Once I Was A Beehive, Too...

After seeing this movie, I can’t resist sharing some of my own Girls Camp stories.

(Actual excerpts (and drawings) from my junior high journal.—Pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out so I can’t be arrested for any of these shenanigans!)



7/25
We took off early this morning for Brighton Camp. I love being in the mountains! The hike up Hernia Hill was a lot easier than I remembered last year. Someone's little sister came along this year...complete with a plastic purse.

Cherubic Little Sister

When you first get here, everybody sits up on the rock and sings songs, and hopes they get one of the coolest counselors. My cousin is a K.D. this year and said she warned the entire camp about me in advance.

Our counselor is Krispie (as in Krispie Kritters cereal). She’s fantastic. She has a steel-string guitar and can play almost anything on it. The latrines are called Skunk and Daisy.

Two of the really popular girls are in our unit. Believe it or not, the four of us have a pretty good time together. We had a little dispute over the bunks though. We settled it by taking turns and rotating who sleeps on the top bunks every night.

In the afternoon we hiked down to Silver Lake, and after a couple of other games, we played “Grunt, Piggy, Grunt.” (Everyone sits in a circle, and someone is blindfolded in the middle. The blindfolded person sits on someone’s lap and says, “Grunt, Piggy, Grunt.” The person whose lap it is says, “Oink! Oink!” and the blindfolded person has to guess who it is by the sound of her voice. )

Now that in itself is hilarious. But Patches (the other counselor in our cabin) decided to play a joke on one of the girls who was “it” (blindfolded). Every time that girl sat on someone’s lap, Patches would run and stand behind that person and say “Oink! Oink!” so no matter where she sat, she always heard the same voice oinking back at her.

At dinner we had some rangers come, and Pippin came out in a sequin gown singing, “Here comes Smokey Bear, here comes Smokey Bear. He’s got a hot date. Here comes Smokey Bear, here comes Smokey Bear. He made the rangers late.” (Sung to the tune of “Here Comes Santa Claus.”)


7/26
We went on a breakfast cookout this morning with Dusty’s unit. It was awful. The only thing worth eating was the sausage. I wouldn’t have been able to guess what the pancakes were if no one told us beforehand.

I ditched the craft house this year and brought along my sketchpad instead, to draw the mountains and the trees. Then I went out on the cabin porch and wrote in my journal for a little while.

7/27
This morning we had certification. Second Years had to light four types of fire. Marie and I stuck a couple of matches under our pine needles, so ours just flared right up while everyone else was struggling to get a flame. Mine was a regular bonfire!

After certification was First Aid. Then we had our lunch cookout. It was fantastic. Marie and I are now the designated firebuilders, so we don’t have to do any of the other chores. We had triple-layer pizza in a dutch oven, salad, garlic bread, and chocolate pudding cones. Krispie and Patches got in a chocolate pudding fight and starting smearing each other with pudding. They looked so gross afterward, everybody took pictures of them.

We were supposed to be painting rocks for our “Brighton Buddies” when we noticed some girls were burning garbage in the incinerator, so we snuck away and tossed some firecrackers in the incinerator. That was a blast! (Literally.) No one was harmed in the performing of this prank.

Then our unit challenged the other unit to a game of “Paper Charades,” where you run into the counselors' room to get a word, then run out and draw your clues instead of acting them out. (I guess this was pre-Pictionary!). Then we had our dinner cookout—Cheeseburgers. It was good, too.

Tonight we had an Indian Ceremony on Century Rock.


7/28
This morning we left on an all-day hike. To start us out, Trix read something Helen Keller had written: “If I could see…” Then we split up into partners. One was blind-folded and the other had to lead her, and describe things for her, and let her feel things, etc. I had to lead Marie first. Then we traded places and she guided me. It was great.

The hike wasn’t very hard at all. We went up past Twin Lakes to the saddle and Twin Peaks. It was really beautiful all the way up, but whoever said “the best view is from the top” knew what they were talking about. I wish everybody in the world could have the chance to see that. Notice everything and appreciate everything. That’s what the things in nature were put there for.

Since this week was “Easter Week” at camp, we all made “Easter Bonnets” and had a parade. Pippin was the commentator, and the camp directors were judges. Marie made a tin foil soldier helmet and won first place in our unit.

Most of the skits were really funny, but the only one I can remember is ours. You can tell I wrote it, just by the title—“Senior Citizens Romper Room.”  I was Great-Grandma Julie, Carolyn was Bigga Momma Stroganoff, Marie was “Mrs. Butterworth,” etc. We started out with “Sharing Time” (Show-and-Tell). Marie used Ember’s “Angry Doll” and said she used it when she was mad instead of yelling at her grandkids. Carolyn had a stuffed frog and said it was an old family pet they preserved after it died. Somebody else had a traffic sign and said they picked it up as a souvenir when they were crossing the plains.  After “Sharing Time” I said, “We’re ready, Grandma Music,” and we sang:

When upon life’s mountain you are over the hill
And you think the time has come to start your will
Count your many grandkids, name them one by one
Trying to remember them is lots of fun!

Then I announced that we were going into the kitchen for warm milk and prune juice.

After dinner and skits we had Testimony Meeting (where we share our spiritual feelings). We all went around the circle saying whatever we wanted to, and everyone started crying, and blowing their noses (except for me). I wasn’t going to say anything, because I really didn’t have anything to say that would benefit anyone, but everybody else did, so I decided I’d better. I talked about my experiences in Washington, D.C. and people I’d met there, and their view of Mormons. One of them asked if I was in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir! When I was almost finished, something came over me and I couldn’t say anything else. Not even “Amen.” That night I think I prayed more sincerely than I ever have in my whole life, and I just started to cry, and I couldn’t stop. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.


7/29

This morning Krispie asked us to do some creative writing on our feelings here at Brighton. It took me a long time to even get started, and a lot longer to finish. I’ve had some great experiences this week.

