A London Landmark, and a Sanctuary

After the Tower of London we stepped inside the oldest church in London, just a few steps northwest of the tower. We were met by the most charming and unassuming tour guide, who showed us the Saxon Arch (670 a.d.) and then the Roman floor (180 a.d.). He also told us wonderful stories, and the origin of ceremonies such as "beating the border," and delivering a red rose to the mayor annually in payment for the unauthorized construction of a bridge that has long since disappeared.

We walked just a few more blocks and discovered another church, designed by Sir Chrisopher Wren in the 17th century, that was bombed during WWII. Only the tower remains, and a few outer walls, but the church and the city have left it as a reminder, and turned it into the most peaceful garden. What could have been an ugly scar has been turned into a peace of refuge and contemplation in the center of a busy city.

After a lovely stop, we walked along the Thames to the National Theatre and saw "Les Blancs"...a very sobering and thoughtful play about race relations in south Africa. It reminded me of the book I read about orphanages in Nepal, where some of the charitable work we do as Americans actually ends up furthering and increasing the problem of child abduction there. Balancing our charitable impulses with real information and what will truly do the most good is never as simple as it seems.

Does Prayer Work?

Ever wonder if there's Anyone out there listening or if the prayers you utter just dissolve into the ozone? Here is my own experience with prayer.

When I was a teenager, I started to doubt the existence of God. I wanted to know if there really was Someone out there in charge and if that Someone knew who I was, cared about me and loved me. It was a pretty big IF for a 14-year-old to ponder.

I had always been taught to pray, so I did. Every night I'd kneel by the side of my bed and try to communicate with Whomever was out there in the great unknown. But I wasn't sure if I was talking to anyone at all or if anyone was listening to my ramblings on the other side.

The first thing I noticed was that something felt different when I prayed—I felt different when I prayed. There was of course the feeling of my knees on the nubby carpet and my hands on the chenille bedspread. But the something different I felt was something inside me. Something slowed-down, something warm-fuzzy. I felt comfortable and secure. But that still didn't answer my IF.

Then one day, after months of all this wondering, I got an answer. The answer didn't come while I was praying, but it came when I could hear it, when I was in the right frame of mind: quiet, open-hearted, listening. I didn't see a lightning bolt, hear an earth-shaking voice or anything dramatic. What came over me was afeeling. But it was as clear as if I had heard a voice, seen a flash of light. I knew there was a Someone out there and that Someone knew me, knew I was searching, cared about me and loved me. This feeling that swept over me had that familiar slowed-down, warm-fuzzy, comfortableness; but it was bigger, richer, deeper, fuller. It tugged at corners of my soul I'd never felt before. It flooded me with joy.

Later, my young adult self started to feel disconnected again from that Being who had reached out to me as a young teenager. I was at a point in my life where I needed answers to other big questions: education, career path, marriage, etc. The decisions seemed too big to make on my own. I needed God. I wanted some concrete, specific answers.

So, I started keeping a prayer journal.

On the left-hand page I would write down the specific question I had asked or the help I had asked for. Each time I asked about that item in prayer, I'd put a little check mark next to it. Some of these had dozens of checks next to them. On the right-hand page I'd record my answers. At first, I went through the left-hand pages rapidly, while the right-hand pages lay blank. But as I started to pay attention to all the possible ways God could be communicating with me, that pattern reversed itself.

Someone mentioned something that really struck me in a conversation—something pertinent to my question that stood out for me to take notice. I'd write that down. An event or set of circumstances took place—meeting a certain person at a significant time and place. I'd write that down too. Quiet impressions, streams of ideas, thoughts that suddenly lined up with clarity and order. I recorded these as well.

Before I knew it, the right-hand pages were completely full! Not a single prayer had gone unanswered. There sat my question or plea on the mostly-bare left-hand page, and opposite that were dozens of answers—some so tiny I might not have noticed if I hadn't been watching for them; others that could only be explained by Divine intervention. Miracles. I was grateful and amazed. I knew with a more powerful certainty that God does listen, that prayers do work and that I was being watched-over and helped.

Fast-forward to last week. I lost my wallet. Somewhere between one errand and the next it had disappeared. I retraced my steps, made phone calls. I returned to places I had visited, spoke with managers who opened safes. No wallet. I scoured the house, turning over couch cushions, opening cupboards, dismantling clutter.

After several days had gone by, and the wallet still had not turned up, I started to panic a little. I checked my online bank accounts and credit cards for illegal activity, considering reporting the cards as lost or stolen. In a last-ditch effort (why I waited this long I have no idea) I took to my knees.

I asked God to watch over my wallet, to keep it safe. To point me towards its whereabouts. Then I stopped worrying about it.

