Fear

This afternoon as I hurried to my train stop I noticed a young black man sitting, waiting for the train. (Yes, I said, "black."  I understand that his skin isn't really black; but my skin isn't white, either. This whole "politically correct" business makes me crazy—can't we just speak? Anyway, I have really digressed now.)

I didn't pay too much attention to him as I passed by to find a seat and wait for my train—not until he started walking toward me; it was obvious that I was his destination.  Instinct made me pull my bag a little closer to myself, and then, because his eye was on me, I felt stupid for doing it.  He walked right up to me and said hi; he said he liked my hair, and he asked me my name.  I was a little nervous, but I told him my first name.  He held out his hand and said his name was Paul, and shook my hand with a nice, firm grip (I hate wimpy hand-shakes). Paul asked where I was headed, and I told him what train stop I was going to; he said he was headed into Salt Lake. As all this exchange was going on, I was a little, tiny bit uneasy in the back of my mind.  Who was this guy and what did he want? 

Paul is young—maybe in his mid to late twenties, wears his hair in short dreads, has a little goatee, and he's blind in his left eye.  He wasn't dressed as well as the kids I go to school with, but he didn't look homeless, either. I found out that he works in Salt Lake City; he's been here for about four months and he thinks Salt Lake is "different."   He's from New York, but he's been to several places across the country. He has family in New York and in Jamaica.  He was in Jamaica when he was eight years old, but I don't know if that means that he lived there, or if he'd just gone for a visit. He's been hitch-hiking around the United States for the past ten years or so; he lived in Las Vegas for about a year and I have the impression that's the longest he's stayed put. I asked him, of the many places he's been, which place he liked the best.  He said he couldn't choose one.  "They all have their pros and cons; when you total it up, they even out."  But he did like living in California because he could go to the beach every day, and he says that in San Diego the weather is perfect all the time.  I said I couldn't imagine living that way—moving around all the time—and asked if he liked it.  His answer about life was kind of the sameas his answer about places:  he has good and bad days, same as anyone; you can decide to like it or not; you make the best of life.

In turn, Paul found out that I've lived in Salt Lake all my life except for three years in Tennessee.  He knows that I don't like very hot or very cold weather, but if those are my choices I'd prefer cold (he'd prefer hot.)  He learned that I am going to fashion design school, but that I don't know what I'm going to do with this education later.  We talked for about ten minutes, waiting for and then riding the train.  At his stop he said, "So long, sweetie," and left to switch trains.  He was a nice young man.

So I thought about this for the rest of my train ride.  My very first instinct when I saw Paul was to hold tight to my stuff.  Really, if he had taken it he'd have been more disappointed than I would have been—a textbook, a bolt of muslin, a notebook, and a sewing kit.  I am embarrassed by my reaction.  All he wanted was someone to talk to for a few minutes. 

You know, most people are pretty nice.  So why are we all so afraid of them?

Not of the world

The kids at school make me sad. Yesterday I discovered that a young girl who is in lots of my classes, Miss B, smokes. I'm pretty sure it's a new habit she's taken up. It made me genuinely sad when she came in late, smelling like smoke. (And yes, it was her and not a friend she was hanging with; she said today that she's smoking "for now.") She's 18 or 19 years old.

Last week, Miss B announced—as if it were a big joke—that her roommate (same age) was pregnant. Some other girls asked Miss G, "Really?" And she said, "Oh, maybe. I'll know in a couple weeks." as if it were no big deal. Miss G is also around 18 or 19.

Another day I heard a conversation between Miss B and Miss R; they were talking about getting drunk and how much fun they have. Miss R said that once she was with a group of friends, and she got "sooo drunk," and they took "drunk pictures" that she had to delete from her camera later. I can only imagine. Well, no; I probably can't (and I'd rather not).

Today young Mr. F was talking about how the guy he's interested in is in a relationship with someone else, and how his mother worries that one of the male teachers at school might be interested in him. (Not worried about a relationship with another guy, as far as I can tell; just that it could be a relationship with a teacher.)

And they all compare their "pretty" tattoos (everyone), and the girls talk about the boyfriends they are living with but don't know if they could marry. And my friend who is nearer to my age, talks about her awful ex-husband all the time, and makes it sound like men are just vile. She says she'd like to remarry, but her consensus with another divorced classmate is that you just can never know if you can trust a guy.

If we took a vote I think the majority of my classmates would say they don't want to get married, they certainly don't want to have children, and I know for a fact that at least two of my class members think abortion is OK and every woman's right.

