Religion not for Children? My Response.

Yesterday I read a BlogHer blog post that really got under my skin. You might ought to check it out if you'd like to understand completely where my thoughts are coming from. Here's the link:

Stop Inviting my Kid to Church: Religion is Not for Children

All caught up? Good.

I was 16 years old when I had an experience that solidified my certainty that God knew exactly who I was. I had always known who He was, but this experience took our relationship one step further. I knew Him... and He knew me. It's a personal experience, one too personal to share in such a public forum, but it was real and good and validating and has stayed with me as a defining moment in my life, even 15 years later. I was prepared for such an experience because from the earliest days of my childhood I was taught about who God was. I was taught to recognize Him in the beauty of the world around me, in the love that I felt in my home, in the joy and happiness that I found in playing outside or snuggling inside. I was taught to recognize that God is everywhere, that God is love.

As a child, I was never told that if I did not believe a certain way, I was going to hell. I was never told that my friends who didn't believe as I do were going to hell. I was never told that those who make different choices than I do, who live different lifestyles than I do were going to hell either. I was taught to be tolerant, to be kind, to be compassionate and forgiving.

I acknowledge that their is a brand of toxic Christianity that exists that judges and belittles and demeans. I am a Mormon that grew up in the Southern United States. I have experienced such discrimination first hand. In high school, I had a boy tell me he didn't want to date me anymore because his preacher told him I was going to hell for being Mormon. Notes were regularly left in my locker, inviting me to be saved, informing me that prayer meetings were being held on my behalf. Such gestures were particularly frustrating because I considered myself a person with a strong sense of who Jesus was and what role He played in my life.

I won't try and tell anyone that all Christians, or all people of faith in general are perfect, but I will assert that to paint us all with one big brush--to push us all into a box of intolerant narrow mindedness, to imply that we are all scaring our children into following our footsteps with tales of fire and brimstone simply isn't fair.

When my husband and I teach our children about God, we teach them that they have a right, even an obligation to study and pray and ponder so that they may learn for themselves. Of course, there is a level of blind obedience that exists with young children. But ultimately, each of my children will reach an age where they will have to decide for themselves what they believe. I guarantee when that day comes, they won't have a mother standing over their head threatening damnation if they happen to choose a different path.

The thing is, I feel this way not in spite of my faith in God, but because of it. Because the God that I know is good and gracious and kind and loves us all. And that's what my children are taught in church.

Reverent Children are Weird*

*In a question and answer session with the former General Relief Society President of the LDS Church, Julie B. Beck, someone asked how to encourage reverence in their children. Sister Beck responded that we had to do the best we could, but not to worry about it. "Reverent children are weird," she said. I love her for that remark.

Three weeks ago, I had an experience at church that was terrible in every sense of the word. It wasn't life changing or earth shattering or linked to any major consequences, but in the moment, it hurt a great deal. I hesitated to write about it because I didn't want to speak negatively of another person, but I think it might spark a discussion that could remind us all to think about how we treat people, as well as how we react when people treat us.

I'll set the stage for you. Our chapel is small - about six rows deep, with three sections in each row, moving across the room. If packed full, it would probably seat about 100 people comfortably, though we never have that many in attendance. I expect some people think I'm crazy for it, but I sit in the front row. I do this because the front row is closest to the door and inevitably I will need to escape with one or more of my children during the course of our Sacrament meeting. And also, my husband currently serves in the Branch Presidency (the lay leadership of our congregation) which means he sits up front, on the stand. When I am in the front row, I am close enough to my husband that one of the boys can go and sit beside him if need be. And he is close enough that he can parent the children, JUST BY LOOKING into their eyes. We don't need to mention the fact that I also generally arrive at church 2 to 5 minutes late every single Sunday. Since there are seven of us, it would be difficult to squeeze in anywhere else besides the front row which is generally empty until we get there.

So. Front row. One mom. Six children, one of which is three weeks old. Another of which is a 2 year old. Another of which is a 5 year old. Am I sounding desperate yet? Now, I think Ivy is a pretty delightful 2 year old. She's funny and spunky and generally a pretty happy kid. Like most two year olds, she doesn't like to sit still and she is absolutely incapable of remembering to whisper for longer than 45 seconds. These things make church challenging on the best of days, down right impossible on others. But we go and we manage the best we can and we pray that all those around us will be forgiving and tolerant, perhaps especially so in the weeks just after a baby is born when our entire family is trying to adjust to the extra responsibility and activity that comes from another addition.

For all these reasons I was completely bowled over when just after the meeting closed my first Sunday back at church, a woman that I didn't know approached me with a not so nice look upon her elderly face.

"I hate to be so bold," she said. "But someone has to be bold with you..."

She then went on to tell me how absolutely disruptive Ivy was for all of Sacrament meeting. She was loud and distracting and made it so that she and her husband weren't able to hear for the entire meeting. She told me that she had children that were young once, and you have to discipline them, you have to tell them to be quiet. You have to be firm, and she didn't see me one single time tell "that little girl" to be quiet. It was so terrible, she didn't think her husband (who wasn't a member of our church and was visiting) wasn't ever going to come back.

As I stood there with my three week old baby in my arms, I was absolutely speechless. I've come up with quite a few things I could have said since then, each thick with the same "boldness" that she used when addressing me. But in the moment, all I wanted to do was cry. So I did. I escaped to the nursing mother's room and cried while Jack nursed. I was embarrassed, I was angry, but more than anything else, my feelings were hurt. I have less of an issue with the fact that this woman told me my kid was loud. I know she's loud. I sit with her every single Sunday. But to tell me that the reason she is loud is because I wasn't parenting her as I should have? That was hard to hear.

