Hands

Today while driving Claire to dance class, I found myself unexpectedly choked up in tears.

She was holding my hand, and then started to feel my bones and look at my fingernails. She was pushing the skin together (“I’m making your skin have wrinkles, Mom.”). 

I found myself thinking—and I told her about—how I used to play with my dad’s hands when I was a little girl. The veins in his hands would sometimes get big—like mine sometimes do—and I loved to sit by him and push them around, play with them. 

At the same time, Claire and I were listening to a song in the car by Lori McKenna that I love titled “You Won’t Even Know I’m Gone,” and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. It’s a song about a mother who’s preparing so that when she’s away, her children won’t notice her absence.

“I pray that every prayer I pray will reach you, every wish I make will keep you safe and warm.

And may God forgive the things I do that put one mile between me and you—

To thine own self be true, to thine own self be true.”

That is a prayer I hold for my children, and it’s probably dad’s prayer as he cheers us on from where he is.

And it is in these little things that I find him—the smell of pie baking in my kitchen, the feel of dirt on my fingers as I plant geraniums, a particular hymn, the way I rock a baby, a favorite carol, a late night grocery store run. He is with me when I rake leaves and make apple butter in the fall, as I listen to conference, when I carefully place years of tradition on my Christmas tree. I could go on and on.

Dad, I do feel your absence.

But you are also here every day and I love your hands and the ways they were used—your talents, your hugs, your time, your service—to bring so much love and goodness to my life and the lives of others.

You are in us and through us and a part of us.

Our Gifts Don't Have to Be Perfect

I've just spent a chunk of time reading some blog posts from 2011. 

My gosh, it makes me miss my own life!

 I've been walking down memory lane (as I lie in my bed) and realizing, again, how much I love what I do every day.

Today, though, my life feels 1000% times more busy than it did then.

I don't spend lazy mornings writing letters with the kids 

or admiring pirate ships in the neighborhood on morning walks in October. My boys aren't 5 anymore; they're turning 12 and will be ordained deacons next month. (Insert: What. Is. Happening?)

I'm sending my baby to kindergarten this year. She's ready and confident and happy.

I work now, for pay, something I didn't have on the plate years ago.

Life has gotten busier as the kids have gotten bigger, which seems ironic, right? I mean...they actually become more independent than they were in younger years. Shouldn't I have more time, not less?

I'm totally aware that these four hearts are growing up fast.

Just tonight, I was shutting down lights and checking locks and realizing that my boys probably have 7 more Christmases at home, including this year.

I've said it before, but I'll say it again:

I would do this thing again, in a heartbeat. Being a mother has been the greatest 

privilege of my life.

I was watching a friend's Instagram story yesterday afternoon and thinking what a beautiful childhood she and her husband are giving to their two small children (3 and 1). 

So I messaged her and told her.

I'm going to quote the conversation at this point, because I want to share something I've learned in my mothering journey. But it's actually really something I have learned over the last few years of my life--in the wake of losing my father to cancer, having my husband leave, going through a divorce, trying to pick up the pieces, accepting huge changes, beginning the journey of being a single mother, starting a job, and?

Just. trying. to. juggle. everything. 

These years have been exhausting--in basically every way. 

But honestly? 

They have also been the deepest and most beautiful years of my spiritual life to this point.

I have known intense sorrow and grief and self-criticism and pain, but I've also known shocking joy. I have felt incredible happiness and relief and hope and forgiveness and light and God's love in astounding measures. 

I love my life! And I wouldn't trade the experiences in to have my former self.

But, I digress.

So, I complimented my friend. 

And she responded: "Thank you so much for saying that, that's so kind. It's getting harder as they get older (in a different way)."

And I responded: "I think what matters is that they have your heart. And your attention. There was a time for me, a few years ago, when I had an important realization that brought a lot of peace, and it was this: My gifts were imperfect. I was imperfect. Mothering was staring me in the face and it was so much bigger than what I had anticipated. And I knew that what I had to give wouldn't always measure up. I knew I'd fall apart, become the worst version of myself sometimes, and that I wouldn't always be happy with my performance. Those days are hard. I still don't like those days. And honestly, as my kids have gotten bigger, so have the questions and challenges. But, here's the thing. I remember having this realization, though I don't remember how it happened. But one day I asked myself this question: "Do you love them with everything you have? Are they the most important thing? Do they have your whole heart?" And suddenly I felt such peace because there was no confusion there. It was an immediate, "YES! SO MUCH YES!" And it was like I realized that was enough. The spirit taught me something important

then. Despite the difficulty and challenges and questions and my obvious imperfections,

it was okay. They have my whole heart and they know that I love being their mother.