The next day, as the sun was about to set and I was folding the last load of laundry, the doorbell rang. There stood a familiar clerk from our neighborhood grocery store, holding my wallet. "You left your wallet at the store," she said. "I thought you might need it this weekend." I didn't tell her my wallet had been missing for an entire week; that I had been back to the store several times looking for it, asking about it. I just marveled that a young person had found my wallet, looked inside for my name and address and delivered it right to my front door, the contents completely intact, including $90 in cash and a couple of gift cards. I thanked her profusely.

Then I paused. I got down on my knees and thanked God. For answering, protecting, locating and returning my wallet. I might not have considered it so miraculous had I simply stumbled upon it in the laundry room the next day. But missing it for a week, retracing every step, searching everywhere, then having it returned to me in such an amazing way, I could only give credit to Him (and to the sweet grocery checker He used as an assistant.)

God doesn't always answer my prayers so quickly and completely. I don't make a habit of bothering him with all my lost items and expecting him to laser-point them out for me. But every once in a while He sends me a miracle to remind me He's there and prayers work.

This was published on FamilyShare on January 28, 2016.

Peace At Any Price

Liz Shropshire was one of my first close friends after moving to Los Angeles. She was studying music at USC at the same time my husband, Jeff, was in USC's cinema school. We instantly found lots of common ground...music, service, movies, and adventure. Together we sat side by side frantically copying orchestra parts for an assignment due, we ventured south of Los Angeles to visit the famous Watts towers, we served in the youth center at this beautiful Santa Monica site, a bastion of peace for us both, and one day we even helped rescue an old woman whose apartment was on fire in Liz's building. We've been through a lot together.

Amazingly, each of these stand-out activities that originally bonded us as friends now stands as a symbol of something bigger in both of our lives.

• I wasn't a music major, I knew only piano-lessons level theory, and I'd never copied parts before in my life. But somehow Liz believed in me and helped me believe I could do it too. She had the big vision. I just contributed my part. We did it together, and it worked.

• When we climbed and took pictures of ourselves on the Watts Towers, little did we know that the riots that tore apart the community of Watts in the 1960s would repeat themselves as the Rodney King riots in the 1990s, and our USC apartments were inside the first (most dangerous) curfew zone. We were survivors of a major outbreak of violence.

• Working at the youth center taught us not only to love teaching, and to love working with children, but that beautiful sacred space taught us what peace really is, what it feels like when you're standing on holy ground, and what it feels like inside your heart.

• The woman didn't even realize her apartment was on fire—something had combusted inside her kitchen cabinet—until Liz smelled smoke and pounded on her door.  I wonder how many other people smelled smoke and walked on by, but Liz is never afraid to act. She has a skillset I deeply admire—the ability to sense a need, and ACT—calmly and responsibly.

So it shouldn't surprise you that in 1999 Liz heard an NPR story about children in Kosovo, innocent victims in a war-torn country, and felt moved to act. That story tugged at something deep and compassionate inside her with such power that she decided to sell everything she had and buy a plane ticket to Kosovo. She didn't really have a plan in place at the time. She had a music degree and a ton of teaching experience in some rough, inner-city Los Angeles schools. And some loose ties to a service organization there. A Los Angeles friend encouraged her to "do what you do best" and take along some musical instruments, for the heck of it. By the time of her departure she had raised enough funds to arrive in Kosovo with $5000 worth of musical instruments to take to the children there. The Shropshire Music Foundation was born: Teaching Peace Through Music.


Liz has devoted everything she has over the past 16 years to teaching children peace—first in Kosovo, and later opening programs in Uganda and Northern Ireland—with a hope to expand to benefit the Syrian refugees in 2016. She is, without a doubt, one of my biggest heroes.

Last month Liz was in town for a conference. I dropped everything when I heard she was in town. I hadn't seen her in person since she was packing her bags for Kosovo in 1999. I went to listen to her speak, then we took her out to dinner with some friends the following night so our kids could also hear her amazing stories—how little children who used to wake up screaming every night because of the horrors they've witnessed now sleep through the night because of the soothing power of music;—how Ugandan youths who were turned into soldiers at age 5 are now learning music and leadership, and the true meaning of power and peace;—how 95% of their youth volunteers go on to attend college;—how Liz is guided by a Higher Power that continues to open doors and work miracles. It was one of the most motivating and inspiring evenings we've spent in a long time.

I tell parts of Liz's story on our latest Living Room show, "Peace, Be Still." There's a link at the top of the page where you can play it right from this site. Hear about Nelson Mandela's widow, Graça Machel, and how her research backs up Liz's programs—that children heal best through the arts, and teens heal best in a teaching capacity. Liz and her children across the globe are living proof.



