Managing Miracles

When I was a little girl, my father bought a device with which to play music in our home.  It was about three-and-a-half feet tall and six feet long.  It had two heavy lids that you had to lift up in order to access the equipment, and then hope that the hinge caught and the wooden lid wouldn't crash back down on your head.  It held.a turntable for records, a stereo radio, and an eight-track player. 

This was a major piece of furniture.

On my last birthday, my son sent me a package.  I opened it to find a little clear box.  Inside the small box was a device the size of a postage stamp.  

I stared at it, not believing my eyes.  It looked like an absolute miracle.

I opened the box and turned the device over in my hands.  There was a little card with instructions for a beetle to read.  

I put everything back in the box and placed the box on my dresser.  I knew my son would be in town in a couple of weeks and could help me with this new bit of technology.

The other day, I brought it to him so he could help me with my new device for playing music.  He got it out of the box and explained things to me.  With a bit of a laugh on his face, he showed me there was an instruction booklet.  On one side, it said, "Start here."  I looked from that back up to his face.  His face, I can read.  His voice, I get. His statements, I trust.

He took me over to my computer to help me set things up.  I listened to him talk about iTune accounts and other things I had no experience in until I felt like I was in the middle of a dark sea without a paddle--that I knew how to use, anyway.

"I've gotten too old for this world," I mumbled.

"No, you haven't," he said.  "Just don't be afraid of it."  He continued, "There are people your age who don't even know how to open an icon on the computer, and there are people your age who know more about computers than I do."  I was glad he placed me somewhere in the middle.

It was still a little hard to believe that this postage stamp could play two days' worth of music, or that I would ever feel I needed it.

I see people at the gym--and at work, for that matter--with ear buds glued in, and I respect that.  I know there must be some allure, but I'd never felt the need to have music running through my head constantly. When I work out, I make up games in my mind or calculate how long the workout will take or how many calories I can burn in the time I have.  I listen to classical music in the car, because traffic is boring.  More boring that life.  But, the rest of the time, I actually prefer being tuned in to the world around me, aware of other people, or enjoying silence.

But I appreciated the gift, and the time my son spent helping me set it up.  I fastened my iPod to my gym shirt and turned it on.  The glorious voice of Susan Boyle filled my ears.  Instantly, I was transported to a world where a middle-aged, frumpy nobody could come out of obscurity in a triumph of polished greatness.  I listened to her all through my workout and switched the iPod to my business jacket after my shower, then listened to her for a good part of the day at work.

Not only did I feel pretty darn with-it, I enjoyed it.  I may be hooked.

And I noticed some things.  It did make exercising less boring.  It engaged my emotional system into my workout along with my respiratory and circulatory systems so that I believe I worked a little harder and my workout was more effective.  It was fun to find that turning off the car and standing up from my desk didn't turn off the music.

And I can see how it could come in handy to be in my own head when someone is in a bad mood or I'm trying to concentrate amid noise.  I could also be more serene but less helpful during piano practicing.

I also noticed that turning my hearing of the world off by diverting it into my own private world of music was both freeing and isolating.  As an introvert, it was a bit of a relief to be more caught up in my own head than usual and excused from tracking other people's doings, needs, assertions, and attitudes.  It was easier for me to ignore people.  I realized then that going around with an iPod could become very comfortable for me, in a way that would make me uncomfortable with myself.  I could see how much effort I have been making in the last few years to be aware of and involved with the people around me.  I could easily lose that ground I've gained.

I also noticed that, at home, I am more cued in by sound than I would have thought.  Wearing my iPod, I couldn't as easily track when the dryer stopped, whether the washing machine sounded right, who was fighting with whom and how to judge that, who was being waaaaay too quiet.

But I love it!  So, as it should be for all owned technology, I'll enjoy and manage my use of this miraculous metal postage stamp at my discretion.

The "Love Thy Neighbor" Test

In a crisis, we often feel most alone.

I remember once going to a women's conference at my church and feeling utterly alone in a congregation of a thousand women.  I was miserably engulfed in a fiery personal trial.  I thought to myself, "If I told this woman next to me what I am dealing with, she would fall over in a dead faint."

I was new there and didn't know anyone.  I have since come to know this woman as a lovely person who would probably have listened compassionately, and maybe even been helpful and not judged me like I thought she would.

But that's not the only time I have ever felt I was completely alone in a problem no one else seemed to ever have.

Honestly, I think it's beautiful that, while life's problems are many and varied--and, thank goodness, we don't all have to have them all--our own trials can give us empathy for someone else's.

I remember reading a news article years ago about a mother whose twelve-year-old son drove off in the family car with her leaning in the window trying unsuccessfully to stop him.  After he was hauled off into the bowels of the juvenile court system, her doorbell rang.  The police were looking for her husband, who was wanted for rape.

I have honestly, and thankfully, never had either of these problems.  But I knew enough to realize that this must have been for her a really bad day.

The trick is knowing what to do about it.

Because, we know how it feels to have a crisis.  We may not have had the same kind of problems, but we've been in that place of isolation.  We would take that away for our friend in trial, if we only knew how.

"Let me know if there is anything I can do," we say.  And, we almost always really mean it. 

We've all heard and said that line so many times, though, that it has almost become an idiom, like "How are you?"  To which the polite answer has become--true or not--"Fine."

We know that only bores go on and on about their health when asked a passing pleasantry.  And we know that our neighbors really don't want to clean the cat box or whatever it is that would really help us.  On the other side, we know that we really would want to help the person out if they would just tell us something specific to do so that we don't guess, and guess wrong.

We don't want to guess wrong.  We don't want to get into people's personal space.  We don't want to pry, intrude, offend.  Especially when they are already having a hard time.  So, we often just say that and wait and see.

And, usually, nothing comes of it.

But what if that lady in your ward who had just had a baby called you back after you offered to help in "any way" and said, "Could you please buy me a nursing bra and some breast pads?"

This actually happened--not to me, but to a friend, and it got us talking.

I think there are saints in the world (some of my nieces and nieces-in-law come to mind) who would actually not miss a beat but ask, "What size?" and go and do it without another thought.

I think some of us would think it was a little weird.

And I think the majority of us would think it was a little weird, bounce it off of someone else to see what they think, and then go and do it, anyway, because, deep down, we really did mean our offer and really do want to help.

I, an amateur student of human nature, wanted to understand this thoroughly.  Was there a special relationship there?  I could possibly see asking a mother, sister, or very close friend for a favor such as this.  No, no special relationship--just a neighbor, someone else attending the same church.

Next, I thought, maybe she's very young?  Does she not have a mother?  She was a new mother in her late teens, but did live with her own mother.  So, puzzling again.

Maybe she's from another culture, where things are done and understood differently? 

Or, maybe they are poor?  Maybe she didn't want to burden her mother with another expense related to the baby?  Maybe her mother doesn't see these as necessities?

My mind was already spinning out a scenario, something I could possibly write into a story later.  But, that's just me.

And, then there's the darker side of my imagination.  Is she "off" in other ways?  Does her family usually have trouble with boundaries?  And, the judgment.  (She should have at least offered you her bra size and not made you ask.)

I tried to imagine myself doing such a thing, and why I would.  I could imagine feeling isolated in a crisis and thinking in a desperate moment, "People always say they will help, but they never do," and wanting to put it to the test, although I doubted I would go that far with a mere acquaintance, no matter how warmly toward her I felt.

"Maybe there's no one else she feels close to?" I asked.  "Maybe because you are so warm and friendly, she feels you are a role model, or someone who would help?  Clearly, she took your offer to help seriously."

"When I offer my help, I am sincere," my friend said.  "But it just took me aback."

"Yes," I agreed.  "I can see that."  I wanted to understand it from her point of view, too.  How did she see this?  Did she think the girl was out of line, or that the situation was hilarious, or that we really should be more willing to help without judging, so what's wrong with our society?  We both could see it as a little of all of the above.

Which is probably both good and bad.

And left both of us wondering: how should it be in a perfect world?  In a Zion society, wouldn't we consider everyone our sister?  Wouldn't we see all of our goods and means as being in common for the common good?  Wouldn't we refrain completely from judging?  We would go and get ourselves these things if we needed them and had the means, so why should it be any different to go and get them for someone else in need?

In a perfect world, wouldn't we love our neighbor as ourselves?

Life Going on Without Me

I woke from a dream that my mother was in.  My mother is in most of my dreams.  She is not usually the main character, and often isn't really doing or saying much of anything.  She is just there, in my life, in my dreams.  I find this comforting.

Anyway, in this dream, I was taking instruction from someone on a project, and being judged for it, too.  I was listening to what the person was telling me about my effort, so I could get it right.

As happens so often with dreams, very little of it remained in my mind once I woke up.  The details melted away almost immediately like frost under the spell of a strong defroster.  I don't remember what the project was, nor the object(s) I had made, nor who was talking to me, nor what they said.

I remember that as I woke, it dawned on me slowly that I had had this dream during an unscheduled nap, and that it really wasn't a time that I was usually in bed.  The dim light behind my bedroom windows wasn't the hint of dawn (which would be bad, actually, since dawn comes after seven at this time of year), but the lingering rays of twilight.

