On Miracles

Every few years I feel like I re-examine what it means to have faith. I'm not talking about whether or not to be a part of a Faith . . . using the word in a way that it makes it synonymous with religion, or insert the name of a certain church. No, I believe that your relationship to a church, while certainly being an element of faith, is separate from the question of faith as an expression of deep belief that inspires you to action. 

Two events have unfolded in the last few months in my life that have cause this re-examination to take place. The first is that a friend of mine was recently diagnosed with colon cancer. Despite symptoms of major colon issues, she spent several months praying and believing that whatever she had going on would just clear up. I don't see her as a person who believes in faith healing, per se, but she did spend several weeks with whooping cough last summer before her very practical teenage son insisted she go to the doctor. I think she is busy . . . she has seven children and a hundred things she enjoys doing. I think she puts off such visits, as many of us do, thinking we'll eventually get better on our own. 

Anyway, by the time she was diagnosed, she had a malignant tumor the size of a golf ball obstructing her bowel. It obstruction was discovered Friday and they had the surgery scheduled by Monday. While hospitalized, all of her lymph nodes were checked and cleared as cancer free. The tumor was completely excised and she won't even undergo chemo or radiation. 

And yet, despite my very real gratitude for her clean bill of health, I have had a hard time getting my head around the language of miracles she and her husband have so freely spoken of in the last few weeks. You see, many years ago, my family likewise fasted and prayed for a miracle and my aunt died of colon cancer anyway. She had a family of young children and was just 34 years old. Our lives are in God's hand and we are subject to natural processes. We cannot change His mind nor erase the fact that we are born to eventually die. 

I am not the best at prayer, or maybe faith, but as I get older I have come to believe, as CS Lewis once spoke, that we don't pray to change God, we pray to change ourselves. And yet, of the many prayers uttered in my friend's behalf the Sunday before she went to her surgery, I heard very little thy-will-be-done type prayers and very many of those other types. Please Lord, give us exactly what we want.

From my friend's Facebook page,  "My heart is so full of deep gratitude for the results I learned today. . . To deny the reality of a divine creator, a merciful God and a loving Savior would deem me an ignorant fool in not recognizing to whom the power of the prayers of so many has blessed the preservation of my life and the ability to continue to love and serve and raise my children and others upon this earth for some while longer. I'm very grateful for all the love and support our family has been given and received during such a challenging time. Faith precedes the miracle. I love you all."

This is a lovely, public expression of gratitude and her faith, already very strong, is clearly stronger now. 

But what about when faith does NOT come before a miracle? My thoughts of my aunt have been very heavy in the last few weeks. I will not deny that her family has indeed experienced miracles, and I know that her daughters have at times felt their mother very near as they have grown. But it has been a very, very hard road for them in many ways. They dealt with trials as children (related to their mother's death and their father's subsequent, disastrous re-marriage) that I can hardly even begin to comprehend. I don't think I could ever say that any child is better off without their loving, and lovely mother. I know that God is in charge of the universe, but I also know that he wouldn't be God if he intervened every time we were uncomfortable. Part of what makes Him God is that He allows the world to proceed as it will, so that we can learn and grow from this experience. Even when it means we suffer. Especially when it means we suffer.

My friend's faith is lovely. Beautiful. Almost childlike in its simplicity and trust. 

It is not a faith that works for me. And when I read her piece I felt strongly that such simple expression belittles those who have prayed in great faith . . . with the greatest faith they knew and still not received the hoped for blessing. I hope that I would not imply to another that if they just had a little more faith they would see a few more miracles. For nothing is more personal than faith.

The second thing that has happened is the process of selling our home and buying another. It has been a ride. In June, after bidding on two homes, I was practically ready to give up and just chuck it all in for a while, continuing to endure the small house. I had begun praying for patience, humility and most of all, gratitude for all that I'd been given rather than discontent for what I didn't have. 

And then the house we wanted came through. Not luck or even coincidence. It was an empty short sale and we hounded the neighbors until we got the needed information and put the process in to play. That process was much shorter than expected (as noted in an earlier post) and we have spent many hours in the last few weeks making sure our financing was in place--a tricky proposition because we had no contract on the home in which we currently live.

In the past weeks, many have told me to pray that the new house would come through and the old one would sell. You've earned this! You deserve it! You do the right things, God will bless you! I have heard each of these and more from my delightfully sweet friends who have more faith in general, and certainly more faith in me than I have in myself.

But I couldn't do it. Not once have I been able to bring myself to my knees to pray specifically for this particular blessing. I just couldn't. The world is such a hot mess right now. There is actual suffering and pain and . . . well, I'm sure you can watch the news as well as I can. About three weeks ago, I was on my knees, knowing we needed a blessing. We nearly ran to the point of bankruptcy with a house nine years ago; I am deeply fearful to go through that again. 

I found there were things I could pray about. I prayed that if it was a bad idea then our loan wouldn't come through. I prayed that whatever happened we would not be foolish enough to clean out the boys' mission fund. I prayed that we would continue to be generous with our time and talents despite our greater obligations.

And then I had a moment of inspiration during my jumbled prayer of desperation. This scripture came to mind from Luke:

27 Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

 28 If then God so clothe the grass, which is to day in the field, and to morrow is cast into the oven; how much more will he clothe you, O ye of little faith?

 29 And seek not ye what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, neither be ye of doubtful mind.

 30 For all these things do the nations of the world seek after: and your Father knoweth that ye have need of these things.

 31 ¶But rather seek ye the kingdom of God; and all these things shall be added unto you.

And I finally knew what to pray for.

I spent a happy fortnight praying for experiences that would allow me to serve others. Oh, I still did all the things necessary to work on getting the house, etc. And I still worried. I can't help it; it is my nature to do so. But little by little I was able to let go of really caring if it went one way or the other. I felt the joy of spontaneous chances to serve and was able to sleep. I felt at peace with whatever happened next.

We fasted 9 days ago, but I was in a better place to do so. Our fasting was about gratitude and a desire to serve and give our boys a place to grow and gather with their friends. I was finally able to approach my question with proper humility and in the right frame of mind, but with trust that it would all proceed as it must.

Four days ago, We got a perfect offer on our house the same day our new one was recorded in our name.

Getting the new house feels like a LOT of hard work over the past year. Selling the house we are in? That feels like a miracle. The scriptures tell us that faith precedes the miracle. I don't doubt it. But in my case, I had to learn a lesson in faith first. The miracle isn't selling the house. The miracle is the change in heart. Maybe the miracles are not what others see, but what we come to understand as we learn to exercise faith.

I didn't pray about the house, though I've expressed much gratitude since. I am coming to see more and more that my prayer needs to be a supplication to the Father of the Universe that he will find a way to use me. I don't think it is fair for me to ask anything else. God will bless us as he will, but I am going to try to focus less on the the blessings I think I need and more on how I might be a blessing to others and recognize more miracles as they come, while allowing others to see what miracles they see as well. 

Oh, I'm still the girl that would go get checked out right away, if I was dealing with the symptoms my friend had, but it doesn't mean I have to be a skeptic either. By seeing the world as it is maybe I'm better able to help it. Maybe my leap of faith, my gift, is to feel the doubt about so many different things and still behave as though there is no doubt. To not know of a surety, but to still plead that the Lord will help mine unbelief.

Austenland

Sorry, Sister Hale, the movie might just be better. I missed Jane's running commentary in her head and the chapters interspersed with old boyfriends, but I think no more than two minutes passed during the duration of the film when I didn't laugh right out loud. Well cast. Well played. Well done. Kudos to three Mormon girls for pulling this one off in a way that is hilarious, and at times risque without sinking to the level of raunchy that passes for the new funny. Here's to Jerusha, Shannon and yes, even you Stephenie. . . as well as the three awesome women I had my girl's night with.

I have got to get one of those I heart Darcy bookbags. 

Experience the Divine

Today was just a lovely day. Start to finish. Busy, but interspersed with moments of delightful peace. Late in 2010, a few months of remarkable missionary work led some wonderful people to join the Church. The first, a single sister, who later married her member boyfriend, is now getting ready to go to the temple and will be sealed to her husband in June. I'll be going to Salt Lake for the sealing. They came over tonight for dinner and we worked through a couple of lessons in the temple prep manual. The others who joined the Church in 2010 were a remarkable family. They also hit an important milestone today of which Plantboy was blessed to play an important role. Today was just what Sunday should be.

And I made this for dinner. You should make it this week. Really, you should.

Bacon and Blue Cheese Wedge Salad

Iceberg lettuce
Bacon
Blue Cheese Dressing
Blue Cheese crumbles 
Thinly sliced Red Onion
Pepper

Wash and quarter your lettuce. It will seem like a lot, but trust me, it is hard to stop eating once you stop. Quarters it is.