Our cabin was the only one that didn’t get TNT (Tops and Tidy). We all had to go up and finish cleaning it after lunch. I was in charge, but I couldn’t see anything wrong with it, so we just moved all the sleeping bags off the front porch, and it passed.

At the farewell assembly, all of the counselors sang. Then Petunia bore her testimony, and Pippin told the legend of the Pine Cone. Then the counselors said goodbye and passed out the name sheets (with all of the counselors' real names—Krispie is Holly Richards. Her younger brother goes to our high school next year.) Everybody started to cry—then they sang some more and we got on the bus.

The bus driver got mad at us because we were singing two different songs at the same time at the top of our lungs. This is one of my favorite songs (the one that really made the driver mad, too):

Old Mr Jones, he had troubles of his own
He had a yellow cat that just wouldn’t leave his home
He tried and he tried to give the cat away
He gave it to a man who was going far away

Chorus
But…the cat came back, the very next day
Oh, the cat came back
you know they thought he was a goner but
The cat came back
He just couldn’t stay away…
no, no, no, oh-oh-oh-oh, no, no, no, no…

The old man next door said he’d shoot the cat on sight
He loaded up his gun with nails and dyn-O-mite
He waited and he waited for the cat to come around
Ninety-nine pieces of the man was all the found

Chorus

The H-Bomb dropped just the other day
Somebody was trying to blow the cat away
China went, Russia went, and finally the good old USA
Everything was dee-molished…

Chorus

When we got to Marie’s church, her brother Mark rode over on his bike and picked up our duffel bags. (Thanks, Mark!) Then Dad picked me up at their house.

I keep thinking about last night’s Unit Prayer at camp. Krispie talked about a lot of things, but the thing I remember best is a story she read. It’s like a journal of a baby before it is born. You should have heard that story when Krispie read it. It really changed me.

I had big plans for today.

Sunday morning I got a great flash of inspiration about the post I should write for today—for Pioneer Day. I started drafting it in my head, then realized I needed more details.  I shot my friend an email. A couple of days later she shot me back a text—she's in town! We had the most blissful lunch yesterday talking about this amazing pioneer story she lived. I took copious notes. Made a recording. And realized it was way too big a story to whip out in one afternoon. Too much, in fact, for one blog post.

So I'm doing a serial. Starting as soon as she sends me her photos, I will post multiple episodes telling the saga of my favorite modern-day pioneer.

When I first heard the story myself, about 17 years ago, my jaw dropped. The world opened a little wider. The story has impacted me and lived with me ever since. It's a story of hope. Of sacrifice. Of optimism. Of hard work. Of letting the past inform the future. Of a pioneer. And it's still unfolding.

So hold tight, and stay tuned—it's coming. Just not today.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

UPDATE: My friend's story is now up. I felt impressed to start posting it in segments right after the little Syrian refugee boy was found washed ashore in Turkey on September 2. Suddenly the word refugee was on the forefront of the nation's consciousness, and the time was ripe. You can read PART ONE here, then click on the link at the end of each episode to read the next. I'm still amazed at the courage. The endurance. The work. The faith. The miracles. Don't miss it!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In the meantime, here are two favorite Pioneer Day posts from years past:

Plains, Trains and What Remains

O Pioneer...I'm Such A Wimp

Here's a link to a video, and a hashtag to broaden your celebration of all things Pioneer: #IAmAPioneer

Our Story Rituals

In our most recent Living Room radio episode, called "Meaningful Rituals," I talk about a favorite ritual from my growing-up years: Storytelling.


When I was a little girl, my beloved grandmother told us a favorite bedtime story every time we slept over in their little duplex on Capitol Hill. I loved listening to her gentle voice tell us the old-fashioned tale "Cozette" so much that I asked for a tape recording for my 25th birthday. You can read more about that special story here.

Grandma also told us silly stories about our dad when he was growing up: how he got a baby chick for Easter and named it Hallelujah. How he put two kittens in the fridge, and a duck in the dryer, and rode a horse bareback. How he misbehaved. We LOVED this youngster image of our dad that only Grandma could share.

My grandpa always told us stories that would raise the hair on the back of your neck: How he and his friends spit on a horseshoe for good luck, then he tossed it over his shoulder and sent it crashing through the school window! How he had a part-time job playing the organ at the silent movie theater, and playing saxophone in a dance band. How great-grandpa Cort once shot a bear right between the eyes...and outsmarted a town official in order to get justice for a Japanese immigrant the man had swindled. Grandpa himself later spoke out against the Japanese internment camps during World War 2. 

My grandpa on my mom's side used to SING us his stories. He loved the Christopher Robin songs by A. A. Milne and delighted us over and over with his adorable boyish renditions. It was pure magic to hear him sing these timeless stories.

My mother told us stories of her own family: How she was raised by her grandmother, whom they affectionately called Marmee (like the character she was nicknamed for—a strong young widow with four spirited daughters); How her youngest brother would spit out a now-famous string of the naughtiest words he could think of: P.O. Poop Out Stinker Bum!; how her father took them sailing on the Great Salt Lake, sang baritone solos in the Messiah, and had his own radio show; how her mother worked at an advertising agency in Los Angeles and how Grandpa called her his Happy Heart. And how her daddy would come home at night and entertain them at the dinner table by telling stories.

My father told us stories of his own childhood adventures -- ones I’m sure he never told his mother: How he and his friends found a dead body on the capitol grounds; How he found a leather pouch full of money under a tree and inadvertently interrupted an FBI stakeout; how he and his friends let the air out of the tires of a whole fleet of police cars parked at the capitol building one night; how an unstable kid named Ikey threatened to kill him; and how he discovered a hermit cave—and the hermit who lived there!   Dad also made up hilarious bedtime stories about spaceships and astronauts and what could go wrong in outer space. My dad's stories, more than any other, made me want to seek out and live adventures of my own, and write about them.