And, with that thought, came an urgency, a longing deep in me, to right what seemed upside down.

I wasn't supposed to be in bed, asleep.

As I came back to life from my dream, my senses returned like thunder.  Music was playing and someone was singing along to it.  I had gone to bed with my velvet dress and some pajama bottoms and thick socks I'd put on while typing in the unheated library on.  Down in the cores of my legs, I was hot as a yule log.  My thirst was almost unbearable.

I felt frozen, removed from my life, but, as it came rushing back, I knew I had to unthaw, uncover, get up, take it on.

I knew.  While I am in here sleeping, my life is going on out there--without me.

My children and husband were busy mixing, baking, and decorating a multitude of Christmas cookies.  My baby was alone in his room, singing up a storm of all his favorite carols.  There was the short calling out of a son who I knew was creating the most intricate snowflakes I've ever seen.

I had the loneliest sense of being missing.

Yes, they could actually get along without me, while I slept through this evening.  Yes, I could "sleep" through their lives, focusing on my own projects and ideas and not be there for theirs.

But I knew that that was missing the whole point.

The stress of this Christmas has given me a few times a hope that it would all soon be over.  But that is so much the wrong way to feel.

I threw back the covers and staggered into the kitchen.  Noise, light, work, creativity, and love were bursting out all around me.  I took a glass and drank deeply, first from a glass, then from life.

Thanks, Mom, for hinting a judgment on my efforts and projects, and getting me up to make sure I don't miss the boat on the most important one.  Just being there, especially at Christmas time, for my own.

The Hardest Work of Marriage

Last week, when we were buying our Christmas tree, I said some very wise words to an amazed Christmas tree salesman: "Sometimes," I reminded him, "the hardest work of marriage is keeping your mouth shut."

I say I had "reminded" him, not "told" him, because he readily agreed.  So he must have discovered this, somewhere along the way, as we all do, for himself.

I frequently need the reminder too.

My husband, Paul, had brought the inside part of our Christmas tree stand with him to the tree shopping, and the salesman and I had waited more or less patiently while Paul had screwed the three screws in tighter and tighter onto the skinny tree trunk.

I knew why Paul had brought it.  Last year, when we had brought home the tree we had picked out, the trunk had been too thick to fit into our tree stand, and Paul had had to whittle it down all around.  He didn't want to get stuck doing that again, and I couldn't blame him.

This year, having given everything we owned to a nice used car salesman the week before, we opted for a bargain tree with a skinny trunk.  There was no problem of it fitting into the stand.  The question was whether the long screws would reach the tree in order to help it stand up.

They finally did, and Paul set the tree aside while we went in to pay for it. 

"Well, it won't be hard to tell which tree is yours!" the salesman had quipped.

Twice.

Then, we'd waited in the snow while Paul went back to the new used van and figured out how he wanted to put the tree in and how the seats of the strange-to-us vehicle folded down.

That's when the stroke of wisdom had struck, and I had shared.

So, a couple of hours ago, I was cozily asleep in bed.  My warm bedclothes were in the washer, so I was lying on a heating pad, which had made the bed so toasty that I was really quite sound asleep when Paul got home from work.  That was good, I thought, because I really had planned to do a full ten miles tomorrow morning.  I am no fast runner, so, for me, that takes time.  Over two hours.

And, I'm not at my studly best, having skipped last week's run altogether because I'd been sick.  So, I'd planned to run even slower.  And the full ten miles seemed completely necessary, given the amount of sugar I have been wading through all this week.

But!  I'd gotten to bed nice and early, so everything was humming along magnificently for my plans.

Until, that is, Paul ran out of gas.

It seems that our new used van has an unreliable gas meter.  Two vans ago, we'd had a similar problem, and we'd learned to use our trip odometer to tell us when to gas up.

This is the second time this week that Paul has run out of gas in our "new" van.  The first time, the bad luck had struck right as he was pulling into the driveway.

Which seems lucky, actually.  Except that the vehicle couldn't get up over the dip at the far end of the driveway and was hanging out into the street.  And that it was snowing hard.

A friend came to help us push the van to safety, and also gave Paul a ride to fill his gas can.  But that only gave the van enough gas to turn on and not to move, because of the slope.  So Paul had had to go fill up two more gas cans that night.

He'd calculated that gave us 7.5 gallons to use this week until pay day.  Which would have been fine, except that the nifty "gas used" calculator in the new van is apparently not in such nifty shape.  At five point four gallons used, he ran out again.  On the freeway.

So, tonight when Paul came into the bedroom, an apology already on his lips for waking me, I dreamily thought he was just saying goodnight.  But it was more than that.  He wanted me to get up.  He wanted me to go with him on a ride.  He wanted me to re-ride a significant portion of the freeway with him, then drive the car home.  Getting dressed, he said, was optional.

As I was sure that one of us could lose life out there on that dark freeway shoulder, it wasn't optional to me.  I got dressed.

And I worked very, very hard to keep my mouth shut.

All my groggy, not-at-my-best self could think about was how I had NOT wakened him two days ago when my car door had been frozen and would not shut after I had managed to yank it open.  It had been too dark in the driveway to see what to do.  I had had mercy on his sleep and had driven to the gym, holding the door shut with my left arm while driving with my right.  Which made signaling for turns--and even more so for actually turning--very interesting.  But I had not wakened Paul, and had gotten a nice man at the gym named Luis to help me.

In my stupor as I fumbled to get dressed when certain important items of my wardrobe were sitting in the washer, I wondered--where was Luis now?

I knew I was not at my best.  I knew that it wasn't really Paul's fault that this had happened.  I knew that somewhere deep, deep inside me, past the overwhelming fatigue I battled, I like that he considers me the friend to turn to.  So, I decided I would NOT mention that I had not wakened him when it had been my turn to battle a car.  It seemed no good would come of it.

And I remembered my words to the tree salesman.  And I wondered how they could have been so simple to say then and so hard to live by now.

So, when Paul came back in and said something to me, I struggled.  But I did not tell him that I had not wakened HIM.  What I said was, "You do realize that I'm under the influence of a sleeping pill."

Which was really not quite as bad, I think.

He said he did, but, clearly, he still expected me to drive.

On the freeway.

In the dark.

From the shoulder into traffic.

Things that trigger my anxiety.

I zipped up my jeans.

I knew that he would fill all three gas cans again.  I knew he would do that to make sure the new van would work and that he knew he probably needed to do it from experience.  I knew that I should not be annoyed by that.  But, sitting there in the car with my ankles freezing between my jeans and loafers, waiting for him to fill three cans, I did feel annoyed.

But I knew that I was not at my best and that no good would come of being childish, so I kept my mouth shut.

I was annoyed that, while I had felt fine when I was going to bed, I had woken up with a raging sore throat.

I was annoyed when he pulled out of the gas station in front of someone and we heard a gas can turn over.  I said, "It might leak.  Pull over."

"I'm in front of a car," he said.

"When you can," I said patiently.

I was annoyed when he got out to right the can and sighed heavily getting back in, as though my request had been completely ridiculous and incredibly bothersome.  I thought of asking if I had put him to more work hopping out of the car and checking the can in the trunk than he had put me to getting me out of my slumber to rescue the van on the freeway.

But I kept quiet.

That was good.

Because a moment later, I asked, "Did it leak?"

And he said, "A little."

And I realized that my interpretation of his sighing had been wrong.

"How will we clean that up?" I asked, trying not to picture my car going up in flames any time in the, say, next ten years.

"I'm thinking about that," he said.

That's when I realized that he was working at doing his best, too, and doing pretty well.

Neither of us wanted this to be happening.  In the stress of the moment, I could easily imagine petty words igniting a horrible fight. In the dark, in speeding traffic, on the freeway.

So I kept quiet.  And so did he.

He parked on the shoulder behind the blinking van.  I waited, fastened into the passenger seat, as though being on that side of the car would keep me a lot safer in the event of a crash than being on the other side of the car.

I waited while he screwed the funnel onto one, two, then three gas cans and poured them into the gas tank of the van in front of me.  I counted six semi-trucks that barreled past us during those minutes, along with a lot of other traffic.  I told myself not to have bad thoughts, because we were in trouble and might possibly need divine intervention.  But bad thoughts come more naturally to me than does divine intervention, so I struggled.

That's when my car made a beep.  I looked at the display.  "Low fuel," it read.  On my car.  I started to imagine that I would run out of gas while we were still on the freeway.  Paul had left my car running.  I thought of turning it off, but then I imagined it bursting into flame from the gas leak in the trunk when I started the ignition again.

I reached over and removed the van key from his set of keys dangling in the ignition.  I unbuckled and slid over into the driver's seat.  I quickly buckled back up again, and slid the seat forward into its rightful position.  (My legs are shorter than his are.)  I waited until he passed me, taking all the cans back to the trunk, then handed him the key.  I told him why, but the roar of traffic made me have to say, then scream it, repeatedly.

I prayed that we could get out of there safely. I was sure that the traffic would come on too quickly, that there wouldn't be enough room to safely see what all was coming around the bend.  But, very soon, the traffic cleared completely, and Paul moved out onto the road.  I did, too.

