Things of This World

I have struggled since the election with anxiety for the affairs of the world that has not abated in any marked degree over time. I truly expected it too. My perception of the new administration as a train wreck from which I cannot look away hasn't really improved with time. I find myself obsessing over the news in ways that isn't healthy; I find myself seeking solace in snarky talk shows that deepen my cynicism in ways that don't always sit comfortably with my best self.

In LDS General Conference last weekend there were many great talks. Two stood out to me, at least with initial impressions:

1. Elder Uchtdorf's address. He spoke about fear as the enemy of faith and goodness. He spoke about the dangers of acting in response to fear, particularly fear inspired in us by others. As I listened, my first impression was to be angry at all the Mormon nationalists (how distasteful is this phrase!) who voted in large numbers for Trump and those around him who encouraged his fear mongering and demagoguery as a way to win votes. And then it hit me--it is absolutely NOT my job to use the prophets' words to cast aspersions or others, or to point to others who must change. NO! It is my job to take in their words and seek to understand how I need to change. I realized, with great chagrin, that I have very much been reacting to the world with deep fear, and perhaps projecting my fears on to my children. (What mother of sons in this age of war can be free from fear??) So, yes, while I do believe the prophet was cautioning those in every land who would be ruled by fear and then react by electing strong-man leaders who claim to have an iron-fisted response to the fear; I know he was also speaking to me--that I cannot let my fear undermine my ability to keep pressing forward and improving the corner of the world in which I live. Doomsday prophecy serves no one. 

2.  Elder Holland's address.  Like Elder Holland, I think that a blissful sort of happiness is outside of my nature to achieve. I have spent the last 18 months coming to term with this. I think moments of powerful joy are attainable; I think gratitude is always within my grasp when I humble myself enough to embrace it. But carefree happiness eludes me, and it has for many years now. Like Elder Holland, even in moments that might otherwise be happy, I fixate on the suffering that it is beyond my control to alleviate or understand. The pain inflicted on this world through Satan's enmity and man's inhumanity is often overwhelming to me. I understand this . . . and the image of the world being full of songs that "cannot be sung" in poignant and heartbreaking. What might I do to help unlock their voices?

My family is such a good place right now. I'm grateful for this season of joy, profoundly grateful, even as work every day at my job to find ways to relieve suffering and to speak of hope instead of fear. I'm grateful of the work God has given me to do--both inside my home and outside of it. I am still anxious for the future, but I must trust God to be in charge.

A New Blog

On election night, we were in the middle of a two-night stint of Parent Teacher Conferences. Yes, worst scheduling ever. Ever. My emotions on Tuesday and Wednesday of that week were difficult to express because they were so difficult to feel. I think it is safe to say that I've never felt the way I have before in those 48 hours, particularly with the swings in emotion that I experienced.

Additionally, my sweet Plant Boy was out of town. My sister was in the middle of a potential cancer diagnosis (which amounted to almost nothing, by the way) and isn't really connected to politics anyway. My mom had just left on her mission to New Zealand. On the day after the election (Day 1) I've come to call it, I observed many things among students, parents and teachers. My observations helped me to see that our smallish, sometimes struggling school in a little Oregon city was a microcosm for so many larger issues. Immigration. Unemployment. Lack of eduction. Diversity and its challenges. Liberalism and conservatism at loggerheads. Loss of middle class work. Expenses of college. Etc. Etc. During the day I wrote down many thoughts.

When I came home that night I started a blog called DearestMadamPresident. Dear Hillary and Dear Madam President were taken. I just started writing my thoughts down, in letter format, as is Mrs. Clinton was going to be reading them.

I have found it enormously therapeutic and a way to express some of my thoughts of recent weeks. No doubt some of you read this and think, "The election? She's still on about that? That was like, so, last month."

I agree with you. I wish I could think if it terms of being "old news." I'm not there yet. I'm not sure how long it will take me to fully process what is happening in our country. In the meantime, I'm going to write. It seems to help.

No Longer Silent

I have been asked several times in the past months just exactly what I think of the election or politics. In other cases I have pointedly NOT been asked about it--maybe people have a feeling I will give an earful and so they very carefully AVOID asking me the question. I think after this past weekend, and the latest scandal (what is this like 1,257 for Trump), I just can't keep things to myself any longer. For what it is worth, here are some of my thoughts.

In my yearbook from 9th grade (1990) I was named the person most likely to be the first female president, even though I'd never made office in the many times that I had run. I'm happy to say that Mrs. Clinton will get there first.

I have been a Hilary Clinton fan for a long time. It was hard for me to support Obama in 2008, though ultimately I did, even in the primary, because I had watched his career for a couple of years leading up to the primaries, and found him a new and exciting choice. Still, even as a youngish Democrat, it felt like I was turning my back on the first viable female candidate ever. (I discount Geraldine Ferraro because Mondale was never really in that race.) I was thrilled when I found out she was going to stand by Obama and that party, and mostly by our country, and continue in public service.

But my interest in Clinton goes back even further. I remember in high school, when I still imagined I was a Republican because my parents were, hearing a respected family member bag on Rodham-Clinton. For her hyphenated last name. For her outspoken versus demure support of her husband. For her appointment to look into problems with our nation's health care, rather than just go to libraries and read. For her one child. For her career that was a little bit too much stand-up-to-your-man instead of stand-by-your-man. The rhetoric bothered me. Was such a feeling toward Mrs. Clinton the "right" way to feel? Why was it not okay to feel a little thrill when she boldly declared, "Women's rights are human rights and human rights are women's rights!"?

So even in the mid-nineties, I saw a little bit of Clinton in myself. The girl with the binders who always thought she had the answer. The one who was teased from time-to-time because you were just too smart. The one never quite pretty (funny/friendly/popular) enough to win the election to help plan school activities, even if you knew that if the other kids would just give you a chance you could really shine. The one who eagerly awaited that move to college where you could really be yourself--become a Democrat even when your parents were Republicans, for example.

I'm a pragmatist. I like the establishment. I was with Hilary Clinton before, during and after Bernie Sanders. Her strongest left positions now are those picked up from Sanders to win over his supporters. She has been, from the beginning, the most centrist candidate in the election.

My purpose for clearing the air, here, in my support for Clinton, is twofold. First, to explain that my support for her is unequivocal (yes, I've done my homework, please don't ask) and, secondly, to explain why the Democratic party continues to be my party of choice, despite my roots in conservative religion, and my continued adherence to Mormon doctrine and principles. Earlier in the year I wrote a Facebook post asserting my right to wear all these hats as I saw fit, without input or judgment from others. The post came in the aftermath of a dear friend being told that God wanted her to vote for Trump. I nearly threw up in my mouth a little bit--even before his charming locker-room talk. Around the same time, I created an account through LDS Living's website so that I could comment, in particular in support of the piece Clinton wrote (or had written) for the Deseret News. I was vilified and roasted in the forum. By my brothers and sisters. I felt sick all day.

So here are my reasons, as well as my LDS doctrinal understanding after each point, take what you will from them. But please know, I am working very, very hard this election to allow my friends to wear their many hats too. Not to judge those who disagree with me as stupid, misled, ignorant, or evil; I recognize all too well that many on the "other side" see me with the same four adjectives. And it hurts me, profoundly. Because you know what? Words do matter. What we say about one another, anonymously or otherwise, reflects who we are as individuals. Who we are as a nation.

Reason #1: There are some things the government can just do better. I will elaborate below. Systems do become unwieldy and problematic, agreed. Life grows increasingly complicated, and no doubt anyone who has come face-to-face with the bureaucracy of the federal government will have a lot to say on the subject. But there are some things that are better done collectively, and I believe that besides providing for the common defense our government is well within its rights to tax for the general "welfare" (a word from the constitution) of its people. I interpret this phrasing in the Constitution broadly.  I will elaborate on some of these "general welfare" type situations in the reasons below.

    LDS thoughts: The church is an institution. If everything could be done just as well privately we wouldn't need a church either. The weight of the church's influence and, yes, money, greatly stretches my reach to do good and influence others. Similarly, as I pay income taxes, I can stretch the reach of my blessings to help defend my country, provide health care for children, maintain public parks, educate children in poverty, help storm-ravaged communities, etc. etc. I think these are all good things. On my own I could not accomplish them, nor am I foolish enough to think that if I was allowed to stop paying all income tax tomorrow that I would have the moral strength to donate to all the places that help is needed. Taxes, like my tithing, help keep me honest about my own sense of worth and entitlement.

Reason #2: I care deeply about public education. To me, public education is at the very core of an informed electorate. I've spoken often in this forum about education and will, no doubt, continue to do so. Even as I understand the reasoning the that motivates school choice, homeschool, charter school, etc. etc., I remain deeply committed to my career choice as an educator in public schools, as well as the decision to send my own children to the same diverse and dynamic school in which I work. In our school we are a microcosm of the larger world; it is a place my children can practice navigating the world they will one day inhabit and help make better. Free and fair public education for all is a cornerstone of progressive thought.

     LDS Thoughts: We believe that the only thing we take with us into the next life is our knowledge. Our earliest prophet (Joseph Smith) was unequivocal in his revelations that knowledge was meant to be secular as well as spiritual. Fundamental global inequities stem largely from who we choose to educate and how we choose to educate them. The glory of God is intelligence.

