The Whole Gamut

A few weeks ago the kids and I were sitting out on the deck around noon.

Isaiah asked me a really. good. question. 
It had to do with eternal purpose and growth---a deep thinking question. His query was something I've never thought about, 
and I didn't have an answer. 
I still find myself thinking about it.
We ended up in a discussion about difficulty, opposition, and growth. We were also talking about the possibility of upcoming changes and voicing how we are feeling about them. 
We were all on the fence, a mixture of emotions. 
Definitely some sadness, a little bit of anxiety, 
and a lot bit of uncertainty.

I began a sentence by saying, "We just have to accept..."--- and was going to continue by saying something about how living means experiencing the ups and the downs. But then Mia interjected one word and said it all.

So, replay.

I said,

"I guess we just have to accept..."

And she said, 

"Life?"

Yeah.

Her response was so simple and profound, 
and I've thought about it ever since.

That IS life, right?

It's the paradox of constant change, and it's full of things happy and sad, beautiful and hard, part sorrow and grief and part joy.

It's the whole gamut, the complete experience.

The scope of that---its depth and meaning, 
its sharp pain and fierce joy---takes my breath away.

At Day's Close

See those two squares of blanket out there in my darkening yard?

They were my patches of hope tonight.

Sometimes I'm amazed how, all in one day, I can feel deflated by discouragement and frustration, be crying and quiet and a poor excuse for company, and then come back again.

It happened today.

I was feeling down about my life.

Feeling like I'm failing at motherhood, and mothering, and nurturing, and the whole deal.

Full of doubt about the future.

(That one happens a lot, and I have to fight it off pretty vigorously.)  

I felt completely exhausted, on an absolute emotional empty.

We went out for an outing and I was upset and quiet and discouraged.

But then, miraculously, things flipped around.

When we got home, something switched.

My patience was recharged.

I gave my gal some doritos.  

I showered the pool off of me and set to making dinner.

I cut up cold melons that were sweet and juicy and mixed them with grapes.

I sliced and spiced chicken and started it cooking.

I picked warm tomatoes from the garden and chopped them up, mixing them with greens and cucs and purple onion and avocado and feta. 

My boys got themselves bathed and I went down the stairs to pick up my screaming, exhausted baby, wet from the bath.

I toweled her off, got her diaper and jams on, and brought her upstairs.

Served up dinner to everyone, and then loved watching Claire go at her food.

My favorite part?  

She told me, "Mom, I love salad."

And then I watched her sift through it, looking for all the bits of feta cheese.

I told her I love feta cheese.

Her response?

"I love it, too."

And just when it was one of those days when it felt like God is distant, I took that little babe downstairs to my bed.

I attempted not nursing her tonight because I'm finally coming around to the idea that it may be about that time.

(Makes me mama heart ache.  Like, super ache.)

I snuggled her in to my body, put her bink in her mouth, snuggled the fuzzy, soft part of her blanket all around her, and started to sing, rubbing her forehead with my fingers.

We made it through "Twinkle," and then "I Am A Child of God," and came around to "I Feel My Savior's Love."

My voice caught in my throat, and peace came in to my heart.

Not that things are fixed or the way ahead is suddenly clear and bright, but peace.  

I felt it again, and it soothed this weary heart.

(And, unrelated, but I just have to say it.  I know she's mine, but I look at this photo and wonder if God ever made a more beautiful baby.  For real.)

That was followed by an exchange with one of my sons that also followed the same pattern: frustration to peace, to communicating, to being able to tell him that I love him.

From a flustered, fast, quick exchange, to one with tears and closeness and actual talking.  It was a gift for me.  I sat there feeling like this is what it's about -- the struggle, up close flaws, acknowledgement, apologizing, trying to be there for each other in all the ways that we are so imperfect.

We ended up out on those blankets, that same son snuggled in next to me for the duration of our reading, an exciting bit where two kids are off on an Arctic adventure, lost in a blizzard while skating on a lake.

Hard to imagine when we are barefoot in the backyard, short sleeved, blankets and pillows, enjoying what couldn't be a more comfortable summer night.

The sky had soft, wispy clouds, and as I read, they changed from pale pink to something deep and vibrant before vanishing into the darkening sky.

We said prayer on those blankets and then I tucked them in.

