’m starting to get a teeny-tiny glimpse of my existence as God sees it. I’m a work in progress. I need guidance continually. I need an anchor or a standard to use as a reference. If I listen to the words of God, as spoken by His prophets, I’ll have the anchor. But only if I listen to them using faith and patience. It takes a whole life of listening to the prophets to learn to see things the way God sees them, using the outlook of eternity. I am so often rushing about that I don’t stop and gaze at the long view. God’s words, through His mouthpiece, the prophet, are usually unchanging. They are usually unaffected by fashion or current vogue. These words are focused on my inner qualities and require me to monitor my passions and actions regardless of what others do or say.

In other words, God needs me to be patiently listening, patiently correcting myself over time, patiently doing His will. He doesn’t ask me to rush about accomplishing tasks. He asks me to have faith, to align my desires and goals with His. This is something that can only be done through a slow process of continual, careful, patient work. If I have been seeing my life as series of milestones to achieve, He sees it as a process of refinement. What I do isn’t the goal. What I become is the important thing. Patience.

Related posts:

1. Sustaining in patience and faith
2. And This too Shall Pass
3. An Epistle to my Good Senses

***

This past weekend I read an article in the Deseret News entitled, “Why Children?” in which the author, Michael de Groote, discussed happiness and parenting. According to the studies cited in the article, the two don’t go together. “Scientific studies have found that having children does not increase happiness. In fact, experts say it has the opposite effect,” says De Groote, and he claims that these findings “are confirmed across decades of research.” He refers to a 1989 study that concluded that “parents with children at home worry more, feel less efficacious and are less happy with their marriages than nonparents,” then goes on to quote a Harvard psychology professor who asserts that most couples’ happiness begins to decline when children come along; this decline is especially acute when children are small and when they become adolescents, with couples returning to their pre-parenting happiness levels only after their children leave the nest. In another study cited in the article, researchers assert that “the best evidence now available indicates that the present young adults should not decide to have children on the basis of expectations that parenthood will lead to psychological rewards in the later stages of life. The prospects for such rewards seem rather dim, at best.”

***

As Latter-day Saints, we believe we have a sacred duty to have children. In fact, the plan for our progression, which we often call the plan of happiness, includes having children of our own and creating families. We believe that we fulfill the measure of our creation by having posterity, and that we will have joy in doing so. Not only do we endorse having children and believe that parenting is one of life’s central purposes, we teach that our reward for righteous living will be a state of joy in which, among other things, we’ll have the privilege of…. being a parent forever.

Yet, if the research De Groote cites in his article has any validity, one could argue that eternal parenting sounds more like eternal misery than eternal happiness. Hmmm. I will say that now that I’ve had some experience as a mother, I’ve learned that, though I love my children beyond words, parenting is HARD. Blood, sweat, and tears hard. It definitely can make you vulnerable and susceptible to pain in ways you’ve never experienced before and it has the tendency to thrust all of your weaknesses to the forefront. And yes, sometimes you can go through periods in your marriage when, despite your best intentions, the demands of parenting leave you and your spouse stressed out and stretched thin, with little left for each other.

But therein lies the paradox. I believe it’s precisely because parenting is so hard that it also has the potential for lasting, significant joy. And I mean joy, not the world’s definition of happiness, which can be fleeting and superficial—and hard to quantify in a scientific study. Joy entails work and commitment. Joy is a richer, deeper emotion, closely tied to its counterpart, sorrow, and children provide us with plenty of both. Eve must have understood this keenly as she nursed her newborns, then later wept over Cain and Abel.

***

It’s been many years since those sunny days I spent with my firstborn, wrapped in a cocoon of new-mother love, full of plans and hopes and dreams. Though parenting has been harder than I ever imagined, that love has swelled and deepened, sanctified and shaped me. Nothing has challenged me and humbled me to the dust more than parenting, but nothing has been as soul expanding, refining, and fulfilling. And that, to me, is happiness, pure and simple.