Reason #3: I love science. Deeply and whole-heartedly. There were times in my graduate level evolution course that my heart and my head were in complete and total agreement with what I learned, as they have been in many sciencey-learning moments since. For those LDS readers, this head/heart combination has meaningful implications. I embrace new ideas and advancements as the birthright given to us by Divine Parents. To resist change is to stunt our own growth and evolution--our spiritual evolution. As for the environment, I Ching put it best saying, "What has been destroyed by man's fault can be made good again through his work." I cannot subscribe to any political party that rejects science in order to play politics and promote exploitation of the earth's resources for short term gain over long term sustainability. I really dislike anti-intellectualism and think it is a recipe for disaster if our world is going to continue to advance.

    LDS Thoughts: Our scriptures are replete with examples of people destroyed by their pride and arrogance. While some might argue that this is the result of scientific thinking, I would dispute that. Scientific thinking can humble you in what you don't know, give deep and lasting awe for the brilliance of the Creator, and allow us to stop blaming God for everything that we don't like about human nature. Additionally, there is no shortage of revelation concerning the need for us to be wise stewards of the earth that has been given us. To shrug off environmental problems or kick them down the road is to scoff at the remarkable gift of the earth that we have been given.

Reason #4: I hate abortion. Wait, what? I said I was a Democrat. Hear me out here. Abortion is not the root of the problem. Abortion is horrible, horrible symptom of much deeper systemic problems--Lack of education and ambition for young people, ignorance, poverty, desperation, etc. etc. A person who has an abortion has no good choices left. How do we give people more agency? More good choices earlier on? Until we can be begin to work on these fundamental, underlying issues, abortion will never be solved. Shouting about caring for the life of the unborn is pretty poor form from politicians who routinely defund programs aimed at helping women and children and the poor. Additionally, few things have allowed for the advancement of modern society as much as women being able to choose how many children to have and how often to have those children. There is nothing more fundamental to a woman's mental health than this choice about children. To this end, companies that offer health insurance have an obligation to do so in a way that does not put them in a position of deciding for women what is acceptable and unacceptable as far as birth control goes. If control over my childbearing is fundamental to my mental and physical health, then my employer should not get to decide for me what childbearing (or prevention of childbearing) looks like.

     LDS Thoughts: We cannot care more about unborn children than we do the ones already taking breath. They need our defense as well--both here and abroad. More pro-life Democrats are needed, just as more pro-social program Republicans are needed if we are to truly live out our doctrine in public life. I've seen people who are suffering deeply because of the poor choices of other people. Agency is fundamental to what we teach--no choices we make here can throw a monkey wrench into God's plan. Isn't it better that a spirit waits for another situation rather than come to one where they aren't wanted?

Reason #5: I think people are fundamentally good, and I think you find what you are looking for. I have worked for 20 years now with children from a huge variety of backgrounds and experiences. I've seen kids do awful things, and I've seen kids do amazing things. Most of my teaching years have involved working very closely with people not of my faith. All these years have taught me a few fundamental things--most people are doing the very best they can in the circumstances they are in. The hardest kids can express unexpected kindness. They can be taught. Everyone wants to feel loved; and when they are, it is easier to reciprocate it. I reject rhetoric that builds on an us vs. them mentality that only seeks to divide and incite fear.

      LDS Thoughts: We hear a lot of rhetoric about "how evil the world is getting." You know, I think the reality is that the world has always been evil. It might be true that it is more open now because we have more media, but I don't think human nature has changed all that much in millennia. Again, I think you find what you are looking for. If you look for it, you can help others feel free to express it more often. Even people who totally reject commandments and religion can express deep and lovely goodness and partner with people of faith in building strong communities that are good for families.


These are some of my main reasons for my choice to be in the Democratic party, even as most others in my faith, particularly in the western US, have chosen to be Republicans. I credit Ezra Taft Benson with much of that, but that is a very different story. I have a lot more ideas about how fix things I view as deeply and systemically problematically, but that will have to keep for another day as well.

For now, I just felt that I needed to say that I stand unreservedly with Hilary Clinton. I don't think she is perfect, far from it, but she has devoted her life to public service in a way that I cannot even imagine. She is more qualified than any person EVER to run for president, male or female. Her Senate colleagues praise her ability to work across the aisle--in this era of divisiveness, most of those Republicans that would speak respectfully about her abilities and presence in the Senate have been foolishly ousted by the most extreme elements of their party. Mrs. Clinton is at her best when she strolls into a cafe and asks people to talk to her about their problems. She listens, deeply and carefully, seeking to understand and not offering to fix every problem, but to let us regular gals (and guys) know that she hears their valuable perspective. She was once like me--a girl too smart for her own good in a world dominated by men and an often overbearing father who told her just to tough it out when she got discouraged.

It is time that America took its place in the world with a female head of state. It has taken nearly 100 years of national suffrage for women to make this happen. This is a moment in history that cannot be overlooked. It is utterly ridiculous to say that they choices are "both equally bad." To put this outstanding and complicated woman in the same category as Trump is to miss the point entirely.

In November I will cast a ballot that will make me part of history. One day I will have happy tears in my eyes when I tell my granddaughters of voting for the first female president, that my little voice helped to put her in that awesome position of influence and power. That in my small way I cast a vote for ushering in the new and forward-looking, while rejecting the ugliest things about male power. It is just a vote, and not even in swing state, but it is MY vote. And MY voice. My one little voice will join many . . . not as many as I had hoped, but enough. Nobody said breaking this last glass ceiling would be easy. It's a good thing our candidate is tough as nails.

Go Hilary!!!

Girls' Camp Round Two

Before I talk about Girls' Camp this year, I would like to point out that the new Bourne movie had the same affect on me as other movies mentioned in my last post. I have thoroughly enjoyed this series (even the Jeremy Renner installment) and felt like the original three Damon movies were a very apt, and complete, trilogy. The Jeremy Renner movie is a great stand-alone. Enter this movie. Bourne is without purpose, fighting as a mercenary for money. He is torn between being a true patriot and being a man without a country. He has no closure and is still filled with horrific nightmares. Two blood-soaked hours later (the fighting is just brutal), he is still in exactly the same place. That being said . . . it is Matt Damon. He is that rare actor who has the ability to make something of nothing--like a really good-looking Tom Hanks.

But enough about that. Two weeks ago I finished my second week-long stint at Girls' Camp. Part of my thoughts here come from a mini-talk I gave the Sunday after.

My scripture study for the week had me in the book of Mosiah. I have been reading the Book of Mormon very slowly this year because I have a newish set of scriptures and lots of lovely white pages and blank margins for new thoughts. I think Mosiah, and the first half of Alma, are my favorite parts of the Book of Mormon. There is much to be gleaned about society, personal conversion, service, community and trials in this portion. Every chapter seems to offer deep and applicable truths. Anyway, I was reading about the people of Zeniff and their troubles stemming from an extremely tyrannical leader (Noah) and the fall out for years after his death.

In this section, there are two different groups of people that come under hardship because of oppression from a government that, in the beginning, they had willingly pledged themselves to live under. But because they are outsiders--different culturally and religiously--they become extremely persecuted. Additionally, one of the groups has false charges laid to them of serious wrongdoing. The upshot is, that largely through no fault of their own, the people are living under a lot of stress. They pray for deliverance that is not forthcoming.

However, in both instances, it causes the people to have great humility before God as they pray for their enemies' hearts to be softened. Additionally, the scriptures tell us that God didn't deliver them right away, but instead made their backs strong so they could bear their burdens.

I think it is easy to discount teenage girls' problems as "drama." And while, yes, teenage girls do create plenty of drama, my experience at camp this time around was that many of them experience trials that are deadly serious, for which there is no immediate or easy resolution. This time at girls' camp, I really tried to hear their stories.

I met a girl who anxiously awaits her father's release from prison next year--her family has tenaciously stood by him and attested to his innocence in his white-collar crime from the beginning. It was an LDS prosecutor who relentlessly assassinated his character during the trial and is responsible for putting him in prison.

I met a girl who is one of five siblings (some half/some full) who were adopted by members of her family when her mother was in danger of losing all of them to foster care. Her parents are also her aunt and uncle. One girl, who is more like a cousin, is biologically her sister and legally her aunt.

I met a young woman who has spent most of her childhood homeless and was shown by our camp nurse how to use the shower and wash her hair. One girl in her unit was complaining relentlessly about how much she disliked camp; this sweet girl replied, "I like it here." It may be the first week in her life when she got to act like a kid . . . and know where her three meals a day were coming from.

I met a girl whose mom suffers from depression--which suffering really translates to this girl trying to act as mom to the boys in her family.

I met a girl whose mom just got a clean cancer diagnosis after months of being told that she only had weeks to live.

I met a girl whose life was deeply changed by a stillborn brother, and whose mom is pregnant with a due date very near the due date of the previous baby.

I met lots of girls seeking for testimony they aren't sure they have.

It occurred to me that Girls' Camp is a fun place for these sweet (and sometimes bitter/salty/sour) young women to put all those burdens on hold for a few days. And while camp cannot take their burdens, it is a place for them to strengthen their backs. Our mortal experience is what it is. We are each a unique combination of biology, culture, personality and opportunity. Some of this is given by God, some of it is given to us by circumstance, some of it we choose. But I am coming to see that God will always strengthen us if we ask. He may not change our circumstances, but he teaches us to change the way we view them.