By the time Jack finished nursing, I was feeling a little better. I vented to my husband and to my friend Valerie, both of whom were firmly in my corner. Had this woman every attended church in a place where there are 25 nursery age children and 65 primary children? In our branch, the two youngest children in our congregation both belong to me. Ivy is usually in nursery by herself. I know she's loud, but she's not near as loud as 25 two year olds. And let's not even begin to talk about the fact that this was my first Sunday back after having a baby--my first Sunday trying to juggle six children through an hour of reverence. I could go on, but I expect those of you that are mothers are feeling enough indignation that I can stop.

Three weeks later, I can look at the situation with a little more kindness. Kindness doesn't change the fact that I feel this woman was wrong. But I can, at the very least, acknowledge that I understand where she might have been coming from. A few years ago, I frequently visited a woman that was hard of hearing. She explained to me that many Sundays she sat in the congregation and for an entire hour, wasn't able to hear a single word of the meeting. She would leave frustrated and disappointed that what she expected to be an uplifting experience fell far short. She also explained that when you wear a hearing aid, the device picks up the sounds that are closest to you. If a noisy child is in between you and the speaker, your hearing aid will pick up the child, leaving you to wonder if the speaker is talking about the fried chicken he wants to have for lunch. Both the woman who confronted me and her husband were, for lack of a more delicate way to put it, OLD. I don't know that they were wearing hearing aids, but it's a very logical possibility. Couple that with the fact that this woman, who IS a Mormon, had brought her husband to church, who is NOT a Mormon, and it's easy to see how she could have been frustrated if he wasn't able to gain any spiritual insight because of the distracting two year old in the front row. Especially if he usually attends a different church where children are kept in childcare and are not in attendance with their parents. I also have to admit that my filter for how much noise requires the removal of an offending child is probably a little thicker because if I leave the meeting with one child, I am leaving my remaining children in the meeting to be attended by those sitting around me.

All this to say, church with six children is hard. Though, my run in with this woman, who isn't someone that regularly attends in our area, is most definitely an isolated incident. Generally, I'm surrounded by fellow branch members who understand that with my husband sitting on the stand, I may need an extra measure of tolerance, or a willing set of extra hands or arms to hold a baby or help an older child. There are so many that love and support my family. We feel lucky to live where we live. But because I love these people, I would hate for their Sunday experience to be diminished because my family is noisy. There has to be a balance, I think. If my experience with this woman has taught me anything, it's to make sure I strive for that balance and not take advantage of the kindness and tolerance of others.

How do YOU find a balance and what would you have done in my situation?

You're a Mormon? And a Christian?

Last week, Jordan fell outside a friend's house and punctured the back of his leg severely enough that we thought it best to head to the doctor's office for stitches, and a tetanus shot. He's fine now. He endured like the tough kid I know he is and, save six stitches to be removed next week, and a bandage just behind his knee, he's good as new.

Though my friend offered to keep the younger children while I took Jordan to the doctor, I opted to take them with me so they could get all get a flu shot. I'd already called the office. They could see us right away. Surely, a trip with all five wouldn't be that difficult.

And God bless the doctor's office who took my kids to their break room and pumped them full of vanilla sandwich cookies and Little Debbie cakes, it wasn't that difficult. We managed quite nicely until just before the doctor's PA finished up the stitches. By this time, treats were eaten and children were restless and my nerves were slowly beginning to unravel. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel though, so I was keeping it together. I didn't, however, have the wherewithal to come up with a reasonable answer when the PA innocently asked me if Christmas was just a "low key" time of year for us.

He knows my family well, and knows we are Mormon. While I know it wasn't formed to insult or offend, his question did demonstrate a lack of understanding about the Mormon faith. I'm not sure at what level his misunderstanding lies. There are faiths that believe in Jesus Christ and choose not to celebrate holidays in the traditional sense. He very well could have been making such an assumption about Mormons. But it's also possible, because it happens so frequently, that he would assume Mormons don't celebrate Christmas because many believe that Mormons aren't Christian. Except, I am a Mormon. And I believe in Jesus Christ.

With four children running circles around me, and the fifth needing a hand to squeeze as the last few stitches were put in place, I just didn't think to say more than, "No, we do celebrate Christmas. The big tree, nativity scenes, the whole nine yards." And even that came out halfheartedly. Looking back, I should of said more. I should have taken the opportunity to make sure that he understood that I am a witness of Jesus Christ - that I know Him and love Him and live for Him every single day. We celebrate Christmas to honor His birth - to remember the incredible gift that His life was, and to recognize how completely the world was changed when, in that humble stable, HE was born.

I admit, sometimes I grow weary of finding myself so frequently on the defensive. It often feels like those that choose to live without religion all together are met with less opposition than those who choose to live in a manner that isn't completely mainstream. I know, because they are growing up in an area very similar to where I did, that it's quite possible my children will be faced with countless experiences where their faith and beliefs are tried and tested. They will have friends that say hurtful things. They will be misunderstood. They will be antagonized far more than their friends who choose not to go to church at all. Hopefully, like I was, they will be stronger for it.