I used half a package of bacon when I made mine. For ease in crumbling and cooking, don't separate the bacon, but cut the slices into 1/2 inch strips and throw them all into pan on medium heat. Use a spatula to stir the bacon often. It will cook beautifully. Drain onto paper towels and let it cool.

I purchased a good quality blue cheese dressing, and it was really thick. I wanted more drizzling than scooping consistency, so I mixed in a couple of teaspoons of milk.

Drizzle the dressing on the wedges. Sprinkle with onions, cheese crumbles and bacon. Liberally add fresh cracked pepper on the top.

Let's just say that bacon and blue cheese are pretty much the match made in Heaven. The above picture isn't mine, but my result was similar. I did not use tomato because they are so horrible this time of year. Late in the summer, when the cherry tomatoes start coming out our ears in the back yard, I would definitely add them. Other on-line recipes used variations with green onions, purple cabbage and cucumbers.

But really, just admit it, it's all about the bacon.

Spring Break 1994

Though not as fun as last year's spring break trip to the Redwoods, our break this year has been equally memorable. It will best be told through pictures, but not today. Today I am going to flash back seventeen years.

Just typing that seems preposterous, for some of the events from that spring still seem as fresh as if they happened this year. This is the story of my spring break freshman year. Before you get excited for juicy tales of some hedonistic lifestyle choices, I should tell you that this is not that kind of story. That I don't actually have any stories like that. And, well, if you like that sort of thing you should just find another blog to read.

My roommate, Pocohantas (the original Naked Mole Rat, I've mentioned her before), started college with a boyfriend. He wasn't exactly "in tow" as he stayed behind in our home town, a scant hour away. He put off a serious pursuit of college while waiting to go on his mission. I hesitate to say "preparing" to go on a mission, because like many other young men in his position, he worked a little and played a lot. Pocohantas, on the other hand, hit the ground running at college. She wanted to be an optometrist and had to support herself through college and so she had little time to waste.

The summer between high school and college was one of those idyllic times for Pocohantas and Beau. (I had half a summer like that once.) They left their childhoods behind with a bang: drive-in movies, bridge-jumping, a backpacking trip to the Continental Divide, hanging out at the dam, waterskiing . . .

As Beau's birthday wasn't until the spring, he was a frequent weekend visitor at our apartment. When he didn't come, Pocohantas went home. Besides dating Beau, she also worked a part time job selling wedding dresses to bridezillas every Saturday. Her schedule intensified as her classes got harder, science classes designed to select against all but the very fittest. Money grew tighter than expected and she took another job at a local sweatshop making back packs every afternoon.

It is entirely possible that as Pocahontas got busier, Beau got more laid back. He took a few cursory classes at the college, but spent a big chunk of the winter skiing. Pocahontas hated the skiing, though not because it represented just how uninterested Beau was in growing up, but because he was such a daredevil. She finally had to ask him just to stop telling her the stories because they made her freak out.

Yes, this is a spring break story, bear with me through a bit more back story. In November of 1993, a beloved Aunt, in her early 30's was diagnosed with malignant colon cancer after dealing with flu-like symptoms for nearly two months. She was given an open and shut operation the over Thanksgiving holidays. Opened to cut out the offending portion of the colon, and closed when the doctor saw that her abdomen was filled with cancer, and that full surgical removal was impossible. They began an aggressive course of treatment.

Beau received his mission call to Washington D.C., and as young men are prone to do (and, admittedly, young women), he became even more protective of the time that he and my roommate had together. And though he never asked Pocahontas to "wait" for him, it was clear that his fondest hope was that she would still be around when he came back. You see, he had loved her enough to change his whole life for her. Early on in high school, he was headed down a road that wouldn't bring him any happiness, but after meeting Pocahontas, he wanted to do whatever it took to be her guy. Beau was the perfect combination of rebel-factor and Darcy Effect. But even as he turned his life around, he never lost that mischievous charm that made him so much fun.

Back in the day, USU was on quarters, and so Spring Break was preceded by Winter Semester finals. Apartment 41 was a madhouse of caffeine, late nights, oddly-timed power naps and b.o. Early in that busy week, Beau called Pocahontas, with no little frustration over her inability to commit to spending more time with him. He would, after all, be leaving in just over two weeks. Even during the break she was scheduled to work every day at the gown shop. Just before hanging up with a few cursory endearments, he said, "You are spending spring break with me. One way or another."

Then came other phone calls.

The first was my newly-engaged older brother to tell me that he had been scheduled for emergency surgery during spring break because of a birth defect that had caused his lung to partially, spontaneously collapse.

Another call came from my mom. A childhood friend had been involved in a terrible car accident in a late Utah snow storm. She was in intensive care with her jaw wired shut and a leg full of pins.

The third call came from my mom also. My aunt, just over four months after diagnosis, had died. Her funeral would be over spring break. She was survived by a young, grieving husband and four shell-shocked kids ages 2-12.

But it was the fourth call that really turned the world upside down.

It was for Pocahontas.

Beau had been in a bad skiing accident. He had been life-flighted to the hospital and was in intensive care in very unstable condition. He would spend three months in a coma. And he was right--Pocahontas spent every single day of Spring Break with him.

On the first day of the break, my dad had to drive to eastern Utah to look at an area near where his company was bidding a road construction job. It was the middle of nowhere. He invited me to come along and I went for it, knowing that I could spend hours in the car and not really need to talk if I didn't want to. I didn't.

When we arrived at our destination, I got out of the car and walked around a bit, staring out over the sparse, still un-vegetated landscape. And I asked a lot of questions. I'm not sure if I directed them at God, who wasn't my favorite Person at that point, or just threw them out to the universe, but I know that for the first time I really questioned the meaning of existence, and the worth of all I'd been taught. I suddenly felt very strongly that I had to know if religion in general, and mine specifically, was just a series of fairytales people had invented in a lame attempt to feel better when awful things happened, or if the things I'd always been taught were truth. THE Truth.

Later that week, I sat in the car at a rain-soaked cemetery waiting for everyone to arrive at the internment. As I looked out the foggy window, I saw my uncle standing at the graveside in a black trenchcoat and holding a black umbrella. His three oldest children clung to his legs and his baby, with his sprinkling of freckles and his mother's red hair, cuddled against his shoulder as if he would never let go. Even now, 17 years later, it is a picture that still comes unbidden to me sometimes, a constant reminder that each life is fleeting and that things shouldn't be left unsaid.

On that day, I questioned more than ever.

In the months to come, I got serious about my questions. I spent many hours on my knees, pleading for peace and revelation. And then, it came. I still remember the chair in which I was sitting, the book that I was reading, and the words that settled with such clarity on my heart. I've never regressed to the person I was before that time.

Pocahontas continued her biweekly visits to Beau's bedside throughout the spring--even when they moved him to a hospital two hours away. Always the most social and outgoing girl in our class, she became withdrawn, tired and alone. My heart ached to help her, knowing that I had so little to give that she needed. Already a young woman of remarkable faith, her own questions were probably deeper than mine. When she happened to be around, we would spend our time in deep conversations. I remember her saying to me once that so many people kept telling her things happened for a reason, that there were lessons to be learned from each situation, that God was always in charge. She hoped nothing she had to learn in life would be so important that Beau and his family had to suffer so terribly. I cried when she said it and told her I didn't think it worked that way. But I'm still not sure.

What I do know is that the Lord can bless us with peace and knowledge even when your whole world is falling apart. I learned that a broken heart is finally soft enough to accept what the Lord wants to give you.

In the aftermath of that awful week, my brother was fine. His lung was repaired and has had no trouble with it since. My friend also came through her accident with flying colors. She now has four beautiful little girls. My uncle has finally come to a place of great happiness and my family has witnessed miracle after miracle in the lives of his children. I firmly believe that my aunt is watching over those much-loved children from the other side and is helping them in many ways. They are some of the strongest twenty-something adults that I know and each is making their mother proud.

As for Beau . . .

I mentioned before that he was in a coma for more than three months. He finally woke up, but he never really came back. He was paralyzed from the waist down because of trauma to his spinal cord. In addition, a massive brain hemorrhage, likely caused on impact, created stroke-like conditions for him, causing him to lose most of the use of one of his hands. It also gave him problems with slurred speech, destroyed his short-term memory, and left him locked in the mind of a six year-old. Remarkably, his happy personality persisted, though his face traded twinkling mischief for disarming innocence. Everyone who knew Beau in the after years loved him. And Pocahontas still did.

Two years later she met a wonderful guy and said the hardest thing about getting engaged was having to tell Beau, but especially his parents. To Beau, hardly any time had passed. He was still going to serve a mission. Still going to marry Pocahontas. Still going to be a star. But to his parents, my friend's happy news reminded them of how much they loved her too, and that she would never be a true part of their lives.