Once Upon a Time Without a Happily Ever After: How the Eternal Sequel has Ruined Artful Storytelling

I mentioned in my last post about starting to binge-watch Once Upon a Time. It took me until two days ago to catch up to Netflix and will now wait until sometime in August or September for the next season to load. It isn't particularly great, and good performances are spotty. The premise is clever, however, and might have been quite good as a single season's effort. There is enough time to tell the story (stories) of Snow White that you have a lot of empathy for each character. In fact, by the end of Season Five or whatever it is on now, I find myself wishing that Snow White would just go away and we could focus more on the Evil Queen.

That being said, I have had some thoughts in the past few months about the never-ending sequel. This has hit me quite powerfully in two franchise-movie blockbusters as well as the aforementioned television show. How do characters ever reach resolution and closure if they must be placed in mortal peril every week? And if stories help us escape reality, does this new model effectively do that, or only mirror our own chaotic and roller coaster lives?

Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Disclaimer first. I am a huge geek. I loved this movie. I have probably seen it three or four times, and fully expect it to become a fantastic addition to the Star Wars Universe created initially by Lucas. Episodes I, II and III are already fading to unpleasant memories.

Having said as much, however, even as I sat in the movie I had several unhappy thoughts. "What??? Han and Leia did not stay together???" "What??? After the whole return-of-the-Jedi-thing they didn't really return after all???" "Are you kidding me??? After all the efforts of the Rebellion they succeeded in accomplishing exactly nothing???"

I remember going to see Return of the Jedi, after growing up for years on those films, and crying my eyes out through the ending (it happens nearly every time I watch it, honestly). Leia and Han were going to live happily ever after. Peace would now reign in the galaxy. Jedi would begin to grow up and train again. This was the happy fan-fiction I lived with in my brain for 30 years.

From a characterization standpoint, many of the choices made in the new film make perfect sense. There is a great line about how Leia and Han just went back to what they did best after their lives fell apart. But splitting up--divorce, troubled children and irreconcilable differences are so . . . well . . . NORMAL. So real-world. I wanted more for these characters I had invested so many hours in. I want to believe in happily ever after.


Captain America: Civil War. Hey, I already gave the geek disclaimer above. Go with it. I'm a big fan of the Avengers franchise. I've seen all of the films--usually when they come out in theater--and I'm happy to talk about them to anyone who won't look at me like I'm a little bit off. But when you choose to do a dozen films about the same collective of people, stuff is going to happen that isn't always pretty. Civil War severs loyalties and raises deep, philosophical questions about the nature of war, government and security that is deeply unsettling. It also erases so much of the fun of earlier movies when questions about the destruction wreaked by the Avengers as they "save" the planet; with the argument that their very presence creates the threat to begin with.

Congressional oversight of the Avengers??? It is like the first few minutes of Disney's The Incredibles when Mr. Incredible is subject to a lawsuit after causing horrific property damage to a train he was supposed to be "saving," among other things.


I already spoke above about Once Upon a Time. This isn't a phenomenon limited to television and movies, nor is it a recent problem. (Watch any procedural drama from any era and you'll wonder how the cops/detectives/analysts/doctors don't have PTSD for all the terrible things that happen to them.) It is much easier to publish a second novel than a first, and if a first novel has any degree of success, there is much clamor to find out what happens to those characters. Stories don't really end anymore, and, like a drug, the situations in which characters are placed must continue to escalate to continue to give the reader the same "high" they got the first time their favorite characters were put into mortal peril.

Some series get it right. Hunger Games, at three books, is very nearly perfect (though the first installment is a brilliant stand-alone). Seven Harry Potter books, particularly knowing from the beginning there would be one for each year, was likewise wonderful, with Rowling cognizant of the effects of Harry's experiences on his psyche and personality and writing it as such. And while, yes, I will read the sequel/screenplay, I cannot help but think. Really? After all he did, doesn't Harry just get a break with some well-deserved happiness??

I just fear that really great storytelling has been reduced to whatever pays the bills.

In Which I Get a Hug From God

Two weeks ago, my husband and boys went on the annual Fathers' and Sons' campout. It may potentially be my favorite weekend of the year to only have boys. Not really, but, admittedly, by-myself time is sort of awesome. I put a lot of things on the to-do list, including a temple trip for the Saturday.

I waved the boys goodbye on Friday night and the started in on my list. It included some working. Stupid on my night to myself, yes, but I love working when I can just get EVERYthing done without having to keep somebody else's agenda. Then there was a trip to the mall where I bought shoes and sat in the food court and read cheesy chick lit and ate fries. I cleaned the house and started in on my girlie movie WAY too late. After the girlie movie, the first season of Once Upon a Time beckoned to me from my library DVD rentals.

It was one o'clock in the morning, but what is the harm in just ONE episode, right? Wrong! Three episodes . . . or was it four? later it was nearing 3:30 in the morning. The temple wasn't looking so good (nor was the series, by the way, but I'm pretty much completely hooked on it now), and I fell asleep on the couch, disliking myself. For the late night and the fact that popcorn after fries might be too much.

Alarm goes off. I can't sleep anyway because I'm too warm and uncomfortable, so I lay there a long time debating whether or not I was even safe to take the three hour plus round trip in the car to get there and back. Duty won out and I hit the road about two hours later than my original intention.

On the way I decided that initiatories would need to be the order of the day, as there was no possible way I could stay awake in a session. As I pulled into the last parking lot available in the entire lot of the Portland temple, I noted that I was right next to our visitor center. It is pretty small potatoes, but still lovely, and manned (womaned?) by the sister missionaries in the Portland mission. My lovely friend from Texas, SarahB, who was present for the birth of Padawan, has a daughter that was called to the Portland mission a year or so ago. I have inquired after her a few times in the visitor's center but haven't had any luck. I considered stopping that day, but decided not to as I was already running so far behind.

And then, it happened, on my way up the stairs, I saw SisterB, whom I've only seen in photos for eleven years. She is lovely and grown up, and so like her mother that I nearly cried. I introduced myself and she had a vague recollection of our living down there. I gushed a bit about how much I love her mom and what it meant for me to have SarahB there when Padawan was born. Bless her sister missionary heart, she took the crazy lady in stride, and I walked into the temple feeling unexpectedly overcome by emotion.

The feeling persisted, niggling in around the edges, when I saw one of the sisters I served my mission with. This was not a huge coincidence, incidentally. SistaT works in our temple on Saturdays and I often see her there--what is crazy, however, is that she is actually from Tonga and moved to this area years after our mission service. She is the only one from my mission days that I see regularly, oddly enough.  And yet, despite seeing this lovely, huggable sister regularly, there was something more meaningful about it that day.

The initiatory room was a little backed up, so I sat and waiting. As I waited and listened to the soft murmuring of priesthood blessings given in women's voices, that feeling around the edges just crept into my heart and the tears started pouring. I thought of SarahB's strong voice and hands the night of Padawan's birth. I thought of those lovely sisters from my mission from whom I learned so much about heartache and trial and lasting joy. I let the murmured blessings of the priesthood pour over me--and I felt myself to be an integral part of them. Birth as sacrament. Mission as consecration. Priesthood as the shared gift to men and women. Power. Glory. Dominion without end.

At that moment, my former relief society president walked into the room and did a double take as she saw me crying. No doubt she felt compelled to comfort but was unsure if I wanted to be left in peace. It was really a lot of crying. But crying for such happiness that I couldn't contain it. When I saw Sister RS my mind turned to all those powerful women in my life who have blessed me--if not with their hands directly, then with their sincere service, abiding love and powerful examples.

I felt the love of my Father, and, dare I say it? My Mother. It was a feeling profound and deep and special. It was not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, but it has been a long time since the Spirit has overcome me so. In that sacred place of women, I felt an enveloping love of feminine divine--my own, and Something so much larger than myself that I wept for trying to hold it. In the hour afterward I tried to write about it and couldn't express what I wanted to say; the following Sunday I bore testimony, and powerfully, but still missed the heart of what I was trying to get at. Even now, I find myself clumsy and awkward and without adequate words for describing what it was that I knew down into my very cells in that moment. She is real. We are Her daughters. We will see Her lovely face one day.

The love of thousands of generations of women was held in my heart for a brief time--and it was such a awesome blend of gratitude and humility and power that I went forward changed. The experience has lingered in my mind and heart for these many days, and it has compelled me to say thank you. To any woman reading here. Thank you. In both small and large ways you have touched and changed me. The love that women have is powerful, profound, priestly. It sanctifies and blesses all that we touch. It makes us like Her. And oh, how I want to be.

Finding the Center

Just before Plantboy and I got engaged, he and I traveled from Utah to Colorado to spend a couple of days with his family over Christmas break from school. I had never met his family before. At the time, six of his nine siblings were married and there were several grandchildren ranging from 12 down. I spent the long car ride poring over a large-group family photo taken at a reunion the previous summer, memorizing names and grouping people together correctly. I was nervous, scared even. I knew that our relationship was serious; I also knew that he had said all manner of nice things about me to his parents over his Thanksgiving Break. We were 24 years old--really getting "up there" by LDS cultural standards--and I felt a lot of pressure to be really, really wonderful. His family wanted me to be "the one" almost as much as I wanted to be. 