And then, everything suddenly seemed so much easier.  We drove home and I thought about how often we know the right answers--can even articulate them to other people, but don't trust them enough to use them in our own lives.

And I was glad that, in my compromised state, I had been able to use them, this time.

What to Wear?

When my children go to get dressed in the morning, it takes them one second to decide what to wear.

I am not exaggerating.

All the child does is pull out her/his designated "outfit drawer" and choose the top left outfit.

On the weekend, I folded the shirt and underwear for that day inside the pants or skirt, and I stacked them up--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, then Thursday, Friday, Saturday next to that.

I do this for a few reasons.  One, I like choosing what my children wear.  It helps me feel involved in their lives.  I am often not there in the mornings when they are getting dressed, so it is a major way that I can help ahead of time, or afar, depending on how you want to look at it. It's part of how I take care of them.

I've been doing this for years.  I am glad my husband has not been stuck with the job of trying to appropriately dress five small children on a hectic school morning.  I am glad my children's clothes match, and that they are appropriate to the season.  I am glad they they don't have to scrounge for missing jeans on a chaotic morning or panic over clean socks.

No laundry issues here.

I have their Sunday clothes on rotation, too, in their closets.  This separates their Sunday, go-to-church clothes from their everyday play and school clothes. For the most part, my children have completely different items of clothing for Sunday.

I like this, not only because I get to dress them up and they look sharp, but because it teaches them how to dress appropriately for different occasions.  My baby used to talk about his "Sunday shoes" and his "Monday shoes."  (Monday shoes served for all the other days of the week, too.)  Even at two, he knew there was a difference.

I admit, I do smile to myself when my daughters talk in scandalized tones about how they cannot wear their white shoes after Labor Day, or that Hermione wore RED to a wedding.

Some clothing rules that I adhere to may be a little outdated, but, honestly, I think there are good reasons for maintaining them.

There's an old German saying, "Clothes make the man."  It's true that we make judgments and assumptions about people based on what they are wearing.  And that people make them about us.  We can't escape this.  When we need help in a store, we look for a person with the red uniform shirt on.  To a large extent, we expect someone in charge to be dressed up.  We know two young, clean-cut men in white shirts walking together are likely missionaries.  We hope that the person in the clown suit is a clown.

I believe that we show respect or disrespect in what we wear.  When I have had to go to court, I have received letters telling me not to wear trashy clothes.  This is not necessary in my case.  I am dismayed to think that anyone would need to be told that.  I know the judge is there to judge, to the best of her or his ability, by the evidence and information s/he receives.  If you want to make a good impression, you wear nice clothes.

My children know that they have to take off their ties and tights when they get home from church so that they don't ruin them playing. They learn this symbolically from their infancy.  It's respectful to wear "Sunday best" to church. It's not a social gathering, or a political forum.  It's the house of the Lord, and we should show our utmost respect by wearing our nicest, most respectful shoes and clothes.  We are there to worship, after all.  I would be sad to see this decline into jeans and tee shirts.  I really would.

Of course, it's different if jeans and a tee shirt is the best thing someone has to wear or if someone cannot afford a different pair of shoes.  Everyone should be welcomed to worship and never made to feel bad about their clothes.  I am not suggesting we judge each other on how well we keep rules of attire, only that we strive to say with our dress what we actually mean to be saying, to the best of our ability.

When we dress up, we show that we know that other occasions--and the people involved in them--are important, such as weddings, funerals, recitals, and dinner parties.  Conversely, we show disrespect when we attend important events wearing dumpy clothes.

My dad used to put on a shirt and tie just to give us a priesthood blessing in the middle of the night.

I have heard that even spirits wear suits when they come on an official visit to someone's dreams.

I know that some parents would be aghast that I control my children's clothing to that extent.  I can see their point.  However, my children do participate in this.  If there is something they don't want to wear, we talk about it.  If they truly don't like the item, I remove it from the rotation and donate it or save it for the next child.  If they do like it, then I get them to agree to wear it in its turn.  This helps them develop some critical thinking skills, have a say, and also learn how to dress appropriately and use their things wisely.  We talk about feelings and reasons and tastes and rules and styles and practicalities.

I also know that some parents let their children choose what to wear to the point of not interfering at all.  If she chooses a swimsuit and flip-flops to wear into the snow, that's her prerogative.  If she wants to wear a red striped shirt with floral leggings, so be it.  I understand the point of letting children have some autonomy and respecting their authority over their own persons, but I also think it is important to teach them how to dress in order to show respect and be taken seriously.

Would these same parents let their children eat whatever they feel like eating?  Sugar pixie sticks, Coke, and potato chips all day long?  I wonder if they would say with a shrug, "She fed herself," or "That's what she wants to eat."  Maybe they would, but I think most parents try to teach their children how they should eat in order to be healthy.  Why not teach appropriate dress, too?

I worked with a woman a couple of years ago who insisted on dressing dumpy and wearing lots of jewelry in her face.  The only problem was, she was trying to get a job.  I offered her money for interview clothing.  She took the money, but continued to dress down while job searching.  It's not easy to have conversations like this, but I had to help her see how the two metal rods coming out of her nostrils made her look to potential employers.

"I saw a singer wearing these in 1988," she said, "and I've worn them ever since."

"Does he know that you've been doing this for him for 23 years?"

That only slowed her down for a second.  "All my friends dress like this," she said.  "This is how I'm comfortable."

I told her that I'm comfortable in my nightgown, but she might think I was kind of weird if I wore it to work.

Differences

I have a child involved in the girls' program in my church, and a child involved in the boys' program in my church.

The girls' program is headed by women; the boys' program is headed by men.

And that's all I'm saying.

Whenever the girls have an activity, I get an email about a week ahead of time.  It has a special format.  It outlines exactly what the activity is going to be, where, and when.  Even how long it should take and whether the girls should bring anything with them.

And the email announcement is pink.

When the boys have an activity. . .not so much.

The other day, my son told me that he had to go over to the church at 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday.

"What for?" I asked.  As if it were, you know, my business.

There was an activity.

"What?"

He didn't know, but he was supposed to meet there to go somewhere else.  All he knew was it was going to involve building farm animal pens or something.

I assumed that might be kind of far away, seeing as we live right smack dab in the biggest city in the state.

"Where are you going for that?"

He didn't know.  "It's to help someone with a special project."

"Who?"

He didn't know that, either.  "I think you'll get an email," he offered.

Saturday morning came. When I breezed in from my run, some twins had been sent to collect my son for this activity.

I still had not had an email.

I hurried through my shower and went over to the church with my son.  Walking into the building, I saw a lot of kids and some adults standing around.  Choir practice was happening, and I couldn't tell for sure who was who.  Besides, some of the men's identities were not so apparent to me from under their baseball caps and unshaven faces.

"Who's in charge of this activity?" I asked, somewhat brightly, I hoped.

They all kind of looked at each other.  I did not take that as a good sign.

"I'm sorry," I said.  "I just need a little more information than he's going I-don't-know-where to help I-don't-know-who with I-don't-know-what and I don't know what time I'll be home."

I was half-joking, but I sensed immediately that I had crossed a line.  It was very clear that I was not a cool, unshaven, capped man hanging out not being uptight about details.

"You got an email," one of the men said.

I had to differ with him.

He insisted that a man who wasn't there had texted everyone.

Except, apparently, me.

I was fast becoming less and less cool.

Even though I asked the question, I still left without much more detail.  I got the name of the kid they were helping, but everything else remained vague.  However, one of the men did say that he would be with my son at the activity from beginning to end.  And I was told that, yeah, he would probably be home before 2:00 when I needed him.

I decided that was enough BECAUSE--I knew that man's wife.  And I knew that if I called her if there were a problem, she would be helpful.

After my son was back home, I was amused to hear my daughter ask him about this new kid.  "We have a new boy in church?  How did I not know that?"

"I don't know."

"Well, what does he look like?"

"He's sort of taller than me and blond."  I could hear the shrug in his voice.

"How tall?"  She asked several questions about how tall and what his face looked like that my poor son was completely stymied about.

"I just can't believe there's a boy that I didn't see!" she mused.  She actually went on and on.  Her brother seemed completely taken aback to have a conversation with her about another of the boys, and to have no clue about why she would care what he looked like, and why his particular brand of blond or tallness would be any different from anyone else's.

Ah, boys and girls; girls and boys.  The differences never end.

It's not Pretty

Once before, I felt like I had walked into someone else's life.

I had left my apartment to go to a doctor's appointment, ended up in the hospital having a baby before going home, and by the time I went home, "home" was no longer that apartment, but a house we'd bought and had had a nightmare of a time trying to wrench from the prior owners.

Suddenly, I was living in a strange place where I could barely remember where the bedroom was and had (at first) no use for this extra room called a dining room.  On top of that, I was the full-time, no-one-to-hand-him-back-to mother of a real, live baby.

Which is exactly what I'd always wanted, but that didn't prevent it from feeling a little weird at first.

Now that I've said all that, my current situation does not seem all that life-altering.  Which is a relief.

But everything seems to have changed.