So often I feel so out of steam by the end of the day that I don't feel I'm I'm not very meaningful in my goodnight, don't feel a lot of love in that process.  (It's more like---just please get in bed and be quiet and stay there. #truth)

But tonight?

I kissed their heads, and it wasn't rushed for me.  It was quiet and purposeful inside.

And I returned to my still-dirty kitchen and began cleaning while listening to some quiet Patty Griffin in the background.

These people and this life stretch me.  

I don't often know the way or the why or the how.

But loving and trying make sense.

I'm trying, and you, wherever and whoever you are, you're trying.

That's a beautiful thing, and sometimes the only honest thing we have to offer.

All Hallow's Eve

Dear Dad,

Today it's a gorgeous autumn day.  

The sky is that washed out blue with wispy clouds.

The backyard is littered in leaves.

The sunlight has that distinct slanted look, different from the drenching wash of summer. When you are outside, even in the late afternoon sunlight, a long-sleeve shirt isn't unwelcome.

While a lot of the trees around my neighborhood have lost all their yellow leaves, my neighbor's trees are just now turning, and they're glorious!  I have yellow hanging over my driveway, and something bright to greet me as I open and close the curtains in the schoolroom. 

The maple in my backyard is doing what it always does -- several shades all at once, each leaf in its own process of change.  It is a myriad mix of greens and reds and some muted oranges.

This morning we gathered around the table in the front room for journal writing.  We all wrote letters today: Isaiah wrote to Anna, Mia to Nae Nae, Benji to Talon, and I wrote grandparents.  Claire busied herself getting on the table (and being taken off), and I attempted to distract her by offering her paper to color on.  It worked briefly.

We read in the sunshine during lunchtime, and listened to our history lesson while I rolled out sugar cookies.  Isaiah and Mia played with extra dough and Benji played with legos. Claire napped.

Afterward, the boys were downstairs cleaning their room and yelling at each other and my patience is about out.  Mia was busy frosting her bunch of cookies.

Sigh.  

Earlier today, I went downstairs to make my bed and straighten things up.  My book was still open on my pillow, and I looked for a bookmark so I could close it and put it on my nightstand.

I looked at a pile of papers there, sheets that had been at home in the front of my journal, random bits and pieces: letters, talks, quotes, notes of things to write about, saved programs, etc.  I pulled out a card, thinking I would just tuck it in the book briefly until I found something else.  It was a birthday card from you in 2009.  

I looked at your elegant penmanship and read your words.  You said your love for me "goes clear to the bone," and wished me goodness and God's richest blessings for the coming year.

I read it and sat there, thinking about you for a minute.  Thinking about how, then, I had no idea you would be gone in just-less-than-four-and-a-half-years from that point.  

But.

I also sat there, thinking about something I've learned in the past year -- and it is this. Until losing you, I didn't realize that when you lose someone you love deeply, they never really leave you.  

It's like this poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye, written in 1932.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.  

I am not there.  I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there.  I did not die.

Of course, my sentiments would be different.

You're in the way I think of flowers, the way I stain my fingers with dirt.

You're a piece of Bach's music, fine chocolate, the texts of certain hymns, letter writing.

When I see tulips or Easter lilies, or make pies in my quiet kitchen at night, I feel you in the work and simple, stunning beauty.

(apple pie making, the other night)

Lots of things.

The people you love become a part of you.

I think it is one of God's most lovely gifts, a gift I hadn't discovered til incredible sadness, through loss, carved its way into my heart.  That chasm made room for warmth that I hadn't anticipated.

I've always thought of Lehi's discourse on opposition (2 Nephi 2) as a commentary on the difficulties of life.  But.  It occurs to me, now, that it goes, just as equally, the other way.  When God says that opposition is one of the guarantees, something we can count on, He also meant opposition to pain and struggle.  

He meant that He would meet you, in those dark places.

Just last night, a line from something I was watching stuck out to me.  One of the characters had just suffered a crushing loss, and someone said to her, "You keep on living, until you feel alive again."

My.

This has had application in my life over the past year in so many ways.

In relationships that mattered to me.

In questions that I don't know the answers to.

In forging ahead, when you can't always see the way.

I love that quote.

Keep on living, until you feel alive again.