Going to Plantboy's family was like finding sisters that I never knew I had. I was warmly welcomed by everyone and kept most of the names straight. Mostly, I found a warm and kind welcome from his mother, whom I had been most afraid of letting down. Despite not knowing me, at all, and finding a veritable stranger in her house for Christmas, she had put gifts under the tree for me. One of these tender presents was a little ceramic nativity set. The figures in are fat and cute and childlike. It was a gift I have long cherished, and my first Christmas decoration that was all my own. 

Even when the kids were little I always put out this set. Perhaps because the characters look not entirely unlike "Little People" characters, my littlies always had a hard time keeping their little mitts off the set. This was disastrous for the sweet angel in the set, but the rest have survived their sometimes rough treatment.

A thing I noticed, however, is that regardless of how I arranged the set, inevitably, my children would always rearrange it. And when they did, each figurine was in a circle surrounding the happy little Christ-child, as close as they can be. The little manger is crowded with smiling well wishers, all wanting to be right there.

This odd fact has always brought a bit of a smile to my face as I rearrange the figures in a more artistic and traditional way. The wisemen grouped and spread out as if traveling; the shepherds together with the animals respectively grouped near them; Mary and Joseph keeping watch, Mary slightly closer to her babe. the child and manger, of course, is front and center, slightly forward with other figures turned toward but at a respectful distance and making a nice tableaux for onlookers. 

Last week when I taught my little primary class full of happy six year olds, I brought the nativity. Each piece was wrapped in a little present that the kids would open. When each piece was pulled from the bag we sang a song or read a scripture and talked about the nativity. as each new piece was added, the nativity changed and took shape as kids arranged and rearranged the figures. I deliberately put the sleeping babe in a very nondescript bag, banking on my kidlets picking Him last. I was not disappointed. When Jesus finally arrived on the scene, there was a quick scramble and bustle of activity from my class, as they sought to rearrange the set to best suit this new arrival.

As they backed away, there it was again. That circling of the proverbial wagons around the Babe of Bethlehem. For protection. For worship. For eternal friendship and family. For each child of God to have an equal share in gazing on His face. Again, I laughed inwardly at the predictability of children.

Two nights later I did the same activity with my own family, taking a little more time with each piece and testifying frequently as I went. We discussed the realities of having a baby in a stable, Mary not being married, and the great distance the wise kings of the east must have traveled. It was a lovely night. My youngest, eight, was the last to choose his piece for the nativity. I had been arranging as we went, saving room for the arrival of the younger stranger so that it was artistic and lovely to look on when we finished. 

After he chose his figurine, he turned his back to me and bent over the nativity as I prepared to introduce our last song--Away in a Manger. He came back to join his brothers, smiling. As we sang, I glanced at the nativity to find the childlike familiarity I had seen so many times. Each figurine arranged in a perfect circle around the manger, each vying for equal time in gazing on the face of God. Mary's serene little features pondered in her heart, and this time I did too.

I was no longer laughing at the consistency and silliness of little children, instead I marveled mightily at their innocent insight. Of course this is the way the creche is meant to be arranged. 

From that evening until Christmas, whenever I happened to glance at the earnest circle of admirers--the humble and poor shepherds, the great and wealthy kings, the mother who loved Him most, the dad who sacrificed his reputation to guide this Boy through childhood and the animals of creation--I felt to rejoice in the simple lesson my sons have been trying to teach me all these years. 

The creche isn't some interesting artifact to decorate my home. It isn't merely culturally significant. It isn't even really art. It is a representation of something deeper and far more profound. It is the very thing I should center my life on. If we could all stand as equals, shoulder to shoulder, gazing on the face or our Savior, what might we accomplish?

I often speak of "finding my center." This Christmas I think I did.

This Post Should Have Been Written in March

For Spring Break this year we went to Southern California. The trip was a long time coming. We spent time with my parents at a resort-type place they own a share in that is basically next door to Lego Land. We dodged the Disney bullet, but Lego Land was pretty great. We also spent a day at SeaWorld, right at the heart of the controversy over the captivity of large cetaceans at such places. Shamu was still appearing then, but in the spirit of things-my-grandchildren-will-never-do, I'm glad I saw them one last time. Sort of. Even then my feelings were fairly mixed. Still, that is another story.

The two things I want to journal about from the trip were definitely lesser moments and certainly not expected, though their profundity has stayed with me through all these months. Both experiences were while we were traveling home.

Though March, southern California had a beastly hot spring and summer. We'd had lovely weather the whole time we were gone, and spent the last morning on the beach in San Diego. We drove through some really terrible traffic as we crawled our way north. Tired and stressed, we finally cleared the mountains north of Los Angeles on I-5, hours behind schedule. As we drove, late in the afternoon, finally making time toward our destination, we passed a stranded car.

A young man was standing with a sign reading, "Please, we just need a jack." I am not sure who suggested first that we stop, but it was only seconds later that we crawled to a stop. Plantboy and I looked at one another. The stranded motorists were certainly young. And brown. We nodded to one another, Plantboy turned on the hazards, grabbed the jack, waited for a gap in traffic and sprinted back to the car. I watched in the rearview mirror with a prayer in my heart that we had done the right thing.

After several minutes I could tell there was some conversation taking place on the side of the road. At the very least confident that there was no ploy to rob and murder my dear, generous-hearted husband, I grabbed a bag of oranges we had purchased that morning in San Diego and walked back to the car.

It wasn't a jack problem after all, the car was high-centered and the young men had done everything they could think of to extricate themselves from the problem and change the tire. Plantboy's broader experience, handy and creative thinking, and added muscle finally did the trick and the tire was changed. While working, one of the young men told me that they had been standing out there for three hours . . . two of them with the sign. They were from Arizona and road tripping to San Francisco when their tire blew.

Grateful for Plantboy's kindness, they offered us $20 for our help. The young man seemed apologetic that it wasn't more, but I'm sure it was nearly all they could spare. Plantboy said "no" and I told them to drive safe for the sake of their mothers and to help the next person they found in need. There was much friendliness and camaraderie all around. I've seldom seen such gratitude in teenage boys.

Three hours. Because they were young? Brown? People are busy? Afraid?

Fast-forward 24 hours. We went to Muir Woods in San Francisco. On a Saturday. If you you know this place you know why the Saturday thing is significant. I've never seen a national monument so crowded. For years, Plantboy has touted this place as one of his favorites, and our timing worked out to go there. However, as we battled difficult traffic for some miles and waited in a traffic jamb on a winding road to get into the park, only to have to park nearly a mile away . . . well, admittedly there were many times I re-thought our decision.

And then we got into the park.

To say it is lovely is a gross understatement. It is sacred, touching, vast. Its founding was a hat trick of conservationism, private ownership, and federal governmental power. For a couple of amazing hours I could almost imagine what parts of the west would have looked like before people came to it. There is one particularly remarkable stand of trees called Cathedral Grove. Signs on the trail ask for quiet within that particular stand of trees where people might meditate, ponder, and experience a degree of reverence.

What I didn't realize until I read the plaque in Cathedral Grove is that the UN charter was actually signed in that spot. Delegates had met in SF to hammer out the charter and then culminated their conference with a visit to Muir Woods.

Here is the text on the plaque commemorating the event:

Here in this grove of enduring redwoods, preserved for posterity, members of the United Nations Conference on International Organization met on May 19, 1945 to honor the memory of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, thirty-first President of the United States, Chief Architect of the United Nations, and Apostle of Lasting Peace for all Mankind

Roosevelt had died just weeks before the delegation met, and the event was meant to both honor him, and for those who met to pledge their sacred honor to a world where peace might be possible.

I read the plaque and cried. It had been a long week, and a very long 24 hours. As I stared at the large, overhead, monochromatic picture of the delegates--weary from war and desperate for hope--I felt overwhelmed by emotion I couldn't explain. "And in despair, I bowed my head, there is no peace on earth, I said."

I thought of those boys waiting three hours on a hot and dusty highway. A thousand cars must have passed them. Those delegates had hoped and prayed that the horror of the Second World War would not soon be forgotten, that we would find a way to be global citizens and to understand that damage and pain to one is a blight on all the rest of us. But they have failed. Miserably.

We have all failed miserably.

This is not about a UN thing. It is about a humanity thing. Our capacity to love and give is balanced in a most unsavory way by our capacity to inflict pain and act selfishly. In that moment, I despaired of the dark side of human nature winning.

I don't always feel this way. In July I spent a week at girls camp. For part of their week they spend an hour in our camp that is designated as "The Sacred Grove." The girls read scriptures, journal, pray and read a letter from their parents there. Near the end of our hour in the grove, some of the girls got a little bit restless and I felt impressed to speak. I told them about my experience at Muir Woods in halting words, the feelings of that day are still raw and painful when I think of them.

And then I told that that for all that many good men and women had tried to use the institutions of the world to make change, it could be that they were looking to the wrong grove. The grove of Joseph Smith is the place where we learn that God is personal--that He knows us as His children. In that other sacred grove we learn that the Savior died for us, and that peace only comes by knowing him and seeking truth. I knew in that moment, that if more people would go to the sacred places--in nature or those built by man, and truly seek to know God and do His will--the world would be really different.

