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.

The Two Great Commandments

Spring has arrived, and I’m gonna try and articulate a thought that has been marinating in my head for several weeks. 

As a preface, let me say this: I’m a very active Latter-day Saint: church goer, temple attender, tithe payer, the whole 9 yards. I visit teach, I fast, and I serve in my callings. I LOVE my faith. And I love the organization of the church, for so many reasons.

That being said, I had two conversations back in February that are still with me. 

One was at a wedding, and the other was in the living room of a friend in the middle of the night.

I said something in both interactions that I’ve continued to think about, and I want to more fully express the thought here.

It goes like this:

At the end of my life, I don’t want to be evaluated by how many times I was in church, or whether I attended stake conference, or if General Conference was a priority in my life.

I don’t want somebody to look at my "stat sheet" and, if they see “good marks,” conclude that I must have been a good person. 

I find that completely offensive.

The Savior taught that everything hangs on two things: whether I love God, and if I love my neighbor.

I’m not saying that covenants and commandments aren’t important; Christ taught those too, and covenants, commandments, and prophets have made all the difference in my life. But as I think about my own spirituality, the piercing questions I ask myself come from pondering those two great commandments. 

Today, for example, I’m much more concerned about if I’m an ass in my interactions with other people, and if I'm actually looking out for my neighbor. Do I genuinely mourn with someone who is mourning? Have I learned to apologize when I make mistakes or hurt someone else? Do I care about another person’s feelings and perspective as much as my own? Do I try to elevate myself or focus on the contributions of others? Is my life about me, or is it about service? Do I practice honesty and live with integrity? Am I genuine in my interactions with other people? What are my motivations? Do I freely extend love, forgiveness, and compassion to others, recognizing that I desperately need those same things? Do I feed my ego, or do I live with humility?

These are the things I think about.

Questions like these expose how much I lack, and increasingly fill me with deeper gratitude for the Savior.

Christ’s example gives me one towering, upward-climbing ideal after another, and I am eternally grateful for the staggering gift of His atonement. He always inspires me to examine myself, start over, choose love and kindness, apologize, serve, humble myself, forgive, prioritize, recognize my own faults, and keep trying. His virtues are astonishing, demanding, and beautiful. But here's the thing:

His central characteristic is love. 

And at the end of the day, that's what it comes down to for me. 

At the end, I hope my life story reveals a simple woman who tried to LIVE what she believed, even though she was sometimes (frequently) an ass and she constantly fell short.

But even in the falling short,

she trusted in God's grace and found joy.

Emotional Work

(Disclaimer: This is a total processing post.  I came to the computer on emotional overload.)

I've had a day full of emotional negotiations with my children.

I'm exhausted and the day isn't close to being over yet.

I think?, maybe often, my mothering, as presented on the blog, could look like things are always rosy and figured out and neat and happy.

But they aren't.

There are days, like today, where I end up losing my cool as I'm trying to handle someone else's emotion.  

There are times when I raise my voice and I'm rude to my kids.

There are weeks where sometimes I feel like the offering that I have to give to them just isn't enough, that I'm failing them, that it's laughable that I'm supposed to be the adult here, or a role model for them, times where I just know I won't ever measure up or be what I need to be.

And it isn't just about seeing that as a mother (tho I see this all the time); it's about seeing what's lacking in my person, too, falling short in lots of other ways.

Over the last couple years of my life, I've been logging lots of things inside.  I've been processing and evaluating, pretty much on repeat, exhaustively, and I've learned a lot, but two things are coming to mind right now.

Forgiveness and acceptance.

Acceptance of what you can't change.

Acceptance that you are giving everything you've got, and if it isn't enough, it's still the best you have to offer.

And that, even when it isn't what it should be, it has to be okay.  You are doing the best that you can.  
And that isn't a cop out, by the way.  
I mean it---in the sense that acceptance means facing the realities, too.  Looking at a situation or a relationship or a problem and really seeing it for what it is -- that means acknowledging where it isn't enough, and accepting it.  Accepting it, even if it makes me uncomfortable, or even if everything inside of me wishes I could change it in a snap.  Wishes I could somehow be better or handle everything how I'd like to, or know the right thing to do.