Does mothering make you “happy”? Have you been surprised by how challenging parenting can be? Have you also been surprised by how fulfilling it can be? Do you agree with the studies cited by De Groote that marital happiness takes a dip when a couple becomes parents, then improves after children leave home? How can we teach our youth to value and look forward to parenting while giving them realistic expectations of parenting?

Related posts:

1. The Parenting Works Cited Page
2. How To Be Happy
3. Tiger Mothers, Mormon Mommy Bloggers, and Happiness

So you will think I’m a little nuts (you can join my husband) when I tell you that I’ve recently begun exercising and helping care for two German shorthaired pointers who have been living since last summer in a kennel in my brother- and sister-in-law’s yard next door. How these dogs came to live at my in-laws’ and why they’re kept in a kennel all day and night with little exercise or attention (though they’re fed daily and have a dog igloo to sleep in) is a long and complicated story. Suffice it to say that although it’s supposed to be a temporary arrangement, it’s lasted too long, and it’s been difficult for everyone involved—especially for the poor dogs. And that, despite my intention to remain detached, somehow I found myself volunteering to help.

So for the past five weeks, every morning after the kids leave for school I’ve been pulling on my thermals and sweats and my coat and gloves and scarf and my big heavy snow boots, filling my pockets with doggy treats and dog-poop bags, and trudging across my yard through the snow to my brother- and sister-in-law’s yard next door. As soon as they see me, the dogs leap over and over in their kennel, throwing themselves against the chain-link fence and barking deliriously until I let them out, bracing myself so that they don’t knock me over. Then I watch them streak through the open gate and bound across the snow to our fenced-in yard, where my own dog, Daisy, and two bowls of dog food await them.

For the next hour I play endless games of fetch, watch the three dogs chase each other around the yard and wrestle in the snow while I try to ignore the growing patches of mud where the dogs have kicked up the lawn or dug holes. I dole out treats and pick up countless piles of dog poop and try to break up the wrestling when it gets too rough (not exactly what I envisioned myself doing all those years ago when I dreamed of having all my kids in school).

Over the past month I’ve learned that Dash, who is white and liver-spotted, is the older yet more submissive of the two. He loves to toss toys in the air with his mouth and catch them as he runs, and he likes to dig holes. He pounces playfully when he wants to wrestle with Daisy, and he gives in during tug-o’-wars over a chew toy. Sambo, the black dog (and yes, I acknowledge it’s an unfortunate choice of name), is the alpha. Not quite a year old, he’s fifty pounds of quivering, pent-up energy. He jumps on me with muddy paws and noses my pockets for treats. He runs in endless circles around the yard and hurls himself at Daisy, nipping at her ears and neck, and runs away from me when I try to clip on his leash. I am hopeless as a dog trainer so the only thing I’ve managed to teach him is to stand with all four paws on the ground instead of jumping on me when he wants a treat. I guess it’s a start.

When playtime is over I put leashes on the dogs (after I finally catch Sambo) and walk them back across the yard (they look at me resignedly with their chocolate-brown eyes). I shut myself up with them in their kennel while I scoop piles of poop off of the cement floor and skim the ice from the top of their water bucket. I pet their heads and rub their ears and then I trudge back home, squaring my shoulders and ignoring their cries. I clean up the yard and throw away the poop, wipe off Daisy’s paws and mop up her muddy prints after we come inside. Then I try to make the most of what’s left of the day.

As you can imagine, some days this routine feels like one more big chore added to my already heavy load. I complain to my husband about my lack of time during the day, about my aching shoulders from playing fetch and my aching back from shoveling snow out of the dogs’ kennel. I complain about the mud. I say, “I swear I cannot get the smell of dog poop out of my nostrils.” Part of me wonders if I’m being a martyr, or a masochist, or both.

But on other days, I find the winter doldrums receding as I watch the dogs chase each other around in circles, nipping at each others’ tails, rolling around in the snow and pulling each other over the grass as they tug on the same piece of rope. I smile, utterly charmed by their funny dog ways. Striding around the yard, dogs trailing after me, I feel rugged and outdoorsy, like those English women with weathered faces who breed dogs and wear tweed and riding boots. The river is running just beyond our backyard, and my cheeks are cold in the bracing air, and the dogs are happy as they fling themselves into the moment—pure joy. And something in me loosens; the heaviness in my chest eases, and I bask in the quiet, peaceful respite.