But that doesn't mean I'm not often left shaking my head. With so much goodness and truth and light and love, with so much happiness abounding within the Mormon faith, why must the misunderstandings and ill conceived notions persist? People won't remember that Mormons provide millions upon millions of dollars of humanitarian aid all over the world every single year, that they teach wholeheartedly the message of Jesus Christ, that they focus on the importance of family, the sanctity of marriage... but I'll be hang dogged if anyone will ever forget that once, they heard that Mormons wear funny underwear.

I fear I'm coming across a bit cynical, and I don't intend to. Generally speaking, I truly love and appreciate any opportunity to discuss my faith, even if it means answering questions about my underwear. You can only beat wrong information if you're willing to replace it with what's right, so whatever your question, I'll answer, with a willing heart and voice. You'll only have to tolerate a little bit of my venting in the process.

Brush Strokes

Half way through church on Sunday, I was weary and overwhelmed and not really in the mood to be sitting alone with four squirmy children. When Sam stole a book from his brother, eliciting a howl right in the middle of someone's heartfelt testimony... a howl loud enough to be heard three counties over, I nearly lost my cool. After the difficult morning we had had, it was just enough to push my tolerance over the edge. I scooped up the offending child and hightailed it out to the lobby. It's where I felt like being anyway.

My husband, aptly tuned to the not so pleasant energy radiating from his wife, left his seat on the stand and came to my rescue.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Sometimes," I said, "it just seems like you can never do enough. You have all the right conversations, all the right family home evening lessons. You teach children all the principles you think they need, and yet, they still have moments when they are evil and rotten and completely irreverent and disrespectful. i wonder why I try so hard."

And in that moment, I did wonder. I was tired and overwhelmed and completely disheartened when it came to the challenges of my children. Josh hugged me reassuringly and took Henry, leaving me to a few minutes of blissful quiet. I sat and pondered the efforts we make with our kids, the desire we have to turn them into respectful, responsible adults. I wondered if I was the only one that often feels like efforts are fruitless, progress barely visible.

When it takes twenty minutes to get children calm enough to listen to scripture reading for five, is it worth it? When eyes are opened after family prayer to find one child standing in the middle of his family, dancing to imaginary music, intentionally oblivious to the fact that a prayer was being said, is it worth it? When church meetings are constantly disrupted by one child or another, is it worth it to keep going back?

And then, I thought of David A. Bednar's words, given at General Conference this past October.

"Brush strokes," I thought. "All our efforts are brush strokes."

He said,

"In my office is a beautiful painting of a wheat field. The painting is a vast collection of individual brush strokes - none of which in isolation is very interesting or impressive. In fact, if you stand close to the canvas, all you can see is a mass of seemingly unrelated and unattractive streaks of yellow and gold and brown paint. However, as you gradually move away from the canvas, all of the individual brush strokes combine together and produce a magnificent landscape of a wheat field. Many ordinary, individual brush strokes work together to create a captivating and beautiful painting.


Each family prayer, each episode of family scripture study, and each family home evening is a brush stroke on the canvas of our souls. No one event may appear to be very impressive or memorable. But just as the yellow and gold and brown strokes of paint complement each other and produce an impressive masterpiece, so our consistency in doing seemingly small things can lead to significant spiritual results. "Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great," (D&C 64:33). Consistency is a key principle as we lay the foundation of a great work in our individual lives and as we become more diligent and concerned in our own homes."

I then thought of a training session for seminary and institute teachers I recently watched with Sister Julie B. Beck, General Relief Society President of the church. I remember her saying that we don't have to be perfect. The Lord doesn't expect perfection. But we can have precision. We can be precise in doing the things that He has asked us to do... in making the effort to be consistent, and build positive habits in our homes.

Perhaps when my children are grown, while they might not remember any one particular session of family prayer, or the specific words read in family scripture study, they will remember that it happened; that everyday, we tried.

I cannot be perfect. Of that, I am certain. But I think I can be precise.  I can keep making brush strokes, hoping that in the end, I'll be able to step back and see something beautiful.

A true Southern Gentleman.

I grew up in the very southern state of North Carolina, and have always been proud of my southern heritage. I love the slow drawl of a really good southern accent (think Dolly Parton, or, if you know me, my Dad), and I love the goodness and the generosity of the culture. Another thing you find in bountiful quantities in the south is religion... good, honest, church-goin people that are always willing to give you the food off their tables or the clothes off their backs. What you don't find a lot of in the south, is my religion. Mormons are somewhat of a mystery to most people. I was one of four or five Mormons in my high school - the only one in my graduating class. I had many friends who were very considerate of my beliefs and understood that while not traditionally Protestant, I was still very much a Christian. And then, there were those that considered it a personal mission to help me see the "light". I often found notes in my locker urging me to turn away from darkness, repent, and accept Jesus.

Ummm, thanks. Already done that.

The thing is, it didn't really bother me. I was very comfortable in my Mormon skin. I knew what I believed, I loved what I believed, and though it very frequently made me different, and occasionally left me standing alone, I didn't mind.

That's why when Brad shared with me how he felt about my faith, all I could do was laugh. I wasn't technically dating Brad. He was 16, I was only 15, and not yet allowed to date. But we were participating in the proverbial "going out" and had a very committed relationship of maybe 10 or 11 days. After spending the day with his family at an antique car show, we were riding home in the backseat of his parent's car. Brad was very, very southern. His slow drawl made it that much more charming when he took my hands into his, looked sweetly into my eyes and said,

"I don't want this to affect our relationship J, but I think you're going to Hell." (when reading, be sure to pronounce Hell as Hey-ulll... we must be true to his dialect, and it's funnier that way too.)