I've realized, more than ever before, my humanity: my mistakes, my weaknesses, my failings.  I've looked, up close and personal, at my personality flaws, and that has led to some pretty eye-opening discoveries.  It has stretched me and forced me to be honest with myself.  And, in willing to be honest with myself, I have found huge relief.  In a very personal way, in a way I can't even articulate, I have felt deep down into my soul how profoundly personal the atonement is, how personally crafted it is, how it reaches out one-by-one.

Surrendering to the chaos and the process and allowing myself to accept it has helped me to forgive. And I'm not talking here about forgiving others, tho I think that's part of it, too.  I'm talking about forgiving myself, about acknowledging those parts of ourselves that are hard or that we wish were different, the stuff we're always working on, the ways we never feel we will be enough.

I've realized that I struggle to believe that I'm enough, and maybe all of us do.  Maybe this is part of it.  

Some days and weeks and months are hard, even tho they aren't without staggering joy, too.  The pain and hard is also entrenched with joy, with moments that make me stop and take in what an amazing, incredible gift life is.  Small, simple moments that I can put away and feel good about: small successes, small minutes of reassurance, small, meaningful conversations with people I love, a quiet listening ear, small moments where God lets you know of His love for you, or laughing, so hard, with a friend for a few quick minutes.

And maybe it's actually about realizing that we aren't enough, and that's the point.  

That we're fallible.

That we fall short.

That things aren't always how we like them, that life isn't like that.

And, ultimately, that that's okay.

Maybe it's really about learning to say "I'm sorry."

Maybe it's about being willing to try again.

Maybe it's about realizing that anything worth having involves emotional work, and lots of it.

Maybe it's about that beautiful process of being humbled---because ultimately, being willing to submit to that helps you to heal and to connect and to love others deeply.  

Seeing the humanity in you makes you less shocked when you find it in others.  

Acceptance.

Forgiveness.

Peace.

Moving forward.

Tears

I've cried so many tears in the last year and a half.

More than I ever have in my life, I think.

Tears of sorrow.

Tears of gratitude.

Tears of sadness.

Goodbye tears.

Afraid tears.

Overwhelmed tears.

Tears of regret.

Tears of inadequacy.

Tears full of love.

Tears full of hope.

Tears in the quiet, alone -- just me and God.

Tears in the arms of friends.

Tears on the phone.

Tears while texting.

Tears when I'm out running.

Tears of amazement, as you stand there humbled.

So many, many tears.

And the other night, on the couch, shedding yet some more...

I found myself thinking about how they've washed me.

Those tears have washed my heart out, let it all rush through and out and around.

So cleansing.

So healing.

Sometimes, crying is the very best thing to do.

Broken

I had a broken kind of day today.

Feeling brokenhearted, hollow, sad and empty.

And, in addition to that, feeling not enough, in many ways.

A day where I'm not sure, in my heart, if the desires I most want will ever happen.

Maybe that sounds dramatic---but when you're low, these feelings can be overwhelming.

I can't be the only person who feels this way.

I do, today, and probably for the next while.  I don't know for how long.

So.

All I have to share is another quote by Elder Holland that I read tonight.

It's beautiful, and gives me something to hope for and to believe in when my mortal eyes can't see how it could possibly happen.

Maybe it may lift any of you who might be feeling the same way.

"...someone wrote once that God apparently loves---and turns to our benefit---broken things.  It takes broken clouds to nourish the earth, it takes broken earth to grow grain, it takes broken grain to make bread, it takes broken bread to nourish us, and so are the cycles of life.  This divine sequence is akin to the Savior's parable that no kernel of corn can grow to fruition until it is first thrown away and, in effect, lost in the earth before its bounty can come back to us. ...It may be that among all the broken things God loves, He loves a broken heart most of all.  So when our day...comes---and perhaps sorrow will come with it---be trusting and be believing.  Know that God will accept your offering and that, through the great miracle of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, He will give your heart back to you healed and whole. ...By His grace and the goodness of God, all broken vessels are fully repaired."

(from his book For Times of Trouble, pg. 70)

Waiting on the Lord

I know.

I've said this before.

But.

I really love Sundays.

