Pinecone Hearts

This morning was...

Braiding one daughter's hair into a crown braid

Throwing the other daughter's hair up in a top-knot bun

Making muffins because Claire wanted some

Watering the garden

Switching the laundry

Pulling out chicken for the crock pot

Running kids to play with cousins

Grabbing a few things at Costco

And now I'm finally plugging in to work for the afternoon.

Will stop at some point and throw chicken in the crockpot and wrap potatoes to throw in the oven. 

Gonna make gravy later, shred the chicken, make salad.

(Doing the home thing is my very favorite. It really is. I mourn the time when I was able to just be a mom full-time without having to work, too.

These simple tasks of tending, reading, talking, feeding, cleaning, and caring for my people are my very favorite things to do.

That being said, I feel so fortunate to work from home with a good job. 

And to work for good folks.

So lucky, and so grateful.)

On Sunday evening, we went to a couple of cemeteries, 

taking red geraniums to a few of our people.

We stopped at dad's grave first, and then at Huldah's, 

an ancestor of ours that crossed the plains.

As we made our way back across the cemetery, Isaiah wanted to make a pinecone heart like we'd seen by someone else's grave. 

So, as the sun's rays were stretching across the valley, we gathered pinecones and went back to dad's grave.

We arranged the pinecones into place there, and then gathered another bagful to take with us to my grandparents' grave at another cemetery up on the east side of Provo.

Isaiah arranged pinecones while Benji was shooting a gun (his hand). 

We sat in the grass at their grave and I told them about Vera's laugh and the way she shushes with her mouth at the end of it, and how I can still hear, right now, my grandfather chewing his tuna sandwich.

Random, right?

But I love these snippets of life we shared.

And as I look at us, it's beautiful and humbling to realize that we are the harvest of what came before -- and we wouldn't be without them.

Today, we hold them in---and love them with---

all of our pinecone hearts.

I love him so

 After two truly craptastic mothering days (they should fire me!) and some other current stress, I was grateful for the gift of today.

I awoke and texted my sisters, wishing our dad a happy 70th birthday.

I mixed yogurt with chopped fruit and berries and raw oats and nuts as light came in the kitchen windows. That was happy. (And yummy.)

And you know what?

Today, the sun shone. 

Even though it was cold, the sky was blue! (Blessing!)

I took valentine decorations off my mantle and put spring up in its place while listening to the Weepies and Claire requested a Tim McGraw song she loves.

(And yeah, if you're in Utah, I know what you're thinking: there's snow outside. But maybe forsythia and boxwood will encourage the outside world to follow suit.)

Late in the afternoon, the girls and I drove to dad's grave to put some flowers there.

When we got back, they headed out with their dad for a while and I went out on a run as light was slipping from the valley. It was dark by the time I got home.

I mixed cake, lit candles on the mantle, and sat down to do some work.

The kids came home, and while we waited for the cake to come out and then cool off, Claire and I sat on the couch singing "The Wheels on the Bus," and then I whistled various tunes and she'd guess the songs.

We put 4 candles in dad's cake (cuz...70!), sang Happy Birthday, dished it up with ice cream, and read together.

And as I go to sleep tonight, I'll talk with God about how grateful I am for a gentler day: for those bright yellow rays that brought hope and joy, for my children, for the opportunity to learn and try again and apologize, the chance to be humbled and see my faults, and for being able to run and move my body. I'll express gratitude for a warm house and food to eat.

But also, I'll thank God for the blessing of a kind and wise father and friend. 

I love him so.

Happy 69, Dad

I've been at my dad's grave a lot this past week. 

We gathered as a family on Saturday, stood around his grave, held hands, and talked about things we loved about him.

I went back on Sunday with the kids before dinner and we just walked.

Then, I went back on Tuesday, the first of March, because it was his birthday.

I took fresh flowers and put them in a mason jar and tied some twine around it.

This little verse was given to me after my dad died.  I was moved by it, mostly because of how it beautifully articulates the influence of one person.  Their death affects you in deep and lovely ways because of the richness of what was shared in life, all the love that was there, and their footprint remains in everything you do.

It simply says this:

"Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color."

(W. S. Merwin)

And you know what?

I've put spring on my mantle.  

