In My Dreams

 (Dad with Mia---two weeks, to the day, before he passed away)

Life is a fragile, tender thing---

life coming into the world, 

life going out of the world,

and trying to navigate the time in between.

Tonight, for whatever reason, as I was standing at the kitchen counter making dinner, I found myself thinking of a tender scene in the movie Stepmom.  

The mother, who has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, is snuggling with her son on Christmas morning, having just given him a cape with so many memories sewn on it---pictures and experiences that they've shared together.  This is all the more tender because you know it is their last Christmas before she'll be gone.

At one point, I think they start to talk about how they are going to miss each other.

And it gets really tugging when he asks something to the effect of, "But Mom, what will I do when you're not here and I need to talk to you?"

And, as you know from earlier in the movie, they share a little phrase with each other where they talk about meeting in their dreams.

And so, she responds by saying something like, "Well, we always have our dreams.  We can always meet each other there."

He says, "But that isn't good enough."

They agree on this.

And then, if I remember right, she tells him (or maybe it's in the later tender discussion she has with her daughter) that she'll always be in his heart.

I stood there at the counter, making dinner, thinking about that phrase---"in my dreams."

After my father died, and for several months, I had some very personal, more-than-dream exchanges in my dreams with my dad.

I knew he was being allowed to communicate with me in very direct and meaningful ways.

I will treasure those experiences always.

Lately, he has been frequenting my dreams a lot---but in a normal, comforting way, not with any message to convey or something of a serious nature, but almost like how we interacted when he was here, in the flesh.

I awoke from a dream a few weeks back that made me feel warm inside because it was so familiar.  In the dream, I had a zucchini and collard greens and I was so excited about hanging out with him to do something with them.  I remember telling him, excitedly, that we should slice the zucchini up and fry it, and that we needed to come up with something to do with those collards. 

(Insert: thumbs up emoji)

Why was it so warm?  

Because that's precisely the kind of conversation he and I would have.  We both loved food.  We would look at beautiful pictures of food, we would exchange recipes, we would call each other when something was amazingly delicious.  Sometimes we'd make a run to the other's house, just to taste what was going down in the kitchen.  That exchange while I was sleeping could just as easily have happened yesterday.

And yeah, I wish I could have that conversation, for real.

But having it in my dreams is pretty great in the meantime.

A week or so ago, I woke up and remembered that I'd been talking to him about something that has made me really sad lately, a friendship of mine.  

And that seemed natural, too, because if he were here, he would have heard all about it.

I was telling him the details and talking it through.  

He didn't say anything; he was just listening, the way that he always did.

I ended up telling my kids about it at the dinner table, and couldn't help myself---I cried as I talked about these things.

Life is a precious thing, and tender.

As time goes on, I feel more and more aware of the strength of the footings I was given.

I feel more and more grateful for what I believe, for what I know, for what the Holy Ghost whispers in my heart (and for how I know that the things that really matter, all the precious things that are engraved there, never leave you).

(Dad with Claire, 12 days before he was gone)

I know this:

Love is real.

Relationships are lasting.

God gives us gifts, and lately I've been really grateful for the gifts that have come...in my dreams.

I love you, Dad.

The Word of God

As I was folding laundry on Thursday night, Mia came in to talk to me, as she often does before she falls asleep.

Most of the time, I shoo her back into bed, because I am ready for quiet and for some personal time.

Sometimes I am not even very nice about my shooing.

But.

Last Thursday, as I tucked her back in bed, I saw that the Book of Mormon that I received when I was baptized at 8 years old was next to her pillow.

I told her I wanted to take that one back to my room, because that book has a special place in my heart.  The book, yes.  Definitely yes.  But I was referring to that specific copy.

I told her that I have such a warm feeling when I heft that book, and even just when I see it.

And I told her why.

Because that is where I became acquainted with God, where my testimony happened, where the Spirit confirmed to me the beauty of the doctrines of the gospel.

It happened within those pages, of that particular book.

It happened as a little girl and young woman, in my bedroom at night---reading, marking, thinking about those words and pondering.

When I go to that place in my memory, it is warm.  Peaceful.  Quiet.  Deliberate.  Strengthening.

She asked me if I would read her some of the things I had written in the margins.

Out of bed she came.

We went back to my room, and really just sat and looked at the book, and Mia tried to read a few words.

I had the chance to tell her that spending time with the word of God takes it down into your heart. And that the Holy Ghost had brought me peace because of what I know from the scriptures.  As I was talking with her, I thought of this talk, which is a favorite.  It always prompts me to consider the blessings in my life as a result of the word of God.

I told Mia that I wasn't afraid when Poppi died, because of what I learned in the scriptures.

When I have questions or don't know what to do, or hit obstacles in my life, I have found peace because of what I know from the scriptures.

That it was in the scriptures that I gained a testimony of the validity of a Heavenly Father, and where my love for the Savior happened.