Beau left this life last weekend, in a tragic turn of events that also claimed the lives of his parents. When I heard the news, I, like everyone who had any contact with the family, was shocked and horrified. I found myself again on my knees, pleading for that peace. I know now that some things are beyond understanding, but the Lord can always send peace.

Saturday morning, one of my paper customers left me a lovely bouquet of yellow daffodils. I cried as I picked them up, their cheery faces reminding me that spring always comes again. That the atonement and forgiveness is real. That God's grace makes resurrection and eternal families possible. I was reminded of those lessons learned through the furnace of affliction so many years ago.

Later that day it occurred to me that now Beau is getting a chance to serve the kind of mission he had one day hoped to. And though it isn't a fairy tale, happily ever after really is possible. Good-bye, friend. Your life and suffering weren't in vain. You touched so many lives for good. Everyone who knew you is better for it.

The Church Makes the World Small

Last week my Visiting Teachers were here, and one of them told one of those stories that becomes typical if you are around Mormon culture very long--somebody that she knew was a friend to somebody else that turned out to be the roommate of her cousin and this connection led to some kind of wonderful and miraculous occurrence. This wasn't exactly the situation, but you get the drill.

The inevitable, "It's a small world," comment arose from her companion and I could practically hear the music begin in the background.

But, in echo of an uncle of mine from many years ago, I contradicted, "No, the world is large. It is the Church that makes it small."

She asked me to repeat what I'd said, and then to explain it. I shared with her one of my favorite instances of this phenomenon that makes Church members often much closer than six degrees of separation. It is also the story that prompted my uncle to make the above statement that I have thought of many times since I first heard it nearly 20 years ago.

My father's family is very large: he is the oldest of ten kids. About half of them have stayed close to their small town where they all grew up; the other half have gotten "out." However, getting out only meant leaving Utah for one of them. My Uncle Sam. (I actually have an uncle Sam. Not Samuel or Samson, just SAM.) He happened to be in town one weekend when the following story was told.

Another uncle and his wife won a trip to Europe. This is the uncle that wins everything. Really. If you need someone to guess how many jellybeans are in a jar to win the hot air balloon ride at the fair, he's your man. The problem is that he and his wife had never really been outside the western US, (other than trips to Okalahoma or Iowa to watch the National College Wrestling Finals) or had much desire to do so. Still, a trip to Europe is a trip to Europe and they went. When they returned they were filled with stories of bizarre and unfriendly cultural practices. They had little positive to share from their difficult 10 days, but one shining moment stood out above all others.

Tired and hungry, they had gone to a small restaurant in Italy. It had come recommended and looked promising, but ordering was difficult. They noticed, sitting just a table or two away, a couple who looked very American, sitting with their son who was obviously finishing up a mission. With nothing to lose, and desperately hoping to hear some friendly English-speaking voices, my aunt and uncle went over and introduced themselves. They were immediately asked to join their table and enjoyed an evening of pleasant conversation, with all meal ordering done in perfect Italian.

Typical questions (Oh! You are from Utah? Which part?) became more detailed when they learned exactly what city the family was from. It turned out that the returning missionary had been on my brother's soccer team all through high school and they were quite good friends.

In a random restaurant in a small town. Thousands of miles from home. In a foreign country.

It was my turn that day to say, "It's a small world." It was a dumb thing to say, really. My world was small. I'd never spent more than a few days together outside of Northern Utah in my whole life. To which Uncle Sam, who really had seen something of the world, and knew just how lonely it can be when you leave home, told me that the world was big. Very big. The Church made it small.

I understand better now.

Like mentioning to someone we barely knew in Logan that Plantboy and I would soon be moving to Houston, only to find out that his father was the bishop of the ward into which we were moving.

Like meeting a wonderful family in Houston who had lived in one of my wards in Australia, and we spoke of people we each knew.

Like having two dear friends from very different places in my life but finding that they knew each other through a study abroad program.

Like running into friends from our Houston ward at my in-laws house in Denver. They were staying with a family member--across the street.

Like needing to obtain a last minute temple recommend while Plantboy and I were temporarily living in Parker Colorado one summer only to find out that the Stake Presidency member interviewing me was the brother of a woman I had visit taught in Texas.

Like finding friends from high school in my current city, even in my ward.

Like the man in our ward who is doing business in China over the next few months, but found a branch there because his girlfriend (in New Zealand!) happens to know a woman who attends it.

I could go on, but I won't, because if you are reading here and you are LDS, you no doubt have a story of your own. Or many stories.

I also don't mean to imply that you have to be a Mormon to make such connections. I only know that I have never been a part of any group that allows me to make such broad connections among people. Though I have lived in many different parts of the country, it is always through being LDS that I am able to find the most "coincidental" connections with people.

Maybe this is why I feel so comfortable moving as often as I have? I know that when I enter a new city and ward, I'm creating a new "family." A new circle of connections that will make me a better person if I am willing to step up and take my part in the group. I know that I will find a wonderful camaraderie of people that have common cultural bonds despite being composed of unique individuals.

It is true that I'm white and Anglo-Saxon and all of that, and probably carry my fair share of prejudices and quirks because of my racial background, but I think I am mostly LDS. It is the first culture with which I identify myself. The Church makes the world small because I have brothers and sisters in dozens and dozens of countries. Like any large family, we have our share of problems and we need to keep working on our unity and charity, but it is a pretty great thing to be a part of too.

Not Friends--Lifelong Friends

Some friendships are meant to be. And if you are really fortunate, you find yourself in a group of friends that was meant to be.

In college, I found myself living with some great girls (both by design and "accident") as well as across from some fabulous neighbors. Over my few years in school, members of the two groups would trade in and out, marry (sometimes one another) and move. But even in the fluidity of the group, there were some core friendships that held it all together.

Fortune smiled on us this summer, and thanks to the miracle of Facebook, with just a few days notice, a majority of the old gang was able to gather at Lawyerboy's house. Though for some of us it had been years, we re-connected as if it had never been otherwise.

Though my personality was formed at home, my experiences with these friends, helped me to morph into the adult I would eventually become. I think my friendships in that group are the reason that my old college town is the place I'm most likely to call "home." Each member of that group has such a collection of special memories attached to them. In some groups of people, you revert to a certain persona. With these people, it isn't really necessary because I just love who I am when I am with them. They have been bringing out the best in me since 1993.

One of my favorite pictures from my wedding day is standing outside the temple, arms linked together with these friends: men and women who exerted such a positive influence in my life that I still feel its effects years later. Our LDS theology teaches us that families will be together, but on that day I understood that the best friendships are likewise eternal. As I stood with men and women who have been at important times as near and dear to me as my actual brothers and sister, I knew that my journey was forever linked to theirs.

On the night of our barbecue it was hard to decide where to be. I wanted to be a part of each clustered conversation. Nate would say that it is because I have a (strong) opinion about everything, but I think it is mostly because everyone had such interesting things to say. Conversation topics ranged from Twilight to China as a world power to adoption to raising children to the Middle East to decorating to hair cuts to employment . . . . you get the idea. In the right group of friends, the lightest subjects or the heaviest topics all take on special meaning. Are we friends because we all agree? Noooooooooooo. . . . . . . . quite the contrary. Still, somehow, they are the most agreeable people to disagree with.

I've moved a lot, and often a great distance between locations. How grateful I am for friends who will always be friends even when years and miles separate us. Seeing them again was like picking up in the middle of a conversation. Though we lingered late, and well past the time for happy little kids, we still have more to say to one another. But I'm content; some conversations never really end.

Not So Much a Haircut As a Complete Reinvention

It occurred to me, somewhat belatedly, that the whole "Going Goth" post title might have had a few of you wondering if I had dyed my hair black rather than cutting it all off.

I did not.

I'm a decade and a half too late for that kind of drama. Still, I don't think the change could have been much more dramatic. I will mostly let the pictures speak for themselves.

Do I look nervous? No? Well then I'm totally faking it. This was a rather major decision, though in the scheme of things it is rather shallow I suppose.

One last moment to change my mind . . . .

Past the point of no return. I think I look a little shell-shocked. Eleven inches.

While I was at it, I decided to get highlights too. It isn't just that Goldilocks (my hairdresser) gives a fantastic cut and styles my hair better than anyone I've ever had, she is also the World's Best Colorist. Really, I think she is.

End result. Wow. I'm still in a bit of shock in this picture. But now I'm about three weeks out and I love it. Less time, less hassle, less shampoo . . . . less HAIR. Unfortunately it is going to mean more haircuts. I still haven't worked out what I'm going to do yet.