I've worked hard in the past few years to get everything in my life to fit into a tidy schedule where the laundry gets done, the gym gets gotten to, and bedtime is early.  I have so many responsibilities (several of them humans) that it really helps to have everything run like clockwork.

A couple of weeks ago, my assignment at work changed.  At the same time, my best friend--with whom I have worked side-by-side for over thirteen years--also changed jobs.  (I'm coping by pretending she's just on another maternity leave.)  And, on the same date, my husband's duties at work AND his schedule changed.

I miss my friend, but I think my husband's schedule change threw things off the most, because it also changed things at home.

By the end of that week, more had changed.

We were driving over the river and through the woods to my brother's house when my husband pointed out that the family van was making a bad sound.  You need to understand that with a family the size of mine, the van is as necessary as any other family member.

The sound got worse.

Before we got home, I convinced him to pull off of the freeway early and drive the rest of the way on side streets.  Yes!  He listened to and followed my driving instructions!  That's how bad the sound was!

That night, I woke up at 2:00 a.m. for what I thought would be a very brief trip out of dreamland.  The house felt cold.  I checked the thermostat.  My husband had turned it down.  That figured, because he had gotten really hot cooking and cooking and cooking and cooking.

When I nudged it back up, I really truly believed that would take care of the problem.

I really did.

A cold hour later, I realized the furnace had never turned on.  I spent the rest of the night shivering, curled up on a heating pad, worrying, and praying.  At one point, I whispered my husband's name into the air just to see if he was already awake.  He wasn't.  I didn't wake him.  No sense both of us not sleeping.

We had already borrowed from every resource we had to cover Christmas and some expenses.  More things than I could count were hanging on the next paycheck.  More things, I was sure, than there would be money to cover.

My mind reeled at what it would take to fix a furnace and a van.

I finally dozed off just long enough to have a nightmare.

Before dawn, I headed out to the gym.  When I got home, I informed my husband we had more problems than he thought.  Fortunately, he got the furnace going.  Relief blew through the house like a warm breeze, and I went back to worrying just about the van.

We drove it to our trusted family mechanic, who pronounced the terminal illness it was harboring.  Just as it would for a real family member, my mind immediately leaped to denial.  "Isn't there a CURE?" I asked desperately.

A few days later, he told us what the "cure" would cost.  It was almost as much as we paid for the van in the first place.

So, now my schedule has changed, too, to match my husband's. We have been learning how to be a one-car family.  This is working out okay for the most part, other than the time we all wanted to go somewhere.

When I was a child, we had some neighbors for a short time who had more children than sense, and whenever the family went to a movie, the kids who got to the car first were the only ones who could go.  Many times, we witnessed the tantrums of children on the sidewalk in front of the house while their little family car pulled away from the curb.

Those are the depths to which we have sunk.

Now, I'm worried about the toll this will take on the "good" car.  We're trying to coordinate things as best we can, but, some days, the car goes to the gym and back, to the schools and back, to both of our places of employment--at least once--then back the other way.  I simply cannot think now about what life would be like if something happened to it.

I usually find a way out of bad situations quickly.  Obtaining this van, in fact, was somewhat of a miracle.

For a long time, we had warnings that both of our vehicles at the time were on their last legs.  I had been driving my husband's car so he could have the van to take the kids to school in.  I remember the day I came home on my lunch hour to deliver the bad news personally.  I'd taken his car to an emissions and inspection place, and they'd handed me a list of ten things that would need to be fixed before that car would pass inspection.

Paul had bought this car brand new, before we met.  "I have good news and bad news," I told him.  "The good news is that you're about to become the owner of a better car."  Fortunately, we were about to receive our tax refund.  We cashed the whole thing and spent one Saturday going around to various dealerships to find a new used car.  We put all our cash down on it, then crossed our fingers that our old van would make it another year.

It made it only a few more months, and then one day, it couldn't make it up the ramp from the kids' school.  The transmission went out.  It literally would not go backward nor forward. We had to leave it there until a tow truck came.

We had not been able to save up much yet, certainly not enough for a van.  And it was, then, too, Christmas time.

"We're paying our tithing first," I told my husband, and he agreed.  We finished paying our tithing for the year in full, then took what we had left--about twenty percent of what we would usually need to buy a used van, to a state auction place.  One of our options there was a somewhat beat up van, two years newer than our old van.  The battery was completely dead, so the staff had to put a new battery in it so we could "test drive" it around the yard.

It wasn't pretty.  But, as we talked about it, we realized that the things that were trashed on this newer van were not the same things that were trashed on the old van.  Perhaps we would own both vans in a few minutes.  We could probably interchange the parts.  We went back inside and told the staff what we could offer for the van.  "Would you let us keep the battery?" I asked.

"For twenty dollars."

It was a deal.  We built a much better van out of the best parts of the two vans, and felt as lucky as we were that that model had been available, that the things that were wrong with it were replaceable with parts from a van we already had, and that they were willing to take our measly funds as payment in full.

But it didn't last as long as we'd hoped it would.

By coincidence, I've been reading stories about pioneer women who had to suffer much greater trials than being limited to one vehicle.  I'm trying to keep my chin up, like I'm sure they would.  It might be spring before we have the funds we need to get out of this pickle. So far, the winter here has been mild.  I'm not looking forward to standing outside waiting for my husband when it's not.

No longer can my life fit into the tidy schedule I'd made for it.  There is no leaving the house for the day hours before dawn and coming back in the very early afternoon to spend time with my children.  The children have rallied marvelously.  But it seems so much time is wasted running back and forth, back and forth.  I'm having trouble getting the things done--like blogging--that I used to be able to do.

I don't mind telling stories on myself that have a humorous side.  I don't mind telling stories of difficulties overcome.  But I've been stuck on this one because I can't yet find my way out of it.

Looking Down Is Only One Way to Look

Winter is not my thing.

In fact, I'm sure I have been heard to say that I hate winter.

And, what I hate about winter is snow.

Snow is cold.  It's a nuisance to scrape, shovel, and drive over.  It makes simple things like walking to the car dangerous.  It makes getting to work sometimes as hard as the entire work day.  It brings letting your teenager borrow your car to new heights of terror.

And yet, looking down is only one way to look.

The other night, I had a bit of a duty to perform in my community.  That's how I was looking at it, anyway.

So, I pulled myself up off the couch and out of the comfortable scene of my immediate family watching a movie while enjoying popcorn and hot chocolate in my cozy living room, pulled my boots back on, and headed out.

I could so easily have just stayed there, enjoying the movie, enjoying my family, enjoying not moving a muscle, enjoying the delicious, rich, cinnamony cocoa my husband had concocted.  It would not have occurred to me that I was missing out on a single thing.

But as I walked up the sidewalk toward my church building, I saw that, inside my little nest of a house, I would have been missing a lot.

Two feet of snow had fallen, recently enough to be fresh on trees, lawns, and bushes, but long enough ago that it had been shoveled out of my way.  Twilight was falling.  Pinks, blues, and lavenders played on the air like fairies skating.

The beauty of my surroundings hit me full-on.  It was like being transported into heaven.  The mountain ahead of and above me reflected the sunset behind me.  The trees planted twenty feet apart along the avenue stood like sentinels in a cotton candy world. 

My heart soared upward, expanded outward.  My eyes tried to take in the glory of my surroundings.  But there was so much beauty all around me that I knew I could never--even if I had an hour to gaze at each spot--see it all.  I had to walk swiftly through it, get to my destination.

I took in as much as I could, my soul in a state of joy, my thoughts prayers of gratitude.

I thought about God having stirred up that wonderful scene for me and few others to see.  I thought about Him having done that whether or not I came out of my house and saw it.  I thought about all the marvelous things He must do, just because of the kind parent, masterful artist, and creative being He is, that His children may or may not notice, and certainly cannot fully appreciate.

I thought about the many things parents do for their children, just to create a lovely environment for them--like smocking a blessing gown, decorating a nursery, writing or singing a lullaby, fussing over a birthday cakes and menues--that the children cannot even begin to comprehend.

Just out of love.  Just because of who they are and what they want to create out of their love.

I thought about the hot chocolate my husband had lovingly created, enhanced, and enriched for us, when something lesser would have done just fine.

And I felt uplifted, enraptured, thrilled to be a small part of it all, a part of this world, where so many things are lovely, where so many evidences of beauty, grace, and love abound.

My living room where my family huddled together in warmth was a good place to be, too, but I felt shock at what I would altogether have missed, and even more shock to think that I would never know or sense I had missed a thing.  The enormity and complexity of the earth and our lives and God's love and plans for us filled me with something that, in that moment, made me a better person and transported me outside of my usual small circle into something great and vast and spectacular.  So much is here for me.  So much more than I could ever see, or do, or witness, or take part in, or be.

And, even in my thrall, I mourned that I can only be in one place at a time, and only enjoy each moment once, and that they pass by swiftly, and are gone, whether I am looking or not.

And I thought, what sense does it make for such greatness to be shown to so few, last so few moments?  There must be a way that such moments are captured.  There must be a place for everything to go as it passes by.  There must be a place for such moments to be relived, a place where time is endless and so can our enjoyment of its wonders be.