I've realized that losses can become gains, Dad.

I've learned that pain is part of joy.

I've found that these pieces are part of the same whole.

And as I log off of blogger this afternoon and head to the kitchen to make beef stroganoff, I'll think of you as I make scratch sauce.

I'll brown meat and diced onions.  

I'll add in a little flour and mushrooms, pour in cream and some red cooking wine, mustard, red pepper, salt.

I'll let things simmer and thicken, and I'll taste test.

I learned it from you.

Happy 30th of October, Dad.

All Hallow's Eve.

xoxo

E.

Living With Hope

A year ago, I said goodbye to my Dad.

I said goodbye to being able to physically interact with him.

I said goodbye to conversations and laughs, 

traditions, working together, late night phone calls just because.

When I look at these photos, I remember climbing into bed beside him.

And I remember always being able to go to him as a little girl when I was afraid in the night.  He would let me snuggle up next to him for as long as I needed.

Or take me downstairs to get a snack of bread and butter with honey 

in the middle of the night.

He was there, always.  

Tender, quiet, gentle, concerned.  

He gave the gifts of strength and confidence and love.  

Always love.

These are really the last photos I have where I can see my father there -- a trace of his smile, his knowing, quiet eyes, the concern and love that he always had for others.  

Time was short.

He died just four days later, on a Friday afternoon.

Looking at these today, I am reminded of something 

Elder Wirthlin said in General Conference 8 years ago.

He referenced Good Friday, that Friday of Fridays, long ago, 

when the Savior was crucified.

He says "it was a Friday filled with devastating, consuming sorrow that gnawed at the souls of those who loved and honored the Son of God." 

And then he continues with this:

"But the doom of that day did not endure.

The despair did not linger because on Sunday, 

the resurrected Lord burst the bonds of death. ...

And in an instant the eyes that had been filled with ever-flowing tears dried.  

The lips that had whispered prayers of distress and grief 

now filled the air with wondrous praise."

Then, after pointing us to thinking about the resurrection, 

he makes greater application for every aspect of life, 

not just when we are facing death.  

"Each of us will have our own Fridays---those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces.  We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again.  

We will all have our Fridays.

But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death---Sunday will come.  

In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.

No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, Sunday will come. 

...I testify to you that the Resurrection is not a fable."

I love this so much.

Whether you have kissed someone goodbye, watching life slip from their body, 

or just have encountered, 

as we all do, 

crushing disappointment and sorrow and hardship, 

there is hope.

And we all have times where we have to believe that.

My life, over the past year, has been full of many difficult surprises and turns.  

There have been so many emotions.

I have had to say goodbye more than once,

and in more than one way or circumstance.

I have felt broken.

I have felt beside myself, not knowing what to do.

I have felt angry and hurt.

I have struggled to feel at peace with myself, 

to forgive myself, to move forward.

My heart has ached with sadness.

But.

Even in those Fridays, I have noticed Sunday all throughout.

That is what I am thinking about today.

God doesn't leave us alone.

He sends angels -- in the form of people, and blessings, and comfort, and peace.

He gives you so many reasons to laugh.

In quiet moments, He reassures and steadies.

He blesses you in ways that you feel you don't deserve.

He cleanses and calms your heart by letting you know that Sunday is real.

His great gift is that we can trust Him; we can have hope.

And what I love about it is that hope propels us forward. 

It doesn't allow me to sit still and stagnant, 

stranded, without a way home.

No.

Hope whispers that all will be well,

that we are in God's tender care,

that we are experiencing exactly those things that we need to.

And, the secret I have found?

That in the moments that you feel you are broken, those cracks become filled with joy and peace and knowledge that doesn't come any other way.

It is there that God offers you "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." (Isaiah 61:3)

God lives.

I know this.

His matchless gifts of peace and love fill me with joy.

Death in October

It was just a short week ago that we buried our father. 

I can't believe it's true.

The sadness is unrelenting, and my heart feels heavy.   

I think about how, after he passed away, I kept looking at his body and watching his chest.  

I kept expecting it to rise and fall.  

And then, I'd double take, because I knew it would stay still and quiet.  

I knew he had gone, leaving his mortal shell behind.

I knew he had shaken free, and that he had been made whole.

But looking at his body reflected how I felt inside: hollow, empty, left behind.