I know this post should have been written in March; or at least July. But all these months out, it still stays with me. Particularly in this season of such joy mingled with such heartache. My Christmas lights and keeping my family huddled close are helping to keep darkness at bay. But I sense it, just outside my safe circle I have built for myself. There are those that would flaunt the rule of law and reject their Father in exchange for watching the world burn in a silacrum of true worship. As they do so, they wreak havoc and destruction on the children of the world, marking generations with their vilification of freedom and peace.

I want to act. I want to pull my car over and offer assistance without fear. I don't want to be one of the ones that just drives by while others suffer. But there are just such big problems--problems that cannot be fixed with the loan of a jack, a handy husband and a bag of oranges. The bit I can do seems so small compared to the scope of the thing.

My gratitude for the life I've been gifted with overwhelms me, even as I seek to understand how the inequities in the world can ever be made right.

Defining our Times

Satirical news, new technologies, gay rights, convenience products, women's rights, violence in global governments and local communities . . . it all sounds very, depressingly, 2015, doesn't it?

Or maybe it sounds very 1975.

I have mentioned that I turned 40 this year. To this end, I have been especially attuned to things celebrating their own 40th anniversaries this year. Two have stood out to me more dramatically, but my research has uncovered a few others as well. I think that many of these things helped to define my generation.

If you are 40 this year, your lifetime has been punctuated by dramatic changes in technology. You probably remember owning a cabinet-sized radio, 8-tracks, and even a black and white television. What you many not realize is that the first VCR was made, as well as the seeds for a little company known as Apple were sown. By the time we entered elementary school, the VCR was dramatically changing the way we consumed and watch movies. As for Apple? Well, you know how different your life is because of that company.

If you are 40 this year, you probably feel slightly cynical toward the government, and to other things. We were born the year the US pulled out of Vietnam, suddenly showing the world that we were not, in fact, invincible, and that we were capable of grave and costly mistakes. the highest ranking officials connected to the Watergate Scandal were sentenced that year.  Not coincidentally, 1975 is the year that Saturday Night Live went on the air. A weekly reminder about just how absurd life could be. And that the only way to deal with the absurdity was to laugh, even when you felt like crying. We are not so much the children of American exceptionalism, the way our parents are . . . we are the children of skepticism. This skepticism hasn't just affected us in terms of politics. My generation is far less likely to be religious (and to teach our children to be so) than our parents. I think the children of my generation must fight to find the good in things, people and situations when our default mode might be toward hopelessness and cynicism.





The 1970's, of which us 40 year olds are smack in the middle, is punctuated by people pushing back against government interference into personal lives. The result is that we are raising the most liberal group of young people ever born in America. Some will say this is good, others aren't sure, and still others find this shocking. Again, a sign of the times. The beginnings of an outspoken gay rights movement were in the 1970's. Several states began overturning sodomy laws in the name of privacy.

Ironically, some of the change came in the from of more government intervention. The civil service overturned a decade's old rule that insisted on mandatory firing for homosexuals. The military was sued for the first time for dismissing an openly gay officer. In other pushback, there were the Watergate sentences, free and fair education for handicapped people was mandated, and the House Comittee on Un-American Activities was disbanded. Free speech and privacy were valued over towing the line. It can be argued, fairly convincingly, that for a broad swath of Americans these two values are still paramount.

Women made gains in 1975. Margaret Thatcher became the head of her party in England, the first woman to do so. This election would eventually lead her to become Prime Minister. A glass ceiling that a young Hilary Rodham would have watched with interest. A Japanese climber was the first woman to scale Mt. Everest. Women's could be named as Rhodes' Scholars for the first time in 1975. These gains, naturally, weren't enough for some. An organization started that year whose stated mission was to see women ordained to the Catholic Priesthood.

In 1975, bioethics became a powerfully important conversation. Karen Ann Quinlan was comatose after a pill cocktail and kept on life support for many years as we argued the ethics of "pulling the plug." Peter Singer wrote a great manifesto for animal rights, asserting that they may have as much right to life as we do, and suggesting that the consciousness of all living things is a very large spectrum where one species is not necessarily "higher" than another.

Fear of violence both domestic and abroad is not unique to our time. At least five of Ted Bundy's victims went missing in 1975, along with countless other mysterious and disgusting kidnappings. There were skirmishes across the Middle East and great unrest in Southeast Asia--besides the horrible ending of the Vietnam War, Cambodia also fell that year to a Khmer Rouge, plunging the country into decades of poverty and ignorance. Parts of Africa succumbed to dictatorship in 1975 and widespread corruption was present in India and China.

Like today in Europe, the world was suddenly flooded with refugees from Vietnam and Cambodia as their countries collapsed and fell. Many Americans felt as helpless then as we do today. My generation is sadly realizing as we grow older that human nature doesn't change. The same problems will continue to plague and shock the world. We must dig deep and find ways to help that don't just involve us laughing at the problems, or checking out when finding out information makes us uncomfortable.

Not all was bad news: smallpox was eradicated in India in 1975. The first patents for Stove Top Stuffing and Pringles were filed. (Okay, maybe that isn't great news. Through the 60's, 70's and 80's our worship of convenience products creates an obesity epidemic!) Iconic movies were made--the Rocky Horror Picture Show, Godfather II, Jaws and the inception of Rocky. On television Gunsmoke ended, but the old guard gave way to WKRP in Cincinnati,Welcome Back Kotter, Wonderwoman and the Jeffersons. Don't forget that Wheel of Fortune is also 40 this year. Our great songs included O Mandy, the Best of My Love, I Honestly Love You, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain, and, of course, Bohemian Rhapsody. 

Being 40 seems weird. I feel like I should feel older. More mature. And yet, at the drop of a hat I can remember embarrassing moments from when I was 12. The anxiety and excitement I felt entering high school. Going to college. Putting in my mission papers. Having my first baby . . . it is getting to be a long time now that these milestones have been a part of my life. But I feel like I live them simultaneously to the life I live now. The things that shape us never really leave us.

In an age of cynicism, satire and too much information, I want to live deliberately. I want to live kindly. I want to know myself. I want to leave a world for my children where problems finally seems solved. Yet, I can't help but think that my own mother once wanted the same, perhaps as she looked out at the troubles of 1975 while she waited for me to make an appearance. But here we are, 40 years on, and acting as though we haven't learned a thing.

Trepidation

Today feels a bit like my last day of freedom. I begin a series of professional development classes tomorrow, have inservice week next week and will have kids back at school the following week. I know that most of you have sent your kids back to school already, but teaching is a funny sort of a job in that every year you feel like you get to start over.

Not from scratch, certainly, but whereas most jobs have a learning curve in the beginning and then you get your groove and move forward, every September feels like this to me. While many things I'm teaching will be the same, each new collection of kids brings it own set of challenges.

What will stay the same:

* Administration. This is good because it means that there won't be that awkward adjustment period to the new boss.
* Professional development. I have mixed thoughts here. The emphasis on teamwork from last year had many positives, but also tied my hands regarding other things. Additionally, the "proof" we need to demonstrate that our kids are actually learning something is very rigorous and number-based. It is a thing that creates hours of extra work for very little value.
* Teachers. I'm on essentially the same teams of teachers as last year and already have an effective, or even good, working relationship with all of these colleagues. I sincerely look forward to continued collaboration and am grateful not to have unknown quantities in this direction.

What will change

* New Building. This has been ongoing, but my classroom (I saw it today) is really mostly finished and very lovely and exciting. Shared lab space will be an interesting challenge to navigate, but my classroom is enormous with delicious amounts of storage. This is very exciting. Dollar store (for containers) here I come!
* Redesigned Class. My Foundations class (basically 9th grade physical science) is being redesigned this year, though not too much. We are in the process of redesigning all our core science classes to better reflect NGSS standards, but cannot really make the change until textbooks are adopted . . . probably around 2017. (What a weird date to write; it sounds so futuristic. What the hell are we adopting textbooks for???)
* Three preps. This is probably driving the title of this post more than anything. Last year I taught Foundations and English 12. This year I'm also picking up biology. To anyone who has ever taught, you will understand the ramifications of three preps at the high school level. And remember, I'm part time. Everybody, apparently, loves me, but they are hoping to kill me at the same time. Ironically, biology is the thing I went to college for, and what I always saw myself teaching, though I haven't done so since 1999. It has taken me a very long time to get back to this place of doing what I love the most . . . and it is vitally important that I hit a homerun here. Our teacher with the most bio sections is retiring next year or the year after and if I'm good, then I'm well-positioned to take his place. Though I only teach ONE section this year (and will put in an extra 5-10 hours a week to make it happen), I have to be fantastic. Trepidation is right.
* Family schedule. I had hoped all would be the same this year, and it will, mostly except for the fact that my boys' twice weekly ride to karate (which I used in lieu of babysitting on those days, basically funding karate tuition with the savings), will no longer be available. This change seems little, but what it means is that, at least until Christmas, I will spend 3 more hours a week in the car and spend an extra $100/month on babysitting.
* Students. They are always so unknown--some amazing and delightful, some difficult beyond all reason, and most in the vast middle. I struggle to inspire the Amazings on to greater things, the Difficults to some semblance of discipline and desire, and the Middles? Mostly I struggle to know them and show them I care for them so that they aren't forgotten. But you never know what you are going to get, and I always struggle to know how to motivate and help them. It is a job where perfect is never really a choice. Knowing that you truly helped a handful is sometimes the best you can do.

