Refiner’s Fire

Today’s post is by Catherine Kemeny Gambrell.   This piece on motherhood adds to a popular UP CLOSE segment for May.  Catherine is an anything-but-stay-at-home mom to the world’s two most beautiful, entertaining, and sleepless children! She currently lives in northern Utah with her seminary teacher husband of 8 years. Together they enjoy hiking, camping, backpacking, cycling, and …

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Mommy Can’t Be Martha Too

We are pleased to bring you another UP CLOSE motherhood submission by Sandra Reddish.  Sandy was raised in southeastern Idaho in the middle of a wheat field near the small town of Ririe, longing to escape to another part of the planet.  She divides her crazy life between being a wife, mother of three wild children, and as a part-time Speech-Language Pathologist. She confesses to being a total bookworm, chocolate addict, and an old movie buff who loves to cook. Her goals in life are to swim in the ocean, be a full-time stay at home Mom, and read every Victorian novel written.  She resides with her young family in Idaho Falls, Idaho, and dreams of building a home in another wheat field, next to the house she grew up in. 

This final destruction was the last straw. It had begun with the hand-covered hatboxes on the dresser, hatboxes that perfectly coordinated with the décor, that were ripped open like presents. The two-dozen pink Gerber daisies thrown down the stairs and used as light sabers were in sad shape–one was even lucky enough to have received a haircut. I stared in horror at the white and pink bedspread now splotched with bright red nail polish, which trailed along the wall, the molding, the closet doors (she didn’t miss the knobs). “What were you thinking?” I screamed at her in horror as I looked around the room.

“I just wanted to make it pretty,” she said, as the tears ran down her cheeks.

“Well this is NOT PRETTY!” After she collapsed in a puddle of tears on her pillow, I raged at her for a few more minutes before leaving her room.

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By Melissa Young

melissaIt is while walking behind them–my mother pushing the wheelchair, my daughter stretching back to hold my grandma’s hand–that I am struck by the brevity of life. We are four generations of time, walking together. Grandma’s hands have wrapped around the tiny infant fingers of my mother, my own as a little girl, and now around my daughter’s. Different, yet the same. The yin and yang of past and present.

When my grandma read the essay I wrote for the mother in me, we talked about her miscarriages–so many that they blurred together and she lost count. We had shed our tears years apart, yet the shared struggle bound us together. Past and present, mingling.

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