The days leading up to his passing were fairly gloomy and cold.

And then, last week, the beautiful sun and blue skies showed their brilliant faces again.

I went out for a walk with the children.

The streets are strewn with leaves these days -- a rustling, moving, wind-blown maze of color and form.  I wanted to drink in that gorgeous afternoon, pull the sweater tighter around me.  Fall is my favorite time of year, and I feel as tho I have just emerged for the end of it.  

It never ceases to captivate me, tho; to hold me in its calm, in its passing, in such radiant glory as the year begins to die.

At what point did Dad know he was going?

Life's experiences had made him beautiful, cracked with wisdom from both cold and joy, like the papery thin life above me.  And tho the wind was blowing, and I could see the inevitability of what was coming, I wanted to cling on.  Goodbye would always come too soon. Initially it was an unwelcome guest, but as we continued on, I turned to face it with open arms.  I had watched him fight, valiantly -- a fast magnificent autumn, headed straight into the snow.  I realized that the quiet, peaceful winter storms to come -- those late night blizzards burying the world in white -- would also be beautiful.  

I could still remember him as a little boy, in photographs, in memories he shared with me.

I would still be able to smell warm, fresh cut grass, and see my young 8 or 9 year old body out mowing with him on a Saturday morning.

I could remember the way he always calmed me and let me know, when life was hard, that it would be okay. I knew that when life was shaky, I could remember his counsel as tho it were freshly spoken -- because I know him well enough to know what he would say.

I can see him in the Spring tulips, and be hugged by their message that life comes back, that it returns when it looks like it never could again -- when you can't imagine a spear of green to emerge from dreary, bleak, cold ground.

When I hear magnificent music from Bach or smell garden tomatoes, I will turn around in my mind's eye to see us planting.

As I roll out pie crust, he will be there, and I will remember being small, sitting next to him on the counter -- watching him slice the shortening in with the flour, and remember my small hands eating the leftovers.

As I work, I will remember what he taught me about service, about living a life of meaning, about spending my time on stuff that matters.

When I pull a blanket around me by the fire and sit looking at its flames in the quiet at night, I will think of all the times we talked in those rooms, all that I came to treasure because of what was shared in quiet conversations.

Looking at this photo, I am struck by the leaves, both waving and clinging.  

One by one, they will drop, swooping in glorious arcs.

Is life like that?  Beginning, growth, blooming, metamorphosis, stretching, aging, old, dying, and new once more? 

In his final act of submission, was Dad shaken like those little leaves, gently letting go, ready to come again when life will begin anew and death can hold us no longer -- and we are fully whole?

My Motto

Last week, at the cancer treatment center, I was so startled by the beauty of this sign on the wall.  The message kind of took my breath away.
Pulled out the iPhone.
Snapped a picture.

I have thought of this sign and that moment again and again this past week.

In all of sadness and beauty and memory and growth and hope and peace and love and life and death comes the fruit.  We eat of experience and joy.

Yes.

A resounding yes.

Notes on Personal Cubism

Yesterday, the children and I talked about Picasso and cubism.  I loved the brightly colored lids from their baby-food-bottle-turned-paint-receptacle containers. 

We discussed how that technique is kind of like a puzzle with all the pieces mixed up.  

We listened to happy classical music tunes of organ and peppy trumpet in the background.  

I loved watching them dip into their new paints, feel the way the brushes met the paper, the blending of colors -- a curiosity of integration.  

(the beginnings of their paintings -- to be cut up and put back together, jumbled, to imitate Mr. Picasso)

It made me want to sit down with my own blank canvas and see what story came out of me.

Do you ever have the joy of something so simple, like a collage of brightly colored mini paint pots?  (It reminds me of the line in one of my favorite movies, "You've Got Mail," where Meg Ryan's character mentions how much she loves fall and would send her friend a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils...you get the idea.)

My life feels a bit of a jumble these days.  

My father, someone I absolutely adore and respect and love and share so much with, has been diagnosed with stage 4 melanoma.  

It is the kind of news that makes your heart stop.  

And then it keeps beating and you are trying to figure out why because how could it be beating when it wants to break? 

When it feels so heavy?  

When everything feels so surreal, and then so frighteningly real, and then back to reeling in disbelief that you are actually in a particular situation that you have dreaded all your life. 