They are all nice people—I like them. So it makes me sad to hear them talk. At first I was just kind of shocked; I thought these attitudes were only on TV and in movies—pure Hollywood stuff. But these kids really think this way and do these things. It brings me down to hear them.

I hadn't realized how sheltered I have been. Thank goodness I've been taught to be in the world, but not of it.

Hunger

I miss having babies. Can you believe that? I mean, really believe it?

If I really stop and think about it, I remember that I hated being pregnant. Being sick non-stop for several months; gagging every time I brushed my teeth; and enduring a pinched nerve that would stop me dead in my tracks several times a day—if I was able to get started at all (and that problem has never completely gone away from me). Joints so loose that I thought I was falling apart; an emotional wreck; feeling heavy; thinking I looked awful all the time. Yeah. I did not like that. Labor was no picnic either—especially my intense dread of labor and delivery; and not just with the first one or two—I was afraid to the point of tears every time. And then a baby that keeps you up all hours of the night; huge, swollen (and leaky) breasts; dirty clothes all the time—not the just baby's, mine too.

Really, it sounds like no fun at all.

But lately I see women with new babies and have a twinge of envy; a little bit of, "Oh, I want one!" And I even see pregnant women and think they look lovely, and miss it—being pregnant. Not the being sick, of course. But the growing of a new life inside me. Feeling a baby move within me; having a little someone to talk to (so I don't just look like I'm talking to myself). And then that sweet, amazing someone who is mine and more incredible than any other being in existence.

It is kind of sad that I didn't appreciate it more when I was going through it. Well, I always appreciated the babies; just not the being pregnant. I don't really blame myself for feeling that way—not at all. I was sick and miserable, and my babies all came in quick succession: eight kids in eleven years—and the last three of those eight (Kaylie, Rachel and Jessica) were born in three years (2001, 2002, 2003). I was pretty worn out, and it really did take years for the pinched nerve to not bother me daily; sometimes it still does sneak up on me.

I do think that now—after a long break—I would appreciate it more. But having a new baby of my own is in my past; I am not having any more. This doesn't really make me feel sad because I can remember all the busy, hard stuff about those little babies, and I don't think I really want to tackle it now, in my dotage. ;-)

But most of all, I love my family; all my kids are amazing and it is so fun to see them grow up. And whoever spread that nasty rumor about teenagers—I don't know what their problem was. Teenagers are terrific! A little willful sometimes, yes; but lots of fun.

So, no; no more babies for me. Just delighting in the family I have. And, I hear that grandchildren are even better than your own kids. Just a few more years from now—like five to eight. Now there's something to look forward to!

Definition

I've talked about this before, but it keeps coming up.

Yesterday in my Body Image class we had to say the name of each person in the room—knowing everyone's name is part of the grade. We have done "getting to know you"-type exercises from the beginning of the semester, as well as putting name-tags on our desks each class period; and the teacher (Dollie) calls us each by name every time she wants to hear from us. So, starting at one end of the room and going around desk by desk, we had to call out each person's name. Some students were more well-known than others. When they got to me they were stuck for a name, but someone did say, "Mom of Eight." Dollie said, "What's her name? She's more than just 'Mom of Eight.' "

Yes, I am more than just "Mom of Eight." But even when I describe myself to people I say that I have eight kids. For example, look at "about me" in the sidebar. Yep. Maybe I'll have to change that description. "Mom of Eight" is part of who I am, but is that THE THING that defines me? I'd like to think that I'm a little more multi-faceted than that.

How would you define/describe me? And, even better, how do you define/describe yourself? I'm really curious to know.

Perfection

"Our vision is clouded when we forget we are not in competition. As children of our Father in Heaven, we are already unique and valuable, beyond anything we can achieve in this world."

—Elder John C. Taggart

"All Things in Wisdom and Order"

August 2010 Ensign

Ever since I was little I've wanted to be the "est." The tallest, the smallest, the smartest; the best. As a teenager I received enough praise from all around to feel like the best at many things—at least to feel pretty great about myself. As an adult I know I'm really good at lots of things, but I want to be better in so many ways.

"nearly" perfect

The other night Bruce and I were talking about body-image. A week or two ago I read a magazine article about Cindy Crawford, the supermodel. The writer said something about her "almost perfect body," which I thought was crazy. If Cindy Crawford's body is only almost perfect, then I must be a cow — and so must most of the rest of the female population! That can't be right. But when Bruce asked me who has a better body—me, or Cindy Crawford—I answered without hesitation, "Cindy Crawford."