And I had to put the little organ up there, because it makes me think of him 

(March being his birthday month and all).

xoxo

Old Journal Entry

I stumbled upon this little gem from my journal tonight, an excerpt from the 29th of October, 2012 --- and it made me happy.

"A couple weeks back, I was awakened at like 3:54 AM to, 'Mom?' from Isaiah.  He was totally calm, standing by my side of the bed.  I said, 'Yeah?'  

He said, 

'What is Japanese?'

I was so amused by his question and curious, too.

I told him that it's someone who lives in Japan.  I got out of bed to go to the bathroom and I went to tuck him in bed on the way and he said, walking to his bed, 

'That little word just came into my head.'  

I went to the bathroom and then went back in and said, 'It actually means someone who is born in Japan.  I was born in America, so I'm an American.  Someone born in Japan is Japanese.  And Japan is in Asia.  You know where that is on the map, right?' 

(We've been studying continents in school.)  

(I didn't go into the fact that people can apply for citizenship in countries where they weren't born.)  

He said, 'Yes.'  

I went back to bed, totally amused.  It was so cute for me to imagine him lying in his bed, thinking about that word, and deciding that 3:54 in the morning was just as good a time as any to come find out."

Little snippets like this remind me of the intricate personalities of each of my children and what I love about them.

The things that are SO THEM.

And, it also leaves me wishing that I wrote every single 

funny, 

insightful, 

profound interaction I've had with them, 

because each one is a treasure.

Beautiful Hearts

Yesterday morning the kitchen table was awash in light.  

 The kids were gathered round, eating cinnamon bread I'd made Sunday afternoon and waiting for the kettle to whistle, telling us our water was ready for the mugs on the counter with cocoa inside.

When it did, I poured the hot water in the cups and added half n' half and served it up.

 Little Miss wanted some too, and I ended up with her on my lap, watching her dip her small spoon in, pulling it out and licking the residue, and then repeating the whole process.  Again and again.

We started to talk about our man, Martin.

We read from his "I Have A Dream" speech, and I was so moved by his words.

This is one of my favorite lines:

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

I love when you read something and the words swell within you, and their beauty and truth are clear and penetrating.

Later, last evening, we found scriptures hidden throughout the house and came back and read them together around the fire.

I rejoice that, as it says in 1 Samuel, the Lord doesn't look on the outward appearance.  He looks on the heart.  That's what matters.

I love that "all are alike unto God" (2 Ne. 26:33) and "the Lord esteemeth all flesh in one" (1 Ne. 17:35) and that "ye shall not esteem one flesh above another, or one man shall not think himself above another" (Mosiah 23:7).

We ate "black" and "white" ice cream with "black" and "white" chips, together, in bowls, cuz that's how it's supposed to be.

This is what I want my children to know:

All people are beautiful.

All people have value.

Every single person you will ever see can bless you with their gifts, their beauty, their talents, and their love -- and you can bless them, too.

The earth, with all her people, is full of beautiful hearts.

Crackly China

Yesterday I went to go and pick up this old beauty.  

It has been in storage for several months because I didn't have a place to put it.  

It's an iconic piece from my childhood home.

I love everything about it.  

The rich dark color.

The small little windows on the front.

The drawers that always had candles and salt and pepper shakers and coasters from Switzerland tucked inside.  The warm, distinct smell it has.

The way it was filled with crystal and china that we pulled out for fancy dinners.

Last night, about midnight, this is what my kitchen looked like.

I was awake, unwrapping piece after piece of my grandmother's china (and some other iconic crystal pieces from my childhood).  

My favorite pieces are the ones that are like this, where the china appears crackly.

I lit candles on my mantle and had Christmas carols on as I worked.

It felt almost like a Christmas morning.

The hutch and the china take me to happy places in my memory: that china on top of a blood red tablecloth, and laden with all kinds of yummy.  

Holiday dinners and Christmas Eve morning breakfasts as we listened to A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, live from Cambridge, England.

Dad used his mother's set every time he prepared a fancy feast, and I can look at it and remember how he always talked with great affection when he spoke about his mom.

I look at it and I can hear beautiful music in the background, and smell any number of delicious things cooking: turkey, Dad's pork tenderloin with mushroom sauce, pies, bread, mashed potatoes, bread puddings.  You name it.