And you know what? I hope that, one day, they see Elizabeth, not just their mom. 

They see me as a person trying to figure it out, and maybe that will help them when 

they're trying to figure it out too. 

The other part is that I trust in the atonement so much more to make up the gaps where 

my trying falls short. So, I guess in the end, that's why I say I think it's all about love. 

Yours, and His. I truly trust that, and know that our gifts don't have to be perfect."

I'm sharing that because I hang my hat on those two thoughts. And because maybe it will help someone else who struggles when they feel they don't measure up, in any capacity; when they're staring down the barrel of their lives wishing they were better than they are, or that they'd done things differently, or made different choices, 

or been more (fill in the blank).

I think life becomes bigger than we anticipated, and the questions and challenges

and heartache do too. But, at least for me, that has been the price of learning and authenticity and growth and JOY.

Our lives are My life is messy and gloriously imperfect and I've come to love it that way.

I'm so glad I get to make mistakes and learn! 

And so thankful for beauty and grace and joy.

And I absolutely trust God's love for me and for you as we're figuring things out.

Lazy

I'm quite enjoying these post-Christmas days.

I've been sleeping in until 10:30ish, eating Lucky Charms and chocolate. 

I've spent a lot of time snuggled in my covers.

It feels amazing...cuz, let me tell you:

December felt like a completely exhausting whirlwind.

Beautiful (which I'm going to post about), but I was bone-tired too.

In fact, here's something from a little ways into December, on a Saturday night when I was feeling completely worn out. I was on my bed and wrote out what I'd done over the previous two days: 

"Woke up on Friday. House was cold. Texted furnace guy friend. Made pancake birthday breakfast for Claire and Russian tea. Fed everybody. Did Mia’s hair. Made her a lunch. Dropped everybody off. Came home. Read to Claire. Cleaned up the kitchen. Furnace guy came. Got Claire ready. Dropped her off to school. Hurried home. Worked. Picked up Claire. Came home. Made birthday cake. Made her birthday dinner. Cleaned up. Showered and got ready. Plugged in to work again. Picked up the older kids. Came home. Made frosting. Frosted the cake. Made salad. Served dinner to everybody. Cleaned up (made the boys help this time). Served up cake and ice cream to everybody. Boys and Claire left with Scott. Cleaned up. Made sugar cookie dough for Claire’s friend party the next day. Found birthday bingo template cards for Claire’s party. Printed them off. Cut them out. Traced and cut out trees for the birthday bags. Got ornament gifts ready. Long talk with Mia. Went for a run with Mia. Came home, took a hot shower, read my scriptures, went to bed. 

Woke up. Headache, still from yesterday. Made toast and took medicine. Took a shower. Realized I was three hours behind on work. Worked. Got ready. Drove to IKEA to get one of Isaiah’s Christmas presents and pick up Grayson and Bella. Stopped at Walmart on the way home for small cookie cutters. Came home. Baked cookies. Cleaned everything up. Made frosting, two different colors. Managed a birthday party for seven girls: decorating cookies, serving up cake and ice cream, playing bingo. Cleaned everything up. Went to Walmart for Christmas wrapping paper and Christmas shopping. Stopped at Papa Murphy’s on the way home to get pizza for the kids and at the grocery store to get roast and potatoes for tomorrow (Sunday dinner). Came home and put pizza in the oven. Found lights out on the tree. Cleaned up again. Got dinner for everyone and turned on a movie. Unloaded the car. Hid purchases from Walmart. Got a text from the primary reminding me that Mia had a talk tomorrow. We’ve talked about it but it needs to be written down for her. Still have to work for a while and get 6 kids to bed and fix the lights on the tree. Totally exhausted."

I read that list after I wrote it down and thought, "No wonder I'm tired."

So yeah...that's kind of a peek into how December-until-Christmas felt. 

And you know what? I never fixed the lights. If you’ve been to my house at Christmas time, you know that I load my tree with lights…so, actually, when I moved some strands around, you really couldn’t see the small sections of a couple of strands that had gone out and I couldn’t bring myself to even dive into that project. Who gives?

So, the point is?

These lazy lazies are deliciously luxurious. 

At 12:30 yesterday, I was in my bed in my pajamas (gift from Becca), working. 

Isaiah was on the iPad next to my bed playing a game.

Benj was flying his lego Kylo Ren's Command Shuttle, one of the sets he got for Christmas (he is in love). 