Hmm.

nearly "moo"

"But I am like as yourselves, subject to all manner of infirmities in body and mind" Mosiah 2:11
"And ye are still indebted to [God], and are, and will be, forever and ever; therefore, of what have ye to boast?
"And now I ask, can ye say aught of yourselves? I answer you, Nay. Ye cannot say that ye are even as much as the dust of the earth; yet ye were created of the dust of the earth; but hehold, it belongeth to him who created you." Mosiah 2:24-25

So if we are all the same and all either worthless or of infinite worth, it really is silly to compare, isn't it? But we do. I do, although not as much as I used to, I think.

I think I'm being watched . . .

Do you feel like people are watching you?

I mean, all the time watching you—to see how you look, how you behave, noticing the way you walk, what you say, how you do things? Do you go around like you're an actor on some big stage, knowing that the entire world sees what you're doing and so you want to do everything just right—because you only get this one take, and there's been no rehearsal? And since everyone is watching and judging your performance you have to be the most graceful, the most witty, the most talented, the most . . . everything? Not only that, though, but that you can almost feel people watching your every move?

Do you ever feel that way, or is it just me?

I had made up my mind that it was just me, and that I feel this way because of things I heard over and over when I was growing up:
"People notice what you do if you're a member of the church."
"Was that your daughter playing the piano? I thought it was a recording!"
"You can always tell a dancer walking down the street."
"Look what Loralee did (made/wrote/said)."
"You might hide it from the world, but you can't hide it from God."
"If you don't want people to see you, go dance in the bathroom."
"People are watching to see if you live up to the standards you claim."
"Loralee, play [choose any of my piano lesson-songs] for them."

So I figured it was just me, and that I just became a weirdo because I let all those kinds of comments go to my head. Of course everyone watches me! So I need to walk like a princess, and do everything I do wonderfully.

I'm not as bad now as when I was as a teenager; I mean I don't think about what other people might think of me quite so much as I used to. After all, it's "none of my business what other people think of me," right? And I get so pleased with the things I do that I almost don't need anyone else to praise me; or, perhaps more accurately, I shouldn't need it. But I do like it—I want everyone to think I am just marvelous! And I am kind of a perfectionist, to boot; I seem to be naturally driven to excel.

I bring this up because last night I saw a book at the library in the teenager-section, and it was about a girl who thought everyone just automatically noticed everything about her all. the. time. And so she went through life trying to be like some movie-star who was always on camera.

Wow! I guess other people do feel that way. But do nice people outgrow it when they quit being teenagers? Am I just weird?

"To die would be an awful big adventure!"

Peter Pan says it to Captain Hook as he's caught in Hook's clutches.

Death doesn't scare me, or seem bad to me. When I know that someone is dying I almost feel excited. It's kind of like anticipating the birth of a baby.

The dying itself—these months of illness, of not healing, of worrying, watching, waiting—that is hard. Losing your friend, your family, your mother—that is very hard.

But knowing there are people who will greet her and who love her—that is exciting! Who will hold her first when she arrives? Will it be her mother, like when she arrived here? What will she learn? What kind of work will God give her to do? Isn't that exciting to consider?

It really is just like a birth. Painful, laborious, and difficult for us, the mortals who are involved. Scary for the one who is leaving one existence to be born into another.

I guess the difference is that we spend so much time planning for and anticipating a birth. Funny that death always seems to take us by surprise. We have a lifetime to prepare for it, but we hardly give it a thought. We are so easily distracted. This life is the time to prepare to meet God; we can't meet Him without passing through death. But we are so busy with life that we don't think of it.
Are we preparing?

Now, as our hearts are open and tender—as my heart is open and tender—now I think of it and want to prepare, and want to be good, and want to be as ready as anyone can be.

Will that feeling stay with me as this tenderness, these labor pains, wear off and become a memory?

Cowardly?

"You have plenty of courage, I am sure," answered Oz. "All you need is confidence in yourself. There is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger. The true courage is in facing danger when you are afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty." - L. Frank Baum, "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz."


My question is not whether you do things that you are afraid to do. The question is this: "Do you do things--scary or not--if you don't already know, somehow, that you can do them?"

I have been called "brave" and even "amazing" because I demolished and rebuilt a room, or just because I removed and replaced a toilet without having ever done these things before. But I had seen my dad and brothers do these things; I could picture myself doing them and I knew I could do them. People are impressed that I sew or cook or play the piano well. But I know I can do these things; I'm not sure that it's so astounding for me to do them over and over again.

On the other hand, I don't play ball. I am afraid of objects flying at me; I am afraid of looking like a dork on the ball field. I can tell myself that playing ball isn't a matter of life and death, it's not essential to my salvation and so it doesn't really matter if I do it or not. (Of course, replacing the toilet is probably not essential to my salvation either--although slightly more necessary in the here and now). But really, I don't see myself playing ball. I don't want to. I don't know if I'd be good at it (actually, I really doubt that I would).