But to quote the always great Tom Hanks from A League of Their Own, "If it was easy, everyone would do it. It's the hard that makes it great!"

Passing on The Lessons From Girls' Camp

I shared some thoughts from my last post with the committee on Wednesday. I was careful to preface my remarks with praise for their powerful efforts and time in behalf of our children. Then I basically put it to the brothers like this:

As moms we loan our children to you for a weekend a month and every Wednesday night, hoping that they will come home a little better each time. We pray that the young men's program will give them something that we are unable to, while encouraging their growth as men and as priesthood holders at the same time. Please don't squander that time with them. Take opportunities to share your love of the gospel, your best and most faith promoting mission stories and your love of your families.

I felt emotional when I spoke, but this was a roomful of men here, so I kept it together pretty well and felt the spirit. Even in a little calling/assignment you can have a stewardship for which you get inspiration.

My comments were well-received, particularly because some of this very thing was done just a couple of weeks ago at Scout camp, a thing I also acknowledged and expressed gratitude for. It was agreed that, by and large, it was one of the better scout camp experiences the boys from this ward have ever had. The boys had greater unity and more fun than ever before.

A few years ago, I sat in a parent and leader meeting with two wards as we discussed the possibilities of combining our programs. Numbers of youth in both wards were low and many of the kids attended school together. We were looking for a way to make it possible to staff cubs, YM and YW as well as create larger groups of kids so that they might be more encouraged to attend. It was an emotional evening, with the vast majority of adults present in agreement that despite any logistical challenges to combining the programs, it was up to the grown ups to figure it out and get along for the sake of the kids.

One brother, in particular, was very emotional as he basically begged for something, anything, that might help encourage his son to want to be at church. This man is a perpetual joker and generally laid back, so and I'll never forget the tenderness of that plea, nor the overwhelming Spirit I felt as I knew this was the right path for our ward and stake. That this choice had marvelous potential to bless the lives of our children.

In our small and rather inactive ward, this brother and his wife were key in helping run many of our programs. They are also our very good friends. Three months later he came across some anti-Mormon literature, for really the first time, unbelievably, and three weeks later he and his wife asked to have their names removed from the church records. It was literally that fast.

As they sat in our home and told us of their decision, I couldn't help but remember that just three months previous he would have given anything to have his son be a believing member. I know their decision to leave was based on many things, but I have sometimes wondered if the family stress alleviation was part of that choice.

Many prayers and soul-searching were given by many upon their leaving. I think some probably followed suit in their own way and time, but I think the Lord is also merciful. Our ward has exploded with families in the intervening time and it is a different place now than it was when they left. Our programs are running well and strong; there are plenty of people to accept and admirably fulfill callings. Our primary has doubled in size in the past 2-3 years. All of our auxiliaries are fully staffed and functioning in a way I've never seen before in this ward.  I'm grateful and humbled that the Lord would see fit to bless our ward family in this way, when so many of us were hurting so badly.

Church administration and running the programs can be such a hassle sometimes. It can seem that we are serving the church itself rather than the people. But now and then there are moments of complete clarity when I really get it. I know that the Church is imperfect and run by imperfect people trying, and succeeding on balance, to know the Lord's will for helping to move us forward as a people. The Church is merely a simulacrum for the kingdom of Heaven. It is where we learn to serve strangers, and come to love them. It is where we learn to sit side-by-side and work with people that we might not choose to be friends with. It is a means for us to forget self, sacrifice and serve others. I'm grateful for it. Even when it is messy. I'm sure I'd be a lot messier on my own.

Girls' Camp

I spent last with the teenagers from our church at their annual girls' camp. Though I have spent many years, off and on, working with the young women from our church, I have never had life circumstances that would allow me to spend a week at camp with them. But circumstances change and children get older and easier to farm out to friends, and this year I decided it was time to say "yes" to this unique experience.

First and foremost, it was fun. I had a really good time. The girls are mostly delightful and funny and well-behaved. There was plenty to do--skits, activities, devotionals, service, certifying in camping skills, crafts, water games, etc. Our theme was "The Girl on Fire" and a lot of Hunger Games kitsch went into creating the structure for the camp. I was skeptical, as the books and films are fairly dark, but it was well-done and not overdone. So well done, in fact, that if anybody is looking for a camp theme next year I am happy to private message and give details. There is one more movie to go, I think the popularity of the series will linger for at least another year or two.

All in all it was a great experience and my poor husband spent what was probably a miserable 90 minutes over the course of the weekend listening to me give details. I will spare you here as most of the experiences are really of the you-had-to-be-there variety. Pranks, stupid skits, running jokes and gags are all so much better when you are sleep deprived and without other forms of entertainment. (Is that Channing Tatum riding on a donkey?? I nearly wet my pants at the time . . . as of this writing I can only muster a wan smile to what seemed so hilarious just seven days ago.)

Still, there is much that is memorable and worth bringing home that translates better into broader audiences. And, oddly enough, the thing I am thinking about is scouting. BOY scouting.

My current "official" calling in our ward is to be the advancement chair on the scout committee. I say official because I'm also working with the cub scouts and until not too many weeks ago was teaching Sunday School when I cried "uncle" with girls' camp approaching and got released from many obligations. I don't think this lay-low period will last long, but my work on the committee has been eye opening and, particularly in light of the press release from the Church this week, has given me much time to reflect on the nature of scouting and its unique role in the LDS church.

At a committee meeting earlier this year, one very earnest brother asked about how to motivate kids. This led to some interesting fall out that I have thought about often, and even more often this week. The first thing that happened is an older brother, whose primary contact with church IS scouting, left angry. This very thing had been discussed in the monthly Round Table meeting the week previous, and, once again, our troop had a very pitiful leadership showing at the meeting. This brother's anger was awkward, but not entirely without foundation. LDS troops don't run the way troops outside the church do. In some ways this is by design (handbook), but mostly it is in response to a "calling" not exactly being the same as something you "volunteer" for. All of those other scouters are volunteers and want to be there. Many LDS scouters are going through the minimum number of motions to feel that they are doing their calling adequately. It is harder to find ones that have strong testimonies of the merits of scouting and who love both it and the kids. This additional level of interest is really required if a person called into scouting is going to take the initiative to get the requisite training to be a really great scout leader.

That was Brother A's response; once he left the room, there was an actual discussion, albeit rather subdued. Brother Bishop (actually our bishop) said the key was to do Duty to God. This left me all kinds of skeptical. The Duty to God award is such an afterthought in American Young Men's programs. Most of the boys that end up earning it only do so after they receive their Eagle Scout and are already fairly motivated types.

Brother C, a member of our bishopric and a long time scouter (at least 40 years in scouting) shook his head vociferously at the bishop's comment and insisted: you have to get them outside. The more you sit around the more they will hate it. He then waxed poetic about an old time scout leader that engaged the boys by using his Dutch oven every week, ensuring that something delicious came out of it at the end of every scout meeting.

I've rolled these responses over in my head as possible motivators or barriers to motivation:

A--Dismissive anger for the lack of integrity among LDS scouting units.
B--The key to successful scout program is focusing on spirituality.
C--More guy stuff. And food.

I may not be the best person to speak to this. My oldest son, 13, is a gung-ho scout. He likes everything about it: the military aspects, the camaraderie, the uniforms, the patriotism, the memorizing, the bazillion merit badges, the awards. I think in many ways he came this way, but we have done some things. I will speak quickly to some things that we have done that have been successful with our boys (one Scout, one in the Webelos den and one in the Wolf den) before getting back to my thoughts on lessons we can learn from girls' camp.

We have . . .

1--NEVER implied that scouting is something you do if you like the activity going on that night. Scouting is part of being active in the church.

2--Been super involved. I have been cub master (now my husband's calling), primary counselor over cubs, on both the cub and scout committees. I have volunteered at cub camp, as well as keep up to date with district activities. The committee jobs were not things I was called to--I asked to assume those roles to keep the program running smoothly.

3--Made sure that we know the program. I have never once made it a leader's responsibility to earn an award for my kid. This doesn't mean that I've done it myself either, but knowing the program and the expectations can help you plan family activities (lots of cub things can be done in the normal course of family life with a little bit of organization) as well as help guide your child into ideas they can suggest for scout activities that might help them progress.

Okay, so we are definitely a scout family. At least for my oldest, he will remain so, regardless of the Church's decision whether or not to stick with BSA. This is a thing I also have strong opinions about, but it is a bit off-topic. Maybe another day. I have strong motivation with three boys for learning the program and helping it to be smoothly executed. I want my kids to want to be there. So back to my meeting with the committee all those weeks back.

A--Brother A is right. If scouting is going to continue to be a part of the church and our YM culture, then we need to be doing it properly. That includes attending the training that is quite good and presented at least every month, if not more often. We cannot complain that scouting is too complicated and hard to run if we won't avail ourselves of every resource available to us.