In the past month we've seen so much violence and disruption, drawing ever closer to home. It becomes more and more apparent how desperately we all need peace on earth, and peace in our individual homes and hearts.

"Peace at any price" is a saying my mother-in-law uses to encourage us to let go of pride and selfishness in favor of peace within the family. Liz has taken that a step further and has literally given up everything she has—including a place to live—in order to work for peace. To her there is literally no pricetag too high to teach and further the cause of peace.

Our family has chosen the Shropshire Music Foundation as our charity of choice this giving season. I may not be able to do what Liz does, but I can help her teach and spread peace. We are donating a portion of all our online shopping through smile.amazon.com. And we are looking at other ways to contribute financially and in kind. I hope you'll join us.

Trust the Process

“To teach well...is to make a difference. To teach unusually well is to create magic.”  — Kay Redfield Jamison, Exuberance, the Passion for Life

There is something so invigorating about a new school year. It brings whispers of things to come, there is excitement in the air, and the classroom is buzzing with potential.

 I love the line in the movie “You’ve Got Mail” where Tom Hanks tells Meg Ryan this time of year makes him want to buy up “bouquets of sharpened pencils.” YES! That’s it. A sharp pencil, a crisp sheet of paper...a clean slate. They all have something in common: the welcome of creativity, an opportunity to begin again.

I started school again on Monday, my 12th year as an adjunct art professor. I walked into a classroom full of strangers that I know will soon be my friends. I felt that familiar flicker of potential and saw combinations of joy, anticipation and horror on my students’ faces. The reality is, what we do in Watercolor 1 may look easy, but it can be terrifying. The assignments are designed to take everybody wwaaaayyy outside of their comfort zone. To try new things. To surrender control. To let the water do the work.

I have a formula for success that I’ve discovered applies just as much to life as it does to the classroom. Consider: 

1. Show up. 
Come to class, every time, on time. Bring all the necessary materials.
Be fully engaged the entire time. None of the magic that happens in class can be found on youtube or in a textbook. Demonstrations happen live and in real time. Everything we do is personally directed and hands-on. Missing that instruction and interaction comes with a very high opportunity cost.


2. Do the work. 
Complete all the assigned work on time. Stay caught up. There is no busywork in this class. Every assignment builds on the last and prepares you for the next one. I will not require any wasted efforts. Give each exercise your complete focus and your very best efforts.


3. Trust the process.
Sometimes we do things in class that are scary and hard. Many of these assignments are designed to take you WAY outside your comfort zone. It takes courage to try new approaches. Be brave! Especially important: When what you’re painting looks nothing like the image you have in your head, please trust the instructor, and the process being taught. Continue working through the process, despite the fuzz and the fog and maybe even some messiness. It will eventually turn out if you follow the instructions. In fact, it will most likely become something far more interesting and beautiful than you initially imagined.

Woody Allen said that "80% of success is showing up." And most of us readily agree that doing our best work is a chief source of personal fulfillment—whether we are paid or not. But the part that seems to be the most challenging—both in life and in the classroom—is learning to trust the process.

After 12 years of college-level teaching, something that has become abundantly clear to me is the importance of trusting in a mentor, a higher power. Just knowing that God is in charge of the universe helps to make sense of the chaos and upheaval of life—especially the murky parts. Not just believing, but really trusting—that His word is Truth, that He loves us and has our best interests at heart, that He knows something maybe we don't, and that He can turn the worst cataclysm into something better— is ultimately key to our survival and success.

Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. (Proverbs 3:5-6)

This promise is rock solid. It takes trust to leave our comfort zone, to try new things, to surrender control, to let the Spirit do the work. But we prosper so much under his care and tutelage.

One of the great things about teaching and observing the learning continuum year after year is that we continue to learn so much about the universe and ourselves in the process.

What I Gained When I Lost

Our latest Living Room episode is called “What I Gained When I Lost.” I was absent for this recording session. (I gained a painting trip to Southern Utah with my Dad when I lost this chance to record with my Living Room friends!)

This idea of gaining from losing is powerful. Host Christie Gardiner says we become who we’re meant to be when we sacrifice something great...for something more important. The less-dramatic business term for this kind of gaining and losing is called “opportunity cost.”

Sometimes what I’ve lost (my opportunity cost) isn’t a conscious sacrifice, but my need to acknowledge the hand of a higher power at work in my life.

In all honesty, when I glibly said I gained a painting trip when I lost that chance to record our show, it’s true. Three glorious days in Snow Canyon. But there’s more. That painting trip was a consolation prize. What I lost first was my favorite tradition. A class I was teaching at UVU for the third year in a row, taking a dozen students to paint on location in Capitol Reef National Park, was unexpectedly cancelled at the last minute. I didn’t just lose a fabulous week encouraging students to learn and grow and create. I lost my entire summer’s income. And a trip I count on yearly to rejuvenate my art and my soul. (And yes, my dad was coming along this year—something I was really looking forward to!)