My husband is the King of Story. He writes screenplays, teaches screenwriting, produces and directs movies, creates webisodes, and exhausts every possible outlet for storytelling (as evidenced in his TedX talk, here). He reads wonderful books out loud to the family -- The Tale of Despereaux, Walk Two Moons, and Watership Down. Most recently we listened to The Boys in the Boat on tape, and he read to us aloud, "The Road" by Cormack McCarthy. He also makes up fabulous stories about our kids and their friends and their secret superpowers. He lives and breathes story.

And I've told a few stories of my own. One of my favorites became sort of an allegory on giving. Here is Jeremiah's Bedtime Story, called An Hundredfold. 

So you can see how the ritual of storytelling, begun by my grandparents, lives on in my life and the lives of our children. 

This post also appears on the FromTheLivingRoom website: http://toginet.com/shows/thelivingroom/articles/7700 Click here.

Post-It Notes From God

One summer, years ago, when we were visiting my in-laws in London, I noticed that my mother-in-law got a little quiet, even seemed a bit brisk on the last day of our trip, as if she were distancing herself emotionally. Hoping we hadn't offended her, I asked my husband, "Is your mom mad at us? Did we do something wrong?"

"No," he answered, "I think she just has a hard time saying goodbye."

It took me a few more years to realize that the reason he understood his mom so well is he has the same struggle. He has a hard time saying goodbye.

At first, this used to make me sad. I'd drive away (or watch him drive away...even worse) and think, He doesn't love me. He won't even miss me. 

It's a pretty unhealthy vortex.  We talked about it a few times. 

Then came the post-it notes. 

When we were in Florida together last March, and Jeff had to fly back early to teach a class, I got back to the hotel room, already missing him, and found notes from him everywhere...inside drawers, in my suitcase, in the bathroom, stuck to my hairbrush, inside the book I was reading...so many notes! I was amazed he had (or made) the time to write them all and hide them all. And each time I'd find one it would make me so happy. 

Last week was no exception. I left for six days of painting and teaching in Capitol Reef. I found the first note in the pocket of my hoodie. There was another inside a pad of paper. Another stuck to the Q-tip box in my cosmetic case. There was one inside my sketchbook. And another inside my palette. I kept finding them all week long. The students' eyes lit up whenever they saw me find one. Each note I discovered was a joyful surprise! There could be no doubt that he loved me.

When a shower repairman was at our house last month, he said, "Umm...when I'm in people's houses every day, I notice things." I thought, "Oh, no -- do we have a mold problem?" Instead, he said, "Those notes on the mirror....are awesome!" Yes, they're on the bathroom mirror too. Now as many from me to him as from him to me. We save every one. I love all the little reminders smiling back at me from the mirror. (And apparently so does the shower guy.)

Then I got to thinking...so many people seem to doubt God's love for them. They live with a constant black cloud over their heads, thinking not only "God doesn't love me," but eventually doubting His very existence. The thing they don't realize—and I include myself on the dark days—is there are love notes from God hidden everywhere. We just have to notice them, find them.

Start with nature. I just spent a week in Capitol Reef. The sheer natural beauty is overwhelming. Everywhere you look there's a gigantic post-it note from God: Here. I created this for you. I made it extra beautiful, just for you, because I love you. Enjoy fully!

Open your scriptures. It doesn't take long before you'll stumble across another figurative post-it note, a verse that strikes you in a new light, or even just a peaceful feeling, reminding you not just intellectually of God's love, but helping you instantly feel that love renewed.

Get on your knees. From the time I was a young girl I remember feeling something different when I said my prayers at night. Something I didn't feel any other time or place. A love note. From God. But you have to get down on your knees to find it, to feel it. Or at least close your eyes and clear your head. 

Visit His house. I don't think I've ever felt more precious, more loved, more cherished than when I'm inside the temple. If you pay attention, there's not just a single love note, but streams of love pouring down on you here.

Hold a baby. There is nothing like holding a precious, innocent creature so recently come from heaven to remind you of God's love. Let your gaze sink into the purity of those crystalline eyes and dive straight into that love.

Serve. Do something unselfish (and maybe a little inconvenient) to help somebody out. You'll see a love note reflected back in the gratitude in their eyes. Better yet, you'll feel it wrapped around you like a blanket and pounding in your heart. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me." (Matthew 25:40)

His post-it notes are everywhere, larger than life, yet so easy to miss if we're looking in the wrong places. The list above is just the beginning. I challenge you to find one, find ten, today. I promise it will make you a whole different kind of happy. You'll find joy.

What about you? Where do you usually find post-it notes from God, figurative reminders of his love? Let me know in the comments.

Nostalgia on Auto Pilot

Yesterday I passed my old car on the freeway. It wasn’t my EXACT old car. But it looked just like it -- same body style and color as well as make and model. And I felt this inexplicable fondness as I followed it up the highway. It even made me a little wistful, but not sad. It’s just that every time I see another bluish-greenish-grey Honda Pilot on the road, or even in a parking lot somewhere, I still see us. I see our family. Our life, changing lanes right there in front of me.

Taken on my birthday weekend, an impromptu trip to the Grand Canyon, circa 2005.

I see our trip to Newport for Thanksgiving, our trip to Los Angeles to see Earth, Wind and Fire at the Hollywood Bowl, a trip to Colorado to explore the Garden of the Gods, and a handful of trips to Sun Valley, Idaho for family reunions. I see us house-hunting and making a big, interstate move. But not just the big stuff. I also see a hundred trips to grandparents’ homes to rough-house with cousins. I see us piling all Josh’s belongings in--literally filling every inch of space from the floor to the roof--to move him home for the summer. I see the back crammed with art supplies, ready to take me off on a painting adventure...to Wyoming, California, Cayucos, Kayenta....wherever the muse awaits. I’m amazed that there can be so much nostalgia attached to one car.

But then I remember my very first car: a spanking-new Toyota Celica, gunmetal gray and shaped like a bullet. It symbolized freedom, independence, success. I bought it right after I got my first real job as a designer. Jeff and I did most of our dating in that car, and we drove it back and forth from Salt Lake to Los Angeles so many times we had every stretch of I-15 completely memorized. The Celica was also our honeymoon getaway car (after we washed off the shaving cream and streamers and oreos). 