Sometimes, I feel like if I can just hang on with my hands or even my nails and teeth and barely skate into Sunday, my cup will be filled again.

I'm telling you -- I think it's my favorite day of the week.

 Last night I sat by the fire for a long time, writing and reflecting.

I listened to carols and felt totally hugged by them.

Elder Scott talks about how individual scriptures "...can become stalwart friends that are not limited by geography or calendar.  They are always available when needed. ...To memorize a scripture is to forge a new friendship.  It is like discovering a new individual who can help in time of need, give inspiration and comfort, and be a source of motivation for needed change."  (for more, see this talk)

I thought of that last night as I was cleaning up dinner in the quiet, and then as I sat there, writing.

Some of those carols are so familiar in my heart that they are old friends.  And the text of their message has lifted my heart and brought joy and peace to my soul on so many occasions that I couldn't count them.

The last several months have, possibly, been the hardest of my life thus far---while also, ironically, feeling undeservedly blessed in many, many, ways,

I have felt exhausted.

Discouraged.

Overwhelmed.

Sorrow.

Loss.

Evaluation of mistakes and regrets.

Painful introspection.

Cleansing.

Faith.

Struggle.

Finding hope.

Clinging to it.

Dependence on the Lord.

A lot of quiet.

Over the last week, I have found myself pondering this message:

"In the scriptures, the word wait means to hope, to anticipate, and to trust....To wait upon the Lord means planting the seed of faith and nourishing it...it means praying as the Savior did---to God, our Heavenly Father---saying...'Thy will be done'...Waiting upon the Lord means pondering in our hearts and 'receiving the Holy Ghost' so that we can know 'all things what [we] should do...[it] means to 'stand fast' and 'press forward' in faith, 'having a perfect brightness of hope.' It means 'relying alone upon the merits of Christ' and 'with [His] grace assisting [us, saying]: Thy will be done, O Lord, and not ours.'...In my life I have learned that sometimes I do not receive an answer to a prayer because the Lord knows I am not ready.  When he does answer, it is often 'here a little and there a little' because that is all that I can bear or all I am willing to do. ...We may not know when or how the Lord's answers will be given, but in His time and His way, I testify, His answers will come. ...Every one of us is more beloved to the Lord than we can possibly understand or imagine.  Let us therefore be kinder to one another and kinder toward ourselves. ...I express gratitude that 'in my Gethsemane' and yours, we are not alone.  He that watches over us 'shall neither slumber nor sleep.' His angels here and beyond the veil are 'round about [us], to bear [us] up.'"

---Elder Robert D. Hales, from his talk titled "Waiting Upon the Lord: Thy Will Be Done"

(For the full talk, go here.  It's a good one.)

I know that all of us have seasons like this in life.

In all of my processing, I have come around to these beautiful truths, again and again.

Ultimately, they are the place that I find rest.

God is kind and gentle.

The Savior's atonement is real and personal.

The things I have learned over the past year are deeply meaningful to me.

God is letting me learn, from my own experience.

Seriously...what a gift.

It's something I can't fully express adequate gratitude for.

Something I can't put a price tag on. 

Something I am consistently humbled by.

Indeed, He that keepeth Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. (Psalm 121:4)

Perfection (and Happy Halloween!)

This is my spirit shirt for the day.

I find the pun quite amusing.

I've been enjoying the BBC series of "Call the Midwife."

(I love it! It's reflective and beautiful.)

Last night, at the closing of an episode, I found myself pausing the movie long enough to type in a quote that was being said.  Listen, stop, write.  Listen, stop, write.  Repeat.  Play it again to make sure I got it right.

This was the quote.

"Perfection is not a polished thing.  

It is often simply something that is sincerely meant.  

Perfection is a job complete, 

praise given, 

prayer heard.  

It can be kindness shown, 

thanks offered up.  

Perfection is what we discover in each other, 

what we see reflected back.  

And if perfection eludes us, 

that doesn't matter, 

for what we have within the moment is enough."

("Call the Midwife," Season 3, Episode 5)

This morning we attended a play based on the children's book Miss Nelson is Missing.

When we came home, we did reading, writing, math.

Then, I got them lunch and made my green smoothie inside.

I joined them outside with the current book we're reading, which is Moccasin Trail.