OK. It's not that I think playing ball is the ultimate test of how cool I am--this is just the first thing that came to mind.

But think of this question in any aspect of life--of doing or not doing. If you envision yourself doing something, does just that make you then be successful at it? Or would you really be just as clumsy at it, or afraid of it as you are now? And is it cowardly to not try . . . any thing?

Deep Answers

Thanks for your comments, everyone. You all gave some great answers. I've been thinking about my post as well. :-)

I have concluded that we do try our best every day. I have (frequently) had days when my best was to feed my family and make sure the dishes were clean that day. Period. I feel bad on those days because I know there's more that needs to be done. But for physical or emotional reasons, that is all I am capable of at that time. This is part of our mortality (our imperfections) and I know God understands this, and that if we truly strive to do better each day, then that's all we can do.

But what about problem-solving? Let's say (and this is not a true-life case) that I go to the bank and take out $100 to pay a bill that's due by the end of the week. For some reason I have to go home first, and then . . . you know how things go at home. I don't make it in time to pay the bill today. I will go tomorrow. So I leave the $100 on my dresser (which I would not do in real-life). Well, the next time I look for the money, the $100 is missing. I interrogate all my kids and my husband, but they all claim perfect innocence. (You had $100?!) Obviously this isn't ALL I can do to solve this problem.

So I clean out my purse; then I clean my dresser, look in the drawers, clean and organize the drawers, look behind and under the dresser (clean-up there too). No luck. I retrace my steps from the time I got home with the money yesterday—nothing. So now I look in the pockets of the clothes I was wearing yesterday. Then I make my bed and clean up my whole room. Still nothing. Have I done all I can?

Well, there's a good possibility that a child did something with the money, but was afraid to 'fess up. So now I ransack their rooms, cleaning as I go. After a few days I have torn apart and rebuilt the entire house, and the car too. I am praying the whole time, because I need to pay that bill. Have I now done everything I could do?

Well, I remember a rather large-ish hole in my living room wall (well, this part is true—we have a 3-inch hole in one of our walls). I suppose it is possible—although not likely—that a child could have shoved the money into that hole. I could tear away that entire section of wall to see if the money is in there. I consider this; I am capable of doing it, and repairing it again, too. But my feeling is, that it wouldn't really help. It's not likely the money is in there; it would be a lot of work, it would make a huge mess; so that's not an entirely logical solution to the problem. In addition, my first gut-feeling was not to do it.

So, NOW, do I pray and say "I have done everything I can do," or should I tear into the wall first? Have I really done everything, or am I just rationalizing? I have to say that I believe my first feelings (not to tear apart the wall) are probably correct. But sometimes I wonder.

As for asking for help, I know we need to. There are plenty of times that I know exactly what my kids want from me, but I wait for them to ask me first. Not because I am mean, but because sometimes they need to ask. I think there is something for us to gain by asking. And the scriptures tell us over and over again to ask God for what we want or need.

There was a family in our ward a while ago whose three-year-old was dying. He had so much internal bleeding (from an illness) that one evening his whole diaper was soaked in blood. His father gave him a blessing that he would live long enough to make it to the hospital. These parents and the baby's doctors had been treating the illness for several weeks; the parents had been praying for God's will to be done and that they could accept it. Everyone thought he would die. But that night, at the hospital, the mother had the thought that it was OK for her to ask for what she wanted. She wanted to keep her baby boy; she prayed for him to get well and live so she could keep him and raise him. He did heal and is completely cured; that was six years ago.

I believe there are times when God will just fill in the rest because we need Him to. But I also believe there are times we need to ask for His help. I guess the real answer is to keep trying, AND to keep asking. And to believe that the help, the solutions, whatever we need, will come. And to keep believing. That is the best we can do.

Another Deep Question

I've been reading and hearing a lot lately (and have learned my whole life) that if you've done your very best, then Jesus Christ will make up the difference. But how do you know if you've really done all that you can—your very best?

When I was 16 I took a ballet class at the University of Utah—my dad would drive me to the class, stay and watch. It was an adult class and I was the youngest one in it; and probably the best. I felt like I worked in that class—I paid attention, did the exercises right, consciously worked at all the things I knew I should be doing; I thought I was doing my best.