And once, I spilled a quart of homemade ice cream in the trunk. I promptly cleaned it up, not realizing some had seeped under the mat and into the wheel well. In the full swelter of summer, it quickly created the foulest stench imaginable; like vomit on steroids. Yet I couldn’t find the source to save my life. Or my gag reflex. Once we discovered the epicenter of the stink and vacuumed it up, we tried to disguise the remaining odor with one of those cardboard tree-thingies from the car wash. The scent was called “Spring Magic,” which we quickly learned was a euphemism for “retch-triggering old-lady perfume gone viral”. It smelled even worse than the original odor it was supposed to mask. We still remember, because it made us so nauseated we finally had to pull off the freeway and throw it out. 

And then I remember how quickly the Celica disappeared. Early one morning we were on our way to choir practice. Francis Dauzat came out of nowhere, still on his pain medication from last week’s surgery, with a patch over one eye, and turned right in front of us, allowing no time to stop. There we were, a mass of mangled steel and broken glass, but no one was hurt -- not even the baby our friend Karen was carrying inside her. I remember calling the insurance company and the agent responding, “Frank again?” That’s not a good thing when you’re on a first-name basis with the folks who process insurance claims. And just like that I lost some of that freedom and independence, replacing it instead with a 4-door Mazda, and motherhood.

But I don’t miss that sporty little Celica quite as much as the white Subaru Wagon with the red and blue stripes on the sides. My heart still skips a beat if I see one of those babies on the road. Because that was the white stallion my prince rode in on when he came and swept me off my feet. That car meant, “Jeff is here.” That was the car I saw parked in front of our house when I was came home from a date with a different guy. (Total Ginger Grant/Eva Grubb moment.) As soon as my date dropped me off I ran searching for Jeff. And fortunately found him. That was also the car that met up with my Celica at the exact time at the exact same intersection. We both instinctively stopped right then and there and jumped out of our cars, and met in the middle of the intersection, falling into an embrace, followed by The Kiss That Could Stop Traffic. Little did I know, that same car, just seven months later, would be our wedding present from Jeff’s parents. Years later, long after we were married, my heart would still skip a beat whenever I saw the Subaru pull up, because it meant Daddy was home from work. It meant “Jeff is here.”

And now? I love our new car. Love it. (Except for the neck-contorting “head rest,” which is actually tricky sales copy for “torture device.”) I love the way it handles, and the clean interior, and the fancy backing-up camera. But I’m not nostalgic when I see it pull up. It’s a little too new for that. So far, I just love that the way we acquired it felt like a total miracle! And although that’s a terrific start, I know we haven’t made nearly enough memories in it yet. But we will. 

What memories are attached to your cars?

Linking up to Just Write with my friend Heather of the EO.

I Cannot Imagine a Home Without Story.

When I was a little girl, my beloved grandmother told us a favorite bedtime story every time we slept over. I loved listening to her silvery voice tell us the old-fashioned tale "Cozette" so much that I asked for a tape recording for my 25th birthday. Grandma also told us silly stories about our dad when he was growing up: how he got a baby chick for Easter and named it Hallelujah. How he put two kittens in the fridge, and a duck in the dryer, and rode a horse bareback. How he misbehaved. We LOVED this youngster image of our dad that only Grandma could share.

My grandpa told us stories that would raise the hair on the back of your neck: How he and his friends spit on a horseshoe for good luck, then he tossed it over his shoulder and sent it crashing through the school window! How he had a part-time job playing the organ at the silent movie theater. How great-grandpa Cort once shot a bear right between the eyes. How his father outsmarted a town official in order to gain restitution for a Japanese immigrant who’d been swindled. And how he himself spoke out against the Japanese internment camps during World War 2. 

My grandpa on my mom's side used to SING us his stories. He loved the Christopher Robin songs by A. A. Milne and delighted us over and over with his adorable boyish renditions. It was pure magic to hear him sing these timeless stories.

My mother told us stories of her own family: How she was raised by her grandmother, whom they affectionately called Marmee (Marmee, like the character she was nicknamed for, was a strong young widow with four spirited daughters); How her youngest brother spit out a now-famous string of the naughtiest words he could think of: P.O. Poop Out Stinker Bum!; how her father took them sailing on the Great Salt Lake, sang solos in the Messiah, had his own radio show; how her mother worked at an advertising agency in Los Angeles and how Grandpa called her his Happy Heart; how she wrote magazine articles under a pen name, and authored a children’s book. 

Mom also read to us night after night...The Cookie Tree and Miss Suzie and Why Mosquitoes Buzz in People’s Ears, plus timeless classics from her own childhood: Epaminondas and Thunder Cave.

My father told us stories of his own childhood adventures -- ones I’m sure he never told his mother: How he and his friends found a dead body on the capitol grounds; How he found a leather pouch full of money under a tree and inadvertently interrupted an FBI stakeout; how he and his friends let the air out of the tires of a whole fleet of police cars parked at the capitol building one night; how an unstable kid named Ikey threatened to kill him; and how he discovered a hermit cave—and the hermit who lived there!   Dad also made up hilarious bedtime stories about spaceships and astronauts.

My husband is the King of Story. He writes screenplays, teaches screenwriting, directs movies, creates webisodes, and exhausts every possible outlet for storytelling (as evidenced here). He reads wonderful books out loud to the family -- The Tale of Despereaux, Walk Two Moons, and Watership Down. He also makes up fabulous stories about our kids and their friends and their secret superpowers. He lives and breathes story.

Which is why he’s been invited to speak at this conference: http://www.cherishbound.com/blog/storyathome/

It’s presented by Cherish Bound.  http://www.cherishbound.com/

And hosted by FamilySearch. https://www.familysearch.org/

March 8-10, 2012.

Save the date, and I’ll save you a seat!

          --But wait, there’s more! (No Ginzu Knives...)

            I’m presenting there too. I’m speaking about balance. Or rather, how to juggle a lot of dangerous objects projects without maiming or injuring yourself. Something along those lines.  