B--Our bishop is right. We are not connected with the scouts because the world needs more Eagle Scouts (though maybe it does); we are connected with scouts because scouting, for 100 years, has been seen as an incredible vehicle for teaching things that allow boys to become successful missionaries. The church's own research shows that boys that earn their Eagle Scout are far more likely to go on missions. The church isn't trying to churn out Eagles, they are trying to turn boys into Elders who can effectively and with conviction teach the gospel. The most important thing a boy can do is gain a testimony of the Savior. His love. His atonement. His sacrifice. The restored church. Scouting alone cannot do this. It isn't even intended to do this beyond some vague devotional gestures. If boys feel the spirit, they will come back for more. If they come back often enough, they can gain a testimony. If scouting is to fulfill its purpose within the church, leaders must more effectively integrate the principles in Duty to God, as well as look for ways to spontaneously share testimony and teach the gospel. Camping experiences must be more than a boys-will-be-boys melee where the only prayer is that everyone makes it back alive. And with all their fingers.

C--Our lifetime Scouter is right. Boys do need to be active. They don't do well when they sit for a long time. Tempering sitting and learning with standing up and doing is essential (not just for boys, by the by). Scout leaders, when they accept the call, must understand that in addition to training, those monthly campouts are a must if they are going to keep the boys working toward goals--intrinsic and extrinsic. Without these aspects, it will be very hard to get the boys to focus on the spiritual because being outside, away from electronics, eating food you had to make yourself, teaches you to really internalize.

I would like to take a moment more on the Bishop's comments. Because this is what I precisely saw at Girls' Camp. There was this awesome blend of spirituality and fun that was delightful. Perfect. As the girls shut off their devices, they could really look at one another, and at their leaders. They could more effectively feel the pull of the spirit the longer they spent in the woods. Thoreau was onto something, certainly. There was a certain deliberateness of action both from me as a leader, and in what the girls understood by week's end. Their hearts were soft, open, receptive.

Boys are girls are different, sure. But we are all children of the God and Goddess of this creation. They have endowed us with divine attributes that more clearly shine through when we spend time in Their creation. I have to believe that after a day or two in the woods, the same thing happens to boy-hearts that happens to girl-hearts. This is when a leader can step in and tell a story from his mission (and, no, thanks very much, that story should have nothing to do with something gross you ate) and touch hearts, change lives. He might tell a story about his own conversion to the gospel, the joy he felt in taking his wife to the temple, how he loves his kids, how he discovered his career path.

This is possible.

When scouting celebrated its 100th anniversary of its partnership with the LDS church, there were some great articles in both the Ensign and the New Era. One of these was called "Why I love the 50 miler." This is what it was all about. Taking boys to the brink of their capabilities so that they are humble, grateful and teachable. In this moment, when you are stretched to your limit of doing hard things, you find your truth.

Yes, Brother A, if the church continues with scouting then there must be a renewed emphasis on proper training integrity in completing the steps of scouting. Yes, Bishop B, there must be a spiritual awakening within the scouting program and the vision caught of how Duty to God might be married to the pursuit of skills. And yes, Brother C, the boys need to get outside more and not only learn but practice the skills outlined in the scouting program.

I don't know if the BSA/LDS relationship will last. There has been rumbling for some time that it won't be. But if the men will open their eyes and take some cues from the women for how the practical and the spiritual might be married, then young men doing scouting can truly begin to be blessed by their association with it.

Growing Up Mormon (Hashtag)

There was a meme headed around Twitter in recent weeks that begin #growingup . . .  and it included designations like "Albanian," "Black," "Hispanic," "Scottish" etc. The news story I heard about this (because I do NPR, not twitter--I'm in my middle years like that) was extremely positive and reported little negativity in the exercise until a group of really classy rednecks used "growingupwhite" as a way to promote hate speech.

Awesome.

White means certain things, of course, as well as being American. But, for me, I can honestly say that the primary cultural group I identify with is Mormon. I honestly think I'd be more comfortable being dropped into he middle of an LDS congregation in West Africa or Tonga than attending a demolition derby in Kansas or a cocktail party in New York. Both of the latter being "white folk" type events. Years ago, the New Yorker ran a piece on Mitt Romney. His Mormonism was addressed by an avid scholar of Mormonism (who is, by the way, not LDS). She said, "Mitt Romney isn't Mormon the way Harry Reid is a Mormon . . . he is Mormon the way Joe Leiberman is Jewish." Her point was that Romney's Mormonism went back for generations and generations. Unlike Reid, a convert, Mormonism was fundamentally tied to Romney's reality and understanding of everything in the world.

I am Mormon the way Romney is Mormon.

Generations and generations on both sides. When people leave the church, they report that this cultural disconnect is the hardest piece. The bottom of the world literally drops out when it is has been who you are for generations.

So, for fun here today, I am going to (#) growingupmormon. Some of these will be based on my experiences. Others on the experience my children are having.

1. Spending a day or more each summer working at a church farm--pruning or picking grapes was our crop of choice when I was a child.

2. You think canning your food is something that everybody does.

3. All grownups wear white underwear that goes to their knees, don't they?

4. Toiletpapering is something you do to your friends, or a boy you like, or your favorite teacher who probably happens to live in your neighborhood.

5. The Word of Wisdom is only observed correctly in your own family; all your friends seem to have their own version of it.

6. You eat before you go to the potluck because you have no idea what kind of weirdness Sisters Smith, Johnson, Peterson, et. al. have concocted in their kitchen.

7. You have been served Jell-O as a main dish. Or, at the very least, your mother owns a ward cookbook with a recipe in it that involves shrimp, Jell-O and tartar sauce.

8. Said Jell-O might also be a side dish and Thanksgiving doesn't seem quite complete unless your fancy Jell-O is running into your mashed potatoes.

9. Jell-O, oddly enough, is rarely a dessert, despite the fact that it is about 75% sugar and often covered in whipped cream.

10. On your mission you become shocked to discover that there are MTCs that are NOT in Provo.

11.  Being modest means that your garments cannot show. Even if you don't wear garments. And only if you are a girl. And even if that isn't at all what modesty means.

12. You remember the old incarnation of For Strength of Youth that said no rated R movies . . .and rejoiced when the current version was so specific, so now you can watch whatever you want.

13.  You mom owned cake pans and maybe Jell-O molds in a variety of shapes.

14. Before Pinterest, mom had her own way of sharing crazy craft ideas with other women. It was called Homemaking night. Remember that year all of your clothes were sewn from patterns inspired by the movie Annie?

15. You danced to YMCA at every church dance before you even KNEW anybody that was gay.

16. Seminary meant a sluff-off class that was hopefully right after lunch and with all your friends.

17. Homemade apricot leather was your favorite taste of summer.

18. You have a "family" picture buried somewhere that has 75 people in it.

19. The largest room in the temple of your choice was standing room only at your wedding or sealing.

20. As a kid, one of your bucket list items was to visit all the temples . . . probably 25 at the time!

21. You have a favorite apostle that you are secretly rooting for to be prophet.

22. Two weekends a year, you spend two days in front of the TV in your jammies dozing off to conference. Yeah! Follow the prophet.

23. You know there is a fourth verse to "We'll Bring the World His Truth."

24. Until you were eight you really didn't understand the popcorn song at all. Heck, if you KNOW what the popcorn song is then you probably grew up Mormon! (Heck, if you use the word "heck" you probably grew up Mormon!)

25. When you were fifteen your dad looked at your mom across the table and said, "You know dear, I really hate Jell-O." Suddenly EVERYone comes out of the closet.

I'm sure I could go on all day . . . I'm sure that you could too. Leave a comment below if there is anything that you feel like is uniquely Mormon that could be added.

Just Another Day in English Class. In 1950.

After doing Hamlet with my English classes some weeks back, we followed it by reading the short story titled Stone Mattress. The story is brilliant and modern and pairs nicely with the play. Using both pieces springboarded us into conversations about the difference between justice and revenge, as well as a discussion about the degree to which people are responsible for their choices. As Laertes declares at the end of the play, "the king is to blame!" Shakespeare is tantalizingly unclear about what all the king is to blame for. Hamlet's actions, heinous as they are, would not have been done had his uncle not killed his father in order to gin succession. Likewise in Stone Mattress, the story's protagonist seems justified in committing a carefully planned murder when you realize the extent to which her "victim" once victimized her.

In conjunction with our reading I had students read three different versions of the same story. In the story the main character is stranded far from home in the middle of the night, which is only accessible by ferry. The character has forgotten their money and, despite pleas to former friends as well as the boat captain, nobody will help the person. Desperate, the character goes home on foot across a crime-riddled bridge, knowing it is dangerous but feeling out of choices. The character is murdered when the highwayman realizes they have no money to steal. 

In the first version, the protagonist is a woman who is having an affair (a series of affairs), and is trying to get home so that her husband doesn't catch her. Those who refuse to help are former, jilted lovers, as well as the boat captain.

In the second version, the story is identical except for the genders. The husband is the adulterer who is desperate not to be caught.

In the third version, it is a woman again, but she is a single, widowed, mom working across the river and desperate to get home before her children wake up. The outcome, however is the same.

At the end of the story (they only saw their version) students were asked to determine which of the characters was most responsible for the death of the main character.

Over two classes of reasonably enlightened, modern 18 year olds, here were the results:

75% of respondents in the first story primarily blamed the woman for her own death....the second choice was the man who actually killed her. 

This result is not actually unexpected. I pulled the story from a psychology lesson plan about the just world hypothesis--it is human nature to expect that people will get what we think they deserve. I really stirred everybody up when I said, "so you guys think that the penalty for adultery should be death?"  There was plenty of backpedaling after that! They asserted that they just were trying to say that our actions have consequences and that we cannot escape the results of our choices.