The girls were quietly playing in their room with Christmas stuff. 

Sometime after 4:00, I changed out of my pajamas just long enough to go for a run in my new workout leggings Christa gave me for Christmas (love!). 

When I got home, I made taco soup and put my pajamas back on.
And I slipped my feet into these cozy slippers Becca knitted for me. (Love! They keep my feet so, so warm.)

We went downstairs with our food and watched 

"The Man from Snowy River." 

I haven't seen that movie in years, and I loved it again.

We read together afterward while the kids ate ice cream. At one point, I looked over and Benj had his rubber band gun in one hand, shooting at something far ahead in the distance, while galloping crazy fast and controlling the reins with his other hand (all at the front window, of course). 
("Man from Snowy River" must have brought it on.) 

(I love that he still goes away in his imagination like that.)

Today is shaping up to be similar.

Basically, if you need me in the next few days, I'll just be here.

In my pajamas.

(I'm not planning on changing.)

Dove Hunting

Benj got his birthday present early this year: a BB gun with extra ammo.

He wanted it in time to take it dove hunting on Labor Day.

When he found it sitting out for him, he ripped it open and immediately started sizing it up.

On Labor Day night, laying in bed, I was watching a video of them cleaning the birds after the hunt.

I couldn't help but laugh.

They're sitting in the truck bed twisting and pulling off bird heads and wings.

My nephew Grayson thinks it's disgusting, but he stands there watching.

Benji is totally interested and engaged, actively cleaning and gutting the birds. I think he was stoked to be using his pocket knife on something legit, and when I asked him how it was to clean and gut a bird, he gave me one passionate "awesome". (And it wasn't the little-boy-gleeful-shout version of awesome; it was the older, collected-but-punctuated-and-emphatic awesome. 

Turns out...these boys are growing up.)

Isaiah is completely grossed out and it shows on his face. He is repulsed, but drawn to watching anyway. My favorite line from him that makes me bust a gut every time?

"I could do the feather pulling, but I can't do the decapitating body parts."

Bella, my almost-seven-year-old niece, is clapping with joy at the prospect of taking off bird wings. 

("Okay, okay, I'll do this! I'll do this!")

Oh my gosh, I love her.

Honestly?

Super funny video. 

I laugh every time I watch it.

 And even if Isaiah didn't love that part, he did enjoy shooting at "tweety birds" late that afternoon, 

and Benj loved shooting cans and hearing them PING.

Oh, and the dove hearts. He wanted to keep them.

When they got back, Isaiah promptly told me that he wanted a BB gun and ammo for his birthday present, too.

 So, friends, that's how we're going to end up with two BB guns in the house, and target practice going down in the backyard.

Good times.

Dreaming

On Saturday morning, I woke from a dream.

I had been working as a field hand picking cherries.

From inside a building there, I heard someone playing my dad's arrangement of

"God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again," and went inside to hear

it. It's one of his arrangements that isn't recorded.

I think it was my mother playing and she was piecing some things

together, kind of a variation of the hymn and then playing a verse of dad's that we had.

My sister Susan was standing there, too.

As Mom started to play it again, I was washed in emotion as I thought about my dad

and felt that deep pang of missing.

Susan came and stood by me, we hugged each other,

and in a moment, we were both sobbing.

And I woke up.

Kind of funny, because I spent Friday night cleaning my house.

It was driving me crazy.

Folded all the laundry.

Vacuumed the entire house.

Scrubbed bathrooms.

Dusted.

Mopped all the floors.

Soaped out my kitchen sink.

And as I stood there at the sink in the late-night quiet, I was thinking about him.

Sometimes I think about my grandparents, and how it wasn't that long ago that they were in the busy stage of life that I'm in.

They were raising kids and pursuing careers.

They were chatting with neighbors and laughing in kitchens.

They were involved and vibrant in their communities.

And now?

All but one of them has gone on--in almost just a moment, really.

Reminds me of another dream I had years ago that left an impression on me. I had just died, and my spirit literally went up through the ceiling of the room where my body was laying. And as I went through the ceiling, I went into a room of people and immediately found my father and aunt. They were laughing and happy and talking.

It was just as real there as life here and I was struck by how familiar it felt, as though nothing had changed.

But I remember feeling distressed because I was thinking of my little sister, still here. I knew she was crying because I'd died and I wanted to comfort her.

The older I get, the more I realize that our time here is short,

what we do here matters, and we will go on sooner than we think.