I believe there are few things as powerful as STORY to unite us at home. I’m so

excited about this conference and a chance to explore something so important and

entertaining and beloved. I hope to see you there!

The Year Santa Forgave Me

One year, when I was about seven, it dawned on me the afternoon of Christmas Eve...I wasn’t good enough. Not in a self-esteem-in-a-vacuum sort of way, but in a naughty-vs-nice sort of way. I’d been mean to my sister WAY too many times. I’d whined when my mom asked me to help her clean the kitchen. I’d taken cookies without asking. My room was a mess. But mostly I knew it was that mean part that made me not good enough. And I was seriously worried that Santa might not come.

What if I didn’t get any presents? --Or worse, what if I got coal? But what bothered me even more than the presents and the shame was my own meanness. I didn’t like it when my heart felt stingy and angry. I didn’t like thinking about how good I wasn’t.

I decided to change, right then and there. Santa was probably already soaring through the night sky over the Orient and probably wouldn’t be revising his list this late in the game, but it was still worth a try. We listened to the radar report; he’d reached the middle east. Not much time left. I tried to be extra nice to my sister. I let her play with my doll. I let her win at Yahtzee. I tried as hard as I could to do everything single little thing my mom asked me. I had already helped making candies and cookies, sending myself to batter-licking nirvana. I volunteered to wrap presents, even though I knew it was too late. Then I served my dad. I gave him one of those neck rubs he loves, then ran my fingers through his hair...and kept doing it for [what seemed like] hours. And I didn’t complain when it was time to go to bed.

I hoped it would work. I knew it was a last-ditch effort. But it was sincere.

That Christmas morning I was strangely not tempted to badger my parents to go out and see what was under the tree. I was still scared. What if my efforts weren’t enough to make up for a year of badness and meanness? Santa might not have brought me any presents at all. Fear and dread kept me from dashing out there to take a peek. I got dressed. I cleaned my room. I made my bed. I helped my mom stir orange juice for breakfast, and didn’t wince when she called it Juice-y.

Finally, I could stall no longer. Mom and Dad had us line up in the hallway and sing a Christmas carol, with me leading the way. I walked to the familiar chair where Santa always tucked my presents, and found it full-to-overflowing. Santa came after all. I could hardly believe my eyes...or my luck.

What I learned that Christmas has lasted a lifetime. Because that year I learned about mercy and grace. I knew that, despite my change of heart, no amount of effort on a cold Christmas eve could possibly right the wrongs of an entire year. And yet there were gifts. Unearned, undeserved gifts. Rewards for faith and a change of heart. Forgiveness.

It reminded me of this spread from What Think Ye of Christmas:

Some parents choose not to teach their children about the wonder of Santa Claus. (Let alone elves, reindeer, and a sleigh that circles the globe in a single night.) And I can understand why. But I would suggest that Santa is a symbol. A kind, bearded man who invites children to come and sit on his knee and tell him their dreams...”Suffer the children to come unto me”...and then showers them with gifts...is clearly a metaphor. I think believing in the goodness of Santa gives way to our faith in an all-knowing, pure-loving Lord who invites even the weakest among us to Come Unto Him. We tell him our struggles, our sorrows, our hopes...he invites us to change our hearts...and then He showers us with blessings, grace, and forgiveness.

There could be no greater gift.

I Know Where's Susan's Going to Be...

Nearly sixteen years ago, I gave birth to a baby girl. This was both precious and poignant, because this time I was giving birth without my mother. When I delivered our first child, my mom (then courageously battling breast cancer) was right there in the delivery room, feeding me ice chips, placing cool rags on my forehead, and literally breathing with me through the contractions. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through another baby now that she was gone.

But this birth had been almost easy -- our little princess seemed to pop out after just two pushes! It was almost as if someone had swooped down from heaven and placed her in my arms. We called our families to spread the news. Then they whisked her off to the nursery and wheeled me into the recovery room for a long winter’s nap.

As I was just waking up, still groggy, I remember hearing the hospital room door squeak open. I slowly turned to see who it was, and there stood my Dad! I have no idea how he managed to get there so fast, how many people he had to pay off at the airport to get him on the first flight out, but at a time when I was missing Mom and feeling very much alone, to have my Dad just magically appear at the hospital was about my favorite surprise ever. And I’ll never forget his first sentence: He said, “I knew where Susan (my mom) was going to be this morning, and I wanted to be here too.” As soon as he said that, I had no doubt that she was. I knew she had been there easing my labor and delivery, but this time from the other side of the veil.

* * * * *

I came to understand my dad's sentence a little more deeply last week. My adorable Aunt Elen, full of unstoppable energy and always warm and wonderful, finally passed away. I was stunned. I honestly didn’t think the cancer would beat her. I saw her just a few weeks earlier, and she looked amazing! Gorgeous white hair, periwinkle jacket, sparkling eyes. She had battled breast cancer three separate times over the past 25 years.

She is the one who, having recently survived breast cancer herself, knew just what to do when my mom was diagnosed. She took her wig-shopping, prosthesis shopping, and offered tons of experienced advice. She came over and cleaned her house, made up a month’s worth of meals and stocked her freezer, was a bonafide angel.

So when I got word that her funeral was Thursday, I immediately started making arrangements to be there. It was at the worst possible time (what death is ever convenient?) —right in the middle of one of my watercolor classes. It took me hours to find, bribe, train and prep a substitute. But I felt this incredible pull — I just knew I had to be there!

I loved every minute of the funeral from the moment I walked in the door. It was wonderful seeing cousins, uncles, aunts and old friends I hadn’t seen for years and years. Familiar faces, long lost and beloved. The room where the family gathered was filled to overflowing with affection and deep respect.

Each one of her children spoke -- each painted a different aspect of her character, like brushstrokes on a painting, until the portrait felt complete. Each spoke with faith, courage, and powerful testimony. Having lost my own mother nearly 19 years ago, I could identify with the feeling of stepping up to that microphone and wanting -- needing -- to share three salient points: That Mother was an amazing and courageous saint. That sensing her cross the veil to the other side was a sacred experience. And that we will see her again.