As I sat down, I thought about how much I love the afternoon sunshine lately.

How those 20 or 30 minutes of the day are sometimes, literally, the golden minutes.

I love sinking into that chair, with my drink, and reading to the kids.  

Or sitting there (or lying there!) by myself.

And I thought about that quote again.

So often, particularly with my mothering, I dwell on what I feel I'm not doing right.

I think of the times in the day when I lost my patience (when I swore I wasn't going to again), the ways I'm not measuring up, the things I'm not doing, the ways I can't seem to get things together.

I think of things I'm perpetually behind on.

I look around me, seeing so many things that need my attention, and then feel overwhelmed because I just can't do it all.  

I think of the ways that I feel I am failing.

Does this sound familiar?

As I sat down in the sun, I thought of the quote again.

It inspires me.

Life isn't about having it all polished.

It's about the process of polishing.

It's about living sincerely, genuinely.

Acknowledging each simple, completed task.

Giving praise.

Prayer: asking, seeking, thanking, praising, reflecting, resting there.

Offering simple kindnesses.

Focusing on discovery.

Dialing in on relationships.

Finding the meaningful in each moment.

Yes, I fail each day.

But there are moments of this kind of "perfection" every day, too.

And I need to be reminded (maybe all of us?) that it is a process of polishing, not exact and precise and every single moment of each day.

That failing is part of it.

That struggle is part of it.

That trying again is part of it.

So, my goal?

When I'm starting to feel down for the failures of the day, I want to shift my focus and think about these "moments of perfection."

Yes.

One step.

And then another.

And then another.

There's holiness in the striving.

(And now, I'm off to prepare for family to arrive.  We've got games for the kids, dinner to be had, and then trick-or-treating.  Photos to be shared on Monday.  Hope you have a lovely Halloween night!)

Seeing Lucky

Last week I was outside, trying to get our garden ready for tending.

Evening light has to be among my favorite things.

I was busy pulling out plants that had come up in the spring, stuff that needed to be pulled so the ground could be tilled.

Shortly thereafter, Isaiah and Mia came over and began picking them up.

Mia exclaimed,

"Look how lucky we are!"

Her delight at spongy parsnips and small onions was genuine and full of joy.

They set to work making soup.

That one line has stuck with me.  

In my life's assortment of onions and parsnips, can I see how lucky I am?

Am I willing to do this thing?  

Am I willing to submit to the process?

To learn?

To find joy and growth in what could have been cast off?

Messages of Peace

In the early afternoon, my house is bathed in light.  It is a singular time of day for me as the brightness floods in, bringing out the honey grain in the wood, the rich colors.  The brilliance of it seems to draw my attention, calling me at the same time to bask in it and reflect, commanding an immediate sense of quiet from somewhere inside.

Years ago, as a little girl, my family traveled to the cabin for a week in the summer.  The cabin wasn't plumbed and when we had to go to the bathroom in the night, we depended on having each other and a flashlight.  You could get to the outhouse just fine without the light, but who would want to face the dark woods alone?  We were young, the woods were deep and dark and quiet, and it felt good to hold something that could pierce that and give you a direct, clear line of view.

I've thought about that as a metaphor for the Holy Ghost.  We are, as it were, away from home for a time, in a world that while stunning and beautiful and full of remarkable blessings, is becoming increasingly darkened by unbelief, skepticism, injustice, and disregard for moral standards and behavior.  In a discussion on Sunday this talk was referenced, comparing light to revelation.  Sometimes it comes so pressingly, as though, in one step, you've walked from a dark room into a light one.  Other times, the light seems to distill gradually, like a morning sunrise.  Both are ways that the Holy Ghost communicates with us. 

One of the roles of the Holy Ghost is to bring peace, REAL peace, the kind that money cannot buy, the kind that success and prestige of any kind cannot replicate.

I was asked on Sunday if I would share an experience where I had felt the influence of the Holy Ghost, and after doing so, I challenged myself and the women I was with to start looking more earnestly and try to recognize the Holy Ghost in the day-to-day-ness of life.

