Twelve (more) Gifts: #3 A MOVEABLE FEAST

I had been hosting the family for Thanksgiving in our California home ever since Mom got sick, and after she passed away it became a treasured and time-honored tradition. Our California Thanksgivings were wonderful -- besides all the delicious food (traditional fare with a gourmet twist) we had incorporated a whole weekend of annual activities -- going out to movies, spending an afternoon at the beach, shopping in the garment district in downtown Los Angeles, watching home movies, and even shopping in Tijuana! We lived for those Thanksgiving weekends!

But in the monumental year 2000, I delivered a beautiful but stillborn baby girl -- and I felt like a big part of me died with her.

Just a month later we were making plans for Thanksgiving. My heavy heart wondered if there was any way I could pull off dinner for fifteen, let alone the traditional outings and the day-trip to Mexico. My ever-sensitive younger sister somehow knew there was no way I could host a dinner (and multiple houseguests) that year. And she did something extraordinary.

She started researching restaurants in our area, and found a wonderful little spot in Montrose which offered Thanksgiving take-out in boxed dinners. She ordered a full meal for the five of us, and on Thanksgiving Day we picked up our boxes and drove to a shady little picnic area in Monrovia Canyon. We ate our delicious dinner al fresco, to an enchanting backdrop of breezes and birdsongs, then took a short hike along a lovely trail to a waterfall. It was pure heaven. And it in some ways felt more like a real Thanksgiving — or at least the original Thanksgiving — to be dining so simply outdoors.

That moveable feast is a gift of caring and  thoughtfulness I will never forget. I think of it every year with immense gratitude.

Twelve Gifts: Life. And Prayer.

Our adorable dog Sawyer

“Where’s Sawyer?” asked Josh. “He didn’t come to greet me when I walked up to the house.”

“He’s out in his favorite spot in the front yard, sunning himself,” I told him.

Josh walked out to the front steps to call Sawyer and our dog didn’t budge. Didn’t get up, didn’t move, didn’t even look in his direction. Josh went to pick him up and he was completely limp. Dead weight. 

We couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. Memories of saying farewell to our previous dog, Schubert, while he died in our arms ten years ago, left me feeling panicky and numb. Sawyer was still alive, but just barely. The only way we could tell for sure was he blinked. And had a faint heartbeat.

I remembered that there had been a scuffle in the back yard a couple of hours earlier. Another dog was interested in our female and had been wandering onto our property for a few days in a row. I was getting pretty good at chasing him away and locking our dogs inside whenever he came around. But today I was upstairs in the shower when all the commotion started. I had knocked on the window to get their attention. At first they ignored me, but they eventually quieted down. After that, both dogs were behaving normally, so I didn’t give it much thought. But suddenly I wondered if Sawyer had been hurt by the other dog. We couldn’t see any blood or other evidence of injury. But when we parted his long, beautiful coat there were several large bite wounds on his neck. 

The two of us wrapped him in warm towels and rushed him to the vet, crying our eyes out. “Hang in there, Buddy,” we coaxed. “Don’t leave us.” All I could think about was what a sweet, gentle people-pleasing friend he is. I felt sick imagining him lying out there, hurt and alone—nearly dead—and none of us even realized he was injured. That heart-jabbing thought just made me cry even more. Poor thing—all he did was exactly what he was supposed to do: Defend our home and his mate. No good deed goes unpunished.

Mercifully, our vet had an opening and could see Sawyer right away. They took his temperature, and it was so low it wouldn’t even register on a thermometer. They said they’d never seen a temperature that low. Ever. Sawyer had severe hypothermia. They said his wounds needed to be treated, but first they had to bring back his vital signs. They honestly didn’t know whether he’d survive the next few hours, and were making no promises. They hooked him up to an IV and sent us back to the waiting room, where we texted a few friends and begged for prayers.

Half an hour later they invited us back into the O.R. and this is what we saw:

Sawyer in the operating room getting prepped for surgery.

We patted his head, talking to him softly, and cried some more. But he was breathing more steadily, and seemed a bit warmer. Dr. Webber said we could go home and come back just before closing time. It was hard to walk away, but she’s a great vet and we knew he was in good hands.