It was a good conversation, and I can get behind a lot of what they are saying. Our actions do have consequences, and we do have to be careful. Except....

There is a glaring problem when we look at scenario two. An identical case except for gender, remember. Only 25% of respondents blamed the man for his own death. Most blamed the highwayman and a few blamed the boat captain. 

So when we look at all their high principles about karma and a belief in a just world, it all really melts away. Even in 2015, women are still held to a higher standard. Men who have affairs are just not as responsible. The discrepancy shocked me. And maybe horrified me a bit too.

As for the third result? 95% said single mom not responsible...even though she too forgot her money, the mistake most directly related to the outcome.

The funny part was that the students seemed pretty chagrined by the outcome. Most voting students insisted that their vote would have been the same regardless of if it had been about a man or a woman, but I have my doubts. They squirmed hard when their own biases were revealed. 

Turning 40

I had two big goals for this big year:

1. Run a 10K with my husband.
2. Finish my fairytale novel and submit for publication.

I didn't mis-type the first sentence. I said "had."

Wait?! You say. It is only JULY. Why the glum forecast for accomplishment?

As a school teacher, I was really counting on the summer to help me with these plans. The first, the race, was something I had hoped to do the end of summer and train through the spring and summer for. Then the realities of summer caught up to us and, boy howdy, we have been almost as busy as during the school year. I was asked to do girls' camp for our church after I set that initial goal, which has really thrown a monkey wrench into the best laid plans. Not a terrible monkey wrench, I'm looking very much forward to girls' camp, but to say that it is without complications is a gross understatement.

The second goal. *sigh* The second goal. Again, summer was the time for this . . . though not as much time as I had once hoped. To my horrible, horrible chagrin, however, I found that the thumb drive I had been working off of for this particular piece has quit working. I have an old PDF copy of a manuscript that has had extensive revisions made to it. I have recently and stupidly discovered that all said revisions are on the bad drive, nor do I have capability to convert the PDF to a working file format. When I think of all my great revisions, however, I'm horrified at the thought of going back to the PDF, particularly with the formatting issues created by converting one to the other.

It isn't to say that my fortieth year hasn't been without its perks. The weekend of mother's day/birthday, we took the boys backpacking for the first time. Professionally I've never been in a better place: I will begin my third year of teaching at the same school this fall, which is a record for me! I feel like I have a career finally instead of just a job. I am recognized as being very effective and doing well and have two departments arguing over who gets me for more time. I received a grant this year to expand technology in my classroom and will finally get to teach biology, my favorite subject, this school year. The kids are doing great and we love our new home that we've been in less than a year. Plantboy and I are doing well; I love him more than ever. I have come to terms with a lot of doubts that have plagued me in recent years about a variety of things.

Yes, we are in a very good place. As to my goals, however, that is another story.

The first goal was really in response to trying to exercise more. I have actually done fairly well this summer and am getting out to the gym more often. I would love to lose 15 pounds . . . mostly so the clothes aren't so snug and so I have more energy. As short as I am, it only takes a few pounds to really feel bulky. The energy piece is huge; I'm hoping that better exercise will help me beat that slump I get between 3-5 every afternoon that makes me crave junk food and naps. The reality is that I just hate running. As much as I admire my amazing friends who complete marathons et. al., I find myself completely miserable when I even attempt two miles. I will choose nearly any form of exercise over running. The merits of planning for a race are, of course, in the fact that you have a deadline. The downside, however, is that when the deadline comes you actually have to go RUNNING. Outside. Sometimes in the heat.

The second goal. *sigh* The second goal. This is just something I really, really want. Or is at least a simulacrum of what I really want. You see, my fondest desire is to write the next great American novel. You know the one I mean--the one that all the book group women want to read and talk about. The one that makes people stop and think and perhaps even influences their actions. The one that makes you call your best friend or sister and say, "Ohmygosh, I just read. The. Best. Book." Sure, sure a novel like that brings you money, but to me, such considerations are really secondary. I just can't imagine the buzz that would come from knowing that people are talking about and considering something I created.

But this bad drive thing, with no back up copy (who does that??? I have like a bazillion copies of everything else in 8 different spots!!!), has me feeling sick at heart. Discouraged. Wondering if it is a sign that it is time to just put away childish dreams.

I have publishing envy. I will just admit it.

Maybe it is just time to embrace the many gifts and blessings that have been mine, be grateful for my limited writing abilities, such as they are, and accept that this thing I want so badly really isn't within my reach.

I know. I know. It sounds so defeatist. But I admit, I'm feeling a bit defeated today as I ponder whether or not to pursue my dreams or just find something else on the bucket list. After all, I'm sure that going to New Zealand would make me feel MUCH better!

Room

The last book my seniors are reading for the year is called Room. Many of you probably get a chance to actually read for leisure and have already had the pleasure of this book. I'm a little bit late to the party. Still, I would like to add my resounding accolades for this fine piece of work.

No spoilers here, the jacket cover says as much, but Room is narrated, brilliantly, from the viewpoint of a five year-old boy. A barely five year-old boy. His experience is very limited because his mother happens to be enslaved by a man who kidnapped her when she was just 20 years old from her university campus and has held her in captivity for seven years. Her son is five. He knows nothing beyond the room in which they live. To him there is no Outside.

The novel is a fascinating look at the psychology of the first few years of life and how important that time is formatively, but even more so for what it says about the intense strength of the mother-son bond. It is the story of a remarkably remarkable woman exposed to the most prurient evil and the purest innocence at the same time and her heartbreaking effort to keep the two apart.

I remember that when my oldest was born, until he was about five, we only had ONE car. When I stayed at home, I very literally stayed at home. Of course, I could go on a walk, and I could use all the rooms of my house. But if you have ever been cooped up for days on end with a cranky toddler, you know how quickly the walls feel like they are closing in. I cannot even imagine. 

One of our other teachers, whose own tastes have always seemed less reserved than mine as we choose selections, emphases, etc. for for our seniors, says he finds the book rather appalling because of the subject matter. And yes, when you ponder this woman's existence, it is appalling--a crime of the darkest evil imaginable--but when you see her and their life through the eyes of her boy, you see only love and wonder and strangeness. Even smack in the middle of the most evil situation imaginable, he is innocent, perfect . . . a child.

The women who survived a ten year enslavement ordeal in the home of a Cincinnati man published their collective memoir recently and have been all over the news. I say the topic is timely and worth discussing; Room makes it possible to do so from this remarkably innocent viewpoint.

Four Hundred Years of History

For the first time ever, I taught Shakespeare this year. Oh, I've read Shakespeare, both in and out of classes. (Yes, that's right, I've read Shakespeare just FOR FUN, what about it?) But teaching it was a new thing entirely. I couldn't just read it, I had to be prepared to explain it, and, gulp make it INTERESTING.

Believe it or not, some people, actually lots of people, don't find literature just inherently wonderful or read just for reading's sake. They have to be encouraged. Enter the English teacher.

I think the others in my department didn't quite know what to make of me this year. I would sit in our preliminary meetings discussing literature and lesson plans and ideas with them, while all the time they are thinking I'm a science teacher. And some days, when the English classes are really going great, I think, "I can't believe I'm paid to do this!"

But toward Hamlet I didn't feel quite so confident . . . Shakespeare is the holy grail of English teaching, and Hamlet is the holy grail of Shakespeare. I didn't want to do what Mrs. Forsberg did to Romeo and Juliet when I was in the ninth grade (can you say butchered?); I wanted to bring all the subtlety and complexity and beauty to it that Mrs. Reed did with Othello. I read and studied and forced my husband to watch varying versions on Friday nights for movie night. I agonized.

For four-hundred years these plays have been taught because they are just so good. So many other plots are based on Shakespeare stories; indeed, there are few original stories left. Shakespeare is foundational to our culture and to refining your language and understanding. We celebrate this man because he was, truly, a genius. Oh, how I agonized.

And then I got some good advice.

That I actually listened to.

A wise English teacher (I hesitate to say "old" as she might be younger than I am) shrugged at my dilemma and said, "Don't get caught up in the symbolism and the imagery and the making it GREAT LITERATURE, just let the kids play with it. It is a performance piece, after all. Just engage them in the greatest revenge story of all time with a protagonist that is just an emo teenager." Prince Hamlet is actually 30, but like, whatever, he seems more like an angsty 17 year-old. Believe me, I know what angsty 17 looks like.

And it worked. The kids, not all of them, but by in large, they understood it and connected with it. They grumbled at Ophelia's brother and father who thought it was their business to tell her whom to love and could see that it was their interference that set certain events in motion. They argued about whether revenge and justice were the same thing and which Hamlet was really seeking. They empathized with his actions, even as they didn't condone them. They saw that truly dark path that revenge takes you on. They discussed mental illness and suicidal thoughts and how sometimes really hard things happen in your life that make you wish you didn't have to deal with them. They laughed at Polonius' famous advice and brilliantly translated it into modern English. The played the final scene for laughs, even as they recognized the waste and irony of it all.

It wasn't glorious. But it worked . . . and they connected in some small measure as so many English students have before. And, I hope, as they will for generations to come.

Science fascinates me because it explains the how of life. But literature . . . literature gets us closer to the why.