There was a young man in the class (probably in his mid-20's) who was fairly good-looking, and whom I thought was a good dancer. I may have even had a little crush on him—but mostly because a guy in a ballet class is a rarity, and his being there automatically made him cool in my eyes. (Actually there was another man in that class—he was at least 60 and I didn't have a crush on him.) Well one day, instead of dancing, the younger guy just watched the class; maybe he was sick or something. I was a little nervous that this cute, good-dancer guy would be watching my class. Something interesting happened: Even though I didn't really feel like I was working harder, my teacher commented over and over about how well I was doing that night. She even told me not to overdo it and wear myself out; she wondered out loud why I was doing so much better—-was it because my dad was watching the class? I thought that was kind of funny; my dad always watched the class. And I didn't feel like I was doing more than I had any other night (although I realized it after the class, when I could feel a little more burn and tremor in my muscles than usual).

Now, I had thought that I was doing my very best all along, every time I went to class. But I guess on that night I gave just a little extra push—some more polish to my performance—and I outdid myself. So while I was doing very well before, on that night I really did do my very best.

So my question is this: How can you ever know if you are really doing your absolute, very best? Can you always push just a little more? How do you know that you've really done all you can do, and so now it's OK to say, "Fill in the rest, please?"

The Reason for the Season

The Christmas season is upon us. Traditionally, our family puts up all the Christmas decorations on the day after Thanksgiving. I always make extra pies to have on that day, and if we have Thanksgiving here, then we eat turkey sandwiches while we work. Since we had Thanksgiving at Grandma North's house this year, I cooked a small turkey for our family to have on Friday as part of the decorating festivities. I was a little bothered, though, by two of my kids saying that to them Christmas meant a big tree and lots of presents. Yes, I like those things too—I'd have to say that I like them a lot! But I really hope that Christmas means more to my family than that.

Tonight I watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas with my kids. (The Grinch is an appealing villain if there ever was one!) After the show I said to the kids, "The Grinch stole all the Whos presents, all their decorations, and all their food. But the Whos were still happy on Christmas morning. Do you think you would be happy on Christmas with no presents?"

They all said they would still be happy on Christmas even with no presents. So I pressed them further, asking if it would still feel like a holiday—different from other days—without the presents. They said yes, because they would still get to visit with family. Some of the younger ones said we could go to Grandma's and they would get presents there. But I said, "No. What if there were no presents at all?" Most of them said they would be OK with that; some of the older ones said it would be a little disappointing, but it would be all right. Jason said it would be good as long as we still had the special Christmas breakfast. Over all, I think they all agreed Christmas would be good as long as we spent time with our family.

So then I asked if they would rather get a present, or give a present. All but Ryan said they liked to give presents better (but I have long suspected that Gifts are Ryan's Love Language). So I said to him, "You mean you would be happier if you got a present, but no one else got any?" First he said, "Yes," but then he cracked up, laughing, and said, "No. Not really." He explained that that would be unfair and wouldn't really make him feel good.

Tonight we ended up by reading a Christmas story from the Ensign before we had prayers and I sent them to bed. You know, we do talk about Jesus' birth during Christmas time; we have several nativity sets around the house; we read the Christmas story from the Bible, as well as Christmas stories about giving and sharing. And I truly have great kids—I think they really do know what it's all about. But I'd like it to be even better. So, here's a callout for more ideas to help the true meaning of Christmas shine through; and to help my kids focus more on the giving than the getting. Any thoughts?

Giving Thanks

I had intended to post this on Thanksgiving Day, but things got busy and . . . you know. Anyway, this is a story that I've told to some friends and family before.

A few years ago we were in an awful predicament. Business wasn't good and we just never had any money. We couldn't afford gas in our cars; we couldn't buy clothes or shoes for the kids when they needed them. Sometimes we couldn't even afford groceries. Finally, our van broke down; I had to borrow a car every day—usually Melanie's—so I could get my kids to school each day. At first I called her every day to see if I could use her van, but then she just made arrangements for me to drive her to work in the morning, keep her car and then pick her up in the afternoon. Jessica was about two or three, and still in diapers, but I usually couldn't afford to buy them. When the diapers ran out I would work up my nerve and call Melanie—or sometimes my mother-in-law—to see if she could buy diapers for us. I felt so hopeless to always be calling and asking someone to bail me out—again and again and again.

Melanie was always nice, very understanding and never complaining or questioning my need. One day she told me that she had been setting aside $50 every month so that she could help me out. I felt so bad about this! I knew that money didn't flow in free abundance in Melanie's household either. I can't describe how I felt always asking her to save me, and knowing that in her own need she was willing to do so much for me. I would truly go as long as possible before I did ask for help. But that was never really very long.