Amazingly, when we got back later that evening with the whole family, Sawyer was sitting up. Dr. Webber had been able to stitch up his wounds while he was comatose, which was a tender mercy. Sawyer still couldn’t move much, but he was responding. They kept him there, hospitalized, through the weekend. We stopped in on Saturday morning to check on him and he was—even more amazingly—walking (gingerly) and even wagged his tail a few times. The vet seemed amazed by his rapid recovery, which I can only attribute to prayer. 

The following Monday we brought him home, our little friend was back where he belongs, with his family. He went back in on Thursday, and got more stitches the following Monday, so he looks a bit like Frankenstein, but it looks like our friend Sawyer is going to be all right. 

The whole ordeal reminded me of just how precious and fragile life is—it can be snatched away before we even realize what's happened. That we all walk, blink, and breathe is a miracle. A gift. I was also reminded of the very real power of prayer. Permission to talk to God is an amazing gift. The fact that He answers those prayers? Humbling and awe-inspiring. I thank God for hearing our prayers and sparing this life.

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!

____________

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.

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!

Twelve (more) Gifts: #2 MERCY (in the form of a Candy Cane)

I looked at the clock as I backed out of the garage, and true panic set in. It was already ten minutes later than I’d planned to leave. But if I timed all my stops right, and lucked out with a good parking place, I could still make it to my final in time. I whipped around the corner and was racing down the hill when I saw the lights. Not red and green. Red and blue. I slammed on my brakes (while pretending to be inadvertently fiddling with the radio) and went nonchalantly by. Until the lights spun around and followed me.

I couldn’t believe it. Just a couple of blocks from my house I was being pulled over. Officer Henderson stepped up to the window and introduced himself, requesting my insurance and I.D. While he was back in the squad car doing whatever they do back in the squad car, I texted my husband: “I just got pulled over. If I wasn’t already late for my final, I definitely am now!” And then I sat there and squirmed while I waited impatiently for the officer to come back with my ticket. Hubby texted back: “You got pulled over?! (sad face) Did you get a ticket?”

I imagined all my stressed-out students sitting there wondering where their teacher was, and then imagined the cops getting some kind of perverse pleasure out of taking their sweet time, making sure I was extra EXTRA late in order to teach me a lesson. After what felt like several centuries, Officer Henderson stepped back up to the window. Visions of having to return our kids’ Christmas presents to pay for a speeding ticket danced in my head. Clumsily.

“Here’s your Driver’s License.” I thanked him. Possibly not very sincerely. “Now...going 16 miles over in a residential zone is not safe traveling. I’m giving you this...”

(If you’re not sitting down, I suggest you do so now.)


“I’m giving you this candy cane from the city police department as a reminder to slow down.” My jaw dropped. And then I laughed. “Really?”

“Yep. That’s it. Have a Merry Christmas.” Yeah. You too. Go figure.

I texted Jeff back: “They gave me a candy cane.” His response was "What?"

So it turned out I was about 15 minutes late for my final. But I had an AWESOME story to tell when I got there! --And no ticket.

I loved that gesture of mercy, during the season we most celebrate the true Giver of Mercy. A candy cane that let me off the hook. And the funny thing is, it made me want to extend that same kind of mercy to those around me. To give them the benefit of the doubt and a second chance. (I might even throw in a candy cane.)

Twelve (more) Gifts: #1 VISION

Last night we had the rare and humbling opportunity to hear from Stephanie Nielsen, of the beloved Nie-Nie Dialogues (and the infamous plane crash).

And today I cannot stop thinking about this extraordinary person.

She gave every woman in the room the most remarkable gift, my first of the season: Vision.

She talked about how beautiful and amazing we are because we have skin. Skin.
I've actually never been very comfortable in my own skin. I've even found lots of reasons to complain about it (I'll spare you my litany of defects.) The bottom line is, the word grateful never comes to mind when I think of my skin. I've always felt instead like I got the short end of the stick in the Heredity lottery. Yet suddenly Nie-Nie had me marveling at the miracle that is...my own soft, self-healing, waterproof, pliable, wearable skin.