And on those days, spring doesn’t seem that far away.

Are you tired of winter? What helps you shake off the winter doldrums? Have you ever found an unexpected relief or blessing while taking on an added burden? And, finally, how do you handle touchy situations with in-laws? (I’d really like to know this one.)

Related posts:

1. It’s Snow Problem…
2. January Word Games
3. It’s All About Poop

I’d just found out after weeks of bloating and pain that my amoebas were back. I also had a cold and hadn’t slept well in days. That morning our investigator, Marisa, had been too drunk after a late-night party to listen to our charla; and our golden family’s baptism, scheduled for the following Sunday, had fallen through during their baptismal interview that afternoon when Hermano Roque confessed that he and Hermana Roque weren’t actually married. As dusk settled over the city, Hermana Francia and I trudged home through a torrential rainstorm, lightning flashing all over the sky, arriving home with soaked shoes and icy fingers. At supper, I quarreled with our pension lady over the bread—she refused to give us the two rolls promised in our pension agreement–and I ended up blubbering into my warm milk.

And then I remembered: the next day was Thanksgiving.

The next morning, with our district leader’s permission, Hermana Francia and I walked to the outdoor market, where sheep heads and pigs’ feet and slabs of cow stomach hung on hooks, stray dogs sniffing in the dirt below. Women dressed in their traditional colorful skirts and bowler hats, with babies slung on their backs, sold us potatoes, cobs of corn, apples, yams, and two scrawny chickens, and we carried everything home in our netted shopping bags. After we borrowed dishes and utensils from our landlady’s kitchen, Hermana Francia showed me how to pluck the chickens and clean out their gizzards. We sent the elders—who were excited at the prospect of an American feast (especially poor Elder Moore)—to buy butter and cream and to scout out an oven, and they came back reporting that a bakery down the street had agreed to let us use theirs. All morning we worked in our makeshift kitchen, peeling potatoes, stuffing the chickens, candying the yams. Feeling brave and reckless, I made an apple pie without a recipe, guessing as I kneaded butter and sugar into flour and scattered sugar and cinnamon over thinly sliced apples. While we boiled the potatoes over a Bunsen burner on our little table, the elders ferried the chickens and the yams and the pie to the bakery and back—and the bakery oven was so hot that the pie cooked in just twenty minutes.

At 1:00 our district—four elders and two sisters—as well as the welfare sisters, sat down to a miraculous feast, spun out of thin air, it seemed, assembled with ingenuity and hope in a missionary sisters’ rented room. I thought Elder Moore was going to start weeping as he lifted a forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth. He ate and ate and ate, murmuring, “Que delicioso” over and over. Elder Jara told silly jokes as we feasted, and we laughed and chattered and ate until our stomachs ached. I have to admit, that apple pie was—and continues to be—the best apple pie I’ve ever tasted.

That night, Hermana Francia and I visited the Roque family and we talked about getting started on the papers they would need to get married. In their little adobe house nestled in the hillside, we taught Hermano Roque’s mother, a little, leather-faced woman who only spoke Quechua, the first discussion by candlelight as Hermana Roque translated for us. The little abuela clasped our hands and told us, through her daughter-in-law, that she knew we were messengers from God. Afterward we had a lively family home evening with the Roque family, played games with the children and listened as Hermano Roque recounted Inca legends while the wind whipped around the house.

We walked home through the muddy streets, the city lights below misted with rain, the hills behind us black and wet. A llama’s bell tinkled somewhere on the hillside. I pulled my sweater tightly around me and smiled in the darkness.

It was the best Thanksgiving I had ever had.

What are some of your fondest Thanksgiving memories? Have you ever had a transcendent dining experience, a meal that you will never forget?

Related posts:

1. Thanksgiving: Last Night’s Phone Call
2. The Simplicity of Thanksgiving
3. Last Thanksgiving