  Last night I burrowed into my bed late, spooning up to Mr. C. to warm my body and my forever-and-always cold feet (thank you, I love this).  I found myself thinking about the messages of peace I've recognized and felt lately, even just over the weekend.

I remembered Saturday morning, lazy, lazy, waking up late.  Scott and the children were gone on their Saturday morning outing.  I ate a bowl of cereal in the quiet and started into a book.  Moving the couch into direct sunlight, I wrapped a cozy blanket around me and sat in that warmth, reading, for almost three hours.  Quiet, peaceful, time to think and process and engage.

Later that evening, Mr. C. and I knelt in prayer to begin fasting together, discussing beforehand the things we were pondering in our hearts and minds, things we desperately feel we need direction on.  As he was voice for our prayer, I felt the power of uniting in faith, trusting that this road is possible because we're on it together, and because God hears and answers prayers.

Sunday morning was beautiful and crisp out.  Blue sky, morning rays of sun kissing lawn and curtains and carpet.  Light like that is contagious.  

All the children came into our bed, and we began our new book, reading the first chapter of Summer of the Monkeys.  Peace, my friends.  It was there.

In church I sat listening to a young man in our ward talking about faith amid the questions of science and those questioning belief in something greater.  He finished and I was up on my feet, so touched and motivated by his remarks.  I kept thinking I was going to be able to hold it together but his words touched me so deeply, my emotions literally spilled out, too.  I was so proud of him for saying that choosing faith can be hard.  I wanted him to know that we continue to have to choose that.  Life, as I've contemplated so much in the past several months, is about choosing faith.  I feel as though I've had to surrender, in so many aspects of my life, to choosing faith and forging ahead in trust.  We are here to see if through all the battles, we will continue to choose what we chose before we came: the freedom to believe and exercise faith in Jesus Christ.  That is the answer, and it is a lesson I continue to learn again and again. 

Before going to bed on Sunday night I wrote love notes and tucked them into boxes, feeling love within my heart as I wrote to each of my children and my husband.  It was so real and so calming and filled me with gratitude.

And last evening, the kids and I listened to Scott's lesson for us in our family home evening.  He told the story of Enos, and had taken the time to draw pictures for the children.  Every once in a great while it seems like there is a lot of extra quiet in family home evening, and we're dialed in more than other nights.  That was last night.  He had told the kids that he wanted them to think about things they could learn from this story before he began.  

  (Enos goes into the forest to hunt.)

 (Scott realized, too late, that he should have drawn a bow and arrow instead of a rifle.  Love it.  He goes to hunt wild beasts, and while there, remembers the words his father often spoke about Jesus Christ.)

(Because of his reflections, he prays seeking a renewal of the Lord's spirit in his life and to receive forgiveness.  That forgiveness comes and he wonders how that can possibly have happened, and is answered that it was because of his faith.)

I found myself pondering implications of that story for me.  In the end, the Spirit whispered to me that choosing to exercise faith in Jesus Christ is also choosing to change, to repent, to want continual progress, not stagnant hope without any working on our part.  If you truly pick up one end of that stick, you automatically pick up the other end, too.  As Elder D. Todd Christofferson said, 

"Repentance means striving to change.  It would mock the Savior's suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross for us to expect that He should transform us into angelic beings with no real effort on our part.  Rather, we seek His grace to complement and reward our most diligent efforts.  Perhaps as much as praying for mercy, we should pray for time and opportunity to work and strive and overcome.  Surely the Lord smiles upon one who desires to come to judgment worthily, who resolutely labors day by day to replace weakness with strength.  Real repentance, real change may require repeated attempts, but there is something refining and holy in such striving." 

(for full talk, go here)

 Sometimes it seems as though the version of myself that I hope to be and what I actually am are disparagingly far apart.  But I am grateful for a God who, through the Holy Ghost, helps me recognize His beauty and power working, even for one as simple as me.  I am grateful for the challenge and for the journey and for opportunities, great and small, to reflect and try to tune in.  The Holy Ghost fills me with hope and joy, urges me forward, and calms, at times, my troubled heart.  He helps me to see the holiness in striving, confirming the next step, that small flashlight beam penetrating the darkness and fear of the unknown, bringing clarity, insight, and peace in His wake.

(Go here for a video that touched me this weekend.)