It reminds me of the holidays -- candles burning, Christmas trees lit up, a warm fire bringing cheer and warmth on a snowy night.

I see the little cut glass crystal bowls (pictured above) and immediately think of tapioca pudding.

I remember pulling out the dining room table and adding extra leaves to make room for guests, how we had to stand at opposite ends of the table and pull.

I think of us around that table -- plates laden with mouth-watering food, and all the hours of talk.

My family loves to get together and talk.

I hear us laughing or getting a scientific explanation from Martin or playing cards.

It makes me sad, but in a happy sort of way I guess.

I came upstairs and opened the curtains this morning and looked at the china through the glass, tucked away.

I looked around at my newly arranged front room (since the table was moved out).

I see fall on my mantle, but I've been planning all week for Monday---when Christmas will replace it.

I've got a wreath to make and decorations to haul down from the attic.

We'll go and buy our Christmas tree.

I'll have carols on again, long into the quiet hours at night, warm lights twinkling in the background.

I'll pull out more of my family's history with decorations that are as much a part of my childhood as that hutch.

But.

Last night?

Those cream pieces took me to people I love, to a warmth that will never leave this heart,

to love and happiness and joy that will sustain me all my days.

(Next week I'll be blogging about a fall activity to do with your kids and holiday recipes. 

And, of course, about Christmas decorating -- which should actually be expressed like this: !!!! 

my heart.)

Albacore on Wheat

Last night, as the light was beginning to slip away and temps were falling, 

I ran under this golden tree.

I can't believe the yellow leaves are about to be gone.

They are my favorite.

It felt good to be out in the cold air and pushing myself, 

alternating wanting to stop and the next burst of energy.

When I came home, I made a sandwich.

I've always been a tuna fan.

I found myself thinking about my Grandpa Carl, 

who passed away in January of 1995.  

Even now, twenty years later, I still think of my grandfather 

when I make a sandwich with white albacore and 

diced apples and shredded cheddar cheese.

That's how my grandma made a tuna sandwich.

(Apples and cheese?!! you say. 

Does that sound weird to you?  

Trust me.  

Trust me on this one.)

I can still remember the determined, 

deliberate way he chewed his sandwich.

I can see the way his mouth moved, 

as I watched him across the table.

I can even hear it.

Funny, isn't it? 

Such a simple thing, but it connected me to a man, my own blood, in the advanced stages of Parkinson's.  

(One of my very favorite pictures of these two.)

If we weren't able to have a lot of heart-to-heart conversations due to his debilitating condition, we were able to share the love of a good sandwich.

Grandparents

On Monday, we had a catered lunch for my Grandpa's 90th birthday.  

(Grandpa)

Almost all of our family was there.  

We had flown from Washington and Utah to be there for this special occasion.  

Lots of friends and extended family living in Oklahoma came as well.

All of the grandchildren shared memories and/or things they love about Grandpa.

We had worked to put together a video slideshow of pictures from his life.

It was tender to see the line of his life, extending down to each of us -- and to feel a very strong sense of belonging to these people.

(Grandpa, calling a square dance)

It was emotional for me to be in that little town.  

My grandparents lived there, and my grandmother passed away there.  

I had never visited her grave and standing there, in that quiet place, I wanted to linger.

(I love this candid one of my grandparents)

  While I believe that our spirits live on (in fact, just last week, a good friend of mine commented on the fact that I talk about my father in the present tense -- like he isn't gone) and that a resurrection awaits us because of the atonement of Jesus Christ, I still find deep meaning in the rites of passage we all experience here.  

I reverence places where these people lived their lives, where much of what made them took place.  And I felt connected to her, and to them, in quiet ways.

(On their wedding day)

At the luncheon, I got to sit next to this guy -- my cousin Harvey.  Harvey is the same age as my father, and he played with my dad when they were boys.  In recent years, they loved opportunities to be together whenever the occasion permitted.

(Harvey Payne and I)

He said that my grandfather was the classiest guy he had ever known, 

that he was always a gentleman.

He talked about being impressed with their family, with how they did things.

(The Bush Family -- see my cute dad on the upper left?)

But.

One of my favorite things was listening to him talk about my Grandma.  She passed away the year before I was born.  As I see her in photographs, I see glimpses of her in my sisters and I, in the big brown Beattie eyes and dark hair that we have.