I know! I'll write a novel that everyone wants to read, become independently wealthy and fly to Utah every eight weeks so that Goldilocks can take care of me. Isn't she adorable? She is a friend of my sister's from high school, and a perfect beautician. Not only is she incredibly skilled, but she is so genuinely friendly and interested that I found myself talking almost exclusively about me for and hour and half! It was only later that my sister told me that Goldilocks doesn't just run marathons (which I knew, and she briefly talked about) , but that she WON the female division in a 100 miler last year!!! Anyway, if you are looking for a fantastic haircut from a truly wonderful person and you happen to live near my parents, give me a call and I will pass on Goldilocks' real name and number.

I Don't Care What You Think. Except When I Do.

My dearest friend in high school had a disarming way of saying exactly what was on her mind. She didn't care a whit for what other people thought about her utter lack of subtlety. Those who loved her understood how she was and overlooked any perceived offense, those who didn't know or love her didn't merit any notice on her radar.

How I envied her.

For a while I even fancied that I was the same. Saying precisely what was on my mind was my modus operandi for ages 17 through um . . . about the time I became a missionary. It was odd really because Aussies are known for shooting straight from the hip--their brutal honesty was shocking beyond belief sometimes. (Ohmygosh! Did you notice that huge zit on your nose???!!?? Um, yeah, thanks, I did strangely enough.) I think my care about how other perceived me stemmed a lot from the fact that I was no longer just speaking for myself. I wore a black name tag that professed to the world that I represented a lot of interests: my surname made me a part of a family, the name of the Church made me an official spokesperson, but perhaps most importantly were the words JESUS CHRIST in all caps letters, overshadowing everything else on the tag. People might form opinions about Him based on their interaction with me.

And yet, Christ himself wasn't afraid of offending when real bluntness called for it.

My post-mission days never saw me completely revert to the person I was before (thank goodness for that), but I sometimes still wonder who the "real" me is--the person who blurted out whatever was on her mind, too often mistaking bitter sarcasm for wit? Or the person I was on my mission who would smile sweetly through all kinds of shocking revelations people found themselves to willing to give?

As seems to be the case with nearly everything in my life, the truth is probably some where in the middle. I know this will sound odd to some of you, as my writings here don't often shirk from controversy. (I am probably the same in person, too.) However, when the argument strays into the personal or the tone takes that perceptible drop in civility, I find my heart beating faster and my hands clammy. A slightly nauseous feeling sits in my stomach and I'm suddenly consumed with guilt for having hurt someone's feelings. Even potentially. In "real" life, I tend to keep my opinions a little closer to the chest, not wanting to wreck the potential for friendships because I was too blunt or too outspoken too soon.

Recently I read a blog, following a link from a trusted page to an interesting name, and found myself confronted with some pretty in-your-face political ideology, much of it at odds with my own thoughts. It was clear that many of the person's comment-ers and followers were like- minded, and though I might have said a good many things (my brain was so full of things to say that I could hardly form a coherent sentence), I refrained. I knew it would be useless, first of all. I also knew that what might make me feel better for a moment would probably not in the long run. I also knew I wouldn't be able to keep myself from checking back on the blog no doubt to find myself vilified and grilled. And for what?

My peace of mind would be, at least momentarily, deeply shaken. In addition, I would have stirred somebody else up to even greater anger than they already carried.

At the same time, just as with my friend from high school, I held a sort of grudging admiration for the writer of the blog. She clearly didn't give a damn who disagreed with her or if the whole world knew it.

Though the blog was anonymous. Interesting. So maybe she does care.

And, as it turns out, so do I. I care if people like me. I am concerned when I offend somebody, particularly a family member. If I am sarcastic in blog of Facebook comment, I obsess a bit about whether or not the person picked up on my tone. I care about whether or not somebody's perception of me affects their perception of the LDS Church, or Christians or my family or my husband or my children.

No doubt most of you have read that allegorical book "You Are Special" about the sweet little puppet who is made fun of by the others of his kind--their labels and criticisms sticking to him like glue. That is, these things stick to him until he meets his loving Maker in whose opinion he learns better to trust. I love that story. I love the idea that God's opinion should matter more to us than others' opinions.

But I'm just not there yet.

Please, chime in, do you care what others think of you? And I mean, PLEASE chime in: my whole point is that I do care what you think. Or don't chime in. Your silence will teach me to look to other sources for validation.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 25

I love it when friends invite you away for the weekend. We are headed to the mountains where there is fresh snow. And although such a wonderful proposition isn't going to mean skiing this year (Tabula has a newborn so she is neither eligible for babysitting or for being a ski-buddy; Plantboy boy and Jamin went up today), it probably does mean snow shoeing and some serious snowball fighting. If we our lucky in our choice of time shares, it might also mean a hot tub. Oh, yeah, I could get used to this life.

Because we will be away from this afternoon through Sunday, I'm going to finish up my blogging today UNTIL APRIL. Really. I can do this. And now that I've told you all that I am, I feel more confident about sticking to it.


Day 26

I love hot chocolate and white bread toast for breakfast. Since I don't really buy white bread, this breakfast is reserved for the odd loaf of French bread that makes its way into the house. The lemon rosemary bread also makes the yummiest toast I've ever eaten. Ever.


Day 27

Tomorrow is Dad's birthday. I've written a couple of (better) posts about him in previous years, so I will link them here if you are interested. (I think Bean Boy is especially well-written, though the other has some fun pictures.) I love my dad, without reservation. It took me some years to come to that conclusion, but I'm very glad that I did.


Day 28

I love the star magnolia tree in our front yard. Because we have had some early, warm days this year, the tree is already in blossom, casually flaunting the fact that it is still February. Even on a wet gray day, like today, I want to throw on the sandals and dig out my skimmers.





Now for something that you can actually give some thought to, and comment on. Because if there is one thing I have learned about myself and blogging, it is that I am a comment junkie. I'm sure that any psychologist would be happy to blather on about my need for attention, etc. etc., and they might be right. Lately I've started to think that this is why I want to publish--I just have to know what people think of my writing, and if I'm good enough to make it. Time will tell.

Last week, JennyMac (who is always funny, by the way, though my disclaimer says that your brand of humor and hers might not be compatible) wrote a post about a rash on her hand that caused her to go wedding-ring-less in public for a few days. The post was titled, "I Feel Naked Without . . . ." I couldn't relate on a wedding ring level. I actually hardly ever wear mine in the house because rings kind of drive me nuts. Also, my hands swell slightly when I sleep and a LOT when I exercise, making it very uncomfortable.

Instead her post made me think about some part of me, either innate or ornamental, that makes me really feel like myself. I decided that it is probably the color blue. I hardly ever get dressed for the day without some spot of blue. I'm not picky about the exact color or shade of blue, but I never feel quite like myself unless I'm sporting something blue. Blue is such an introspective color.

Her post, and my exercise in finding things I love, made me think further about what I couldn't live without. In the past month I've read two books, The Hunger Games and These is My Words, that made me think about survival and what a person actually NEEDS to make it through life. This theme has further been emphasized as we ready the Young Women in our ward to go on a pioneer trek this summer. Other than bedding, everything they are allowed to take for three days has to go in a five gallon bucket. They have been given a list, and as a gimmick to help the girls get ready, I have been running weekly contests and awarding the winners truly fabulous presents like Gold Bond Medicated Powder, pink bandannas, facial wipes and extra healing lotion. On their list of things to bring is a small instrument such as a recorder or harmonica.

I don't play the harmonica OR the recorder, and I'm quite certain that if I had to walk a thousand miles across the wilderness I would not take either. But what would I take? What personal item would mean the most to me? Katniss, from Hunger Games, needed a bow and some arrows more than anything, and this vision of her as a huntress defines her character throughout the book. (Not entirely masculine--think Diana, goddess of the hunt.) Sarah, from These is My Words, carried a wagon full of books across the plains. One night, she awakens to what she thinks is a fire in her wagon, disoriented and anxious and her first thought is not that she might die, but that her books might burn. She places higher priority on her books than on her life. Like Katniss' weapons, the books become the thing that defines Sarah's character.

I'm like Sarah, if I was going to carry books across the plains, it would have had to have been a wagon load of them. And yet, I can understand why many families only took a family Bible of Book of Mormon with them. Maye they were hoping or enough inspiration to make up a library. Maybe they got it. I know that I'm glad I haven't had to make the choice. Though anybody who has ever helped me move and hauled dozens of boxes of books probably wishes I would make a choice.



The woman who is the president of our Young Women organization in our ward is also going on the trek. I'm actually a bit jealous. Her kids are a little bit older than mine and it is a good time for her to go--not so much for us. I was trying to decide on what token to give her for the trek. It would have to be something small enough to take, but more meaningful than rash powder. And the it hit me.