That God would create all that beauty, even if I were the only one looking, or even if I didn't look, told a story of such love, such greatness, such devotion to His work, that I was changed.

And I think, after this, it would be a sin to use the word "hate" when I speak of winter, or snow, or any other part of the breathtaking and few moments that are my life.

When the Exception Should Be the Rule

So, picture this.  We are all sitting in the living room on a weekend morning, watching the old classic, "Singing in the Rain."

We get to the part where Gene Kelly kisses his new sweetie goodnight, and heads off into a rainstorm with only an umbrella and his wool suit to protect him.

But it's been a great night for him.  Not only does he have a new sweetie, but she and his best bud have hit upon an idea to save his career from what seemed like an imminent crash.

So, he starts to sing.  And dance.  And twirl the umbrella around.  And jump in puddles.

The rainstorm is nothing to him.  The joy inside of him is impenetrable to anything outside of him.  You can just see--in his face, and in his movements--that he feels completely invincible.

Clearly, it is a moment in which the exception is the rule. 

But, somewhere near me, a little voice says, "He's getting all wet."

Another says, "His suit might get ruined."

I smile slightly and keep watching, but another child pipes up, "He might get strep throat."

And another says, "He is going to be soooooo sick!"

"He's not using his umbrella," another one observes.

"His suit is going to be ruined!" a daughter calls out.

"Will it shrink?" another one asks.

"He's splashing!" the baby points out.

I turn to look at my husband, who looks back, reflecting my amusement.

"I've been too present in their lives," I ruefully observe.

He chuckles.

Maybe my children are saying these things for my benefit--to assure me they know the rules.  Or maybe they would say them even in my absence.  Part of me is glad they care about rules, possessions, and health enough to be alarmed.

But, I feel alarmed, too.

Not at Gene Kelly's behavior, but at that of my children.  And my own.

Have I repeated such rules so much that they cannot see beyond them?  Have I squashed out of them the ability to know when there should be an exception?  Can they not see beyond his rule-breaking to the joy in his face?

I think about finding my baby outside this morning as I pulled into the driveway coming back from the gym.  He had his nice warm, red coat on, with the hood up, but it was unzipped.  He was clutching his toy broom with red, mittenless hands, and I had promptly sent him inside.

"What are the kids doing outside?" I'd asked my husband as I'd hurriedly changed laundry loads before taking my shower.

"Whacking the snow off the bushes and then shoveling it up."

"He's still on an antibiotic," I had said.  "I sent him back in."

"Good point," he'd said, a little abashedly.

But, sometimes, in our effort to make a good point, we can miss the point.

What if I'd not seen his tummy hanging out of his coat and his cold hands, but his glee at whacking snow off of bushes with his little broom?

What if I'd imagined not another round of ear infections, but his pride in "helping" like a big boy?

What if I'd stopped thinking for a minute about getting all the clothes clean, and thought about more ways the kids could get them dirty?

I've spent their lives drilling my children on keeping my rules.  And my efforts have apparently sunk in.  That's not all bad--saves me time and effort and teaches them good skills.

But maybe that's only one half of the skills they will need for a smooth life. They also need skills in flexibility, seeing the big picture, understanding both sides of a story, when a rule should be bent, and how to find and express joy.

I think we're going to have an interesting dinner conversation tonight.

What Do You Want for Your Birthday?

I recently had a big birthday.

Big enough that it had me hyperventilating that morning. 

In spite of that, I decided to be brave and own it.  But every time I heard my voice announce my new age, it felt like I was telling a lie.  Or like I was saying, "I molest kids."  It just seemed so wrong. 

I guess I half expected people to recoil in horror.

This, even though I realized almost half my life ago that people my age aren't old.  And even though if you were this age, I wouldn't think you were old.  I would, in fact, reassure you that you weren't.

And it's not like I didn't know it was coming.  In fact, what this post is most about is the fact that I did know it was coming--and what I did about it.

You see, I have known myself for. . .quite a while now, and I knew I would do better with this change if I were doing better with my life in general.  I didn't want to hit that morning of hyperventilation (although that reaction was honestly a complete surprise to me) without feeling good about myself.

Good enough to say, "Hey, I"m [whatever], and I'm happy to be at this place in my life."   

Have I reached all my goals?  No.  I suppose if I had, I wouldn't need the future part of my life.  Which I do need.

But I have reached some milestones and I have made some progress toward others.

Two of my most important goals depend partly on other people, who aren't ready.  So, I did what I could, and, when the time is right, I'll do the rest of my part.

One thing I did was to make a plan and significant progress toward making my home environment what I would like it to be.  Physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  I'm not all the way there, yet, but good progress has been achieved, and I have a plan that is working.

Another thing I have done is work hard to reclaim a healthy body.  It was nice to hear people tell me that I didn't look (whatever) age and know they probably meant it.  It's nice to be able to put on some of the clothes I haven't worn for years, and to see muscles in my legs that I never, and I mean NEVER had before, even though my legs have never been my problem spot.  I got within three pounds of my weight goal.  Three pounds!

In fact, when I went back to the gym on my birthday for the second time that day (I weight-lift on some of my lunch hours), one of the two young guys behind the counter asked me how I was doing that day.  Armed with my new bravery, I told him it was my (whatever) birthday, and he said, "I've going to high-five you!" with some sincerity that told me that this goal must be worthwhile.  I took it as a congratulations for being where I was, literally and figuratively, when I was.

And, I finally freed myself from the invisible chains in my mind that kept me from taking my licensing test and took it two weeks ago.  And passed it.  Like, why on earth didn't I do this before? I was afraid of failing it--as though I'd ever failed a test.  I was afraid of wasting money my family needed--like, I didn't waste it getting a degree I wasn't using?  Things at work were changing and getting painful enough that I finally thought, "I have a golden ticket out of here," and looked up what I would have to do to get my license, and then made myself take those steps.

Why do we hold ourselves back?  Why do we waste time, focus on what doesn't matter, fail to identify and pursue what we really want?

Well, I'm old enough now to tell you that it is worth it to stop all that nonsense.

What place do you want to be in your life by your next birthday?  What present(s) will you give yourself that no one else can give you?

Here's a challenge: identify, map them out, and pursue them--in baby steps if necessary.

As long as we have life, we should pursue our happiness in it.  Then age becomes an ornament that swells in preciousness and worth for the benefit of ourselves and others.

Insane Deal on a Peacock Jacket

This is a story about how dangerous it is as we get older to purchase things ahead of time and hide them, and also of how a message gets changed as it gets passed on.

When my husband and I were out shopping, for his birthday, actually, we ran across a display of colorful jackets.  The tags on them said, "Insane deal!"  We just didn't know yet how insane it would turn out to be.

I admired the jackets.  I couldn't help it.  Paul held out a dark peacock one. I drooled over the lime.

"This is a nice color," he said.

"Yes, but fall's coming," I responded.  I was fixated on how many pairs of brown pants I suddenly seemed to have, and how nice it would be to have something other than brown to wear with them.

And Paul was right about the peacock.

Because I hesitated over both, my generous husband suggested we get both.  I didn't want to spend that much money on myself at that time.  It was, after all, about to be his birthday, not mine.  He offered to give me one of them for my birthday, some weeks hence.  I agreed, and both jackets were purchased.

I put away the things we'd bought for him, leaving the bag with my peacock jacket out for him to deal with, as it wasn't officially mine yet.

Fast forward to just before my birthday.  Saturday evening, I was wondering what to wear to church the next day, and I remembered the peacock jacket.  I reasoned that, since we would be celebrating my birthday Sunday evening, maybe I could get Paul to give me the jacket in time to wear it to church.  I looked around for it a little where I'd last seen it, but there was nothing there.  Clearly, he'd taken care of it.

When he got home from work and we were talking, somehow this came up.  I mentioned I would like to wear the peacock jacket to church, if possible.  He got a funny look on his face.

He started looking for it, searching for it, hunting for it.  He couldn't remember where he'd put it, or if he'd put it anywhere.  I helped him look, and I told him it didn't matter--I could easily wear something else.  In fact, I got out a beautiful red silk blouse I'd gotten handed down from my sister and hung it on the dresser.

Anguished at the thought of disappointing me, though, Paul scoured the closet (three times), the garage (twice), the basement, the china closet, even the furnace room.  He mentioned it might be in someone else's closet.

That didn't make a lot of sense to me.  But, then, I wasn't the one who had hidden it, so what did I know?

He didn't want to wake the children, so he didn't venture into their rooms to search their closets, but he couldn't seem to stop hunting.  He wouldn't take my reassurances.  I have been too mean to him about other things, I suppose.

"I have no memory of what I did with it," he admitted.  This didn't help me much.  It either meant he had not been the one to move it, or he just couldn't recall what he'd done with it.

We did look in the smallest children's closets, to no avail.  Paul was still searching, and my heart went out to him.  Plus, my heart was set on wearing that jacket if it could be found, even though I knew I could content myself with something else.  So, I said a quick prayer, thinking how foolish a concern about a peacock jacket must seem to God, who has so much else to worry about.