Now ditto that whole paragraph and replace the word "skin" with Bodies. One of my favorite things she said in this gift of vision: "I am not my body." So true. Here we are defining ourselves by our bodies, when our innermost selves—our spirits—may not look anything like our physical bodies. I am not my body.

She talked about Choices. She said she chose to come to earth...and chose to come back after nearly dying. She said the choice and the offer that was given to her felt almost like a bishop's interview, and that it wasn't an easy choice. She was told there would be plenty for her to do on either side, but she thought of all the joyful things she'd miss -- her daughters' weddings, her sons going on missions, and she chose life. She chose to come back. It gave me a huge, larger-than-life appreciation for the chance to spend a series of days and years here on earth.

She talked about Angels. She talked about guardian angels she believes are assigned to her (and to each of us) -- she calls them her "team." She spoke especially of her departed grandmother helping her out of the plane, and remaining with her to this day. That resonated for me, and reminded me of similar experiences I've had...times when loved ones from the other side of the veil have come to comfort, heal, and support me through difficult times. Heaven is so much closer than we think.

She spoke of the Savior so knowingly and lovingly, with such certainty. I found it the perfect way to usher in the season celebrating his birth...to hear her testify so humbly about His role in her life, reminding us how important it is to involve Him in all of our decisions, in all of our trials, in celebrating our joys, every day of our lives. It felt truly sacred to be in the presence of one who knows Him so well.

When it was over, I looked right into her eyes and tears welled up in mine as I reached up to give her a hug, and told her candidly how beautiful she is. Her eyes are like crystal pools of light and love, carrying a depth of vision few of us will ever know, as do her words. I hope to hang onto that vision she gave us all Christmas long...and over a lifetime.

Twelve More Gifts (by way of introduction)

I've been working on your Christmas present for weeks. Seriously.

It has nothing to do with super-cute wrapping ideas or crafting (because I suck at that). But Christmas is about gifts -- culminating, of course, in wise people bestowing precious offerings to the Lord, and God giving the whole world the Greatest Gift of All. So I've been reflecting on all the gifts I've given and received over the years and selected my absolute favorites. And I'm sharing them with you (you can also find last year's selections here).

Some salient patterns emerged as I pondered these favorite gifts. Amazingly, all of them can be shared, in one form or another. And none of them came from The Mall. The other amazing thing that surfaced in my present-ponderings was that I have far more than twelve favorites...complete with the stories to go with them. I was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude. So, as my blog runneth over but my time runneth short, I'm limiting these to twelve. And maybe I'll save the rest for next year!

Here are my twelve favorite gifts, each one my gift to you.
I hope you open and treasure every one.

xo

Feeling Loved...and Falling Apart

People are so good. Better than I expect, most of the time. And every once in awhile I am completely blown away by the sheer goodness and sensitivity of the people around me. This past week has been one of those blow-me-away times, time after time. Here are just three examples:

Last weekend we went out to dinner with our friends Nat and Jenn. First, they got us tickets to the play Jennifer directed (Nat designed the sets). These two have worked on Broadway and are mega-talented -- they make a terrific team. Their little community theater is so lucky to have them on board. Afterward we went out to dinner, and Jenn leaned across the table and started telling me that she's been reading my blog (I honestly had no idea; she never comments.) She said she feels like she's come to know me so much better since she started reading my posts (which is amazing, coming from someone who's been a close friend for over ten years). Then she said that my most recent posts (mostly about our son and our struggles with him) were very moving and she wanted to do something for me.


She opened a little silk bag she'd been holding and said, "So I made you this. It's kind of my new fetish." Laughingly, she assured me I would find nothing like it in The Mall (which led me to believe she had read this post.) She pulled out the coolest bracelet, a loose silver chain decorated with an assortment of vintage buttons in various shades of pink. It sounds like a rain stick whenever I move my wrist. Then she pointed to one larger silver button and opened it up. Turns out it's a locket. She had talked to Jeff in advance, and conspired with him to get a photo of our oldest son to put inside. I was so moved by her thoughtfulness and such a mother-to-mother, heartfelt gesture, it took all the self-control I could muster just to keep from dissolving in tears right there at the table. (I don't like to cry in public.) I was amazed at the thought behind this treasure of a gift.

