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.

Joyful Mothering Series: Sanctifying Service

Today was a hard day. It wasn't hard for any particular reason, just hard because I was tired and Ivy was cranky and Henry's thumb was sore and Sam was upset about his early bedtime even though his bedtime was only early because of his own behavior the night before and Lucy was upset because Sam got seconds at dinner and there wasn't enough for her to have seconds even though she didn't even finish her first helping and...

I could go on. Just one of those days - the kind of day when you quite literally consider putting in a set of ear plugs so you can't hear the incessant calling from one child or another... mom. Mom. MOM!!!

Sigh.

All is quiet now. Children are sleeping, rooms are straightened up, dog is sleeping at my feet. I feel at peace, and yet my mind still goes back to the previous hours, wishing I'd handled myself with a little more grace, a little less frustration.

I get frustrated when I forget that my mothering isn't a chore, a task in the middle of my to do list. I get frustrated when I forget that this mothering that I do is the most sanctified, glorious service that I can provide.

I often pray to be an instrument in God's hands. I pray that he will lead me to those that are in need, that I will be prompted to call a friend, make a meal, or even just smile at a stranger that might need a bit of kindness. I pray and I look and I hope God knows I'm here, if he needs me. I wonder how often I've looked clean over the heads of my children as I head out into the world to be God's servant. Do I fail to see their needs?

I believe, if I had a conversation with God on this very subject, he would remind me that while meals and smiles and phone calls are a nice, even important part of doing God's work, I must not fail to see that in this season of my life, kissing sore thumbs, solving silly disputes and hugging cranky babies is vital. And though it is often thankless, exhausting, and oh, so very hard, it too is God's work.

Doing service for others feels good. It feels good to be helpful, to reach out and support those that are in need. We cannot sell ourselves short as mothers. Because at the end of the day, even if we've done nothing but read stories and kiss thumbs and snuggle children; even if we've done it all from our living room while wearing our pajamas, we have still done much good. If we have loved, and lifted and taught, if we have fed or clothed or cared, if we have mothered, we have served God. And that is something to feel good about.

Joyful Mothering Series: Love Loans

Early this morning, all I wanted to do was cry. Morning sickness was knocking me flat - I'd already thrown up twice, and it wasn't yet 9 AM. Henry and I had to be at preschool in an hour, Ivy was awake in her crib, calling over and over for me to get her up, and I hardly had the strength to pick myself up off the bathroom floor.

"Heaven help me," I said, in utter exasperation. And then, it occurred to me... heaven help me.

I pulled myself to my knees and said a quick prayer, pleading with the Lord to give me the strength that I lacked.

And He did.

Sometimes, I forget to ask. Because I am strong and I am capable and I can do things for myself, thank you very much. But mothering is so hard, and I get so tired and sometimes I simply don't have it in me to be what my children need...

We need not ever mother alone. When we are stressed, our nerves and patience wearing thin, God is there, ready and willing to fill in the gaps. He knows what our children need - what love and tenderness they deserve and he will help us when we feel we are falling short. He will loan us the love that is required. We need only ask.

Last year, my son Sam managed to collect a meager, but still cherished collection of Pokemon cards. Every day, he carried them around in his pants pocket, and every day I reminded him to take them out before he threw his pants into the laundry room to be washed. Most days, he remembered. But sometimes, he would forget and I would pull the cards out of his pocket before starting the washing machine, each time shaking my head. One of these days, I was going to miss them and his cards would be ruined. It was a disaster waiting to happen, and when it did, I was going to be ready with my "I told you so."

Sure enough, on a fateful Tuesday afternoon, I missed the cards and mistakenly sent them through the wash. By the time his jeans came out of the dryer, his stack of Pokemon cards was a wilted pile of frayed edges and blurred pictures. I sighed. It was another two hours before Sam would be home from school, but the lecture started building in my mind right there on the spot. I knew he would blame me - would be upset that I had ruined his cards. And buddy, let me tell you, I was going to share a piece of my mind when he started pointing fingers at me. Because the cards belonged to him and he forgot to get them out of his pocket and it is not my responsibility and on, and on it went.

After school, I pulled Sam aside and handed him his cards, explaining what had happened. His face instantly fell. With an innocence I didn't expect, he looked up at me, tears welling in his eyes and said, "Can you help me fix them?"

Heaven help me.

I swallowed my lecturing words and took Sam upstairs where we ironed and trimmed his cards, salvaging what we could. But it wasn't me. I was the lecture, the I told you so and you should have known better. But God knew that Sam's ruined cards were lesson enough and what he needed was an outpouring of love. And so He loaned me a little to get me through.