I went to find Paul.  He was in the family room, looking in cabinets.  Maybe, I said to him, our teenaged daughter had thought it was for her and had taken it.  It is, after all, in one of the few colors she is allowed to wear to school.

"I thought the same thing," he said.

That clinched it for me.  If he'd thought it and I had also thought it right after praying, it had to be the answer.  After all, when we are both on the same wave length, we have the ability to say, at the exact same time, and at the exact same speed, "That's a load of hay!" as a trailer loaded with hay has just passed us on the freeway, just as though we had opened our own mouths and heard the other's voice come out.

I opened my daughter's door and went to her closet.  I fingered the first item hanging in her closet--what was up next for her to wear--and at first thought, no.  Then I felt the sleeve, which was gathered at the end.  That was it!  I pulled it out and showed it to Paul.  It still had the tags on it.

We quietly hurried back to our room. 

"I wonder what she thought?" I said.  It wouldn't be like her to just assume something was hers and take it.  I couldn't wait to hear her side of the story.  But, I had to wait, till morning.  I hung the peacock jacket on my dresser and put the red silk blouse back into the closet.

Morning came, and I approached my tall, sleepy daughter.  "Do you remember this jacket?" I asked her, gently.

She did.

"What do you know about it?"

She said her sister had brought it to her, saying it was for her.  She had hung it up.  I told her what it had been intended for, and she accepted that with her usual grace.  We laughed about how funny it would have been for me to just see her in it, or find it in the laundry.

So, we asked her sister for her side of the story.  "Dad told me to put it in her closet," she said.

Then Paul remembered having handed it to her with those quick instructions in a hurried, off-handed moment, to keep it from being crumpled in the bag.  Which was really nice, because I could just put it on and wear it to church, with a multi-layered smile.

I'm Looking Out of the Same Eyes

When I arrived at my son's kindergarten class with his birthday treat, two little girls rushed to open the locked door for me.

"Are you his mom?" asked the blond one.

"Yes!  Are you his friend?" I asked back.

"You look old," she said.

So, she never told me whether or not she was his friend.  She only told me, in those three words, that she was not my friend.

I wanted to retort, but couldn't think of anything both clever and kind quickly enough.  She bested me.

And, the funny thing is, yes, I am getting older, all the time, but I feel better than I used to.  I'm deliberately choosing the things I want in my life, instead of waiting to see what falls into it.  I'm achieving my goals, step by step.  I am mindful about my living--not just living--most of the time now.  In more ways than one, I am almost in shape again, after several years of childbearing.

I have a beautiful turquoise suit sitting in my closet that I plan to wear soon.  I checked it the other day.  It was still in perfect condition.  I remembered as I fingered the buttons that I wore it on my oldest child's first day of kindergarten.

Which, honestly, does not seem all that long ago.

Yet, it was.

I felt a flash of shame that I would still have something in my closet that ancient.  I once worked with a woman who told me that she threw out all of her clothes and her daughters' clothes every season and bought new ones.  How would it be to have a whole new wardrobe every three months?

Jealousy, fifteen percent.  Shock at her wastefulness, seventy percent.  Knowledge that I enjoy wearing  favorite clothes again as the seasons change and would be missing a whole level of joy in my life if I lived that way, ten percent.  Anticipating the thrill of putting on and zipping up something that I wore years and years ago, when I was pretty, five percent.

That's how I felt about her choices.  Not that they aren't right for her, but they wouldn't exactly suit me.

Should I throw out the suit, I wondered?  Why?  It's in perfect condition.  And, very soon, I should be able to wear it again.

Not that I will ever be as young again as I was that late summer day when I hugged my firstborn goodbye in front of his school.  But I am still here.  And I still hope to do something meaningful with my life, just like I hoped to then.

Honestly, I seem to me to be looking out of the same eyes I've been looking out of since as far back as I remember.  Sure, the furniture got a little shorter a long time ago, but I seem from inside my eyes to still be the same.

As long as I am still here, I intend to be me.  And if I look old--or my clothes do--to others, I guess that's for them to evaluate behind their own eyes.

The turquoise suit and I are on trajectories that are leading right into each other.  Any day now, they'll meet.  And in that moment is exactly where I want to be.

Driver Door Ajar

It's the morning before the biggest test of my life.  In another county.  That I paid several hundred dollars for the privilege of taking.  That I put off taking for twelve years.  That I can't reschedule because it's just that close.

It's morning, according to the clock, but still dark outside.

I get into my car and turn the key.  It won't start.

Really?  I think.

I try it again.  No go.

I get into the other car and head to the gym.  This just can't be happening.  I try to imagine what is wrong.  For two weeks, I've been reading all about how to diagnose mental conditions, so I try to diagnose my car.   

I remember that the day before, it warned me that it was headed for a breakdown.  It was clearly suffering from a delusion when it said, "Driver door ajar."  I slammed that door three times--hard, and, in the face of clear and convincing evidence to the contrary, it stuck to its delusion: "Driver door ajar."  Other lights had come on, too.  The poor thing had been having hallucinations about brakes, air brakes, and the battery.

Well, maybe it was right about the battery.

I had come home and unloaded the way-too-full trunk, and all of that nonsense had seemed to go away.  I had turned it on again to reassess it, and all signs were normal.

What could have gone wrong in the meantime?

I try to think through different scenarios.  I can't take the other car to take my test, because my husband will need it to go to work.  My test won't end until after his shift starts.  I can't have him drop me off up there, because how would I get home?

I park at the gym and go in and work out--hard--to relieve my frustrations.  I burn 1000 calories and come out panting, but with no less anxiety.

I drive home, evaluating my situation seriously.  Maybe the stuff in the trunk pulled a wire, or made a short?  Maybe the battery is just old?  There is no going-to-the-gym episode between where I am and the rest of my day, now, and I have to have solutions.

I try.

In a desperate, mad moment, I contemplate walking home from the test site.  I plan to Google it when I get home.  It's probably less than twenty miles.  It could be tomorrow's exercise.

When I get home and relate this to my husband, he laughs and puts his arm around me.  I can't walk home, he tells me.  That's crazy.

I have a car hallucinating, having delusions, and making suicide threats, and he tells me I'm crazy?

"I don't have time to deal with this today," I say, on the verge of tears.  The few hours of the day have already been allocated very carefully to boning up on the other things I need to study before my exam.  And I need a good night's sleep.

He assures me he will take the time to make sure that the car gets dealt with so that I will have it tomorrow morning, when I need it.

He gives my car electroshock therapy, and we take it to the mechanic.  Both he and his receptionist visibly flinch when I tell them how much the exam cost me and how important it is to get my car back in good condition by night.  And you should see their faces when I tell them my diagnosis.

I go home and study, and wait.

Later in the day, we take a drive to the testing center.  I know myself well enough to know that I will sleep better and have less anxiety if it is not somewhere I have never been that I am expected to drive to in the dark and not be even one minute late for.  Despite one moment when it seems the instructions mixed up east and west, the route is not hard, and we find the place.

I insist, since we are there, that we park and go up to the suite number listed.  I want to have no surprises and the chance to ask questions.  We walk up to the testing office, only to find a sign on the door saying, "Do not open this door for any reason! The police will be called!"  Another sign says, "If you are here to take a test within thirty minutes of your exam and no staff member is here, call this number."

I write down the number.  I have a premonition that the sign may not be there tomorrow morning, and then what would I do?

When it comes to taking a test that the rest of my work life depends on and that I have already had too much anxiety to take for the past twelve years, I am the anxiety queen.

See, with this test, if I can't take it--or can't finish it--don't bring the right documents, am late, look suspicious, my shoe comes untied, eat or drink, or mess up in any possible way, I forfeit my fee and can't reschedule it for six months.  That's why it's such a big deal that nothing go wrong.

Every time I am tempted to start a list in my head of the things that could go wrong--
I could get sick
I could forget
A child could get hurt and need to be taken to the ER
My car could fail me
The Internet could go down
I could get lost on the way to the testing site
I could be missing some required document and get turned away
I could have a coughing fit
I could have insomnia all night
I could oversleep
There could be a death
--I slam it down in my mind as fast as I can.

We drive back and I study.

At the end of the day, we pick up my car with its brand new battery.  We put the kids to bed.  I review my notes.

I tell my husband that I feel I would give anything in the world not to be at this point right now.

I tell myself that I have handled it all pretty well--I am healthy, I have studied as hard as a person in my situation reasonably can, I have paced myself well, and I have met my study goals.  I can go to bed at a reasonable hour.  I have planned well.  It has all worked out.

And I go to bed.

I get through the night pretty well--only waking up four times compared to my usual two, and getting back to sleep after three of them.

I turn myself into a robot who cannot feel anxiety and go through the motions.  I complete all the plans I have made for getting ready.  I have the papers, ID, comfortable clothes ready.

I shower, dress, and eat.  I leave on time.

I take the test.

I pass the test.  I shed one tear in relief.

I drive home, starving and thirsty, hardly able to wait until I can tell my kids that they can have their mother back.

And now, I am going to sound just like my mom would have as I say that I am so blessed that my battery died when it did, instead of on the day of the test.

Longing for a Do-Over

Have you ever said something completely stupid?  Something you wished you could take back, even as it came out of your mouth?