I went to the bookstore and found her a small, leather-bound journal with sewn in pages. The pages are unlined and thick. In the note I enclosed with the journal, I told my friend that if I could have only carried one personal item across the plains, it would have been something very much like this. And then it hit me: while I might be able to feed and clothe myself without unlined pages and something to write with, unless I can chronicle my journey and write thoughts down in order to better sort through them, I really don't feel like life is worth much. Perhaps like Katniss' bow and Sarah's books, it is the blank pages waiting to be filled that define me: the thing that erases that terrible feeling of nakedness we get when something is missing.I'm still going to spend my month writing. Just not here. I love you all. Happy Lenting.

I'm Thankful for Old Friends, but Mostly for New Memories

The night of high school graduation, in the midst of the chaos of 700 graduating seniors on the football field and a threatening rainstorm, a group of 7 or 8 of us who had all been together through all of school ended up in the same place at the same time. Many of us had long-since drifted apart, but I think we knew that at some level we could all still count on one another. In just a couple months time, we would all be headed in new and mostly different directions. We were young and didn't know the terrible and wonderful things that awaited us over the next year . . . the next ten years. One of our group said, "You guys, no matter where we go or what we do, it will always be like this."

Uh . . . I might have been young, but I wasn't naive. And I was more than ready to move on.

My friend was right in some respects, and there were times, hard times, when we were there for each other. But there were other times too. Times that we weren't there for each other, and not merely because of distance. Some of it was by choice.

Then, through the miracle of Facebook, we learned that Pocohantas' mother died suddenly in a terrible car accident in October. (If you want to learn more about Pocohantas, see this post from a couple of years ago. It might be helpful because she figures into my posting every now and then.) Within two days the "old gang" was contacted and we agreed to get together for lunch the day before Thanksgiving. I think the death of our friend's mother, brought us together in a way that enough passage of time had not been able to.

I was admittedly nervous about the get-together. It has been many years since we've all seen one another. This was also my group of friends that I never felt I quite measured up to. I always felt like I was on the fringe of their group: student body officers, a head cheerleader, seminary council, a couple of amazing singers . . . you get the picture. I think I was best known through high school as the girl with a series of crazy hairdos in junior high, the one most likely to adapt a Saturday Night Live skit for an assembly and a charter member of the Save Our Earth Club. What mostly characterized my separateness from the group, however, is that I never had a boyfriend. These girls always did. And not just any boyfriends--the big men on campus types. The kind of boys who would never have even thought twice about dating my could-pass-for-a-chubby-12-year-old self.

If you know that Taylor Swift song, "You Belong With Me," you can pretty well peg exactly who I was during that era. Only the girl who was the cheer captain was also one of my closest friends, and eventually a roommate. Talk about awkward.

So why dredge all this up? Stay with me here.

Fast-forward to lunch in November 2009. The conversation was wonderfully thick with happy reminiscences of a time which so shaped us that we never quite put it behind us as we moved on. While we sat talking and laughing and sharing stories and marveling at how good we each looked, I realized something really profound: I am no longer intimidated by these women.

My feeling isn't based on any kind of comparison, they are each as wonderful and successful as ever. But being with them on that pleasant afternoon showed me that I have finally grown up enough to learn to just enjoy their company and their personalities without needing to prove anything to anybody. Without wishing that I could trade places with any one of them for any length of time. Without any petty jealousy.

Perhaps even deeper than my feeling of being totally at ease in the company of such old friends, however, was feeling completely devoid of judgment toward any of the women at the table. Our lives have taken a lot of turns and twists. In times past I have found myself highly critical of my old friends for various reasons. Perhaps you will think this sounds awful? I hope so: It means that you've already overcome this comparison obstacle, or that you never had to in the first place.

One particular friend, whose story I will not share the details of, as it is her story to tell, went through a few very difficult years. Partly as a result of difficult circumstances, and partly because of her own choices removing herself from those circumstances. As she and I said our goodbyes I hugged her and told that I was especially glad to see her, that I thought we hadn't stood by her very well in her difficult time, both because we didn't know how to, but also because we had just failed.

She smiled, a genuine smile of forgiveness, and said, "You know, I would never repeat the last five years of my life, or wish it on anyone, but it was worth it to be where I am now. I'm really happy."

You know, I would never repeat those high school years of my life, even the great parts. But all of the angst was worth it to be where I am now. I'm really happy just being myself. I hope we don't wait ten years before reuniting again. On that graduation night, when one of our crowd said, "It will always be like this," she was, of course, wrong; but maybe her sentiment has some merit. With your oldest and dearest friends it it always possible to re-connect. And while you may not pick up like no time has passed, you have enough respect and affection for one another to meet where you are at and love what you find.

Tell Her What She's Won, Vanna!

And the winner is Slim! (Who is exactly one half of Slyck and Slim, but Slyck never actually posts.)

I've actually known for a few days now, but Conference weekend isn't exactly conducive to blogging. Especially when the temperature hits nearly 70 degrees and the sun decides to make an appearance. Conference and sunshine are, however, very inspirational for posting. Maybe in a few days when I've had time to internalize it a bit more.

I would send you to Slim's excellent blog here, but it is private, so instead I will tell you a little bit about my fantastic friend and what knowing her has taught me. It's almost too bad you can't go to her blog; I risk a fair amount of disloyalty here to tell you that her kids might actually be the cutest ones I've ever seen. Yes, my own included.

When we moved to our house in Texas, there were not all that many young couples in our ward yet, though later on there would be, literally, dozens. Slim and her husband, Slyck, invited us to dinner at their apartment. I was immediately impressed that though their space was very small, Slim managed to have everything in exactly the right place so that you felt cozy instead of crowded, and very welcome.

Slyck and Plantboy became home teaching companions and were together over the next three (or four?) years. I quickly learned to admire Slim as I came to see her many and varied talents. So many and varied, in fact, that for a time I wondered if the Ministry of Magic had sanctioned Slim's use of a time-turner. I ruled this theory out for two reasons--first of all, Harry and his buddies destroyed all of the time turners when they broke into the Ministry of Magic, and secondly because there is no such thing as magic. My next theory for Slim's amazing abilities quickly became apparent--Slim is probably the most self-disciplined woman I have ever met.

I think she is probably one of those people who always smiles through clenched teeth when people tell her how lucky she is to be so talented. She smiles because she in so nice, she clenches her teeth because luck has very little to do with what she has made of her natural abilities. Slim sews and paints. She could probably make a million dollars a year interior decorating but her whole heart and focus is on her mothering. Slim plays the piano and sings. Violin too, I think. Her house is unbelievably beautiful and so welcoming, though all of her decorating is done on a shoe-string budget and strictly cash only. Slim was also a ballroom dancer at BYU; but lest you think her interests run only to artistic pursuits, she also runs, bikes, has babies naturally and rides horses. She looks equally at ease camping in the mountains of Utah as attending the symphony in Houston. Slim is a true Renaissance girl.

Now that she probably hates me for saying so many wonderful things about her, I'm going to say a few more. . .

But with all of Slim's wonderful, hard-earned, outward talents, she knows that the Lord looks on the heart. Slim's committment to her abilities is her way of consecrating her whole self to the Lord. I mentioned the mothering thing, but she spends a lot of time using her music to bless people in the ward in various capacities as well as offering inexpensive lessons for children learning the piano. Slim never hesitates to help a friend learn how to do something new and crafty and is ready to give free decorating advice to anyone who needs it, even though at one time she was able to charge $100/hour just to go shopping with someone. For all that they are her talents, she is perhaps more generous with them than anyone I've ever met.

Slim and I are not alike, hardly at all. Even our physical appearances are nearly opposites. Our ideas and attitudes about all kinds of things are practically dichotomies of one another. But the Gospel has held us together as sisters. She and I were blessed to serve together for nearly three years as Young Women leaders, and in that time I never saw her fail to act with love, even when she wasn't entirely sure what to do. Every few months, she and I will fire off a series of very lengthy emails to one another, re-affirming our differences (politiely) and our friendship (fervently). I think fifty years could pass and Slim and I would still be able to sit down and have a wonderful conversation and put our arms around each other at the end grateful for the things we've learned from one another.

Again, she hates this kind of thing, but I'm so grateful for her friendship over the years and the things I've learned from her that I couldn't help it.

Slim wins:

* A copy of Pride and Prejudice. (The NON-zombie version.) I told you that Slim and I didn't have much in common--she isn't much of a reader, particularly of fiction. Still, it is my feeling that no self-respecting woman should be without a copy of this essential tome and so I am sending it to her in the fond hope that she will find time to read it. Though, no doubt, that time will be found after all the work is done.

* A box of chocolates from the Euphoria Chocolate Company. They are a local chocalatier in my fair city and they are SO GOOD. I only regret that I couldn't send the truffles: they are made with fresh cream and have to be refrigerated.

* A "small plates" journal. I started one of these for conference the other day. I don't know if Slim keeps a journal or not, but I haven't since I started this blog, and often hear other bloggers say the same. While I'm writing more now than ever, and keeping an accurate record of our lives, my deepest thoughts are often edited for fear of giving offense where none is intended. Slim is an introvert; perhaps the journal will be a place to bare her soul without risk of discovery.