One day I had to ask her, once again, to buy diapers for Jessica. Even though Melanie was always kind—she never sounded even a little bit frustrated with me—I started out on my own guilt trip anyway. And then something happened. I felt, physically felt, something snap and change inside of me. I suddenly knew that I could no longer feel guilt or sorrow for this; somehow my body and heart and mind were unable to carry that load any more. I had to let it go. And then the only feeling left in me was a tremendous gratitude. I could only be incredibly thankful for the help I received, and for the good things I did have.

It changed things a lot. We were still broke, and without a car. I still had to borrow or beg for so many things that we needed. It was months before we could even start to think of making a turn-around. But things felt better. I was happier; I was better.

Now, a few years later, things are still very rough. I can still get in a funk about my problems. But I really am thankful for what I do have. Big things, and small. So it seems appropriate, at "the end of the Thanksgiving season," to list some the things that I am thankful for:

First of all, I am thankful for my family. Bruce is my best friend and I know he loves me with all of his heart. I am thankful for a good marriage, and for a husband whom I love.

I am thankful for Michael. I love his sense of humor. I love that we can play and tease with each other. I'm thankful for the computer help he gives me when I need it.

I am thankful for Jason. I'm thankful for his spiritual nature, and his love of good music (read, "music that I love too"). I enjoy his sense of humor a lot too.

I am thankful for Lindsey. I am so glad that she is helpful and so kind. I'm thankful for how cheerful she is.

I am thankful for Brandon. I love his creativity, his silly wit, and the humor he brings into our home.

I am thankful for Ryan. I love how bright he is, and that he still likes to give me hugs.

I am thankful for Kaylie. I love to see her dance, and I'm glad she loves music. I love her enthusiasm and persistence.

I am thankful for Rachel. I love to see how much thought she puts into her projects, and I love to see her artistic talent. She is also developing a fun sense of humor.

I am thankful for Jessica. She is my little ray of sunshine; I love her sweetness and how bright she is. I am thankful that she is still snuggly.

I am thankful for Melanie; that she is not just my sister, but my good, good friend.

I am thankful for my family and for Bruce's family.

I am thankful for my home, my car, fall leaves, paper snowflakes, good health and a happy family.

I am thankful for my Heavenly Father and my Savior, Jesus Christ. I have felt their love for me lately. I have felt it through scriptures, through good music, through talks by church leaders. I have felt it in the temple and through prayer.

I hope I can always remember to be truly thankful—and learn to be thankful in all things. And so may we all.

Analogy

What I learned from years of dance:

You work hard. You work until your muscles shake, and then you work some more. You jump higher, reach higher and stretch further than you thought you could. You get blisters that break and bleed; you might get pulled muscles, but you still keep pushing. Sometimes—usually—you go back to the next class before your sores have healed. This makes it more painful to do the class than it is normally, but you do it anyway. You may grimace through parts of the class because it is so hard, mentally as well as physically. But you work at being—and you do learn to be—smooth, graceful, and smile through it all. You get tough and strong, but you do it so well that everyone who sees you thinks it is effortless. You do it because what you get at the end is worth it. In the end, it is the audience—pleasing the audience, the love of pleasing the audience—that makes all your work and your performance worthwhile.

There must be an analogy for life here. If only I can master the graceful, smiling, effortless part of it while I am still in the class.

Perspective

"I couldn't love anybody as I love you."
"Oh, Diana," cried Anne, clasping her hands, "do you love me?"
"Why, of course I do. Didn't you know that?"
"No." Anne drew a long breath. "I thought you liked me of course, but I never hoped you loved me. Why, Diana, I didn't think anybody could love me."

—from Anne of Green Gables

When I was growing up, and particularly as a teenager, I never felt like I had friends. Not that I was bereft, or unhappy. I could talk to people; they seemed to like me well enough. But I didn't really have anyone who would come hang out at my house or who I thought would go shopping with me. I knew people thought I was talented, but I didn't know if they really liked me. I felt like I could join in their conversations sometimes, but I was never sure how much I really added. And, unfortunately, before my senior year I was never involved in any school groups or clubs that would have automatically given me a common ground with other kids. I had a few friends in each class that I chatted with, casually—while we were at school, but none that I was really close to.

A couple weeks ago, as I was looking for pictures of Kim and me, I came across some letters and notes that I'd gotten from different people during my teenager-hood. It was kind of an eye-opener. First of all I found a couple of pathetic letters from a boy who had a major crush on me—but that's a story for another time. I also found a note from a guy we'll call "Cliff." Cliff had come to my surprise 17th birthday party [which is also a story for another time]. In his letter he mentioned that maybe he and I could go on a date that summer (I was really surprised when I read that a couple weeks ago—I didn't remember it at all); he also signed my yearbook and gave me his phone number. I also found a letter from a girl named Lori who was a year older than me, and had moved into my ward when I was about 14. I smiled at her and said, "Hi." the first time I met her—I always do that. When we saw each other in church or at school I'd chat with her. I didn't feel like I'd done anything exceptional. But she really liked me. In her letter she told me how much it meant to her that I'd been so friendly and how comfortable I'd made her feel when she moved in. I remember receiving that letter and feeling surprised at the time; I really hadn't done much.