Or made a bad choice that you regret?

Weren't there for someone you loved when they needed you?

Told a child you were too busy for him at that time?

Sometimes, we miss an opportunity.  Or throw it away with both hands.  Out of carelessness, or weariness, or anger, or fear.

Honestly, I've tried my whole life to be good--and I'm sure I avoided many pitfalls this way, but some of my nights are ripped apart by regrets.  There are tears, memories, learning, and prayers, but not sleep.

In frustration, I have said words that I never meant.  I have lost my head in anger.  I have put off things until they were no longer options.

I have hurt someone who fills up so much of my heart that I fear I have mortally wounded myself.

I listened to conference talks this past weekend.  I listened to one talk while on my back, in bed, silently weeping, wiping tears off my face so they wouldn't roll into my ears.

The talk was about the apostle Peter.  I feel for Peter.  Peter, after all, said the words that he didn't know his best friend, Lord, and Savior.  When He needed him most.  And he said this not once, like the worst statement I ever made, but three times.

Then he went out and wept.  Bitterly.

I have my own bitter tears.  I wish Peter had never said those things almost as much as he must have.  I wish I never said some things, too.  So I know.

The talk I listened to was about Peter, but not about that moment in his life.  I brought that moment into the talk myself.  The talk was about another time when Peter saw the Lord, and the Lord asked Peter whether or not he loved Him.

And Peter said, he did.  Of course he did.  Even, Thou knowest that I love Thee.  What most people get out of this scripture story is that the Lord emphasized to Peter that He needed him to do His work--feed his lambs and sheep.

That is what I've always gotten out of it, too.  It's an important point.

But what struck me this time was that the Lord asked him three times. 

Three times, He gave Peter the opportunity to repeal his prior, regretable statement.  He gave him the opportunity to heal his error, one time for each time he had made it.

Maybe the Lord showed a tender mercy to Peter that day, letting him have do-overs.

It's just a tiny part of the larger story, but, to me, it's huge.

Someone My Children Could Be Proud to Know

What is happening to us as a society?  We've regulated our information to the point that we can't even access it.

When I paid a utility bill this week, I realized I couldn't remember whether or not I'd paid a utility bill the previous pay day.  So, trying to be someone my children could be proud to know, I looked it up. (Because, in my experience, children do not want parents who let the utilities get shut off.)

It turned out it was the phone company I was supposed to have paid, and I really couldn't remember doing it.  I might have, but I might not have.  Since the last pay day, I've been attacked by an army of germs, which has killed one-third of my brain cells and taken another third hostage until its demands are met.

I'm still trying to figure out what its demands are.

So, I called the phone company.  Before I got to talk to an actual live person, I had to punch in all kinds of information.  You know how it is.  They had my phone number, my zip code, the name of the doctor who delivered my firstborn son, and a detailed description of my wildest fantasy.

Finally, I seemed to have run through all the options, and I got to push a number for "other options," and got a live person.

Before I could ask my question, "live person" rifled a few at me.  She also needed to know my name, birth date, and shoe size.

Then, she stumped me.  She wanted "the three numbers that come after your phone number."

"Numbers that come after my phone number?"

"Yes."

I think I laughed.  "Really?  What are those?"

"We added them," she said in a self-important tone.  "It's part of your account number."

"Okay, but I'm not looking at a bill.  I'm at work."

"The last four of your social, then."

I supplied them.

"That's wrong.  We need your husband's social."

I checked my mental files, and that one was one of the ones the germs took hostage.  "Nine seven four three?" I guessed.

"That's not correct," she said.

"Well, ask me something else."

"I can't," she said.  "I need the either the three numbers that come after your phone number or your husband's Social."

"Look," I reasoned.  "All I want to know is whether or not I paid my bill two weeks ago."

"I can't tell you that."  What bothered me the most was how much she seemed to be enjoying not giving me my information.  I am younger and have more brain cells than you, I could almost hear her thinking.  I wanted to quip back that maybe she just had less information to track in them.

"I punched in a whole lot of information before I got to you," I pointed out.  "Can't you use some of that?"

"No."  It had to be the three imaginary numbers no one, I would think, would ever know, or the few that I just couldn't, in my old age, come up with.

So, I sat there, on The Twilight Zone, wondering what I could do to get this human robot to figure out that whether or not I paid my bill is not really classified information.  She could call my worst enemy and tell him I'd made a payment, for all I cared.  She could publish it in the newspaper.  "Janean Justham paid her phone bill on September. . ."

So I sat there, feeling mighty foolish, because I might have been able to come up with my worst enemy's Social before I could access my husband's.  Old age is funny like that.  "What's your name?" I asked her.

"Tammy."

"Tammy what?"

"I can't tell you."

Of course.  Whatever her last name was, I was tempted to make up three letters to go after it and see if she could guess them.  "Okay," I negotiated.  "Will you hold while I call my husband, wake him up after his night job, and ask him?"

She said she would. And she sounded delighted to provide that level of astonishing customer service for me.

So, I dialed.  And, my husband answered.  I told him that the nice lady at the phone company would not tell me whether or not I'd paid our bill unless he reminded me of his Social.

"I don't remember," he said, sleepily.

So, there you have it.  Tammy at the phone company knows whether we paid our bill, but we're not allowed to know that information.  Since she's not too worried about us being responsible about our payment, I guess I don't really need to be, either.

Maybe that was a clue.

Making Choices

When you have health, you have choice.

You can choose to get your life in order, or not.  You can choose to clean your house, or not.  You can choose to visit friends and loved ones, or not.  You can choose to exercise, or not.  You can do that project, or write that book, or take that trip.  Or not.

As soon as your health slips, your choices start slipping away, too, like water running through your fingers, or going down the drain.

I remember one Saturday several years ago when I put off cleaning my house until late afternoon.  When I finally got around to mopping the kitchen floor, after 4:00, and reached up with the damp rag to get something that had dripped onto the refrigerator, ninety-five percent of my choice options for the next three months popped right out of my life.

My shoulder had popped out of its socket.

I have had seven babies.  I have had a root canal.  I have had spinal taps.  I have had scarlet fever and burns and horrible tension headaches.  But I have never had worse pain than that of a dislocated shoulder.

It's not just the pain, either.  When your right arm is suddenly useless, you feel like a disembodied spirit.  You can't do anything.  Walk, lie down, pick something up off the counter, make a phone call.  It feels like parts of your body are behind your back, where you can't reach them. 

I made my way into the bedroom where my husband was trying to catch up on sleep after his night job (which followed his Monday-Friday day job) and woke him up to my nightmare.  Disoriented and exhausted, he did his best to cope with what I was throwing at him.

We had to get to the hospital, fast.  We had to leave four small children at home in someone's care and get to the hospital, fast.  He called a kind neighbor, who dropped everything to come.  He drove me, shuddering with pain and frustration, to the ER.

Once there, we waited.  I had dislocated my shoulder once before, when a patch of carpet had slipped out from under my feet while descending the stairs, and my right arm clutching the banister had been torn from my flying body.  I knew from this that, once my shoulder was restored to its socket, this horrific pain would lessen to the point where I could cope with it.

After what seemed like an hour, a hospital staff member pulled up a stool to ask me miniscule questions from a tri-page questionnaire.  What did I think was the trouble?  I had dislocated my shoulder.  How long had I had this trouble?  Since right before we left for the hospital.  Had I been ill lately?  Had I taken any aspirin in the last ten days? When was my last period? 

"I was mopping the floor and I raised my arm to wipe the fridge and my shoulder popped out.  I just need it reset, please."  I had said this before.  I had been saying it since I had arrived.  It was clear and plain to me what the problem was.  And it didn't have anything to do with my period or the line-up of the planets.

"We have to complete this questionnaire before we can treat you," I was told.

"I'll be happy to answer all of your questions after my shoulder is reset," I countered.

That isn't the way they do it on TV.  On TV, when someone gets hurt and is rushed to the emergency room, all the hospital staff step up urgently trying to help the person.  I gritted my teeth harder and tried to endure as the list of questions went on and on.

"Have you had any diarrhea in the past week?"

Really?!  I stared at this balding, ordinary man who was sitting there with his clipboard between me and the rest of my life, and my eyes filled with tears.  I looked at my husband, to show him the tears in my eyes, and gave up.  I could not answer these inane questions anymore.  I was in too much pain.  I had told them what was wrong, and if they wouldn't help me, they wouldn't help me. 

I felt like a maimed person from ancient days, groveling for mercy at the foot of a Roman soldier.

"Can't somebody reset her shoulder?" my husband asked.

"We need to take X-rays first."

"Then take them."

I don't remember what happened next.  I had shut down.  I wasn't going to answer any more questions.  Eventually, I was bumpily transferred to a stretcher and wheeled down to X-ray.  Finally, someone came in and reset my arm.  The relief was instant and enormous.  Sure, my shoulder still hurt, but I didn't feel like a broken insect anymore.

Because the dislocation had recurred, I was in for surgery to make sure it wouldn't happen again.  And again.  That sounded good to me.