Mothering is hard, gritty, emotionally draining work. So much is expected of us and our reserves of energy and strength can be depleted so quickly. But heaven help us, we don't have to manage alone. The raising of children is a holy work - a divinely appointed responsibility that is well worth the attention of our Father in Heaven. Ask. Ask with an open heart and let Him loan you the love that you need.

Click here to read another story about Love Loans

Have you experienced a love loan in your life? I hope you'll share your thoughts and experiences in the comment section. All of you - whether you comment regularly or not. We all have something to contribute, so please do share.

Finding Joy. Even on Sundays.

Sometimes, Sundays are really hard.

For as long as I have had children, I've been getting them ready for church alone. That's ten years, people... ten years of Josh heading off to early meetings (Truly, I send him willingly... blessings come from service. I know this. I love this. But sometimes one must complain to feel better. So, best get on with it.), ten years of me wrangling little bodies into ties and belts and dresses and shoes with buckles. I admit, it is getting a little easier, now that three of the five are capable of getting at least half way dressed on their own. I need only step in to fix ties and help with hair and button difficult top buttons. But see, getting them READY for church isn't actually the hardest part. Because once they're dressed, we have to actually go to church.

Where we sit.

For 70 minutes.

For the past three years, I've not only taken the kids to church alone, but because of my husband's responsibilities that require him to sit on the stand, I sit with them alone too. It's all well and good. Sometimes one of the boys sits with Josh. And sometimes friends and generous souls sit with me to help. And sometimes the kids behave and we actually make it through a meeting without any major meltdowns. But that doesn't mean it doesn't stretch my nerves and try my patience and make me want to poke my eyes out with one of the plastic forks in the church kitchen closet.

After church, it's always lovely to come home to a house suffering from post-Sunday morning stress disorder - where dirty breakfast dishes and discarded pajamas and rolled up diapers mingle with every random item in the house that I swear was actually put away before we left for church but somehow manages to be tossed about the living room now that we are home. I don't know how it happens, but nothing seems to mess my house up more than Sunday mornings. Except maybe Sunday afternoons.

Because, you know, on a Sunday afternoon, I might actually sit down for a minute or two. And when Mothers sit, messes are made. Or at least, sometimes it seems that way.

And so it is on a Sunday.

This afternoon, I found myself faced with a moment where I had to decide what I was going to make of my Sunday. My kitchen was a mess; dishes piled high in the sink, counter tops covered with more dishes and empty cereal boxes and a magazine cemented to the granite by some sticky substance. Probably maple syrup. I thought about crying. But then, a thought. A gentle bidding not to cry or yell or complain, but to simply let it go.

Let it go?

I tried to look at my kitchen with different eyes. The mess was still there, but it was a mess with purpose - a mess that came from cookies that Lucy and I made together, from a meal that my family enjoyed together. It was a joyful mess. Could I focus on the joy, and not the mess?

I can. I did. And it felt fabulous.

The mess is still there, and will be there still tomorrow morning. I imagine I'll grumble a bit before I clean it up, but it won't matter because the joy will have already made my Sunday. It felt good to let it go. See, that's why I do what I do. The going to church with five kids and the sitting through church with five kids and the coming home from church to messes made before church and the making of even more messes after church... It's because of the joy.

Because family is joyful. And faith is joyful. Sometimes, even messes are joyful. But oh, how hard it can be to see it. Sometimes I can't see unless I pray mightily for God to help me, to help me shake off the blinders of self absorption and see the goodness and the grace and the sweetness of His mercy in every single aspect of my life.

Even in the chaos of Sundays.

Even in messes.

In everything.

**********
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Oh, how He loves us

Happy Easter everyone. Love you all.

Grateful

If there were ever a time when I felt justified in neglecting my blog a bit, it would be April. Ivy's birthday, Henry's birthday, my birthday, my anniversary (11 years today, thank you very much), spring break for my kids, and then Jordan's birthday the first week in May. So yeah. Busy time. But as I race around from here to there, I still feel compelled to share a few quick thoughts...

First, I'm grateful to live in a part of the world that gets to enjoy Spring during the Easter season. It seems applicable, I think, to celebrate the Resurrection in the midst of so much new growth. I realize it isn't Spring everywhere. But I'm glad it is Spring here. I'm glad that every flower that pushes its way through the ground reminds me of that glorious morning when the Savior appeared, perfected, glorified and whole. I cannot find the words, really, to adequately describe how I feel about this gift - the gift of His life. To simply say I'm grateful doesn't feel big enough.