Okay, so you still want to be able to date, and hold my hand and snuggle in the backseat of your parent's car, as long as I understand that you think my soul is doomed to everlasting torment?

Right then. So sweet of you.

I laughed out loud as I scooted myself far into the corner of my own seat. I mean, come on... did he actually think I would stick around after he said something like that?

"Oh please. Kiss me again. Then we can discuss my damnation even further."

I don't remember the details of our breakup, except that I was not, in any regard, heartbroken. I can only hope that in all my wisdom of fifteen years, I was at least able to handle the situation in a manor that did not contribute to his ill opinion of Mormons. Seriously though... what a novel approach to dating. He should teach a class: Wooing with Biblical Insults. I can see it going really far.

*This blog entry was originally posted in May of 2008... back in the day when four comments was a lot. So. I'm recycling. Hope you enjoy.

A tiny miracle.

I REALLY couldn't handle being sick again.

The past few weeks haven't been easy, dealing with the flu, and secondary respiratory infections on top of the every day sickness that comes with pregnancy. My entire family has suffered for it, not to mention the dishes and ever increasing piles of laundry.

You can imagine my desperation when Thursday evening I found myself flat on my back with a fever, chills, and the worst body aches I have ever endured. Friday I went to the doctor. Do you know what they said?

It was flu. They tested me. IT WAS THE FLU. Except I just had the flu. How on earth could I be sick again? The doctor was nearly positive that this was the new H1N1 virus, (maybe I just had seasonal flu last time?) that has proved serious and in some cases, even fatal to pregnant women. Comforting thought, isn't it? I told my husband I couldn't do it. My reserves of strength and energy were completely gone and I just couldn't fight anymore, physically, or mentally. The idea of several more days of fever, aches and pains and a neglected list of motherly responsibilities was a wall I simply didn't think I could climb.

So my husband gave me a priesthood blessing, and family members offered prayers on my behalf.

Saturday morning, the fever was gone, and now by Saturday evening, I feel well enough to have just fixed my children pancakes, to have loaded the dishwasher, and even spend a few minutes writing up a blog.

In my weakened state, from previous illness and pregnancy, I feel fairly certain that H1N1 could have wiped me out for much more than 48 hours, had it not been for the healing power of the priesthood and the glorious intervention of prayer. I truly believe I was prayed to wellness and am so grateful that my Heavenly Father is aware of me, and was willing to intervene on my behalf.

I'm still taking it easy. But I feel SO much better, and was so happy to be coherent and functional enough that I could really enjoy today's sessions of General Conference. It was wonderful, wasn't it? Can't wait for tomorrow.

Principles from Prophets

I stayed home from church this morning because Sam was running a little bit of a fever. We watched a little bit of BYUTV, and enjoyed a remarkable address from President Thomas S. Monson. He spoke for the weekly devotional at BYU a few weeks ago, about the many prophets that he has known and associated with over the course of his life. Sam and I watched, curled up on the couch, he remaining just as captivated as I. At times I laughed, at times I cried. It was wonderful. It's long, but it's worth every moment you spend watching, or listening. Click on the link below, and you'll be taken to a page where you can listen to the audio, or watch the video of his address. Just click on Watch Now, right under President Monson's picture. Enjoy!

Thomas S. Monson | Principles From Prophets | September 15, 2009 | BYU Broadcasting

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Have your kids watch too.

Experience breeds diversity.

So, last week I was feeling a bit smug.

Recently we've endured quite a few rounds of changes in our little branch, and have all been feeling the burden of keeping all the church organizations running smoothly so that everyone has opportunities to live and grow in the Gospel. See, it's different serving in a small town branch, and I think last week I was feeling like we deserved a big pat on the back for it.

Currently, the first counselor in our Elder's Quorum presidency is also our young men's president. His wife is the primary president. They have four kids. The woman that plays the organ in sacrament meeting is also the Branch Music Coordinator, the Stake Music Chairperson and the piano player in primary. I am currently the young women's president, and the home study seminary teacher. My husband serves in the branch presidency. I have one counselor, and no advisors. My counselor also serves as the Seminary representative for the Western part of the Stake. The list could go on and on. The point is that we all wear lots of different hats. When you are released from one calling, most frequently you are directly called into another of equal or greater magnitude than the last. Families are stretched and juggled. Programs are modified to fit smaller numbers and less workers. Sometimes, it's really hard.

But, it is always lovely and wonderful and absolutely enriching. My children are taught the Gospel just as those children who have a full rank of teachers, leaders, and advisors to run their Gospel programs. We are small, but we are mighty. I love it here, most passionately, and would not trade any of the difficult challenges that accompany living here, in this part of the Lord's vineyard, for easier callings, or better functioning organizations, for closer temples, or shorter visiting teaching routes. This is home. It may be hard, but it is always worth it. The blessings of service far outweigh the burden of sacrifice.

And so, I was smug. I was proud of myself for a willingness to give and serve so diligently, even when it isn't easy.