And I realize that the things my ancestors gave me--

their strength, their convictions, their examples, and their love--

are just as active through the veil that separates us as they were when they were here in the flesh.

I can feel those things, even though I can't see them, 

and it's strong--

especially from my father.

Someday I will see him again, and I'll run.

And when I get to him, I'll hug him and hold on.

And I'll thank him for hovering over my life.

Playing in the Woods

"We need the tonic of wilderness. We can never have enough of nature."

(Henry David Thoreau)

Today we drove almost an hour south of our home to hike in a canyon we'd never spent time in before. 

 It makes me happy that the boys are in their element there, exploring in the woods. 

I loved watching Bruce pick up huge sticks and admiring how handsome he is when you call his name and he looks at you and his ears rotate forward and he looks, all at once, noble and majestic and friendly with those kind eyes of his.

I don't know what it is but Claire has theeeeee cutest little bum and legs right now, and watching her in her new little hiking kicks made me happy. She's getting so big. And she'll tell you: "I'm the baby of the family, but I'm not a baby. That means I'm the youngest."

I loved watching my sister and Claire and Bella and Bruce up ahead on the trail. 

I loved cold river water on my feet.

I loved the beauty of the canyon, the sideways slabs of stone, the mix of trees, the rushing water, the fact that it felt as though we were all alone in it.

That moment with my sister under the falls. 

It was cold, we were laughing, and I love that we grabbed each other's hands. 

I loved a few quiet minutes with Mia, 

talking as we strolled along together.

I loved talking with Christa about the wonder of life--from the incredible detail in a single cell, to how amazing bees are and the intricate order and precision of all natural things--and the witness these things are, to both of us, over and over, of the existence of God.

And no matter where we go, I swear we always come home with more sticks. Cuz...Benji. 

Love these boys.

On Name Calling and Expletives

On Saturday night, the kids got home and we read a lot from 

To Kill A Mockingbird. 

(We were in the heat of the trial and it was getting intense.)

When I stopped reading, we were all clustered at the bottom of the stairs talking.

And I don't know what I was doing, but at one point, Isaiah said,

"Mom, are you hearing this? Did you hear what Claire just said?!"

I looked at him quizzically. No, I hadn't heard.

"She just called Benji a butthole."

Special.

From my cute, sweet, hilarious 4-year-old.

A few minutes later, she was laying back in my arms on my lap as we were all still sitting there and I looked down and said quietly,

"Claire, don't say butthole."

And she said, 

"Okay."

It's a term she's no doubt heard from her brothers---so I told them, again, that I don't want them using that word.

(I've always hated that word.)

I told them it was gross and beneath them.

But since we're talking about telling kids not to say stuff, let's talk about that one time last week when I was telling my boys not to swear. I was standing there in the kitchen, and as the words were coming out of my mouth, I realized what a joke it was because I've become quite fond of saying hell. Awesome.

(#motherhoodforthewin)

New Year

Well, it came.

And on Monday, as I was preparing New Year's dinner for my people, I felt content.

(Can I tell you how much I heart traditions?)

I was hanging balloons with fishing line from the kitchen ceiling.

It smelled like a turkey roasting in my kitchen -- almost.

(I was making chicken in a crockpot so it would fall apart.)

I scattered confetti and set out the china and hung gold stars.

I left a homemade caramel and a note on each of their plates.

The house smelled good, there was a fire in the fireplace, and it was cozy.

(My happy place, really.)

The kids got home from being with their dad, and once I had everything ready, we gathered around the table.

We turned the lights way down low and drank bubbly.

The menu?

Fall apart chicken.

Salad with a lemon vinaigrette.  

Roasted carrots.

Scratch mashed potatoes and gravy.

And, what the kids used to call "Christmas juice": 7UP with cran-raspberry juice.

I shared a sentiment from Milton, but thought later that I should have just kept it simple.

(Note to self.)
I gave them a challenge for the new year.

And maybe the highlight was when we talked about what we are grateful for.

 Mia said she was grateful for her bed.

Benj mentioned comic books and legos.

Isaiah said audio books.  And then, later, a furnace.

And this gal?

Chocolate.

Of course.

(Of course she would say that.)

We made a few toasts and then lit sparklers in the snow.

And the little gal who cried last year and was scared of them?

She discovered the joy. 

And that was that.

Here we are.

New year.

Who knows what it will bring?

But, in the meantime, I haven't yet had it in me to take down the polka dots and stars and happy wishes for the new year hanging over our table.

It feels like a sort of blessing somehow; a bright, golden spot against that lovely clean world of white out there in the yard.

Blessed.