Looking back, I see now that I probably could have had a lot of friends. I think maybe people really liked me. I could have dated a few different guys, and maybe even had another best friend for a couple years (Lori moved away after about two years). It surprises me because those letters and notes I just read don't match my memories at all. Perspective.

But now there's this funny thing going on in my mind, because I kind of feel the same way as an adult as I did then. I can get in on conversations with people; we are pleasant together. I see ladies in my ward who really seem to be best of friends and sometimes I feel kind of wistful—like I wish I had a good girl-friend close by. I don't feel like I could just drop in on someone or ask them to go out and play with me—as if I would be imposing on them. I still know that people think I can do anything—it surprises them when I admit to something I can't do well. This is probably just my own insecurity speaking, but sometimes I feel like people admire me from a distance, but that I'm not really someone you'd get close to. Does that make any sense?

Last night we had a Relief Society friendship dinner. I chatted with everyone in the group and I fit in well enough; I believe I contributed intelligent and sometimes even witty conversation. After the dinner my former visiting teaching partner came and said how good it was to visit with me and how much she'd missed talking with me. I feel the same way about her as I did with Lori—we got along well, but I didn't think I'd done anything exceptional; certainly didn't think I'd been missed. I had another person last night tell me how glad they were to talk to me. Maybe I'm kind of slow; but I am beginning to be surprised by the realization that people truly would be my friends. They seem to really, actually like me.

Solitude

view from my back deck in the early morning

I love being the first one up in the morning, before Bruce or any of my kids wake up. Everything is so still and quiet; there's no kids running around, no TV or computer playing, no one needing me for anything. I get some time to sit by myself and actually think—or not have to think. Over the summer I've been getting up early and reading my scriptures on the back deck. The house is hot, even first thing in the morning, but I can enjoy the cool—and the trees and the new sunshine and sometimes a breeze—outside. If I'm lucky I can be up and alone for as long as an hour before the house wakes up. I love my family, but it's not often I get a quiet minute all to myself.

Bruce and I have started walking together in the morning, so I don't get the time all by myself quite so often. (I'm not willing to get up an hour earlier than I do now.) But I love my walks alone with Bruce too—it's not often we get to just talk, uninterrupted.

Soon school will start and put an end to any early-morning solitudes. Then I will have to find the time while the kids are gone. But for now I do enjoy my mornings.

Life

I just finished reading a novel. While it was interesting enough for me to read the whole thing--and even care about the characters somewhat--it was kind of... well, like a novel. A little far-out. It was an LDS romance and the main characters are a young man (early 20's) who, after living a wild and reckless life, was in a terrible car accident that nearly killed him, joined the church and was disowned by his family. He moves to Utah to go to BYU and meets the leading lady, who is raped three days later (by another, creepy guy). Then the rest of the book is about all of the trauma that Leading Man and Leading Lady endure so perfectly together until they all live happily ever after.

Have you ever noticed that the characters in books have lives that are...well, too full of stuff? I am really extremely fond of Jane Austen's novels, but they are kind of far-out too. Nothing really terrible and traumatic happens to any of the main characters; mostly they endure a lot of mental stress before they finally end up happily ever after with the rich men of their choice. Which, I think, is actually a lot more realistic than the novel I just finished this morning.

Have you ever noticed that life isn't really like that? I mean all the disaster. The news would have us believe everything is horrendous. Yes, I do know these terrible things do happen to some people. In fact I am very closely acquainted with someone who had to deal with a truly horrible relationship; his (now ex-) wife did some things that were atrocious. But now things are better and it looks like he will live happily ever after, too. Still, for the most part, most of us have lives that wouldn't make fascinating reading in a novel. Or do we?

After finishing this swell novel, I started thinking about my own life with Bruce (after all, it was a romance novel). Our life has been good, and it is good. We met in highschool and were instantly married. OK. We didn't actually get married or live together while we were in highschool, or anything like that. We just acted like we were married in every other way. Five years after we started dating we really, officially got married. Wow, that was great--I'd do it again! We put Bruce through school together; we moved across the country and lived in Tennessee for three years (a story to tell later); we've had eight kids; we've had some ups and downs. That's the short version.