I have to admit I grumbled. I was frustrated that it was cancelled so late in the game, after I had already put in so much work, with no compensation. It felt like the university cared more about the numbers than the students’ educational experience, which was also frustrating.

But something happened during those three weeks (during which we would have been holding class all day every day) that I never could have predicted. A very close friend of mine who’s been battling cancer for years suddenly became gravely ill. She’d been living in Texas for a few months, and was flown to Utah for brain surgery.

Because I wasn’t teaching, I was able to visit her in the hospital, hug her and kiss her forehead and whisper encouraging words before she headed into surgery. I was able to see her as she recovered after surgery, and again when they resumed chemotherapy. Most important of all, I was led back to the hospital on a random Tuesday afternoon when she needed a visit. And when the cheyne-stokes breathing began, just minutes later, I was there. I was able to stay with her and hold her hand and literally breathe along with her until she took her final breath.

I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything. It is one of life’s most poignant and beautiful privileges to surround a loved one and help usher them on to the next sphere of life.

Losing a chance to teach a class and paint on location in a gorgeous national park was a heavy hit. But it doesn’t seem like much in comparison to what I gained.


Another version of this post appears here: The Living Room | Live Internet Talk Radio | Best Shows Podcasts

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.

Twelve Gifts: ¡Viva la Zumba!

Three mornings a week I shake my hips and shimmy my heart out for a solid hour. Amazingly, I also do this with an enormous smile on my face...for the entire sixty minutes. Besides loving the music and the moves, there is another reason for that smile: Memories.

When I was in college I taught a free Jog-Jazz class at my church at 6am. I am not a morning person and I still sometimes wonder how I pulled it off. When I see my Zumba teacher, Denise, up there on the stage in the “cultural hall” (which is a giant euphemism for a basketball court) I occasionally picture my 20-year-old hard-body self up there teaching a similar class, back in the days of leotards and leg-warmers. And I see the faces of those adorable seniors coming up afterward to tell me how excited they were that their arthritic bodies didn’t hurt as much since they started exercising with me. I got back easily as much as I gave to that class, and I trust it’s true for Denise now. That I am a partaker has such a nice, karmic ring to it.  :)

Soon after my aerobics days, I took an 18-month leave from school to serve a Spanish-speaking mission for my church, in Arcadia, California. Because we were in the melting pot of Los Angeles County, we got to teach people from every Spanish-speaking country in the world: Spain, Cuba, Argentina, Peru...you name it, we found immigrants, taught them, and loved them to pieces. I learned that Latinos are among the hardest workers, with the hardest lives I’d ever seen. Yet they still managed to send money to family members back home, where conditions were far worse. They have generous hearts and passionate spirits. Fun-loving and exuberant, they are masters at creating simple joys amidst the hardship.

Fast-forward twenty-something years. 

Now when I step onto the Zumba floor, I’m not just getting a great workout. I’m getting great memories. When I dance to "Hay Que Llorar" I'm reminded of teenage girls in colorful dresses folk dancing onstage for a dinner party. I hear "El Amor" and remember Leticia Monarrez giving me her favorite sweater when I was transferred out of her area. When we strut to the La Pantera Mambo I envision Hector Vargas playing the hymns with salsa rhythms and a walking bass in el Barrio Quinto de Burbank. During Fuego I see Gretel Martinez doing the cumbia and the merengue with her toddler boys, Gustavito and Armandito. Every song seems to trigger a memory: La Familia Ordinola. Patricia. The Avila sisters. Big, extended families picnicking in Elysian Park. Best of all, when we danced to "Thriller" on Halloween, I remembered a costume party for El Barrio Arroyo when the obispo dressed up like an Immigration officer...because what could be scarier?!?  :)

Sometimes I think about Lupe and her sisters going out dancing on the weekends. Or my friend Allison teaching salsa classes...and staging a Latin dance extravaganza for her wedding. And for just a few minutes I become those people...fun-loving, exuberant dancers with all the right moves and a flair for all things fiesta.  

Finally, the music winds down, and I’m just me. Walking to my car with sweat dripping down my face. Feeling great.

Thank you, Denise.

Twelve Gifts: Music and Metaphor

From What Think Ye of Christmas

Last weekend my bonus mom gave us four tickets to the Messiah Sing-In. It’s been a long time since we’ve been to one. But in this post I alluded to why this is such a favorite and long-standing tradition for our family.