(Grandma and her kids -- my dad's on the left)

Harvey talked about my Grandmother with great affection.  I pulled out my phone to write down the words he used to describe her.

Wholesome.

Outgoing.

Friendly.

A joy to be around.

Positive.

She loved life.

But my favorite thing he said?

"She always had a smile on her face, and a smile in her voice."

What a lovely thing.

Home

Today, these boys are 8 years old.  I'm not sure where the time has gone, or where I have gone with it, but here we are.  

I was just in the kitchen, chopping up stuff for their favorite meal.

I picked up balloons earlier and hung birthday streamers.

There are wrapped presents on the table.

This is the first birthday with a big difference -- in that their dad and I aren't together any more.  They are all gone with him right now, having lunch and hiking, and it gave me quiet time to prepare for celebrating with them this evening.

I was listening to an mp3 sent to me of a favorite Christmas piece (I know...it's September), playing it over and over and over.  I have been a little sick for my dad the past couple of weeks.  

He has been on my mind a lot, and I have pondered on his influence and love and the sweet relationship that I share with him. 

And for some reason, as I stood there chopping, I started to think about the sounds of home.  My childhood home recently sold, a home our family had for 35 years.  

So much of me, so much of what molded me, took place in that space.  

What were the familiar sounds?

Hearing the back door open and close.

Working in the kitchen and hearing the quiet of night and crickets outside the open back door.

Frequent fire engines and ambulances, since we lived on a main thoroughfare in town.

Brahms Intermezzos.

Bubbling water from the canner on the stove, full of something yummy.

The fire crackling on winter nights.

Indigo Girls.

Christmas carols.

Pinochle bidding.

People talking around a warm and tastily bedecked table.

Talk of ideas.

The music of Bach.

My mother's voice, reading to me as a child.

Box fans in the window of my childhood bedroom, hearing the cars drive by below and watching the lights from the headlights drift across my ceiling.

Rakes swishing across the lawn and through leaves as I worked with my father on fall nights, raking in the cold.

Hearing the lawnmower on a Saturday morning and smelling the grass through my window.

Laughter.

Quiet plodding in the earth outside, planting food, harvesting food, admiring its beauty.

Hymn singing.

And there are other things...

The smell of candles.

The aroma of apple butter in the fall, filling the house with cloves and cinnamon and making you feel as tho you were wrapped and comforted in a lovely sweater.

Food, always food.  Growing up in a house with really great food is about more than just the eating, enjoyable though it is.

Purple bathroom tile.

Traditions.

Christmas time.

In my little house now, the sounds are frequently noisy and busy, and not a lot of quiet -- which I tend to crave.  

But.

What will my people remember about this place?  

What will be significant to them about home?  

It's funny -- 
I am a very flawed, very imperfect mother, trying hard to create something beautiful, to create food and warmth and work and memories that they will hold onto.  
In some ways, the home I came from was broken.  I remember, during the time when my parents were struggling and before their separation, feeling as tho I might not ever feel happy again.  I didn't know if it would ever feel okay.  

Now, looking back, I see a lot of beauty in that broken.  

I see a lot of love and dedication.  

I see my beautiful parents, who were living their lives with courage and strength and doing the best they could under heavy, trying loads.  

I feel the lessons, deep inside, that I have learned from them -- both in conversation, and from observing them living their lives.  

This makes me want to shout with gratitude, in the same way that it fills me with nostalgia and emotion, because it's tender.  

I see five children, who have a love for each other today that is tight-knit and palpable, sisters who love to be together.  

I see so much that is formative and beautiful.

It was home.

It still is home.

I still find myself there, and understand myself better in her company.

I continue to be schooled by that famous statement by Pres. Harold B. Lee: “The most important...work you will ever do will be the work you do within the walls of your own home.” 

I know I am imperfect; broken, even.  

And this is a noisy, crazy, busy, sometimes pulled-in-too-many-directions-and-stresses time, in some ways.  But my growing-up-house must have been that way too, at some point.  And today, in the quiet, that isn't what I remember.  I remember all these reminiscences, and more.  The meaning is tangible and starkly highlighted.  

In the trying and the traditions and continual planting, I find my greatest joy in home.