Then the following Friday I had lunch with my friend Eowyn. We first met in person last November. Every time we get together there is laughter and sharing, and we both feel better about our lives. And this was no exception. But instead of going out to a restaurant, we had lunch at her house. Driving there for the first time, I wondered what it would be like. I knew it would be lovely, because she is lovely.


But, my friends, lovely doesn't quite do it justice. I was greeted at the door by a delighted Eowyn, followed by a diapered toddler. All of which made me smile. But I was also greeted by the smell of homemade bread, wafting through the house. In fact, the main course? was her delicious, freshly-baked bread (She makes six loaves a week) and three flavors of homemade jam. Then, when it was time to leave, she sent me home with one of those delicious still-warm loaves of bread, and my pick of the three flavors of jam. I got them home and set them on the counter and just looked at them, spellbound. Because what could be more comforting and nurturing and maternal than fresh-baked bread? First it had fed me, both body and soul, and now it was filling my whole house. Another wonderful gift.



Later that afternoon my dad came over to help me take some paintings to a museum. We talked excitedly about our upcoming workshop and our plans for promoting it. We had a great time just being together (even though we got stuck in a colossal and unforeseen traffic jam and never even made it to the museum). :) Then as he was leaving my house, he took another step back towards me and told me that the last couple of times he's seen me I've looked completely exhausted, and he's been a little worried about me. Then he said if things get feeling tough, he'd love to give me a father's blessing.

That just about undid me. Such a sweet offer from my dad, who rarely makes a comment about our lives and almost goes out of his way not to interfere. I walked back inside and up the stairs and burst into tears. And not just tears, but huge, audible, chest-heaving sobs. Something about the goodness and perceptiveness of that offer brought all my emotions to the surface. It wasn't sadness. It was almost like a watershed of relief. I was not invisible. Someone noticed. Acknowledged that this is hard. Saw that I was carrying a heavy burden and offered to help lift it.

I was so touched that three* different people were inspired, each using their own gifts, to bless my life. That could only have come from Someone who truly knows my heart. It had to have come straight from God.

*And actually there have been so many more...

Twelve Gifts: #12 - CREATION

I grew up playing in my father’s studio. Holding the brush together, dipping it in water and paint and watching it disperse color across a pristine sheet of textured paper, he babysat me through my first few paintings. Later, as I developed more confidence with the medium, he was very trusting and generous with his supplies, allowing me to sit at his desk, on his stool, and use his own brushes and paints. Studying and imitating his gorgeous paintings, experimenting with his tools, I learned a love of watercolor that has lasted throughout my life, and I always hoped someday I’d grow up to be an artist like him.

There in his home, I developed my gift, worked extremely hard in school, and eventually set off on my own. The big test came when, as a young bride, I moved to Los Angeles, determined to prove my worth both in our fledgling family and as an artist. I was away for nearly twenty years...nearly equal to a lifetime at that point.

Then I remember one summer when I returned home for a visit. My dad invited me to his new studio...a larger, more accommodating one, the entire top floor of an old pioneer house. He showed me some oil paintings he was working on, and invited my opinion. I was a little surprised. I was always the one who had learned from HIM. And now he wanted my input. Wow.

I suggested a warm glaze over one of the landscapes, an English countryside. He handed me a brush. “Go for it,” he said. “Really? You trust me to work on your painting?” I asked incredulously. He nudged me toward the canvas and I dipped the brush into the thin glaze, adding just a trace of alizarin. Then gingerly I touched the canvas and carefully glazed a section of the surface. He approved, even became excited as he saw the results, and dipped in his brush as well. There we stood, side by side, collaborating, painting...creating. And in a way I lack the words to describe...synergy?...transcendence?...I suddenly felt a whole new kind of alive.

It’s an image I’ll never forget, working side-by-side with my Artist-Dad. That whole experience rings not only true, but significant: First being with him, being taught at his feet, then leaving for what seemed like a lifetime to go out on my own, prove myself. Then finally returning as a professional, a colleague, and a collaborator. I suddenly understood with greater depth why God calls himself Creator, and why he wants to share that incredible gift with His children.