I loved doing a contest, if only for all of the friends that showed up. Choosing the perfect AWESOME prize was also very fun. I'll do this again in a few months, and if I know you and you win then I'll say all kinds of sweet things about you too.

The prize is in the mail, Slim, but my personal feeling is that the actual prize is the friendship we share. Thanks for being a part of my journey.

Just Throw a Casserole At It

The tale I'm going to tell tonight is bizarre and unsettling in the extreme. Early last week, in a nice neighborhood just a mile or so from here, a ten year-old girl, whom I'll call Red, was riding her bike to a friends' house. She and the friend had both auditioned to sing in the school talent show. Since they had both, big surprise to anyone who knows a tweenie girl, sung Taylor Swift's "Our Song" for the audition, the committee decided to have them sing it together. (This is not the bizarre part, though I will admit the thought of said performance is a bit unsettling.) Red was going to the friend's house for practice.

A golden colored sedan was cruising around the neighborhood at the same time--later it would be discovered that the car was stolen and being driven by a 25 year-old homeless man--likely looking for a hapless victim. Seeing Red on her bike, he RAN HER DOWN. Red is a bit of a spitfire and had the presence of mind to jump up and begin running away, despite having just been hit by a car. Before she got far, Psycho was out of the car and dragging her by the hair into the passenger side. Red screamed. And screamed. And the neighbors came.

Before anyone had time to react, Red was pulled into the car and Psycho took off. At this point, three things happened simultaneously: the mother of Red's friend called Red's mother, a second neighbor called 911, and a third neighbor jumped in her car and took off after Psycho.

Red's mother was at the scene just as the police pulled up, feeling her heart ripped out at the sight of a single shoe left behind and Red's bike twisted and wrecked on the side of the road. While a plan was formed and an APB with the car's description was sent to every police officer in the city and the surrounding communities, the chasing neighbor returned. She reported the direction the car had gone, but admitted that Psycho had just been going too fast and she couldn't keep up. She also had forgotten her cell phone and the only way she could relay what she had learned of the route Psycho and Red had taken was to come back.

At some point, Psycho pulled over and had Red alone for a few minutes. That is where it gets a little bit murky, but it seems that Red wasn't going down without a fight and Psycho was concerned about being caught so he took off again. He hadn't gone more than few miles when he ran straight into a strip of tire rippers laid down by the officers on duty in the nearest community in the direction he was headed.

The sedan wrecked in a ditch; Red was rushed to the hospital and treated for a broken arm and given a thorough exam while the prosecutor paced outside, adding up the charges that would be laid at Psycho's feet. Meanwhile, Psycho was treated for some minor injuries at the local jail where Red's mother, quite honestly, hope he rots for eternity. And Red's father? Well, at one point he set out in his truck with a loaded shotgun to bring Red home, so Red's mother is grateful that she doesn't have a husband in jail on top of all of this.

Many of these details were in the newspaper. But not all of them. I'm privy to this incredible story because I visit teach Red's mother, and I've tutored Red on several occasions. (It was Red's mother who made the Jedi Master's adorable black and white starry fondant cake for his birthday.) This kind of thing never happens to people you know. Except when it does.

As the Relief Society President and I made our way over to Red's house the morning after this had all happened, I said to her, "I bet the handbook doesn't have any guidelines for THIS situation." I smiled slightly, trying to somehow help the mood of gloom we carried with us.

Very gravely, she replied, "You know, most of what the sisters go through has no easy answer. I never know what to do, really."

"When in doubt bake?" I smiled again.

She smiled this time too, and said that she had been talking about that very thing with her husband two nights previously because she often felt helpless against an onslaught of problems and that the best she could usually was throw a casserole at every difficulty. She perhaps expected her husband, not a member, to agree. Instead, he said, "But at least they know that you are thinking about them, that you care about them, and you are there if they need anything."

I took my turn throwing a casserole at this terrible situation--chicken enchiladas (which seemed a little chintzy so I also threw a big bag of greasy Frito's and a quart of strawberry vanilla ice cream)--as well as volunteering to do some tutoring for Red while she gets caught up in classes she was already struggling in. I spent some time talking with Red's mom when I took the food: we hugged and cried and talked with relief about how much worse it could have been and expressed gratitude for a community that works together. Today at church our Relief Society lesson was about service and the teacher talked about trying to get creative with our own talents and find ways to serve that only we could do. I knew I hadn't done much, but the lesson made me feel good about the service I'd rendered Red's family this week.

Then I spoke to Red's mom who told me she had dishes for me in the car. "How did you like it?" I said, with no real trepidation. I don't think I've ever taken anything that people weren't really complimentary about and my own family gobbled up the enchiladas, no problem. She replied, "Um, they were really spicy; the kids wouldn't really eat them. They gave me a stomach ache because I finally ate three of them when I could get enough sour cream on them." I smiled. I apologized. I felt helpless.

So it is okay to throw a casserole at a problem. Just not THAT casserole. And maybe not THAT problem.

Yankee Girl is My New BFF

You are all a bunch of duds. Only Desmama, with her less than a week old baby has a reasonable excuse. However, I will allow that the holidays have all of you much too busy to enter silly contests. You are too busy spending money to win free stuff I guess . . .

As if anybody cares at this point, here is my list of ten downloads that have each already been listened to ten times in the last couple of days:

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen: Bare Naked Ladies featuring Sarah McLachlan
I was always a little bit "meh" about this particular carol, but the way they have put together the rhythms and the harmony in this rendition has moved it quickly up to one of my favorites. It is fun, but not taken lightly at the same time. If you get what I mean. If you don't, please find a copy of this and listen to it. Go. Now. I'll wait. . . .

Baby It's Cold Outside: Lady Antebellum
I have loved this song ever since I heard Zoey Daschenel sing it on "Elf." (She has an awesome voice.) It is just so clever and funny and seductive all at once. The harmony of this country band is really great and the little bit of steel guitar in the background is a lot of fun.

Last Christmas: Taylor Swift
Yes, it is THAT song from the 80's. It was the first Christmas song I remember hearing that made me think, "Wait! Christmas songs don't actually have to have anything to do with Christmas?" When George Michael sings it, it is mostly cheesy and kind of pathetic, but Taylor Swift can really get away with it. Nobody does innocent teen angst better than Miss Swift.

A Baby Changes Everything: Faith Hill
The lyrics to this are so cool. All along the song is about how Mary's life is changed because of this unexpected teen pregnancy. But at the end, you realize that this baby changed everything for everyone. It is beautiful.

Take A Walk Through Bethlehem: Trisha Yearwood
I must admit, Trisha could sing the alphabet and I'd probably think it was awesome. I love so many parts of this song. "Every heart longs for more than tinsel, something more than just a holiday, come and celebrate the baby king, let's take a walk . . . "

There's a New Kid In Town: Trisha Yearwood.
Again, see the comment on the previous song. It has very beautiful lyrics about seeking out the king and asking everyone in town where he is. Queen Trisha can really do no wrong. (I won't even talk about how gypped she is every year when the best female vocalist award is announced. She beats them all into the ground, she just doesn't have the popularity. There is a difference between being able to sing and selling a bazillion albums.)

Do You Hear What I Hear?: Kristin Chenoweth
This woman sounds like an angel. I mean, what I assume angels sound like. I'm not trying to imply I've actually heard angels singing.

Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home): U2
C'mon, its Christmas, its U2, what's not to love?

All I Want For Christmas Is You: Mariah Carey
Not a big Mariah Carey fan. I just really don't care much for pop music. But in this song, she proves why she is a superstar. It is perfect. And none of that wailing in octaves only meant for dog ears.

Christmas Wrapping: The Waitresses
I love this song. It is really just hilarious. The premise would make a screenplay for a funny Christmas movie, I think. Hm . . . that is one more writing project idea that I'll probably never start.

Anyway, Yankee Girl chose two from the list, plus she put the U2 song on her blog playlist. Her last post was about how much she loved Kristin Chenoweth. So, obviously, I like country music better than she does, but with the her new playlist maybe she'll convert.

42-14

All right, so the final was actually 66-24, but we left at the post title's score. If you have no idea what I am talking about, Plantboy and I had our first date in over a month at the football game with the biggest point spread in the country on Saturday. Go Aggies. And I mean that in the you-don't-even-have-a-shot-at-being-the-underdog-you-are-so-out-of-your-league sense. Still we are alumni so we supported our team. USU was beating the 35 1/2 point spread until the fourth quarter. I guess. We only made it half-way through the third.