Where it began, where it took root, where it was nourished.

In Lehi's vision, the word of God led people to the tree, to the fruit that was the love of God -- to feasting and rejoicing in that wholeness.

I have felt that for myself.

I read Mia Moroni's promise, where he says that, "...by the power of the Holy Ghost, ye may know the truth of all things."

I told her that if she chooses to spend time with the word of God, the Holy Ghost will also confirm these things to her.

I told her that my testimony of the gospel, and them, are my most cherished blessings.

And then, lying next to her (by this time I had tucked her back in), I sang her the words of a primary song that have been a favorite since I was a child.  Perhaps they are so dear to me because of my feelings for the scriptures.

"I love to read the holy scriptures, and every time I do, 

I feel the spirit start to grow within my heart---

A testimony that they're true.

Search, ponder, and pray---

Are the things that I must do.

The Spirit will guide,

And deep inside,

I'll know the scriptures are true.

So prayerfully I'll read the scriptures

Each day my whole life through.

I'll come to understand.

I'll heed the Lord's command

And live as He would have me do.

Search, ponder, and pray---

Are the things that I must do.

The Spirit will guide,

And deep inside,

I'll know the scriptures are true."

I find myself hoping that my children will have a love of the scriptures, that the word of God will nourish and sustain them.  

I have found solace, comfort, faith, direction, counsel, nudgings to repent, peace, admonition, courage, doctrine, application of principles, teaching, revelation, joy, knowledge, conviction, and truth there.

Beautiful does not even begin to describe it, but it is a beautiful thing---

a glorious gift from God.

Baptism Day

My boys were baptized today.

What will I remember?

The way they kind of tottered in that funny way they do when they walked up to get confirmed because they get embarrassed and shy when lots of people are watching them.

I'll remember sitting back behind them, watching them talk with their dad, cherishing the love that I witnessed between the three of them.  Filled me with both joy and sadness, a kind of achy beauty.

I'll remember watching Grandpa, and listening to his voice, as he baptized them.

I'll remember the love I felt as we all gathered together afterwards -- at this strange time where we are kind of two separate entities at this point, but it didn't feel like two sides.

I'll remember Benji's wet head as he snuggled up next to me on the church pew.

I'll remember talking to the four boys from our ward who were baptized -- about campfires and the Holy Ghost.  The Holy Ghost enlightens us in many ways, but I chose to focus on three for the children today.

They identified for me that a fire gives both warmth and light, two things I was hoping they would point out.

I talked about how the Holy Ghost is like a fire -- that He will bring light where there is darkness in your life.  Those times when you don't know what the answer is or what decision to make or where to go or the moments (or years) you feel lost.

He also, like a fire, brings warmth -- those moments of peace, comfort, joy and love.

I also asked them, "What happens when you get too close to a fire?"

They responded that you get burned.

So then I said, "Okay, you're right, but what about before you actually get burned, but you're too close?  What will happen?"

We talked about how you will become uncomfortable, and that this is also the Spirit's role.  When you come too close to something that you shouldn't be doing, or if you are in a place that you shouldn't be, or going to make a choice that isn't a good one, the Spirit will allow you to feel uncomfortable.

I will remember the way that Carol Wilson, our Primary President, talked to the kids about seeing all the people that came to be there with them, on this special day.  And then, quite emotional, she encouraged them to think of others, beyond the veil, who would be in attendance.  I thought of my sweet Dad, and know he wouldn't have missed it for anything.  The gospel truth is deep into his bones, and he loves these boys.

I'll think of my two sons -- flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone, fresh and clean, in their Sunday suits -- bright, energetic, happy.

I will think about going to dinner with my boys last night. 

It is hardly ever just me and them, alone.  

We got to talk about why baptism is important, about it being their first covenant they are making with God.  

We talked about making mistakes -- about how I make lots of mistakes every single day.  

But then -- and I rejoice in this -- because God knew that, He provided the Savior for all of us, and we ask for repentance, every day, as we review the day and we try to do better.

We talked about working to create your own relationship with God.

Just tonight, after I had gotten really mad at them (yup -- mistakes every day -- right here!), I went into my room for a little bit, and I was so irritated.  Then, I went back to their room and Benji was still awake.  I sat down and rubbed his head and told him I was sorry for losing my temper and that I loved him.  And he said, "I just said my prayers, Mom, and I asked to be forgiven for not listening."

I was proud of him.

Gosh.  

If I could count the ways that I am not very good at listening, sometimes, to what I know in my heart, it would be a very long list.

But I suppose that I can say that I'm trying.

I hope they see me trying.

And that I'm walking the same road that they are walking -- that we are all trying.

I hope they know how much I love them.

And when I talk with them about my faith -- and the gratitude I feel for the Savior and the gospel, I hope they know that it is in my heart.

That I hope that same light and conviction fills their hearts and minds one day, too.

And that, today,

I am so proud of them for the choice they made.

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.)