And then, because God knew I needed a husband that would keep me from being prideful and completely full of myself, Josh came in and reminded me of what challenges members of the church must face that live even farther removed than I do. What must it feel like to live in an area of the world so remote that an entire lifetime of savings is used to journey to the temple one time? What must it be like for international members to read church history, or the Doctrine and Covenants and not recognize state or city names, not relate to the culture and history of 19th century America that so heavily influenced the process of the restoration? What must it be like to have such faith, when opposition or difficulty surround you on all sides? My challenges and sacrifice are but a drop in the bucket compared to what many before me, and many still today, all over the world, endure for the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I cannot pretend to understand all that some so willingly give up.

All I can hope, as I labor in my tiny corner of Zion, is that in some small way, I am gaining experience and strength that will prepare me for whatever the Lord may require, and that my children will understand that blessings will come from diligence and fortitude and a willingness to stand up for what you believe in, even if it means standing alone.

Most importantly, I will strive to remember that while my service in the Gospel is different than that of those living in Utah, or Okinawa, Tonga, Australia, or central Cleveland, it is no more or less valuable, and the Lord is aware, on all accounts, the individual efforts that each of us make, and the trials and challenges that we may endure.

We just need to bloom where we are planted, and allow others to do the same.

And then, we can delight in the richness of variety.

Ask a Mormon.

I promise. Having grown up in the South, if there's a question to be asked about the Mormons, I've probably heard it before.

Here is what I know. I know that Mormons are different. I know that some people wonder what we're really all about. I'm not an expert by any means, but I've been a member of this church my entire life and feel I have a good grasp of what and why I believe. I can't guarantee that my answers will be perfect, but I can promise they will be doctrinally sound, straight out of the mouth of a Mormon.

If you've ever had a question you wanted to ask, but didn't feel comfortable doing so, something you've heard, and wondered if it were really true, well, now is your chance to ask. And no one will send missionaries to your door in response to you expressing curiosity. (We really aren't that pushy... I promise.)

To keep things simple, I'm asking that all questions be posted anonymously in the comments section of this post. Answers will then be posted in the comment section, with a reference to the original question. If you feel inclined to let me know who you are, send me an email. But for the sake of this post, I'd rather keep things informational, not personal.

I also ask that your questions remain respectful. I will not debate, will not engage in bible bashing of any sort and will not hesitate to delete any comment that I feel crosses the line.

For easy reference, I'm adding a button to my sidebar that will remain a permanent link to this post. Thanks for stopping by, and thanks for your questions.

A solo Sunday, and other useless information.

Yesterday, I went to church with four children by myself. Josh was feverish and all sickly and stuff, so he stayed home, and sent me to the weekly three ring circus that is sacrament meeting alone. I'm happy to say I made it through the meeting without having to remove one kid. I mean, it's really insignificant that Henry stole all the hymn books from everyone in the front row and Sam and Jordan got in to a face pinching fight severe enough to cause the woman behind me to reach up and intervene (thanks for that by the way... I really mean that. I know you were worried that you were overstepping your bounds, but I think you might be responsible for saving Jordan's bottom lip. Trust me, I'm grateful.)

I was feeling pretty good about having made it through with my slip still hidden under my skirt, all of my jewelry still on, and my credit cards all in their proper slots inside my wallet when the primary president came up and asked if Josh had made arrangements for someone to teach his class.

Uh-oh.

There is another teacher that Josh often combines classes with, when the numbers in our little branch don't justify two separate classes. I remember Josh mentioning during a foggy headed, not entirely coherent conversation that Brother Anderson could teach his class on Sunday. But Brother Anderson wasn't there either.

I've been a primary president before. It stinks when teachers aren't there. Of course Josh made arrangements for his class. He has me. :)

So I taught a class of 7-11 year olds, without a manual, on the expansive topic of church history. Ha! I'm glad the topic was so specific. I knew exactly where to begin. It was interesting to say the least. Okay... really, I loved it. Primary is sort of my secret love when it comes to callings. But the young women are fun too. Yesterday, I only had one in class so we had a wonderful little pow wow of a lesson.

And then, I made it home. Children still alive, shoes, ties and tights still on their person of origin, or at least in hand, or pocket. Not a bad showing, for a single parent attempt. (Seriously... heaven bless those of you that do it alone all the time. Single mothers... mother's whose husbands sit on the stand, or travel for service, or whatever. You're all awesome.)

On the way to church, smarty pants Sam yelled up to the front seat, "Hey Mommy, church is 180 minutes long."

So I said, "Um, yes, Sam it is. How did you know that?"

This was his response: "Well, I first figured it out in my bed this morning. I told Jordan I wanted to sleep three more minutes. And then I figured out that three minutes was 180 seconds, because each minute has 60 seconds, and if you add it up, that's 180. And minutes and hours are a lot alike because they both have 60 in them. So I just figured it out. 180 seconds, 3 minutes. 180 minutes, 3 hours."

Ummm, I think Sam's probably gonna be able to handle the 1-5 basic addition he'll cover in kindergarten this fall. Jordan and Sam both have mathematical brains... something they inherited from their father, with perhaps a few recessive genes thrown back to my Dad, or their fellow smartypants Aunt, Inkmom.

They did not get it from me. Not even a little bit.

Math has never been a strength of mine, so it amazes me when I see my kids figure numbers out on their own accord, regrouping and making things easier in ways that my brain would never do on it's own. I've always been more of a word person. You want me to write an essay? I'm on it. You want me to do Calculus? Oh please just shoot the pencil out of my hand. Really, the wailing and gnashing of teeth isn't worth it. I think Lucy may take after me... she's obviously literary minded, already healthily addicted to the written word. I love that about her.