As I drank in their words, I nodded. I knew. The feeling in the room was akin to exultant as we listened and celebrated a life well lived. And then it came back to me, that line my dad said to me when our baby girl was born: “I knew where Susan was going to be this morning, and I wanted to be here too.”

I remembered how much it meant to me to see my cousins at my mother’s funeral...especially the one who drove through the night from California. I wanted to be there for my cousins at their time of loss. I wanted to honor my wonderful aunt, pay my respects, and add my Amen. But I realized at that moment that yet another thought had driven me with an unconscious and unprecedented urgency: “I know where Susan (my mom) is going to be that morning, and I want to be there too.”

Silently, I let a question, a cry, leave my heart: “Are you here, Mom?” An unmistakable, warm and tingly flood came over me at that instant, and I knew that she was. Of COURSE she was at her wonderful sister’s funeral! And what if I had missed a chance to be with her?


* * * * *

Today we went to church. I sat quietly in the back trying to keep the kids quiet. But I couldn’t help thinking of a wonderful Loved One who died over two thousand years ago, and lives! Someone we adore. And my heart formed a similar sentence: I know where the Savior is going to be this morning, and I want to be there too. Attending church with that frame of mind made a difference for me. I felt jubilant. I knew He was there for me. I felt His presence. And His love. And I was filled. What if I had missed that chance to be with Him?

Twelve Gifts: #3 A QUESTION

22 years ago last August, this adorable man asked me a life-changing question that is one of life's most amazing gifts: He asked me to marry him—implying that he loved me enough to want to spend the rest of his life with me...and all of eternity as well. Sometimes I am still in awe of that willingness to commit. Without a moment's hesitation, I answered YES! (I'd actually been waiting for this particular question for MONTHS...much longer than it ever felt to wait for Santa to come!) Somehow I just KNEW he was The One.

I was lucky enough to be working as the editorial art director for a regional magazine at the time, and scored our fashion photographer, Dirk Douglass, to do these engagement photos.

And then 22 years ago today, wearing my mother's heirloom custom-tailored dress, I knelt across the altar from him and whispered a reverent but rich-with-anticipation "Yes!". Our lives have been a series of non-stop adventures ever since.

—Oh, and just for the record, I would STILL say yes!

The Bogeyman of Edinburgh

The idea came to us in the hallowed halls of Cambridge, where I totally imagined Fagin to be collecting orphan boys, and Macbeth lurking in the next cloister. Just as our semester was coming to a close, my friend Dottie and I stuffed our Sidney Sussex towels into our duffels, and plotted a way to tour the UK for a few weeks on a Brit-Rail pass. (It’s a great way to travel when you’re young and foolish.)

You have to know my friend Dottie. She is a tormented writer. And the most hilarious storyteller. Truly, I am convinced that the universe conspired to have the most bizarre things happen to her, simply so she could write about them, tell the world her stories. You can imagine my delight in tagging along with her. I felt more like an accomplice than a sidekick!

In order to save money, we planned on taking “night trains” instead of staying in a hotel. We'd magically just "wake up" in the next city. It seemed like a great idea, but since the UK is geographically challenged, the only trains that would grant us a full eight hours of (not) sleeping were the ones that ran between England and Scotland. Even then, schedules were quite compromising. (I distinctly remember disembarking in Inverness at 5-something in the morning, and wandering the foggy streets until the bakeries and coffee shops opened). I have many, many spine-tingling stories of these Brit-Rail adventures, but one of the most memorable (that I thankfully lived to tell) took place on our first visit to Edinburgh.

We arrived in the late afternoon, just before sunset, and basically had a few hours to wander the city before catching a night train to London. We locked our bags at the train station and started making our way to the center of town when we met a little old Scottish man on the street who offered to show us around the city. We looked at each other, and shrugged “why not?”, so we suddenly had our own private tour guide of hidden Edinburgh, Mr. Thomas Bogey. That was his real name.

[I write this now and want to wave my arms and shout “Hello, girls! Red Flag! The name alone should be enough of a warning! Run while you can!” but...]

We couldn’t believe this little old man was willing to spend hours escorting us through Edinburgh to show us his favorite sites. He didn’t know any good sweater shops, but he assured us he’d give us an amazing tour of the city. So we loped alongside him as the sun lowered and the shadows lengthened over Edinburgh.

He did take us to most of the key places, and he knew a great deal about the history and such, but what began to be disturbing was what ELSE he knew. He’d stretch out a gnarled finger and say in his thick brogue, “Right over there a little girl and her mother were killed. Their bodies were found just beyond that thicket.” or “Right over there a young lady disappeared. No one ever saw her again. Papers say she fell in the river, but I don’t think so.” “Right over there a teenage boy died. Shot in the head. Nobody found out who did it.” Holy cow, was this guy ever giving us the creeps! How did he know so much about every murder in town? And why was he telling us? I secretly decided the only reason he was so obsessed with all this killing was because HE'S THE ONE WHO DID IT!

I exchanged a few wary glances with Dottie, but neither one of us dared say anything for fear he’d do us in right then and there. He led us through so many dark alleys and deserted byways I didn't know if we'd ever find our way back. Finally we got near enough to the train station that we thought we could make a run for it. We told Mr. Bogey it had been a lovely tour, and we thought we should be heading back to the train station now, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Nay, lassies, it’s only half past seven and your train doesn’t leave till nine. Besides, ye haven’t seen Scott's Monument. It’s just around this bend here. Come along...ye can't say ye've been to Edinburgh and not see Scott's monument.”

[What was next? Robbie Burns’ grave? Mwaahhahaha!]


So a few minutes later we found ourselves reluctantly standing beneath the gothic spires of a looming 200-ft. tower: Scott Monument. “Lovely.” “Mm-hmm. Very nice. Okay, let’s go.”
But the Bogeyman was unrelenting: “Ye have to go inside and climb to the top. Ye can see all of Edinburgh from up there. It’s most beautiful as night falls.” "No, that's okay. Really..." But Mr. Bogey insisted on dragging us up there...and paying our entrance fees.