At that point we left for Sweet Life with Drs. Jamin and Tabula Rasa. We also tailgated with them before the game, the only blue-dressed fans in the entire 80-acre parking lot. (My mind could not have even conceived of tailgating on such a scale before Saturday's massacre.) We then sat in the visitor's section, which the U of O has generously put two miles up from the field, under the jumbo-tron and right next to the student section. On the upside, I actually ran into a former student from CRMS who I just loved. He has since moved to Oregon and it was a really hilarious place to run into him.

But back to Sweet Life and the high point of this, or perhaps any other, date. Plantboy's office occasionally orders one of the amazing concoctions from this place and he'll bring me home a sliver of cake or something, but Saturday was the first time I've actually been there. As soon as I saw the flourless chocolate torte square with a chocolate cheesecake layer smothered in ganache embedded with nine perfect, huge raspberries, I didn't look back. There is no picture here because I couldn't find one to do it justice. Use your best chocolate imagination and know that you still fall far short of the goodness. The $6 cake was worth the $39 football ticket and the $30 babysitter. Really. Oh, and the conversation was great. Tabula invited another couple to come from their ward. She was a former USU attendee with three kids also and it was fun talking to her. Except she graduated in '99. The first graduating class I taught was the Class of '99. Perfect.

The weather was beautiful on Saturday: hot enough to get slight sunburn to the nose. Still, the morning coolness is telling me that autumn is on the way. To remind me of that tiny fact, and in a salute to his harvest, my adorable hubby put up* 8 pints of salsa when we got home. By himself. With ingredients mostly from our garden or the farmer's market. How cute is that? I think I may try pears this week, and homemade applesauce in a few weeks.

To end with today, I'm going to give one last shout out to summer. I think these pictures were from the ONE day in three months that my kids were looking cute and organized and extremely helpful. (I took them visiting teaching for three hours that morning.) Scallywag should have been a farmer. The part I love most about these pictures are the cargo pockets full of beans: his idea. My mother-in-law told me once that she always had to carefully empty Plantboy's pockets before washing them when he was a little boy because she never knew what random thing she would find. My washing machine has taught me the same lesson about my own little guy. Going back to school has been a bit of a blow to him, with full days for the first time this year, but he'll adjust. I'm holding up just fine. Instead of tears, I called my mother four seconds after he was on the bus and said "One down, two to go!"

*I'm loving the term "put-up" since I'm seeing it on several blogs lately. It means "canned," but "put-up" is such an old-school Mormon term. I feel like a part of the inner circle of righteous womanhood using it.

Public Face Private Face

Two weeks ago at our ward's playgroup I got to talking with a fantastic sister whom I'm calling Erma until she actually decides to begin a blog and come up with a more descriptive blognym. Erma has four sons, is in her mid-late thirties, owns a dog, homeschools, dabbles in a bit of writing . . . oh, and she is the oldest of 21 children.

21 children.

No twins. Same mother. Same father. Really.

The writing that she mostly does is personal essay, though she enjoys performing--doing monologues and such. Erma even had a spot on a local radio show back east a few years ago. Anyway, we were talking about a big writer's conference she attended in Portland just a few weeks ago. She and hubby left the four kidlets with her in-laws and off they went. Ostensibly together, though she admitted that she spent much of her time attending workshops as well as talking to editors and publishers; she received some very positive feedback.

All of the publishing houses were asking their writers if they had a "presence on the web." Erma and I then began talking at length about blogging. Why people do it, if the writing is really all that great, what its role is in the life of somebody who really hopes to write professionally, etc. It seems that the publishers are mainly interested in finding out if you already have an audience for whatever you are doing: a ready-made fan base willing to pony up the cash for something you've written.

It was an interesting conversation. We also talked at length about whether a person's blog persona, particularly if they are working to stay anonymous, is really true to their actual self. It is interesting how you will say things on a blog that you might not actually say in person. For example, some of you here are just casual or occasional observers, yet you might end up knowing way more than you wanted to. I said to Erma that blogging, particularly with strangers, no matter how interesting or wonderful they seem or how many commonalities exist, is a bit, well, voyeuristic. How long can we be entertained with the daily minutiae of other people's lives? When will actual conversation be re-enthroned as a way to become acquainted with people? With everyone able to publish, it seems that people have ceased to edit entirely what they say or write. The reigning attitude seems to be that if a thought occurs to you, then you should absolutely say it! Stream-of-consciousness has reached a whole new level of annoying thanks to the magic of the Internet.

And then I think of the fantastic women I have met doing this (or at least have become better acquainted with). Here is a sampling of you, who never seem to be false, and show in your every post your real thoughts and personalities:

* BelCantoMom and her never-wavering faith
* Caitlin's treatment of life-altering trials as part of every day existence and not complaining a whit about them
* Calm Rapids and her cheery way of approaching a life busier than any I've every imagined
* Christie and her oh-so-clever writing and dogged determinism to whatever attribute needs improvement
* Desmama and her succinct way of sharing exactly what is on her mind, editing herself as carefully as she edits everyone else
* Dickey whose amazing pictures share stories that she doesn't have the words for
* Doreen and her commitment to the things she feels the strongest about
* Foxy J and her quiet reflections that force a mirror in front of my face, causing me to think twice before I make my own judgments about things
* GirlyMomma for the girl-power and kid-love that is a plastered boldly into every post
* Janssen and the way she gleans meaning out of everyday experiences
* KimBlue's quiet dignity, moderate opinions, and carefully reasoned posts
* Miss Nemesis and the snarkiness that has made more than one rainy day turn out hilarious
* Slim and her commitment to her kids and their hobbies as well as her own
* Elastic Waist Band Lady and the laughs she always brings to the table and her highly unusual way of viewing normalish things
*LaJuana and her mellow demeanor about the many trials chasing her down
* Yankee Girl and her love of the best things in life (free or otherwise)

Again, just a sampling. I've learned a lot here in the last two years. (My blog turned 2 on the 15th of this month.) For every five or ten posts, I think I write ONE really good one: a post that makes me think, "Yes! This is EXACTLY what I wanted to say!" This forum has helped to moderate and refine my thinking. It has helped me to take a hard look inside when I am wrong. It has taken some of the frustration out of not publishing. This writing format is easier most days than committing to my novel writing. Mostly, I'm continually amazed at the talents and trials I learn about among those women I count as friends. I'm blessed to share a part of your success and to feel a sense of solidarity with your failures.

Thanks for being a part of my journey.

Real Friends, Not Just Bloggy Friends

I spent a happy two hours with Desmama and Nemesis tonight at Desmama's lovely home. We spoke about pending weddings, mortgages, husbands, sex, kids, new babies and families. We ate a delicious key lime pie that Desmama got from Suburban Hippie's blog. (I did not say we ate a piece of key lime pie. We literally ate the pie. Desdad did help.) We talked until well past sunset on Desmama's back porch looking out over the fabulous pastoral scene the Desfam picked for their house-anyone-would-love-to-grow-old in. I can see them doing just that.

As we spoke about such life-changing events as weddings, babies and moves, I realized that as stressful and difficult as certain things are, there is also a lot of joy along with those things. As much as I would love to have a year of my adult life that does not involve at least one MAJOR life decision, I also realize that I would not change hardly anything even if I had the ability to. Our experiences form who we are, and for all the trials and difficult decisions pending, I really do like myself exactly the way I am.

And though the next year will undoubtedly bring more difficult choices: two days ago I slalomed skiied for the first time in three years and it was as though I'd never been away; tonight I sat face to face with two women I absolutely adore; Plantboy and I are still crazy-in-love after nine years; I spent the afternoon conversing with my mother; my kids were both adorable and adoring today; the stars shone so brightly over Bear Lake that ideas for stories are eating at the corners of my brain again.

I think today I was able to live in the joy of the moment.

Epicurus Would Be So Proud

Last weekend turned out wonderful. We didn't go anywhere special or do anything spectacular--but it was a weekend of culinary and sensory delights. I felt light-hearted and rested Monday morning. It isn't often that I feel so, because I'm usually completely stressed and under-accomplished and thinking, "Here we go again."

My weekend cooking has gotten more elaborate as of late. The reason is that we are in a dinner group with four other families. (I can't believe I haven't blogged about this yet! This topic could probably be a blog all on its own.) I cook on Fridays and deliver food to everyone in the group. I don't, however, cook on Mondays-Thursday. This works out well with all that I've got going on in late afternoons and early evenings. Because I'm not cooking as often, I find that my weekend meal ideas are not as boring and we try a lot more new things. It has also made the kids a lot less picky, because they have to pretty much eat whatever shows up.