The first time I went to the Sing-in was on a date (see, I told you it was a long time ago). I had broken my front tooth the day before (long story) and since it was Thanksgiving weekend, I could not see the dentist until the following Monday. I looked like a walking jack-o-lantern, which would have been great if it were Halloween, but a little scary for the Christmas season. I painfully tried to carry on a scintillating conversation with my date while covering my mouth (and my shame). This was completely ineffective. And it was impossible to keep my mouth closed at an event where you sing for two straight hours. This ranks at the very top of the list of my most embarrassing dates of all time.

However, it was a great story to tell the kids on the way to the venue, miming the silliness of singing in public while attempting to cover my front teeth with my upper lip, looking like I had any number of physical and mental impairments. 

It was all silliness aside once we arrived at the venue, which was flooded with serious musicians, faithfully carrying their personal scores. We made a mad dash to the sales table in the lobby to purchase two ourselves. We made it to our seats with just a few minutes to spare. The orchestra warmed up, the soloists arrived onstage in their tuxes and glittery gowns, the conductor took his bows, and the music started. 

We followed along carefully in the score, paying rapt attention so we wouldn’t miss any of our entrances for the chorus. We not only read but heard the whole scriptural story of the Messiah sung to some of the most beautiful, elevating music of all time. Scriptural passages from Isaiah and Malachi, starting with the prophecy and birth: 

Comfort Ye my people,  

And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, 

But who may abide the day of His coming? 

Behold a Virgin Shall Conceive, 

For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, 

The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light, 

For unto us a child is born. 

Glory to God in the Highest, 

Rejoice greatly,

He shall feed his flock like a shepherd,

His yoke is easy.

The next section is about the atonement, crucifixion and resurrection.

I soon realized that because I was singing along, a participant, I was much more involved in the story; I was living it:

Behold the Lamb of God

He was despised and rejected of men

Surely he has borne our grief and carried our sorrows

And with his stripes we are healed

All we, like sheep, have gone astray

By the time we got to the magnificent Hallelujah chorus, I was so moved I could barely sing at all, for the lump in my throat and the tears streaming down my face. There is something so powerful about adding your own voice to a chorus of thousands, all united in singing gloriously unbridled praises to God. 

The final section, the promise of eternal life, begins with I know that my Redeemer liveth. As the soprano’s voice rang out it was reaffirmed to me that I, too, know that my Redeemer lives. I love and adore Him. It was a joy to sing the final choruses: 

Thanks be to God

Worthy is the Lamb

Amen

The music is supremely difficult. It is complex and moves rapidly, sometimes so fast you can barely keep up. Everyone makes mistakes. Even the amazing tenor from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sitting next to Jeff. But there was something so redemptive about singing in a chorus of thousands, some more gifted than others, all doing our best, listening to each other, attempting to be unified...and the mistakes are swept away. They literally disappear and are swallowed up in the chorus. 

The whole experience is a metaphor for grace: Life is hard. It is complicated and often feels like a runaway train. Everybody makes mistakes. Even the very best of us. But Christ in his infinite mercy places us in the company of other good-but-flawed people who are also doing their best. When we listen to each other, and focus on Him, the result is not only unifying, it is miraculous. We become one and we become His, and our mistakes are washed away. 

What a powerful way to usher in the season and spirit of Christmas—three generations of us, all sitting together and singing our hearts out about the mission and birth of the Messiah, and witnessing His grace in the very doing of it!

Twelve Gifts: Learning through Dreams

The other night I had a dream that I was shooing our two dogs outside because they were tracking leaves in the house. Then I turned around and there was McCloud—our neighbors’ cute Bichon Frise, eating out of our dogs’ bowls, and I shooed him outside too. I can’t feed all the pets in the neighborhood. Just as I closed the screen door I noticed a doe and a stag—the one from the hill behind our house, with a broken antler. I hurriedly shooed them out the door as well, shaking my head in disbelief. Where did all these animals come from? It’s like a zoo in here! Before I even had a chance to get the deer all the way out, I noticed there were sheep coming down the stairs. What the--? As I herded them out as well, I paused for a moment. There was a lamb. The fluffiest white lamb. Such a gentle creature. I picked it up and ran my fingers through its soft, wolly coat, nuzzling it close. And then I paused. It’s not like a zoo in here...it’s like a stable. And I almost didn’t make room for this precious Lamb. 

This dream was a gift, in the form of a wake up call.

Rather than throwing the Baby out with the bathwater, rushing through mundane chores with an air of frustration, I will stop and cherish every soul that crosses my threshold, nurture those in my neighborhood and other surroundings, and revel in their goodness and grace. Especially the broken ones. 