[What? So now that it’s FREE it’s okay? Hellooo...!]

The next thing we know we’re entering the monument and climbing this rickety, only-wide-enough-for-one-person spiral staircase up-up-up to the top of Scott Monument, like we're in the sequel to Vertigo. As we climb, the morbid thoughts increase: “This is it. This is where he’s planning to do us in.” And there was no way out. Ahead, there was my friend Dottie, carefully and breathlessly making her way up the stairs of doom. Behind me there was only Thomas, the Bogeyman of Edinburgh, poised to hurl me down said stairs. So I kept climbing.

When I finally crept out onto the balcony at the top, relieved to see sky again, Thomas started in on another tale of how some unlucky lad fell to his death from that perch. A little breeze picked up and I got the shivers. The Bogeyman made his way over to the edge of the balcony and motioned for us to come look. I stayed frozen, clinging to the stairwell for dear life. But Dottie was making her way to the railing where he was waiting for us. I can still see her, with her big black-and-white tote bag slung over her shoulder. And I called out to her, in that muffled, motionless, make-no-sound voice, the way it happens in nightmares: “Dottie...Nahooooh....!” But it was too late.

She was already there, next to Thomas, looking over the edge. I had to do something. I made my way to the lookout and grabbed hold of Dottie’s purse strap, (as if that were going to protect either of us) and she had hold of my arm. We each clutched the railing with an immovable death grip. I gasped audibly. And took in the breathtaking sights of Edinburgh, shivering in the evening breeze. Our hearts never stopped racing. But neither of us was hurled to her death.

After a few minutes fearfully gazing over the city, we stepped rather gingerly down as our would-be assassin led us back over the rickety stairs and then disappeared into the evening shadows. That was it.

We compared notes all the way to the train station. We were both convinced we were being led through the city by a serial killer. And that he was planning to hurl us to our deaths from the top of Scott Monument. But it turns out the terrors of certain-and-imminent-death were all in our heads, and our Bogey-man was none other than a curmudgeonly Boo Radley, with a brogue.

Or was he?

I’ve asked myself time and again if this was a bonafide brush with death, and we were mysteriously protected by a ring of guardian angels, or if our fears were altogether unfounded. Perhaps Mr. Bogey himself was our guardian angel, protecting us from some other unseen evil as he escorted us through after-hours Edinburgh.

— Which ultimately makes me wonder, how many other unlikely angels go unrecognized? And how many irrational fears keep us from fully enjoying the moment at hand?


__________________
My apologies to the four of you who read a serialized version of this during my first month of blogging. This has now been edited down and slightly retooled for Scribbit's October Write-Away Contest: Fear. (I also need to add that I totally got the idea to resurrect an old post from InkMom, who reposted a positively spine-tingling, horrifying story! Be sure to visit her next, if you haven't already.)

She Loves You? Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. (And then some.)

My Dear Oldest Son,

I’m sure you didn’t think it was very significant when we picked you up on Friday and the first thing The Princess asked you was, “Have you seen your room?”

Let me tell you a story....

When I was nearly four years old, I tripped on the sidewalk in my shiny black shoes on the way to Sunday School. I landed on the right on the curb, earning myself this attractive black eye just in time for Christmas:


The first thing I said? “I want to be in Grandma’s bed.”
Grandma W was the most nurturing person in my world. She was practically the center of my universe. She seemed to have magical powers, turning black clouds up on end to display not just their silver linings, but bright rays of gold shining through. She was the very embodiment of unbridled joy, and her bed was the very essence of all that meant “comfort” to my four-year-old heart.

My wise parents acted on my wishes, and I soon found myself resting on mounds of down-feathered pillows under layers of hand-stitched quilts, in Grandma’s hand-carved oak bed. Right where I needed to be. Suddenly it didn’t matter if my head hurt. I was comfortable. I was safe. I was loved.

*Flash forward a few decades.*

The other night The Princess was feeling sick. She had a fever, a sore throat, a stomach ache...and woke up in the night with a fierce case of the flu. What she did completely surprised me. She crawled into YOUR bed! (even though this photo is of her on the couch)



My first impulse was to scold her. To lecture her about spreading germs, and unnecessary cleaning projects. And then I thought of my three-year-old self longing for a place that was comforting, that reminded me of the very essence of Home. And she chose the space that reminded her of YOU. That was her comfort place — the haven kept waiting for her big brother.

And so I let her. She camped out there for three or four days. And then made sure to tidy everything up and change the sheets before you came home.

So I’m pretty sure that when she asked you if you’d seen your room...she hoped you wouldn’t mind the flowered pillowcases and mismatched sheets (hey, at least they’re clean!) and I think she also kind of wanted you to know that your room had been her safe place last week. A place representing all the comfort and protection and love her big brother has to offer. Which of course means more than you’ll ever know.

Love,

Mom

When "Back to School" Launched Me Forward

I went away to study Graphic Design at Otis/Parsons in Los Angeles when I was a skinny, shy 18-year-old. I was dragging a suitcase and kicking along a box of art supplies with my foot, slowly making my way to the curb to hail a cab. I was terrified to be alone in the heart of Los Angeles by myself. (Can you imagine? Coming from UTAH?) The dorm was right across the street from MacArthur Park (which we affectionately called MacMurder Park for the nightly killings taking place there.) I didn’t know a single soul. It was a scary-fast way to grow up and enter adulthood.

There was a broad range of characters...people so interesting and/or funny you’d swear I made them up: The rich Australian playboy whose dad ran a hotel school in Geneva and had just come via some fancy boarding school in France. The guy who walked and talked like a penguin, majored in fashion design, and almost got expelled for flushing plastic bags full of veggies down the toilet. The kind-hearted Jewish girl whose single mother was battling cancer. The smart kid from the midwest who drove his own car out, and loved to listen to bluegrass music. The couple who got kicked out of the dorms when the maids found whips and chains, and the bed smeared with whipped cream and honey. (I was like, What?) My own roommate from Chicago, who was allergic to air conditioning (Kill me now--I had to shower three times a day to survive that heat!).