I came home, thanked the neighbor, and looked at my house.  The mopping, dusting, scrubbing, vacuuming, and clothes-folding I had put off were still there, waiting for me.  For me and my unusable right arm.

My four very small children still needed their Mama.

Why?  I thought.  Not why me?  Why had I made choices so badly?  Why had I put off what needed to be done until I could no longer do it?  Why had I put my children--and myself--in this situation?  That was the first time that I gave this topic a great deal of consideration.  At any time that day, I could have made better choices.  I had counted on having time later.  I had risked failure by wasting time.  I had gambled, and I had lost.

Now, I had to live with the consequences of my choices.  Sure, my husband did what he could to help out--he cooked the meals and helped with the children. The oldest of these was six, so none of them could push a vacuum or mop a floor.  Sure, a neighbor vacuumed my living room for me, once.  My visiting teacher offered to cook but not clean.  I politely informed her I already had that kind of help, thank you.

I remember staring at my stove top in utter frustration at times during the next few weeks, just aching to scrub it.  Or crumbs on my floor, just aching to sweep them.  Once I'd had the surgery, I couldn't move that arm at all.  I couldn't even put on my own deodorant.

 My "why" thoughts reached beyond that one afternoon.  Why had I chosen to be a person who did things at the last minute?  Why hadn't I developed the skills of keeping on top of things?  Sure, if my house had been clean at the time of my injury, I would have still needed help, but I would have needed less help.  I would have been less embarrassed to need help. I would have been less frustrated with myself.   I would have had a lot less thinking and changing to do.

So, over the past few years, I've worked to change these things.  I've tried to learn from this lesson.  I haven't mastered every inch of my life yet, but I've made great strides.  Now, if something unexpected happens, I am much more ready for it.  I have back-up plans to throw into place.  I'm living a life of structure and organization instead of living on the edge of disaster.

I found out I'm not alone.  When I was having some pre-op tests run at the hospital, a nurse discussed this principle with me.  She had tried to get her middle-aged husband to exercise, to no avail.  Well, he had hurt his back shoveling snow, and now he was no help to her at all.  In fact, her workload had doubled, and he would have a slow recovery back to health.  She wished he'd prevented the injury by being in shape. She hoped he'd learn his lesson from this.

Although my own personal lesson has never wandered far from my thoughts since that one Saturday at 4:00 and my goals have always been running along beside me since then, I have been forced to revisit this issue this week as I have sunk deeper and deeper into an illness that has taken days and choices away from me.

I have been forced to make accommodations for it, and I don't like that.

I like my life to run smoothly.  I like to stay on top of things. I like the same things to get done in a pattern each day and each week.

I took today off for a specific reason, and it wasn't to spend it sick.

I don't like my head to be so full of germs that there is no room for coherent thought.  I don't like shutting myself up away from my children, who don't see enough of me as it is, to try to prevent inflicting this misery onto them.

I'm frustrated to be too fuzzy-headed to study for my upcoming exam.

Still goal-oriented, I have been trying to fit into some short-sleeved dresses I wore years ago before it is too cold outside for short sleeves.  I have a lovely jade dress that I am itching to wear, in particular.  When I was young, I turned heads in that jade dress.  I'm not expecting any heads to be turning now, but I am looking forward to how I will feel when I can zip it all the way up without having to hold my breath.  I did get it fastened a couple of weeks ago, so I'm close.

So, this was not a good week, in my mind, to have to slow down--and eventually stop--my efforts at the gym.  I've been compensating by hardly eating.  My body is used to burning 900 calories a day; trying to cut those out of my diet is a challenge.

I've learned to treat my weight as someone might a chronic illness--or difficult relative--they have to manage.  I know what I need to do--and it's a lot--to keep it in check.  Whenever I slip into denial and abandon my program, I pay.  So I try not to do that.

At first, this week, I tried burning about half as many calories as usual, but still keeping up my ab work so my middle would stay firm.  But, as I got more ill each day, and each thing I tried to do, however gently, exhausted me more, I had to eventually stop altogether.

My priority is to be well.  First, wellness.  Then, whatever else.

I still have a couple of children in that stage of childhood where they subconsciously punish their mother for being sick.  I have learned over the past two-and-a-half decades of being a mother that the worst thing you can say to a child in that stage is, "Hey, I really don't feel well tonight--can you give me a break?"  They'll break your eardrums and your heart, attack your sanity, and hurl your patience right through the window.  And leave you cleaning up the glass.

They can't help it.

It takes a certain amount of maturity for a person to think, "Oh, Mother's not feeling well--I wonder what I can do to help her?"  A three-year-old cannot do it.  A five-year-old cannot do it.  And, as it turns out through my scientific experiment this week, an eight-year-old cannot do it.

What you have to say is, "You miss Mama being well, don't you?"  Eye contact is essential here, and as much sympathy for them as you can muster.  You may even need to apologize.  "I'm sorry you have a mama who isn't feeling her best."

They need reassurance.  Think about it.  Children are like animals in cages.  They are totally at our mercy.  If their caretakers can't take care of them anymore, well--the ramifications are frightening.

You have to say, "I'm sure I will feel better soon--do you want to help me get better?"  Give them something specific they can do so they feel some control over the situation.  "I'm sure I'll feel much better if you will watch this show quietly."  I'm serious.  Wouldn't you?

Just know that you are bound to fail to live up to their expectations.  They will watch five minutes of Curious George and expect you to be ready to take them to the park.

It's going to take patience on both of your parts.

I'm on the mend now, obviously, or I wouldn't be able to write this.  I'm actually looking forward to the slow climb back up to normalcy.  I'm glad for the things that are in place in my life to keep it from slipping dangerously out of whack when something goes wrong.  I bet when I can look around again as my true self, it won't be too hard to get it right back on track.  I've got to count on that, to keep away thoughts of despair.

And I'll keep trying to think about making the best choices, when things are good, to keep things good, while I can.  Because I never want to be staring at a mess--figuratively or literally--with no right arm again.

Kindergarten Wisdom

I'm an expert baby bather.  I love to take a new little baby and a tiny, soft washcloth, and clean every crevice of ear and neck and make a baby sweet-smelling again.  All, of course, while cooing and smiling back and forth with the baby.

Babies need everything done for them.  That can be exhausting, and there are few breaks from that constant care-taking, but, even when super tired or harried, I've always enjoyed those moments of taking that care of someone so precious, and being needed that much.

I've enjoyed it so much that, truth be told, I have still been bathing my baby, until recently.

No, I don't cradle his whole body in my forearms as I lay him on his towel and coo in his face.  But I have still been washing his face and ears to make sure they really get clean, and soaping up those darling, though often bruised-from-playing-limbs.  There's a practical side to this--it takes less time to get him through the tub, and it uses much less of the body wash.

But, recently, I made myself explain to him that he should start with his face--before there is soap on the washcloth, and showed him how to spread the washcloth over the palm of his hand and add just enough soap for the other parts.  My heart prickled a little as I did this, because it meant I would never again bathe one of my children, but I kept my voice calm and business-like.

I'm sure I could have kept bathing him for another year or so, but there comes a time when a mom has to stop, well, mothering.  One thing at a time.

I remember when I read in a parenting book that the job of mothers is to teach their children to be their own mothers.  This statement shocked me at the time.  I had only toddlers then, and they needed so, so much from me.  And I needed them to need me, too, a little.

But it's true.  A mother who doesn't teach her children to stand on her or his own feet ultimately fails.

So, one thing at a time, we teach, and we let go.

On the next bath night, I asked my small son if he wanted help with his bath.  There are practical reasons for letting him bathe himself, too--taking less of my time being chief among them.  But I think I was secretly hoping he would say he needed me.

Or at least wanted me.

Instead, he came down the hall toward me and the bathroom saying confidently, "No, I can do it myself."  And he did.  I turned around and went back into my bedroom, and let him.

He joyously sang a song from a movie that the family had been watching.  His brother in a nearby room joyously sang a different song from that movie.  It was a good moment.

During the next bath, I happened to be in the same room for a few minutes while he busied himself washing his own chubby, banged-up limbs, and he started a precious stream-of-consciousness monologue for me.

I learned that his favorite colors are green, gold, yellow, silver, red, black, bronze, and blue.  (Olympic year, much?)  But red is his "favorite favorite color," because of Gryffindor. 

He then informed me that dimes are a centimeter and nickles are an inch.  I'd never noticed.  Had you?

We then discussed whether or not "my" is a word.  His teacher had told him a few days ago that all words have either an a, e, i, o, or u in them, and that any combination of words without one of those letters was not a real word.

He had apparently lapped up this new "rule" and given it a special place at the table of his memory, because he neatly served it up two days later and informed the teacher that the "my" on the spelling list was not a word.  This child lives for rules.  He still breaks into tears if he forgets to wear his pajamas for two nights before putting them in his hamper.

He chirped out the "sometimes y" rule he had since learned.

He reported having made eight friends, and named them in the order they were acquired.  And he said, "Every day of my life just gets better and better."

I found out he knows it's his seventeenth day of school, and remembers what he learned on each day.  He's taking this Kindergarten stuff very, very seriously.

Which will serve him well if he keeps it up.  While standing on his own feet.