Which brings me to my next point. (okay. really I had no idea where this post was gonna go. but I'm here, so why stop now?) I love how different all my kids are. It's almost like Christmas learning the things that my kids are good at... realizing that they all have different strengths and weaknesses, things they like, and things that totally don't interest them in the slightest bit. There is a certainly a common thread that runs through them all... something that makes them wonderfully, consistently mine... common thread yes, but totally different patterns... fabric that is uniquely and wonderfully them. I LOVE that.

Equality for all... even the Mormons.

I cannot claim a clear understanding of what the cruelest forms of discrimination feel like. I do not know what it is like to be forced to the back of a bus because of the color of my skin. I've never had to use segregated bathrooms, or drinking fountains. I've never sewn a star onto my clothing, indicating my heritage or religious preference. I've never been turned away from a restaurant. I've never had crosses burned in my front yard. I've never been forced from my home, or driven to a strange land in search of life free from religious persecution.

I hope our country has come far enough that no one will ever have to endure such vile and intolerable treatment again. After all, we are a country that just elected a black man to the highest office of government, when just sixty years ago, men of similar heritage could not even attend school with the general population. We are a country that preaches tolerance and acceptance in all aspects of living. I believe, as a nation, we are better than such discrimination. But perhaps, as individuals, our tolerance and love is still lacking.

I do not want to set myself up as a victim. I live in a country where I am free to worship how I please, free to raise my family in this wonderful land, and send my kids to school where I know they won't get punched because of their religion. I'm grateful for that. In the grand scheme of things, I have little to complain about. Except, maybe my kid will get punched because of his religion. I grew up here in the south, and can, if I felt so inclined share numerous stories where I have been treated differently because of my faith. There are millions of Mormons all over the world...

NOT so many in this here part of the woods.

Just today I went to sign some paperwork at an attorney's office. He was a kind, generous man who told me he appreciated that I stay at home with my children. He loved that I'm a Tarheel fan and that I'm raising my kids to love the Tarheels too. We spoke for a few minutes about family, touched on politics and then mentioned religion. When he learned I was a Mormon, his kindness went from open and sincere to forced and a little uncomfortable; an educated, well respected individual treated me differently because of where I worship on Sunday. Weren't we done with this kind of behavior decades ago?

Here's the thing about the Mormon faith: I would guess near 50% of what those outside of our faith know about the Mormons isn't actually true, and the other 50% is simply misunderstood. And that is frustrating. I wish, instead of treating me differently, that attorney today had told me why he found it so disturbing that I'm a Mormon. Seriously. Let's discuss it. Because I do not deserve to go through life being relegated to the emotional backseat of everyone's opinion. I don't deserve to have notes left in my locker telling me I'm going to hell, or have boys tell me they can't be my friend because their preacher told them I worship a different God than they do.

Lest I give you an ill opinion of the south, it's worth mentioning that not all apples in the basket are rotten. There are plenty of respectful, tolerant, accepting individuals who do not consider one's status as a Mormon as reason for disdain. And I'm certain that ill judgment heaped upon the Mormons is NOT exclusive to the south, though I'd guess it is a bit more prevalent here.

The thing is, when I'm done cataloging the frustrations of being misjudged and quite frequently misrepresented, when I've vented over the ridiculousness of unfair claims and assumptions, and occasional mistreatment, if you ask me if it's worth it, I'm still going to say yes. If you ask me if I want to go live in a part of the country where Mormons live in large quantities, where congregations number in the thousands, rather than tens, and youth groups are large enough for eight team basketball tournaments instead of two on two volleyball, I think I'd still say no. Not because there is anything wrong with those parts of the country. I'm sure they are perfectly lovely (and probably have their own unique set of challenges), but here... here, you have to decide really early whether or not the persecution is worth it. You have to decide that no matter the opinions of others, you know what you know, and there isn't any changing it. You have to stand on your own two feet, planted firmly on the doctrines of your religion. If you try to sit the fence, you're most likely going to fall off.

And who wants to do that?

A sacred spot.

Generally speaking, the hours between 3 and 6 PM are the most chaotic at my house. Nap time is over, kids are tired, hungry, home from school... the phone never seems to stop ringing, and despite my most hopeful wishing, dinner doesn't actually cook itself.

Occasionally though, those afternoon hours that I spend with all four of my children allow for tiny moments of time that I wish I could freeze frame... a joke that made them all giggle hysterically, tears of laughter streaming down their perfect little faces.... a story, read by the oldest, younger siblings captivated into stillness by the story... or a walk on an unseasonably warm afternoon.

We took such a walk just a few days ago. We crossed the little gravel road in front of our house and walked in to the woods. The sun was streaming in through the branches of the trees, birds chattering above us.... Spring is almost upon us, and our afternoon walk reminded me of that Spring morning so many years ago when a singular experience in a grove of trees outside a little farm in Palmyra, New York set Joseph Smith, kneeling in sincere prayer to his Father in Heaven, on a path he never would have imagined for himself. I know many of my readers do not share my faith and may not recognize such a reference... if you feel so inclined, you can learn more about that morning here.

In this world, with so much fear and danger around us, I want my children to know, without a doubt what it is to feel God's love. I want them to recognize His presence, and to live their life so that they are worthy of His companionship. As we stood there in the woods, the chaos of mothering suddenly still around me, the importance of teaching the children, infusing their little hearts and minds with a love for Jesus Christ, with a desire to follow His teachings, loomed over me. With no guarantee the children would actually respond, I sat the kids in a circle and ran back to the house to retrieve my ipod and portable speakers. There in the woods, we listened to the hymn "Joseph Smith's First Prayer."