That first evening, a teacher spoke to all the incoming students in the grand ballroom, attempting to educate us on being street-smart in the big city. She said she had her personal painting studio in the roughest part of town (although I honestly couldn’t imagine anyplace rougher than where we were!). She told us she kept getting stopped by panhandlers and was even mugged a couple of times on her way to the studio...until she got smart. Then, inspired with a solution only an artist would devise, she literally put together a “street-person costume” complete with bedraggled clothes, a big, baggy jacket, mismatched shoes, and an old misshapen hat she pulled way down to hide her face. She said once she started donning her “homeless outfit” to go to the studio, no one ever bothered her again!

Yeah, that first day of Design School was like crashing head-on into a train called World. But it didn’t kill me. To the contrary, I found it terrifyingly exhilarating, more like a launching pad hurling me toward real life!

Plains and Trains...and What Remains

I want to tell you a story about a woman named Rebecca. She was raised in New York, and her father was a famous drummer. --Not a drummer in a rock band, but the drummer on the back of the bicentennial quarter. Gideon Burdick, as a young teenager, was George Washington’s drummer as he led troops across the Delaware in the Revolutionary War: “The muffled sounds of Burdick’s drum encouraged the soldiers through the snow and sleet to the icebound Delaware River.”* And when this brave young man grew up and had a family, he had a daughter named Rebecca.

Okay, sorry to get all historical on you. But I almost feel like I know Rebecca. And she has an amazing story:

Back in 1824 she married a tall, handsome guy named Hiram Winters and they were totally in love. One night while Hiram was away attending meetings, Rebecca dreamed that Hiram returned to her with some kind of wonderful gift, something of great worth that made her amazingly happy. It filled her with a light and joy that lingered throughout the next day. She couldn’t imagine what Hiram could possibly give her that would make her so happy. When Hiram returned, he handed Rebecca a small book and said, “I will make you a present of that.” It was one of the first copies of The Book of Mormon. She recognized it as the gift from her dream, and knew at once how precious it was: “Each time I searched its pages I felt that same light and influence as I felt in my dream.”*

They were severely persecuted for their beliefs. Five times they were turned out of their homes by angry mobs and forced to flee for safety. Finally they joined a wagon train and headed west. Hiram had built the wagons himself, and Rebecca hand-stitched their clothing for the trek.
About two-thirds through their journey, cholera struck the camp. Cholera is a horrible disease with intense diarrhea causing a rapid drop in blood pressure and acute dehydration. Rebecca attempted to nurse others back to health, and was eventually stricken herself. She died in less than a day.

There was no coffin, other than a few wagon boards that could be spared. Her husband dug a deep grave that would keep her remains safe, lovingly tossing in his belt buckle as a remembrance. There was no headstone for her resting place, but a wheel rim from a broken-down wagon was found. A dear friend, William Reynolds, sat up through the night chiseling into the cold steel the words, “Rebecca Winters, Aged 50 Years.”
Imagine the heartache as the rest of the company pulled away the next morning, leaving Rebecca behind. Imagine, too, the pain of her son Oscar, who went ahead to build her a house, when he saw everyone but Mother arrive.

Fast-forward 50 years.
Around the turn of the 20th century, The Burlington Railroad was laying track as it moved westward, and a surveyor noticed the wagon wheel with the chiseled letters: Rebecca Winters, Aged 50 years. This is one of very few marked graves discovered on the plains. In an amazing gesture of humanity, the railroad tore up several miles of track to reroute so as not to disturb Rebecca’s resting place.

Fast-forward another 90 years.
The railroad was concerned about the safety of the many visitors to the grave because of its proximity to the tracks. They contacted the family and requested permission to move the grave.

A formal archaeological dig ensued. Suspense filled the air as a high-tech instrument with a metal plate began shaving off layers of dirt until the perimeters of the grave appeared a foot below the surface. They found Rebecca’s remains in near-pristine condition, complete with her husband’s belt buckle thrown in as a memento.

In 1997 I attended the rededication of the Rebecca Winters gravesite. I rode to Scottsbluff in an air-conditioned SUV and still managed to complain about the heat and the dust and the length of the ride. When I paused to consider the conditions our ancestors traveled in, it was incredibly humbling.

It was very moving to see the love and care from strangers and outsiders toward my 3rd great-grandmother for more than a century. And the significance of being able to actually touch the hand-chiseled inscription on the wheel-marker was like traveling back in time, a tangible linking of several generations.

Rebecca’s story has many parallels to my own family:
My mother, too, died in her early 50s. Several months later I dreamed she was still with us, but very ill. Our family was preparing for some kind of a vacation or journey. We begged her to join us, but she firmly stated we would have to complete the journey without her, all the while assuring us that we could.

We trudge along, sometimes stumbling and straying, and struggling to find our way. We’re learning first hand how difficult it can be to journey as a family -- especially while planning on journeying into eternity together. And sometimes it still seems my mother whispers to us, assuring us that we can succeed.

The one thing I find rather attractive about the pioneer trek is the simplicity of that existence. Focusing on a single path (note name of blog), moving a certain distance each day, almost seems therapeutic compared to my hectic, frazzled lifestyle, being pulled in so many directions, scattered between so many urgent needs. I should not allow myself to become distracted by the materialistic briars and thistles of our era, derailed by potholes of pride, or poisoned by snakebites of selfishness. I realize that I could do well to focus more intently on the true journey at hand, and never weary of doing good.

If you are faithful, the day will come when those deserving pioneers whom you rightly praise for having overcome the adversities in their wilderness trek will instead praise you for having made your way successfully through a desert of despair, for having passed through a cultural wilderness and having kept the faith.

–Elder Neal A. Maxwell

* From "Rebecca Burdick Winters: The Supreme Sacrifice" by Cassie Winslow