This past Monday we took our kids to the open house of the Atlanta, Georgia Temple. After two years of renovations, the temple is being rededicated, and so has been open to the public for an open house. What a special privilege it was to walk through with our children. In the temple, there is a picture of the Savior, large enough to take your breath away. How special it was to see my kids gazing up into His face, to see Ivy, quiet, reverent, and then pointing and smiling at the picture of Jesus. It was a good day.

It is a rare opportunity to walk through and see the inside of a temple - a sacred building normally closed to the general public. Before dedication, however, open houses are held so that members of the LDS Church and nonmembers alike can walk through and see these beautiful buildings. The Atlanta open house runs through this Saturday. In fact, my husband and I will be there on Saturday as tour guides, so if you live anywhere close by, it's a trip worth taking. Want more info? Send me a quick email, or click on the contact me tab up above. You can also click on the link below to learn more, or to see some beautiful pictures of the Atlanta Temple.


Atlanta Temple Open House

And on to more gratitude... Today, I'm grateful for all of you. Does that sound ridiculous? I think it probably does. But I mean it. I have friends, discovered through blogging that are on my list of top ten friends ever, in my whole life. Pretty serious, right? I can't explain how sometimes hearts just tell you you are supposed to love each other forever and ever, and even though you've never met in person, it hardly matters because you WILL love each other in person when you do finally meet. I have friends that are thoughtful and considerate and aware of me, even when me is all the way on the other side of the country. I have friends that face incredible challenges and still think of others before they think of themselves. I have friends that make me want to be a much better me than I am all on my own. So Thank you. All of you. For being you and sharing you on this, the internet.

And finally, I'm grateful for eleven years of marriage to this man, my very heart and soul. Saying more might cause you all to start rolling your eyes. But this man rocks. my. world. We'll leave it at that.

Set goals. Read blogs. Be happy.

When Ivy was 10 weeks old, I climbed onto my treadmill and ran a 5K. It took me 42 long and agonizing minutes. Not too bad for my postpartum self, but nothing to write home about either. So I set a goal. Flip the numbers, I said to myself. And so I did.

It took eight months. My 5k time this morning? 24:09

Goals are good. They work. Even when they are painfully ugly and they make you yell curse words at innocent exercise equipment.

In other news, I happened across a list this morning of nominations for the best LDS Female Solo Blogger of 2010. Oh, how fun it has been to browse through a list of reader nominated blogs. It's nothing fancy, really. People have simply left comments nominating the bloggers they've enjoyed reading the most. (The site is continuously compiling and updating a master list as the nominations trickle in - through the end of February, I think?) But that's what makes it so fantastic. There are small blogs on the list and big blogs on the list, funny blogs, serious blogs... the common thread is that they are all blogs that someone loves. Would you like to go and see? Here you go, then.

Nominations for the Best LDS Female Solo Bloggers of 2010

That's all. Hope you have a fabulous day.

********

Acknowledge Him

It seems like every News website and television channel is currently brimming with information about the man with the golden voice... Have you heard the story? If not, you can learn about it by watching these videos on Youtube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O6kI_u3ho_c&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWG6zNf4xY0&feature=topvideos

I think it's a great story. Everyone deserves a second chance, and this guy has been nothing but humble when it comes to why his circumstances are what they are, and what he ought to do differently this time around. I watched an interview yesterday where this man was asked how he was going to stay grounded when things were happening for him so quickly. And they are happening quickly - everything from job offers to television and radio interviews, to countless other perks and advantages.

Do you know what he said? (Forgive my paraphrasing.) He said that in the past, whenever he had successes in life he never acknowledged God. He never said thank you for the things he was given, for the blessings in his life. But now, he has found a deeper sense of spiritual awareness and he knows that at every turn, he will say, Thank you, God. In all things, he will acknowledge Him. He will say thank you for this, and forgive me for that. Because of this, he knows that when success finds him this time, he will be alright.

I don't know this man. I don't know how successful he'll be. But to his newfound philosophy on life, I give a wholehearted Amen. I hope that he will be able to move forward and find joy and happiness in life without getting any of the dirt of Hollywood under his nails.

Proverbs 3: 5-6: Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

Christmas Spirit

This makes me cry every single time I watch it. EVERY SINGLE TIME.

 


Have a Merry Christmasy week! Also, don't forget to leave a comment on yesterday's Servicemen Sunday post. Servicemen Sunday: Corbin

My Life is Not my Own

Today, I borrow my Mother's story - thoughts shared from mother to daughter that touched and inspired and left me thinking about the kind of person I want to be. Not on paper or in lofty conversation, but in deed, in the actual going and doing of my everyday life.