You know when you look at Picasso's cubism paintings and you are trying to figure out what went where or how to discern it or what it means (at least, that is what I do when I look at those)?  

I feel like I am there, but in real life.  I am standing, trying to discern what it all means, where it is going, what it was meant to be, what the whole message actually is.  

I feel like I'm standing in pieces - pieces of feelings and emotion, pieces of memory and anticipation of potential future nostalgia, pieces of the unknown -- not knowing if it will be put together again how I'd like or if I have to make a new beautiful picture with what is leftover.

I know this.

Pain is part of beauty is part of growth is part of joy is part of pain.

Words like Firecrackers

I have a love affair with words.  I always have.

I love what they can inspire in you, the places they take you to in your mind, in your spirit (heart), the connections forged between the two.

I love the inspiration that comes from pondering and mulling them over.  I love a good story.  I love messages, physically and spiritually.  I love that feeling of my heart (and spirit) soaring over something I've read that is stunning -- something that carries me far away, reaches deep inside of me, teaches truth. It's like a firecracker in your mind, bringing brilliant light to replace uncertainty, darkness, or fear.

I love the scripture in Alma (see highlighted verse here) where it talks about words having a more powerful effect on the people than anything else.

I believe that.

For me, this week, words have given a blessed reminder, new purpose and direction, an entirely fresh perspective.

I've been blessed with lovely days this week with my family.

Days that I would like to just hit the repeat button again and again.

Days that end with quiet, tucked in snuggly reading -- where it didn't feel rushed or frenzied, where I wasn't at my end by the dusk of day.

Morning hours spent learning -- and seeing the progress in lengthening strides (and squealing with delight and excitement inside for me!).

Excursions.

Feeling gratitude.

Loving my role.

Making food and nourishing (another one of my loves).

I've always felt passionate about motherhood, since I was a little girl.

I can honestly say there's never been a time I wished I was doing something else. 

But it's taxing, too.  More than I ever would have imagined before I had children (and multiple young children), and I feel quite confident that revelation is going to continue to dawn on me as they grow and new challenges present themselves with each new stage.

And then there are friends of mine who work, trying to balance motherhood and working, and I admire the challenges of that as well.

Sometimes it's exhausting.  I've talked with lots of friends who have these days sometimes, who feel inadequate, who are frustrated with their own imperfections and falling short, who are their own worst critics.

It's not that on the difficult days I don't still love being a mother.  But I do feel like, on those days, I often lose my sense of purpose, the WHY and WONDER behind it all, letting my frustration take me adrift.

But this week I've been pondering a few things.  When Pres. Hinckley gave this proclamation to the world, introducing it first to the women of the church, he began with a profound statement that I've been mulling over.  He said to the women, 

"You are the guardians of the hearth.  You are the bearers of the children.  You are they who nurture them and establish within them the habits of their lives.  No other work reaches so close to divinity as does the nurturing of the sons and daughters of God."

I can't read that without it striking a deep, resonant chord within me.

I know this truth.

I've always known it, and it has been manifest to me, again and again, in a myriad of ways -- before my own motherhood, and in so many ways since conception and birth were part of my own experience.  

There is nothing quite like being given the opportunity to carry a child, to feel that baby alive in your womb.  Nothing that really compares with spiritual promptings about your children, knowing who they are, being allowed the tender, quiet moments where heaven whispers truth to you that becomes indelibly printed there.  Those moments where the worth of another soul becomes so much tied to your own.  It's a marvelous, humbling, astounding experience.

Pres. Hinckley's words empower and remind me.

And these other words have been floating around.  I've thought about them in the morning and evening every day this week, literally looking at these words on a page.  They come from here.

"Strong families require effort....Be cheerful, helpful, and considerate of family members...Seek to be a peacemaker rather than to tease, fight, and quarrel.  Show love for your family members each day.  Share your testimony with your family...Honor your parents...Strengthen your relationships with your [siblings]...fulfill your divine roles as a husband or wife and as a parent."

Cheerful

Helpful

Considerate

Peacemaker

Testimony

Strengthen

Divine

...and what I ended up translating to this word...

CHERISH

A powerful effect?  A brilliant light?

Yep.

I feel it.