I thought the moment might be done for when Sam leaned over and softly whispered, "Mommy, why are we doing this in the woods?" I smiled and quietly responded, "Because God made the woods, and Joseph Smith was in the woods when he prayed..."

"Oh," he simply answered. Huh, I thought. The truth works.

I asked the children to close their eyes and imagine what it must have been like that fateful morning... They scrunched their little faces up in fierce concentration, eyes squinting shut while I told them what I know to be true... that God loves them, that he knows who they are, where they are... and for a moment, one tender mercy of a moment, I know they heard me.

As we walked back to the house, Sam reached up for my hand and said, "Mommy, I think we should call that our sacred spot."

Sacred, indeed.

Reverence time and profound discovery.

This morning I was having reverence time with my kids. Reverence time... we sit on the couch, no TV, no books, no toys, and practice being quiet and reverent. I don't ever want to catch myself scolding Henry in church for not being reverent if I haven't made an effort to teach him what being reverent actually is... so we practice. It's worked with my older kids. They manage to do reasonably well through an hour and ten minutes of sacrament service every Sunday and I know, without a doubt that they know what I expect when we are at church, because I've demonstrated what I expect when we aren't there. But Henry isn't there yet... so we're practicing.

At this particular session of reverence time we were listening to Jordan read out of the Book of Mormon. He has read as far as the Book of Mosiah and is determined to finish the entire Book of Mormon before he is baptized when he turns eight this May... he is so determined that I've actually found him, at random times throughout the past few weeks reading his scriptures totally on his own accord... in the afternoon... when he's normally playing with Legos, or playing basketball outside. I know. I'm afraid to really say anything for fear the spell will be broken...

At any rate Jordan was home for reverence time this morning because we had seven snowflakes fall outside and school was cancelled. All of you who live in states frequently blanketed by snow, feel free to take a moment and laugh at the pansyness that is the south when snow falls.

Moving on... so Jordan was home and we had him read while we all sat and listened. Then, because Jordan and Lucy have been having a particularly difficult time getting along as of late, we sang a few songs about eternal families and loving each other and getting along and all that other stuff... I guess the talk of families got Sam to thinking because as soon as our last song was over, he asked,

"Mommy, why does there have to be a Daddy for a Mommy to have a baby?"

I guess the spiritual focus of our reverence time had me in the right mindset, because I immediately responded, "Because that is how God's plan works."

"Oh," Sam responded. He was quiet for a few moments, and I thought perhaps I had escaped any further uncomfortable inquiries. Then Sam said,

"Wait, I've got it figured out!! There has to be a Daddy so he can earn money, so that he can PAY for the baby!"

Well okay then. If you're good with that answer, so am I.

Mormon Commercial Tuesday.

There are so many good ones... but I think this one is my all time favorite:




This might have to be a new Tuesday tradition. I love me some Mormon TV.

Two additional side notes: To those who read my post yesterday... just want you to know I got out of bed this morning at ten after six... ran three miles, and was showered and dressed by 8:45. So... it's possible. :) We'll see how I do the rest of the week.

AND... all over the blogosphere, bloggers are claiming national delurking week, or day, or something of that sort. I don't have a cute little delurking button. You don't have to delurk. But, if you do feel inclined to give a little shout out, it's fun knowing who I'm writing for.

Scripture Reading and Harry Potter.

I've mentioned before that Jordan has recently been campaigning for private ownership of ALL of the Harry Potter books. Up until last week, he'd only read Book 1, and because I am most obviously a mean, cold hearted Mommy, I was making him wait on any subsequent books. It isn't that I don't love Harry Potter. I've read them all, and loved them all. But he's 7, and well, the farther you go through the books, the darker and scarier they get.

But Jordan's begging has been nearly constant, so, after a discussion with his teacher, we decided Book 2, and 3 were okay for now... as long as we hold out another year or so on the others.

(Perhaps your seven year old has read all the Harry Potter books... I'm not being critical. But Jordan is a particularly sensitive kid... based on what I know about him, even if HE thinks he can handle it... I don't want to endure the consequences if he can't.)

It took Jordan a week to finish Book 2. He loved it, lived it, breathed it every spare minute of his afternoons. Last night, as he sat down to start Book 3, we reminded him that while reading Harry Potter is wonderful, we don't want him to forget about reading his Book of Mormon. He set a goal to finish it before he turns eight next spring... an admirable goal, and one, if accomplished, will be 100% of Jordan's own volition. (If only he could pass that discipline of scripture study to his underachieving mother...)

So, Jordan gets out his scriptures and starts reading in the Book of Jacob. I asked him to read out loud, so I could listen as well. It's a chapter where Jacob is chastising the people for being slow to remember their God. As Jordan read on, about whoredoms, and concubines, and lakes of fire and brimstone in the eternal depths of hell, I looked at Josh and joked that if we were going to worry about the content in the pages of Harry Potter, we might ought to worry about the pages in the Book of Mormon as well! At that moment, Jordan paused and asked me to help him with a few words he didn't know... I turned and looked where his little finger pointed.

"Ummm, that first word is fornication," I said. "And the next is lasciviousness."

Oh my, Josh and I laughed so hard. The timing of our exchange was so completely comical, we tried to stifle it, lest Jordan think we were laughing at him.