She was working on a baby quilt - a project that needed to be finished and somehow kept falling to the bottom of her priority list. Other things, necessary things, worthy things kept climbing to the top, demanding her time, her efforts, her energy. Finally, an afternoon was available, so she pulled out the quilt and started to work. And then, the phone rang.

"Someone is sick," the caller said. "Can you take them dinner?"

My mother hung up the phone and to herself, to the heavens, to the cat sitting on the stool beside the counter, she wearily said, "My life is not my own."

And then she stopped. The words flooded into her heart and mind with such clarity, she knew they came directly from God.

"Now you finally get it."

Aha.

Perhaps she heard those words so she could speak them directly into her daughter's heart. They have been simmering here, on the surface of this person that I am ever since. But I want them to sink in, to permeate the very core of this imperfect mother, wife, disciple. I want my life to be His...

I'm here, Lord. Use me, mold me, take me as an instrument in Your hands.

And He would! Oh, how he would long to have us all standing ready, willing, open to His promptings if we could just shake off the shackles of distraction, of pride, of thinking that we really know what is best for us and for others all on our own without His help.

I'm not there yet. But I long for it - for that day when I will be able to say unequivocally, joyfully, "My life is not my own."

**********

A few weeks ago, I was discussing a scripture from the Doctrine and Covenants with my seminary students.

"And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my father."

One of my students, in wisdom surpassing her age, looked at me and said, "You have five souls to bring unto Him."

Five souls - Jordan, Sam, Lucy, Henry, Ivy.

For me, this scripture has always been about missionary work - about preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ to those without. But is there a greater missionary effort than that which goes on in the walls of my own home? Is there greater joy than what comes from teaching your children to love the Lord?

This mothering work that I do is so much more than maintenance and cleaning and work, work, work.

This is a holy experience. A divinely designed opportunity for all of us within this family, within your family, to experience joy. And it is the best way - a perfect workshop - for us to learn how it is that we can serve and love and say without resentment, "My life is not my own."

See, serving your children IS serving God. A clean kitchen, a cooked meal, a wiped face, a skinned knee kissed. Think of them as chores, as obligations... well, there isn't any joy in that. But think of them as offerings,  and there, there is the joy.

Thanks for the lesson, Mom. I'm not there yet, but I'm closer because I have you to follow.

Presence

When my babies are still tiny, fresh with the newness of life, still sweet with tenderness, they spend the nighttime hours in a small bassinet beside my bed. It's easier that way, having them close. Easier for feedings, and easier for my hand to rest on their chests, feeling the reassuring swell, up and down, as they breathe.

In those late, but actually early hours, dark with night, but still bright with love, I sit and nurse my baby. Sometimes, I marvel. I curl tiny fingers around my own. I trace tiny eyebrows. I smile at tiny baby noises that melt my heart. Other times, I doze uncomfortably, willing the little bundle of difficult to finish feeding so I can just get some sleep already, and mutter about the ridiculousness of needing to eat every two and a half hours in the first place...

My mood? Not very consistent at 2 AM. But there is one constant, a presence I know I can always rely on. Whenever I nurse, sitting cross legged on the bed, my husband reaches over and puts his hand on the small of my back. I am ill equipped to feed the baby, his hand says, but I'm here. I'm with you. I know that you're up, that it isn't always easy.

Many nights, that simple gesture of kindness tethers me to reality. Sometimes, it just helps to know there is someone there. I'm grateful that I know my husband well enough to recognize that gesture for what it is. It's the little things, I think, that often make the biggest difference. But do we always recognize them? How often do we fail to see?

It's been on my mind a lot lately - the need to see the little things. Not just in my relationship with  my husband, but in my relationship with God.

Do I recognize His presence?

Am I failing to see?

I have found that if I really look for it, I can see His presence in every single aspect of my life. His hand is there, on my back, all the time - leading, guiding, encouraging. But, oh! It's so easy to grumble, to see the flaws, the difficulties, the misery of our own plight. We are alone, after all. These things that we are doing have to be done by someone, and it us that must do the job, and it is only us, and no one really understands, or will ever understand...

Except, wait. There it is. If I close my eyes, I can feel it. A light touch, a kind word, a supportive hand. He is there. He is everywhere. Always has been, and always will be. His presence is constant.

It is up to me to simply see.