But maybe if people could read the detailed version it wouldn't sound so mundane. Maybe if others could feel the things we've felt, our life wouldn't look so tame. If our troubles seem small to one person, maybe they seem insurmountable to someone else. And just maybe our plain and ordinary story would be someone else's best-selling novel. I think we could read "amazing" in every life around us--without any of the extraordinary, novel-like sensationalism to accompany it. Just life.

Life is amazing!

Work, Dang-it! WORK!!

I have to question whether any of my family knows how to work. And I'm not sure how to teach them; it just makes me crazy! I tell my sons to go weed out the garden and they start whimpering about the sun shining (even though it's a cool day). I tell my kids to do the dishes and they scatter like bugs in the blink of an eye. And while I run around cleaning the house, they slip off to their rooms to read books, or nap. AAAAAAAHHH!!!

Work is getting blisters on your feet during the first ten minutes of dance class but continuing for the full hour-and-a-half class. Work is going home with the blisters torn and bleeding but still going to the next class two days later. Work is smoothing drywall by yourself until your shoulders ache so badly that you have to stand in the middle of the empty room and cry. And then ten minutes later you go back to the drywall. Work is staying up late and getting up early to finish the project you said you would do—even if the promise was just to yourself. Work is making sure things get done because they need to get done. Tedious doesn't matter. Tired doesn't matter. Pain doesn't matter. Take care of it; get it done. Just do it!

And then work changes. It becomes the magic of an entire audience applauding just for you. It becomes a beautifully finished room. It becomes the honor of keeping your word. It becomes the satisfaction of knowing that you did a great and good thing.

Just do it!

A philosophical question...

photo by Jason North, age 13

If you ask someone what they do, they almost always answer, "I am a..."
I am a doctor; I am a housewife; I am a school teacher. So here's the question: Is a person defined by, or of value because of what they do?

Right now Bruce teaches school, but I don't think of him as a school teacher. I wash dishes every day, but I don't think of myself as a dishwasher. Well, not really. Here's another example: My mom likes to brag about her kids (don't we all?). Even though I haven't danced in years she still tells people that I am a ballerina. (Actually, I never really was a ballerina—I was just pretty good at ballet.)
I am very talented. I'm pretty smart, too. And I'm not just tooting my own horn (although I am apt to do that). I really am smart and talented; I can do a lot of things well. In fact when I make up my mind to do anything, I do it very well. Bruce often compliments me on the things I do, and sometimes will even say he loves me because I do "this" so well or because I'm so good at "that." Other people who know me say that I am "amazing." Which is all very nice and very flattering and makes me feel great! (OK, you're thinking that I am really full of myself; but hear me out.)

So people might say, "Loralee is a great cook," or "Loralee is a good pianist." But if I were to get in a terrible accident and lose the use of my body and/or mind—all or in part—would I then be a different person? If I couldn't cook, or play the piano, or write, or dance, or any number of things that I do, would that change who I am? I don't believe so. But it's a question that's been kicking around in my mind for a few weeks now.

Sometimes, in Relief Society, some well-meaning teacher will ask everyone in the room to look at the person at their left (or right, or directly in front of them) and then tell the class one thing that makes that person wonderful. So, at a moment's notice I'm supposed to come up with something that sounds nice and will make everyone feel good (and I really don't just want to say that her make-up looks great). I hate that exercise. Not because I dislike that person, and not just because I may not know them well. It's hard for me to do that for people I know, too.

For example: At the beginning and end of each school year at least one teacher—sometimes all of my kids' teachers—throw me for a complete loop by sending home a paper that I'm supposed to fill out saying what is wonderful about my child(ren). It just boggles me. They're just wonderful because they are! They're cute and smart and funny and they're really great. Are they great because of the things they do? I don't think so. I mean, sure they do things that I like; things that are kind, helpful, funny. But it is hard for me to tell you the good things about them.

Bruce, too. I can't tell you why I love Bruce; I can't make a list of the wonderful things he does or has done that make me love him. I just love him because he's Bruce.

Michael, Jason and Bruce got the garden ready for planting. I don't call them gardeners now. And that's not the reason I love them, although it did make me happy (so maybe it helps).

I just don't really think of people that way—"I like them because of this or that." I hope this is not just because I am so self-obsessed that I can't see what's good about anyone else. But I think really people are just people and I value them because they are people. I admit I like some more than others; some a lot more. Bruce is my absolute favorite and my kids run a very close second. But that's because I know them, I know their personalities; not because they are "a school teacher," or "great students," or "smart," or "they clean their rooms," or anything like that.

It's an interesting thought. Is a person defined by, or of value because of what they do?