It's most certainly different - the reading of scripture as compared to that of books of fantasy and fiction, but seriously! If Jordan picked up any other book that used the word fornication, I'm thinking I'd probably have issues with it. I am certain though, the spiritual benefit of his efforts in scripture reading will far outweigh the perusing of a few words beyond his realm of comprehension.

It was a good laugh though, that's for sure.

*For my non-Mormon readers... the Book of Mormon is another Testament of Jesus Christ. It does not replace the Bible, only adds to its teachings. And, lest my post mislead you, it is not all about fire and brimstone and eternal torment. It's actually very uplifting. :) To learn more about the Book of Mormon, click here.

Sunday Stories

This afternoon after church, we sat down with our kids to watch The Testaments, an exceptional movie about the Savior. It's just an hour long, and it was entertaining enough that we had every expectation of our children sitting through it. Jordan was captivated, Lucy was generally interested, Sam was good for the first thirty minutes. We encouraged him to hang on... he did and made it to the very end. I cried at the end, because I can't watch it without crying. So there I sit, wiping the tears from my eyes, moved, touched, feeling like hugging my family and saying a prayer of gratitude, when little Sam gets up from the couch and says, "Phew, good! Now I can finally do what I want!"

So glad he was moved as well.

Later this afternoon, I put another "Sunday" movie on for the kids (I swear we do actually do things on Sunday besides movies....) It was a movie about Moses and in the opening credits it pans across several cartoon illustrations of places in Egypt. Jordan says, "Hey look guys, it's the Spanxs."

I said, "Jordan, don't you mean the Sphinx?"

He said, "Yeah. The Spanxs."

Ah yes. The wonderful and majestic, incredibly stretchy and minimizing womens underwear. It's one of the great wonders of Egypt.

So THAT'S why we sing in church!

Josh and I had a conversation with our kids this afternoon about why we sing a closing song in church. We were trying to help them understand that the last song helps to prepare us for the closing prayer that will end the meeting. Before we got to this point, we asked the kids what it was okay to do during the hymns... you know, expecting answers like, "sing, listen, get ready for the prayer..."

Instead, Jordan replied,

"We can talk louder, because everyone else is singing!"

Practical, isn't he?

A new record...

It MUST be a record for me to post twice in one evening... but, I just discovered this new website called LDS News Source. It's basically an online news portal that constantly searches the web for any and all articles pertaining to the LDS Church. It was there that I read this article and was moved so much, I wanted to share:

In a Silent World, Seeking New Souls

Oh, to be ready for church... on time.

Without any hesitancy, I'll tell you that the hardest hours of my week are from 7 AM to 9:45 AM every sunday morning. Please allow me to vent.

How stinkin' early do I need to get up in order to get four children and myself ready for church and out the door on time? Because three hours of preparation obviously isn't long enough. I must also factor in the twenty minutes that it takes to convince Lucy that she actually does have to brush her hair and that she really shouldn't wear her read Christmas tights with her purple Easter dress.

I need to factor in thirty extra minutes for breakfast... because walking around the kitchen, in high heels, trying not to step on the feet of the one year old that is holding on to the back of your knees, really slows you down.

I guess I should also include the twenty minutes that it takes to bring everyone back inside from the car, to undo belts and buttons so that they can all have one more bathroom break. Because obviously, when I asked them if they needed to pee five minutes earlier before we went out to the car, they didn't have to go. Twenty minutes may seem like a long time, but there are a lot of steps involved with church clothes. A lot! Just to be safe, I should also include five minutes to change the baby's diaper. Because he never has to poop until his butt hits his car seat.

I should note that in general, my children move like molasses on Sunday mornings, and are constantly bombarding me with excuses as to why they should be exempt from our weekly Sunday outing. "I don't want to go to church" is the most frequent, but it's not very creative so it's not my favorite. I much prefer the more entertaining excuses, like "My tie smells like garbage", or "Someone stole all my dress socks."

Did I mention how hard it is to get myself ready? Yesterday morning, while I was putting on my makeup, Henry filled the toilet in my bathroom with everything that was in the trash can. It was lovely. I remember thinking, while it was happening, that I really need to stop him. But he was momentarily entertained, and I really needed to finish putting on my mascara. It really contributed to the post-church depression that is coming home and realizing the disaster that your house became before church.

I love the drive to church as well. I crank up the Sunday music to drown out the sound of the steam pouring from my ears and count backwards from 100 so that by the time I actually get to church, I'm calm. Almost. And then we walk in to the meeting. Almost always late. I hate that. There's so many of us... it's such a huge production to get us all in to a pew without drawing attention. I think next week I'm gonna have the kids army crawl under the pews up to where we normally sit so no one notices our coming in late. Then they could just pop up next to their dad, and I could stay in the hallway with the baby (that's where I spend most of the meeting anyway, since Henry, having learned to walk, is determined to never be still again). No one would ever know!

Did you notice that in my army crawling solution, Daddy is already sitting in the pew? Yeah. That's because he's been going to early meetings for various leadership responsibilities for as long as our marriage has existed. It is a rare treat when he gets to stay home and help get the kids ready. So Sunday mornings, I'm flying solo. And it is a wickedly chaotic flight.

I'm convinced that no amount of Saturday preparation can account for all the random things that can happen when trying to dress four children in their Sunday best. Especially when there are dress sock thieves and garbage ties on the loose.