Sunday Funny

I came in the back door on Sunday after church, pulled an onion out of the fridge and started sautéing it with meat and olive oil.  Chopped up some fresh garlic and threw that in, too.  Added tomatoes and oregano, sliced up fresh basil leaves from my herb planter, and let the sauce start simmering and reducing.

Made bread dough and stuck it out on the deck.  Cut up fresh zucchini and yellow squash from the garden for sautéing, shucked corn on the cob.

I lay on my back in the front yard, alone, looking up at the leaves in the trees above me, and found myself remembering a story involving an expletive that a friend had told me earlier in church about a completely awkward conversation with a woman in our congregation.  It made me laugh out loud as I was lying there thinking about it again.  Sometimes people are so weird, and sometimes cultural church behavior and lingo are awkward.  And from one vantage point, it can be pretty comical sometimes.

Anyway...I put bread in the oven later, made a salad, cooked the corn and pasta, sautéed the vegetables, and we went outside in the breezy evening and ate.  A friend was over eating with us and afterward, I went inside to wash dishes.  I stood in the kitchen, cleaning up, while a game of camp ball ensued in the backyard, batting and running to bases and all that jazz.

At one point, Isaiah opened the back door and said,

"Mom, Benji just yelled, 

'HOLY SHIZ AND CORIANTUMR!!!!!!'"

And he was laughing as he shut the door and went back out.

And I stood at the counter, also laughing.

First of all, random.

Second? Wow.

Nice pairing, Sparky.

You managed to bring the Book of Mormon into a substitute swear word kind-of-a-sitch.

(#comicalimproperjuxtaposition)

Not sure what I should have thought, but I laughed.

A Perfect Day

You know, once in a while, you're granted a perfect day.  

And I guess there are different perfects.  Sometimes it's the perfect where you want to shout in joy.

Other times, it is as though you are wrapped in peace, in quiet gratitude, joy and awareness.

Such was Sunday.

The morning dawned with sunshine.

We got to church, and I found my heart full -- from reflections, from the text of the music, from the beauty of faith, from sharing with people I love and the community I feel there.

I came home and shared a precious moment with one of my sons -- one of those moments you hold close in your heart, and all you can feel is gratitude and peace and joy and faith, brimming, and budding.  We both sat in the school room in tears.

After making scratch spaghetti sauce, I sat on the deck in the sunshine and eventually, about 5:00, we headed to the cemetery to walk.  It was quiet, the sun's lengthening shadows stretching across the lawns, shining brightly on some gravestones and casting shadows elsewhere.  

And it was there.

I walked along, watching Benji kick a ball all the way around the mile loop, alternately throwing it up into the air.  Sometimes it came my way and I kicked it and he'd go running.  

I watched Isaiah, swinging the arrow that he found up the canyon the other day, walking up on ledges, singing and making noises to himself.

I watched Mia push the stroller, regardless of whether Claire was in it.  She'd get in briefly, but then get out to stroll again, holding my hand, and I held her for a brief spell, too.  

I was caught up in the beauty of it -- of the quiet, the evening, the way everyone was just enjoying time together, and it was so peaceful.  I don't know how else to articulate it.

I guess I felt aware of time.

The beauty of that glorious hour.

And as I walked with them, 

it felt quiet in my heart.

And I keep looking at this photo that we asked someone to take of us and feeling happy:

these two boys who are fast gaining on me, and soon I'll be the one that's shorter, 

these boys that now offer me glimpses of the men they're going to become.

And it's crazy.  And also awesome.

I don't know how else to say it except that I can sense their masculinity.

And then there's the small one, ever the ham.  Her zest for life is contagious, and this photo of her is absolutely perfect.  

It's her.  

100%.

And on my left, there's this beautiful girl.  

I keep looking at her smile here -- so genuine and full.

She's such a beautiful person.

We came home and had warm spaghetti and then read The Lord of the Rings (we're on the third and final book -- almost there!).  

After I'd finished cleaning up, this kid came upstairs and sat down next to me on the couch.  We admired his toothless mouth, 

 and then cracked ourselves up (literally bursting out loud laughing) as we took funny selfies.

 And after they were in bed, I got to talk with an old friend, read, and write for a bit.

My house was quiet, candles and low lights and beautiful music.

Life is a series of things you tuck away in your heart,

and I'm grateful for these little bits and pieces I'm collecting. 

Sunday Pals

Sometimes this is how Benji makes it through sacrament meeting.

 

 

This morning, these photos are making me happy, and that's all.

Sunday

Oh, my heavens.

If I could bottle up the weather lately!

September...I heart you.

Sunday was glorious light, streaming in all day.

 Books and brownies after church

 Food

 And evening strolling

I have no idea how long he'll hold my hand and love hanging with me, walking side-by-side, talking. But. I couldn't help but hold it in my heart while it was happening on our walk, tucking it away for always.

Brown

Yesterday, when I walked into the house after church, I thought of a favorite book from childhood called Hailstones and Halibut Bones: Adventures in Color, poetically going through every color and what one might associate with it.

I thought about brown.

"Brown is the color of a country road

Back of a turtle

Back of a toad.

