My Sabbath Malling

By Linda Hoffman Kimball

Last Sunday was not the best of days for me. I didn’t feel well and was medicated. I sat glazed through Sacrament Meeting and then left to go home to sleep. Within five minutes of my being home, my computer fell and shattered. Because of urgent demands for the upcoming week, this was an “ox in the mire” for me, the sick oxherd.

Instead of heading for a nap, I headed an hour and a half away to the nearest Apple Store. Going into an Apple Store is not for introverts, Luddites, or anyone who prefers dark corners and quiet (which at that time was pretty much me on all counts.)

The technical diagnosis was swift: Complete death. New computer purcha$e required. Brain transfer to the new computer mandatory.

The Apple People allowed me to roam the mall for the two hours required to get things set up for the overnight mind-meld that required both the old and the new computers.

Wandering around a mall crowded with early Christmas shoppers was depressing everywhere I turned. Throw a swig of MucinexDM and a dash of guilt into the mix and it was a particular kind of torture.

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What a Difference 30 Years Makes

First time blogger Heather Bennion Judd shares her recent “tough day” cathartic writing at the coaxing of a friend.  Not the B.A. in English from BYU, but rather the small stack of short stories, poetry and essays that she’s written since the 4th grade should have been a clue that this day of virtual “publication” would inevitably come.  Mother of three children and wife of the gentle and attentive Dr. Marty Judd, Heather’s favorite pastime is baking—wait—shopping—or perhaps just talking to friends.  Her sister calls her “Elasta-Mom,” but she also responds to an enthusiastic “ELASTA!”

Mom_and_Camille_YW_Camp_Fairies1Today I went to help my mom. I helped her take a shower, washed her hair, gave her a haircut, and did laundry. Okay, I even cleaned up the poop and pee in the potty chair. I cleaned the toilets, even though I had cleaned them the day before. I witnessed her shaky hands and weak legs as she attempted to get out of bed. I held her up as we walked to the spare bedroom so that I could change the sheets on her bed—again something I had done the day before.

As I sat on her bed and chatted with her a few moments—she eating a lettuce and tomato sandwich I had made her—I was taken back 30 years to when I was about 17 years old. After a few weeks of excruciating pain, Mom had finally had surgery on her neck. She recovered for—again—I don’t know how many weeks. As a busy teenager I ran in and out of the house, occasionally stopping by her bedroom, but then I was off doing my own thing. I remember pangs of guilt for not doing much for her. In retrospect I know that I was in denial that my mom was “broken,” that she might need my help. I am sure I have tucked away what really happened, but memories I am able to yank from my subconscious mind remind me that I was self-centered and weak.

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