I will gladly place a manger out for all to eat here, whether it's a healthy snack or a holiday buffet. I will enjoy the cooking and cleaning and preparation involved in making my stable presentable. I will open my doors.

I will pause and take quiet moments to love and adore the Lamb of God, even amidst the chaos.

I will make room. 

Room in My Inn

Last Christmas a mother robin built her nest on our front porch, tucked away in the limbs of a little artificial pine tree we keep lit there during the holidays. I loved seeing Mama Bird swoop down and watch over her precious blue eggs. I loved hearing her sing to them in the mornings. But most of all I loved that she saw our home—our porch—as a safe place, a sheltering space.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to making space these days. In just a couple of weeks my younger sister and her family will be landing at our house for a night or two as she prepares to give birth to their sixth child, a baby boy. I love the idea of making space for them, making space for extended family, making space for the delivery of a newborn...especially at this time of year!

That same sister is contemplating making room herself. Not room in the inn, mind you, but room in the van! Their van seats seven...and baby makes eight. This is weighing heavily on me. I know they don’t have the means to purchase another car, no matter how used. Yet they have the faith to bring another child into the world. I’m racking my brain for any way I can think of to help them. I wish I could just give them my Honda Pilot. But life’s not that simple.

I have a particular affinity for this youngest sister. She is a hero in every sense of the word. She has overcome the most daunting of obstacles...smiling. She has born the most unbearable burdens...laughing. She has brought people together...remembering. She has created a beautiful home, a beautiful family, and a beautiful marriage...out of the shambles! She is amazing.

Sisters

So the innkeeping I’m contemplating is this joyful expectation, this anticipation...and I’m grateful that we have enough room. And that we have wonderful people coming, in all shapes and sizes, to join us and fill our space.

I’m thinking about other spaces too. My inn these days is crowded—both with people and activity—most of the time. So is my car—both with people and junk, typically. But the most noticeably crowded space, and perhaps the one that matters most, is my time. One of my heroes declared, “In family relationships love is really spelled t-i-m-e.” I am convinced that today’s metaphorical inn-where-there’s-no-room is not our homes or our hearts but our schedules. Another of my heroes stated: “your sacrifice could be setting aside the time in your busy lives....” Making room involves a sacrifice.

I’m pledging today—on this first day of the last month, as we wait for miracles, and long for fulness, and anticipate gifts—to make room. Make room to worship, make room to ponder, make room to listen, make room to love, make room to pause, make room to forgive, make room to serve. Make room for Him. In the most crowded space in my life. So I can be filled.

“The Holy Ghost ‘satisfies and fills up every longing of the human heart, and fills up every vacuum. When I am filled with that Spirit, … my soul is satisfied.” 

—Eliza R. Snow

Please chime in and tell me how you’re making room for Him this month.

—And if you have any ideas on how to make more room in my sister’s car, I’d love to hear that too!

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Congratulations to Lara, who won my Book-for-Every-Person-on-your-Gift-List Giveaway! A box of ten books will be on its way to her shortly. (How fitting that I announce her win on this post about making room, since the name of her blog is Overstuffed!)  :)

And thank you—wonderful, generous, bloggers—for helping us meet and exceed our goal, raising over $10,000 (5.7 scholarships) for single parents last month. This will change lives. I promise.

Also, don't miss Luisa Perkins' excellent and unsolicited review of What Think Ye of Christmas, here.

And finally, I'm linking up with wonderful Heather of the EO who somehow keeps me writing with her Just Write series.

Carpool Lane?

I ask myself Why on a Saturday? and Why in the middle of the afternoon? as I pry myself away from The Kid On the Lawnmower and The Overworked Husband and The Babysitting Teenager and The Newborn Puppymania and climb into the car. I am late and I do not want to go and I get in the car anyway, all by myself, because it’s the right thing to do. 

I call my dad one more time. Are you sure they’re still going to hold this thing in the rain? I ask, secretly hoping it’s been rescheduled. What? he asks, just slightly annoyed. “It’s pouring rain,” I say. “Well it’s sunny up here,” he replies. “Where are you?” I ask. “In Bountiful.” Oh my gosh, he’s already there. I don’t want him to know I’m just getting in my car.  I balance an onion bagel on my knee as I back down the driveway.  Because 62 miles sounds like a long way to go on no lunch. 

As I enter the freeway and pray for no construction today I try to push the leftover laundry and nagging, unmopped floors out of my head, to no avail. Outside, the storm clouds follow me. It’s like a race. Sometimes I can stay just ahead of the rain. Sometimes it catches up to me. 