Brown is cinnamon

And morning toast

And the good smell of

the Sunday roast.

Brown is the color of work

And the sound of a river,

Brown is bronze and a bow

And a quiver.

Brown is the house 

On the edge of town

Where wind is tearing

The shingles down.

Brown is a freckle

Brown is a mole

Brown is the earth

When you dig a hole.

Brown is the hair 

On many a head

Brown is chocolate

And gingerbread.

Brown is a feeling

You get inside

When wondering makes 

Your mind grow wide.

Brown is a leather shoe

And a good glove---

Brown is as comfortable

As love."

As I came in the back door, the air was rich with the smell of roast and onions that I'd thrown in the crockpot earlier that morning.

We read on the couch in the afternoon, the boys put together a gingerbread house and Christmas tree, sets they'd gotten as gifts last December (yes, I know), while the girls watched and I peeled potatoes and we had an old conference talk by President Monson going in the background about gratitude (something I mentally took note of to come back to with the children in November when we make our gratitude tree).  

I've always loved light streaming in through windows.  

It's something I frequently notice, a free gift of love I feel every single day.

Later on, we ate that roast for dinner, with mashed potatoes and scratch gravy and a salad and carrots and beets and onions.

We took a walk in the neighborhood, 

came home and read together in my room, and then I was up late visiting with friends, cleaning up my kitchen, making pumpkin spice muffins for the kiddos for breakfast.

Brown is something else at my house, too.  

She's taken residence on my mantle, with her sister colors of 

copper, rust, gold and amber. 

I like having sentinel owls in the living room, nuts and ginko leaves and gourds, symbolic of harvest and color, and the little glass pumpkin my dad brought me from Cape Cod several years ago.

Wishing you all a lovely Labor Day, folks.

xoxo

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)

Sunday

I know I've mentioned it before, but I really heart Sundays.

Things slow down.

The day is quieter.

Simple things I was grateful for yesterday?

Visiting with friends who came over.

Quiet time to read at the end of the day.

Climbing into a warm bed.

Beautiful music.

Snuggling my baby, who is fast becoming a saucy, sweet and amusing little girl.

Food. 

Even tho I know this, it is so easy to forget that there are many, many people in the world who go without.

(And isn't it pretty? I love how colorful and bright it is.)

 This one.

 Trees aflame in evening's sun.

 Dandelion gathering and blowing.

 Watching things float in the river below.

Trees.

And fall leaves.

I feel quiet reverence and thanks and praise for the beauty of my life.

Timeless Grace

Sunday morning I got up and it was rainy, wet and gray outside.  The air smelled clean and I got ready to go to a rededication session for the Ogden Utah temple.

In that session, the temple was described as "a place of timeless grace."

When I hear that word, I think of beauty, gentleness, stillness, holiness.  

And I think of help I so desperately need -- heavenly attending, of power beyond my own that comes to aid me in overcoming, seeing more clearly, and being made free.

I may not always see that in measurable ways -- but I believe in it, and I believe in promises I have felt in my heart.

For me, the temple hasn't always been familiar. There was a time when it was new and a little strange and it felt different.  I wanted to have deep experiences of peace and revelation there.  Over time, I have found that the more I go, the greater the quiet in my heart, the more love and peace I feel -- the more aware I am of it being an intersection between heaven and earth.  

Just last week, I attended the temple on Thursday with a friend.

Before getting ready to leave the temple and head for home, I sat in a quiet room where the stillness was tangible.  As I let that quiet envelop me, I started to feel other things -- thoughts that came as from wings, from some other place, touching me and gone again.

I run up against a perennial challenge, tho, and it is this.

While I'm there, I can kind of zone in on thinking about holiness and purpose.  I can think about my questions.  I can ask them in my mind and sometimes have a conversation of sorts, with answers coming -- more of those wings.  I can feel and have experiences in that intensity of focus and quiet.

But then I come home.  

Lately, I have felt frequently frustrated in my mothering of my boys particularly -- and I am longing to feel more of that holiness and peace with them, more confident in the job I am doing in mothering them.  Wanting more intersections between 

heaven and earth in these four walls.

Less yelling and frustration and contention in exchange for more selfless service, love, beauty, unity and respect.

I need the temple because of the powerful reminders of 

covenants and forgiveness and faith.

I need it because it keeps me looking forward, and upward. 

I need it because of what I learn there, of the blessings and promises I have been taught about there -- those things that keep me holding on and believing and striving.

Those blessings and promises respond to the 

deepest yearnings of my frail and faulty heart.

And they are taught there, alongside the acknowledgement of my not being perfect, and of astonishing love for me and for those I love.

I go there, because I can remember -- and feel sustained by -- eternal truth.

I am reminded of this quote by Rene Daumal:

“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.”

Mmm hmm.  

Yes.

When I come away, back into my very imperfect, very faltering, stumbling offering of my day-to-day life, I can still seek and strive for:

holiness,

purity,

stillness,

selflessness,

service,

revelation,

quiet,

beauty,

and love,

because of what I've seen and felt there.

And when I stumble and mess up, like I do every single day, I exercise faith in that "timeless grace," asking God to let it wash over me and urge me forward.