Love Loans

I sat beside the tub and poured water over Ivy's belly, wishing I could make the noise and chaos behind me disappear.

It was me they needed. More of my time, more of my energy, more of me.

"Can you come?" Josh asked. "They're all asking for you. Let me do this."

He took the cup from my hand and took my place beside the tub. I sighed heavily and walked out of the bathroom. What I wanted to do was head right down the stairs, out the front door and into my car. I had nowhere to go, but that hardly mattered. Just going would be enough for a while. A while long enough for my frazzled nerves to relax again, my skin to stop crawling with the constancy of sticky hands pulling, tugging, needing. Instead, I took a deep breath and went into Henry's room, where he lay on his bed in tears.

"What's the matter, Henry?" I asked, my words hollow, my stony heart crusted with weariness. Mechanically, I climbed onto his bed beside him, and lay my head just inches from his.

"I'm sad," he hiccuped. "I don't want to go to bed."

There wasn't an ounce, sliver, tiny shred of patience left in me. But sometimes being a Mommy means Mommy-ing even when you don't want to, when you feel like you have nothing left. So I wiped the tears from Henry's cheeks and said, "We have to sleep so our bodies feel good and our minds can be happy."

Sweet mercy of miracles, Henry looked at me with tired eyes, and softly whispered, "Okay." He pulled my arm around him like a blanket and quickly fell asleep. I lay there a few more minutes, feeling the soft warmth of his breath, inhale, exhale, across the top of my arm.

And there it was.

The love came unbidden, bubbling up and over, into the cracks of my consciousness. It isn't about you, the love said. It's about them. There is a time for quiet, but now, they need you. I kissed Henry's forehead and moved from his bed, going to spend a few minutes with each of the other children.

It was God-given, that extra love; a reserve bursting forth when my own well turned up dry.

An hour later, when big kids and baby were all asleep, I sat. The quiet pooled around me, soothing my skin, calming my nerves. And I prayed a prayer of gratitude that I have a partner in this mothering that I do, that God is with me, helping, lifting, loaning love.


I wrote this post on Monday, but in retrospect, I think it's a good fit for Tuesdays Unwrapped, hosted by Chatting at the Sky. Click the button to read posts about finding joy in the everyday.

Forgiveness: My Burden Was Made Light

This is a remarkable story of love and forgiveness. Please, please watch.

The Garden of my Soul.

 

Yesterday, on our drive home from school, the kids and I noticed a farmer burning one of his fields. The flames licked their way across, then climbed steadily up the hill to the road, where we sat in the car, and watched.

"Why do they do that, Mommy?" one of the children asked.

"It helps clear away all the dead," I explained, "to make way for new growth."

The field was undergoing a literal baptism by fire - a cleansing, a renewal.

Sometimes, I wish I could do that... expose my soul to an intense, scorching heat that would, in one swift breeze of a moment, melt away all my rough edges, my imperfections, my faults, fears, inconsistencies, once and for all.

Oh, to stand spotless, unhindered by the the moments when I shouldn't have yelled, but did, shouldn't have judged, shouldn't have criticized, assumed, blamed, and did. Would that I could stand, right now, in a lush field of green, a promise written in the sky overhead that I will always be a perfect mother, a perfect wife, a perfect friend.

But.

I am human. I am flawed. A garden thick with weeds and dead growth too strong for a single flame, too complex for one sweeping moment of perfecting renewal. No, I require more precise work. So I do work, daily, consistently. I attack one thorny patch of imperfection at a time, working until my hands and heart are raw. And then, asking the Lord, the Master Gardener, to come and consecrate my efforts, I watch as He fills the spot with goodness, grace, and beauty, making me much more than I could ever be on my own.

Renewed, and uplifted, I turn to the next corner of my garden heart that needs attention, and rolling up my sleeves, I dig in. Sometimes, it's very overwhelming work. Sometimes, I don't know where to start. Sometimes, I finish pulling weeds in one corner, just to turn around and realize they've grown rampant everywhere else. Sometimes, I work to nurture one particular spot over and over again and yet still fail to get anything lovely to bloom.

But I always see Him, the Master Gardener, ready and waiting to take the shovel from my hands, clean the dirt from my fingernails, and finish what I can't do on my own. It is in these moments that He reminds me that He never said I had to be perfect. He died because He knew I couldn't be. "You're enough," He says gently. "Just the way you are, you're enough."

And I am enough - a complex tangle of weeds and blooms, beautiful stretches of lush green, and darkened patches of dead growth all wrapped into one imperfect person.

Because of Him, I am enough. And so are you.

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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