I push the iPhone connector into its jack and Pandora defaults to Earth Wind and Fire. I’m not sure 70s funk is exactly the mood I’m in, but I’m whizzing down the freeway at breakneck speed, and not quite reckless enough to look for another station.  In minutes, without even realizing it, I’m singing my heart out to “September” (one of our favorites) and suddenly I see our whole family standing at the Hollywood Bowl, swaying and cheering and smiling and having the time of our lives as fireworks literally fill the sky overhead. It was a spur-of-the moment roadtrip last summer that ended up being one of our family’s favorite memories. I think of how Josh still texts me out of the blue to say, “Thanks for taking me on that roadtrip to see Earth Wind and Fire!”  --Something we did that was NOT a mistake! (yay!) 

I remind myself, Family is EVERYTHING! 

I can see downtown Salt Lake creeping up on my right, in the distance. On the hill behind Temple Square is the Capitol Building, where my grandpa worked. I think of how he walked home every single day so he could have lunch with his sweetheart, my Mrs. Santa Claus grandma. (Who wouldn’t?) Suddenly I’m reminded that it’s BECAUSE OF HER that I’m doing this, that I’m driving to far-off Bountiful to see the plaque erected in honor of her parents. I think about how she taught us in a million different ways that family is EVERYTHING! How this event would be her absolute top priority if she were still here. How happy she’d be that I’m going. Suddenly I’m flooded with tears. She would LOVE this reunion. The sun pops up from behind the clouds as if to underscore my thoughts, buoying me with a stronger sense of purpose.

I focus on the yellow lines in the center of the highway as the signs whiz by...I-80, Ogden, Beck Street. As I approach the park where the reunion takes place, the rain returns, streaking the windshield as the tears streak my face all the way to Bountiful. 


Oh my gosh, THIS is the park? These beautiful acres of lawn and trees in the center of the city, with a rec center and a pavilion and...my great-grandparents' fields and orchards provided this sanctuary.


The clouds are still heavy, the sky wet, and I slosh across the lawn under my polka-dot umbrella toward the picnic area where people are gathering. I see my first piano teacher, still so elegant...Dad's first cousin. Another of Dad's cousins, Jim, is there with his wife Betty, who has unforgettable deep blue eyes. I remember riding their horses in Heber when I was a kid. My aunt is setting up bushels of fresh peaches for centerpieces, old people are shuffling around, trying to get the sound system to work. (It doesn't.)  My dad is the youngest, but he is becoming one of the Old People. I am so proud of him. One cousin circulates platters of all the fresh fruits and vegetables our great-grandparents grew. Pieces of our family history. A beautiful gesture. We gather and sing as rain patters on the roof. What is happening here is, to steal some words from my friend Heather, both ordinary and extraordinary.


This whole thing is bigger than I am. Bigger than football practice and yardwork and chores. Bigger than a hundred Saturdays. Bigger than any of us realize. I feel eternity stretched out like the handstitched quilt on her old hand-carved oak bed, wrapping me in its linked-together pieces, simultaneously adding to and wiping away my tears. I feel HER, and all those linked to her. I feel as though I picked up my grandmother way back at that point along the freeway and carried her all the way to this reunion, this honoring-place, to be with the people she loves most. I am grateful she did not want me to go there alone.

This is me with my grandma. This photo appeared on the cover of the Salt Lake Tribune on Thanksgiving Day a long, long time ago. :)

This post is inspired by  Just Write, an exercise in free writing. {Please see the details here.} 

Atonemints

I have always loved buttermints. Any and all. But then one Christmas my friend Heather brought us a tin of the most amazing homemade buttermints. First, who even knew you could make such a thing? I thought it was like licorice—something only “the store” made. Second, this was pure heaven. It melted in your mouth with the most perfectly glorious flavor. There could be no substitute. Heather’s buttermints were infinitely superior to anything else I had ever tasted.

Every Christmas we hoped we might appear once again on Heather’s gift list. And that the gift would again be her fabulous buttermints. And year after year the mints would appear. Then one Christmas we were sadly forsaken. Of course we weren’t offended. We love the Joneses with or without their holiday offerings! But we did long for that little taste of heaven. Then in March, after the snow melted, there sitting on the lawn was an auspicious-looking tin. It didn’t take much imagination to envision our dog dragging it from the porch to the snow back in December. We pried open the lid, and to our joy and amazement the tin contained a perfectly-preserved batch of pristine buttermints, undisturbed by our dog or the elements, and we lovingly savored every single one (and had a good laugh with Heather about our serendipitous snow treasure afterward)!