So here is my weekend, complete with recipes:

Friday we went to dinner with Drs. Jamin and Tabula Rasa. We ate at P.F. Chang's. I've only been there one other time and wasn't really impressed. I think it is because I was in my first trimester of pregnancy #3 and was sick often. Asian food never sits well with me during pregnancy. Anyway, our family style dinner on Friday was wonderful--Mongolian beef, noodles, lettuce wraps, citrus chicken, spicy green beans--everything was very good. I am sure that we will go back. I'm inspired now to try and recreate their lettuce wraps. I've done this before, but I don't think I've got it quite right. I'm going to keep messing around. Plantboy was just happy that they had rice. Which "shortage" he says, by the way, cannot be a real thing. In the US we grow a lot of rice and don't import it. The only way there is a rice shortage in the US is if more of the product is being sold overseas because of the ridiculously high profit margin right now.

Saturday night, the missionaries came over. I think I've fed these two nice boys six or seven times in the last two months. We seem to be having a problem getting people to sign up lately. This. Is. So. Not. Cool. Not the feeding them thing, so much as the people not agreeing to feed them thing. Don't get me started. Anyway we had a hamburger buffet that rivaled Red Robin for its options. (See my last post for the hamburger concoction that is pretty much my new favorite.) Here is the chimichurri recipe as promised:

First of all, chimichurri is bascially a pesto with less oil. Chimichurri is an herby kind of meat rub or condiment, pesto is more of a sauce used for pasta and often contains nuts and cheese along with the herb, usually basil. My chimichurri is kind of a marriage of these two:

Mince 1 whole bunch of cilantro. Mix well (do NOT process, it is better with texture) with 2 tablespoons olive oil, a teaspoon of red pepper flakes, 2 tablespoons finely chopped pine nuts, 2 tablespoons diced red pepper, 1 tablespoon each of parmesan cheese and red onion, and 1 teaspoon of basalmic vinegar. (For a slightly different flavor, leave out the flakes, cheese, red pepper and vinegar and put in a tablespoon of lime or lemon juice.) Add black pepper, salt and garlic powder to taste. Pestos typically use fresh garlic--I do not. I think uncooked garlic overpowers everything else and takes away from the herb flavor. If you love garlic, however, do what you want. At least you'll be safe from vampires.

The lettuce on our hamburgers was this gorgeous stuff from Plantboy's garden. If each of you lived closer I'd bring you over a big bag of this delightful, organic spring mix. I have no idea what we are going to do with it all. We cut it back and eat it, but it just keeps coming. I've signed up to do LOTS of salads with dinner group over the next few weeks. I love the look on my hubby's face as he eats produce that he grew. It is going to be a good summer for vegetables. Oh, and there is Swiss chard a-plenty if anyone is
interested. I wilted some down into some wheat


penne with the leftover chimichurri and it was really delicious. It tastes a little spinachy and it slightly bitter. No wonder everyone keeps telling me to serve it with salt, pepper and heaps of butter. (Heaps of butter, hah! That is such an Aussie expression. That is how everyone in Australia told me they were able to eat vegemite sandwiches . . . )





On Saturday we put in a few more garden items--tomatoes and a variety of herbs. I didn't ever report on my indoor herb garden I put in last fall because it didn't last. Our house is too dark, particularly in the winter, for anything but the housiest of house plants. Still, Plantboy reserved a beautiful spot as close as possible to the kitchen for my herbs. We also pulled out some nasty ivy and tilled up a large spot for my squash that Plantboy has finally agreed to. I guess he is afraid that if I grow squash and zucchini then I am going to make him eat it. The answer to that is--of course I will.
















I also noticed that our lilacs are in bloom, which pretty much means that all is right with the universe. I once wrote a really mediocre poem called "Memories of May" that was mostly about a series of tender recollections evoked by the smell of these purple gifts straight from Heaven. They make lousy cut flowers and can really only be fully appreciated when they are in their natural habitat. Lilacs, for me, are a symbol that spring has really come and that, perhaps more importantly, that my birthday is imminent. I'm grateful that it is a Leap Year because I dodged the Mother's Day/birthday holiday bullet. It was great when I was a kid--a special day for just me and mom--but as an adult, the proximity has been a real kick in the pants. Six years ago these happy events coincided and, well, lets just say that Plantboy and I had to have a long talk about special days and the nature of gift-giving.


Sunday we broke our fast with an amazing salad like something from Chipotle or Mucho Gusto or Cafe Rio. On top of the baby greens, we put sweet pulled pork, black beans, cilantro-lime rice, corn salsa, avocado, creamy cilantro-lime dressing, chips, cheese and salsa. (Scroll down to the bottom for recipes.) Oh, and Jell-O. Hey, the kids had to eat too.


Sunday night after putting the kids to bed, I read to Plantboy while we lay in his double-wide hammock that he bought in Brazil as a missionary to give to his wife someday (which he did the night before we got married along with a copy of the Complete Works of Jane Austen). The funny sounds of karoke drifted over the fence from our Asian neighbor's party (really) and there was a pleasant scent of lilacs wafting over us. We read the last part of The Work and the Glory: Praise to the Man. Even mediocre writing shines when the subject matter is so profound. As we rocked in that luscious hammock, even the difficult events of Joseph Smith's martyrdom seemed like a part of the joy in the life I have.


It is true that American soldiers have insured our Constitutional rights and and bodily freedom, but I owe all the true beauty and goodness in my life to the courage of Joseph Smith. Other Christian religions leave far too many gaps for me to have ever come to Christ in some other way than by the religion Jospeh was directed to start. Mormonism appeals to my sense of logic, fair-play and intellect as much as to my spiritual yearning to be saved. When Joseph looked back across the river, at the intersection between freedom in the Rocky Mountains or turning back to face his accusers, he said, "If my life means so little to my friends, then I guess it means very little to me." Could there be anything more heartbreaking? What if Joseph had gone west instead that night? Did the Church survive in spite of his martyrdom, or BECAUSE of it?

In the book Prince Caspian, Lucy hesitates a long time before following Aslan, though she knows she has seen him when no one else has. When she finally follows him, she says (paraphrased), "What was I supposed to do? Leave the others?" One look from Aslan tells her that this was exactly what he had in mind. She despairs and asks him if her leaving a day or two earlier might have made a difference in the outcome of the battle. Aslan shakes his great, wise mane and tells her that we can never know what might have been. Only what will be. That is a powerful lesson. We cannot know what might have happened if Joseph lived, but we can write our own future as faithful members of the Church, never forgetting the many sacrifices that were made to make our lives possible. So, while it was a weekend of much pleasure, I did have some thoughts that gave pause to the pleasure to reflect on actual happiness.

But perhaps the most fabulous part of the weekend was that we ate on this!



(Now, read this next part in your best Bob Barker voice.) Thats right! A new dining room table. This six-chair, expandable leaf table has a beautiful light oak finished top with inlaid, laminate wood work. The contrasting wood is creamy white with a slightly antiqued finish.

If it was really the Price is Right, I would next be telling you about the matching hutch, but that will take a few more months of delivering papers. The leaf really expands it out, but I've only got the six chairs. Besides, it is already so big for the space that increasing its length would mean moving the couch. So, who is coming for dinner?

The last photo is just Scallywag with his spiky hair. I've got to take a lot of pictures of him over the next few weeks because he has THREE loose teeth. He lost two on the bottom last fall, but two of these three are the top two in the middle. My little boy is soon going to look like a big boy and there are parts of me that want to hang on as long as possible to this:

Recipes

Sweet Pork
The roast I bought was called a pork sirloin roast, so it was fairly lean with a good combination of dark and light meat. It was also HUGE, but only like 1.80 a pound or something. I put it in my crockpot with half a jar of tomatillo salsa and 1/2 cup of brown sugar. Set it to low for 8 hours. It will then shred easily. Warm the rest of the salsa with 1/4 cup of brown sugar and pour it down over the shredded pork. This will make a ton of meat. I fed 20 people with it.

Cilantro-Lime Rice
You need 2 1/2 parts rice (something long grain or even a little bit fancy like basmati or jasmine rice), 2 parts water, 2 parts chicken broth and 1 part lime juice for this. Saute rice in butter until it clears a little bit. Add chicken broth, water and lime juice. When the rice is cooked through, fold in chopped cilantro (to taste: I added a whole bunch to it) and salt and pepper.

Corn Salsa
This is really Plantboy's baby, so I'll just tell you what he puts in it and then you'll just have to modify everything to your taste: frozen, rinsed and drained super sweet white corn. Let it sit until kernels easily separate and warm up slightly before mixing other ingredients into it. This "recipe" bases itself on a whole bag of corn. Layer everything in the bowl and just stir a little bit at the end, you don't want to overmix. 1/2 bunch diced cilantro, 1/4 cup diced red peper, 1/4 cup diced purple onion, 1 green onion, 1/2 tsp tabasco sauce, 2 tsp vinegar, 1/2 fresh jalenpeno, no seeds (this is for the spicy option, eliminate tabasco if you do this), and 1 medium firm tomato, diced.