Finally this past Christmas I couldn’t stand the suspense any more. I had to know how Heather performs her magic. I rallied the guts to ask for her recipe. She said she’d do me one better — she’d come here and teach me how. In March we finally made it happen — a personalized buttermint tutorial. I had no idea what I was in for. I started taking copious notes. The process is extremely nuanced and detailed, with instructions like: “Cook to 250 degrees...not the bottom of the line, nor the top of the line, but right in the center of the line.” Sometimes I think the artist in me is not equipped to deal with that kind of precision. But she assured me that if I followed every step with exactness, I would have wonderful buttermints.

This week we’ve been making these fabulous buttermints (or, what my friend Luisa calls, "the most scrumptious confections of all time") and I hope this becomes an oft-repeated Easter tradition. Here’s why: The process is a beautiful analogy for the lifetime process of sanctification, culminating in a powerful atonement metaphor.

Consider:

Zion metaphor:

We’ve been studying the three Zion communities in the Book of Mormon for Family Home Evening over the past couple of months. Each of these communities, during a time of great adversity, was described as “the happiest people ever.” Nephi “taught [his] people to live after the manner of happiness.” One of the great keys to their happiness was hard WORK. Nephi taught his people productive skills, and to love manual labor. Making buttermints is a new skill, working with our hands.

Next is the people of Moroni: “ But behold there never was a ^ahappier time among the people of Nephi, since the days of Nephi, than in the days of Moroni...” Moroni taught the power of preparation and unity. My preparation was my tutorial with Heather. (Heather’s preparation was making 18 batches in one day, until they got it perfect!) In the buttermint making process, everybody LITERALLY pulls together (unity) for the stretching and cutting, and many hands make light work.

I think one of the best parts of making a big batch of buttermints is sharing them with our friends and loved ones. In Zion communities there is always a Service component (we share what we have with others). This kind of cooperation and outward focus leads toward no contention (peace, charity) and the kind of Zion community we find in 4th Nephi. “And it came to pass that there was no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people....and surely there could not be a happier people among all the people who had been created by the hand of God.”

Personal righteousness: Everybody starts with clean hands

Careful Obedience: Follow the instructions exactly

“Cook to 250 degrees...not the bottom of the line, nor the top of the line, but right in the center of the line.”

All of the instructions must be followed with precision (exactness and honor).

This kind of precision requires FOCUS: keeping our eyes on the prize and single to the glory of God.

If you follow these safe candy-making procedures, you can avoid the laborious washing process, saving much time and trouble.

Adversity metaphor: Stretching

Pull edges up and over, toward the center, so they don’t harden.

(Reminds me of how we need to be careful not to harden our hearts.)

As soon as it is cool enough to handle, butter your hands, pick up the candy and start stretching. It will be slimy and out-of-control at first. Resist the urge to knead and squeeze. Lightly pull and stretch, establishing a rhythm...side to side, over the top, repeat. When it becomes more manageable, hold the ball in one hand, pull and fold with the other. When you can, move it to your fingertips and continue spreading and stretching, using the length of your arms. It will become opaque and lose some of its glisten.

Stretching is the longest, most difficult part

It’s completely outside our control

The only way through is to stretch (grow)

Then the very nature of it starts to change

This stretching process takes way longer than we think

(How long, O Lord?)

Repentance: If you really screw up, you can always throw it back in the pot and return to the boiling step. :)

Patience: After all that hard work, you are dying to eat some, but it turns out there's a very long curing process. They are edible now, but nothing like the finished product. You have to learn to wait.

Atonement metaphor: Curing

Line a half-sheet baking pan with plastic wrap. Arrange pieces on plastic in a single layer to cure. Cover with another sheet of plastic wrap, making sure the cover is air tight. Allow to cure for up to three days.

Even after paying careful attention to detail and doing everything precisely,

the mints look like they didn’t work, like they won’t be any good.

Some are chewy, some are grainy, some are crunchy.

The curing process takes care of all that.

They must be entombed in sheets of air-tight plastic for up to three days.

After the three days, even the most stubborn and silly-looking buttermints will wind up perfect, white, creamy and delicious.

An Easter miracle

No matter how hard we try, how carefully we observe the commandments, we are flawed. Without those crucial three days in the tomb where our Lord lay down his life and took it up again, there is no way any of us would ever be “good enough” or reach perfection. But, given those three days of grace, there is hope for us all.

And it came to pass that I did go forth and partake of the [mints] thereof; and I beheld that [they were] most sweet, above all that I ever before tasted. Yea, and I beheld that the [mints were] white, to exceed all the whiteness that I had ever seen.

And as I partook of the [mints] thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy; wherefore, I began to be desirous that my family should partake of [them] also; for I knew that [they were] desirable above all other [mints]. —Adapted from 1 Nephi 8:11-12

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I would like to send you a little package of these wonderful Atonemints for you to try for yourself, along with a brief summary of the atonement metaphor. Just leave a comment to be entered in the drawing.