The desire to create is one of the deepest yearnings of the human soul.*
Thank you, Dad, for giving me the opportunity to create with you.

*Pres. Dieter Uchtdorf, "Happiness, Your Heritage" 2008.

Twelve Gifts: #11 TOO WONDERFUL (Gifts of such extraordinary value they have to be shared)

When I was in college, my not-very-well-to-do parents gave me an extraordinary gift. I was studying art with an emphasis in graphic design, and every single time I had to do a finished project I’d go trekking out to the Holladay Library, schlepping an unwieldy arsenal of art boards, pencils, triangles, erasers and T-squares (unfortunately I did not go to school during the Digital Age!) to use their projector. I’d transfer my sketches onto the final art board this way, blowing them up to four-or-more times the original size, so the final art would reduce down to pristine perfection when it was shot for reproduction. (So much for your dinosaur lesson in graphic design).

So that year I was completely amazed to discover a gigantic present from my parents. This gift wouldn’t even fit in one box, and it weighed a ton! As I tore open the first package, my parents told me it came with a caveat: This was something so big and so valuable, it to be shared. There, in that box, in our very own house, ready for my very own makeshift studio, was my very own projector, an Art-o-graph. I was stunned. It was probably 5 times more powerful and heavy-duty than the one I’d been using at the library in the neighboring town. This was the top of the line. I’m sure it cost a small fortune, probably close to a thousand dollars...even in the paleolithic era in which I was raised.

This wasn’t something I’d talked about, hinted at, even hoped for. It was completely outside the realm of possibility, and I knew that. Yet my parents had made this enormous investment in my future. They gave me something I needed now, that I could use forever, knowing how valuable it would eventually be to me. And all that they asked in return was that I share it...with Dad, with my siblings, maybe even with fellow students at times. How could I say no to that? This was an AMAZING gift. Of COURSE I was willing to share.

As I finished up my degree, then through all those years running a design studio in Los Angeles, I used that projector all the time. It contributed a great deal to our family’s livelihood. And I still have it, ready to set up in our newly-remodeled basement in my new workspace there.


. . . . .


About five years later I met a guy. Not just any guy. An AMAZING man with a superhuman heart. (You can read about him here, here, and here.) I gradually fell head-over-heels in love with him, and could scarcely believe he was falling in love with me too. Because this man is BRILLIANT. He somehow has an ability to recall everything he has ever read, in vast detail. He is a creative GENIUS. He can come up with a clever new twist on anything, and does so as naturally as most of us flop out of bed in the morning. In a way that adds depth and meaning and resonance.

He is also HILARIOUS. Everyone LOVES to be around him. The first time my dad met him he said, “Wow, adding that guy to your guest list is like inviting five extra people to your party!” And he’s right; Jeff really is THAT fun. In fact, after our first date he had completely raised my fun scale several notches. I’d go out with other guys and my mom would ask, “Did you have fun?” and I’d be compelled to answer, “Yeah, but not as much fun as with Jeff.”

Beyond that brilliant and hilarious exterior, I wanted to find out what really made this guy tick. On our very first date we talked for hours, and I gradually saw piece after piece of his outer shell fall away and realized how deeply sensitive and spiritual a man he is as well. This guy was pure gold. I felt completely honored just to be in his presence.

Then one August night he asked me to marry him. Could it be that this guy was actually going to be MINE? Forever? I threw my arms around him and said yes, without even a moment’s hesitation. I’d be a complete fool to let this guy get away!

So now we’re married, he’s mine and I’m his, and we’re still in love. That’s all good. But I realized early on, this guy has a highly involved life, constantly running in a million different directions. Not only is he working on his film projects, often into the wee hours, he also spends a lot of time helping people out, listening, counseling, serving. That’s just who he is. Every once in awhile this is a struggle. And then I remember that gift from my parents, the projector. And a light goes on. (No pun intended). My husband, too, is a gift that needs to be shared. This time my Heavenly parents offered me a gift that is, like Job said, “too wonderful for me,” a gift that is so essential to my own progress, yet so valuable now and in the future, he needs to be shared. And so I do. With the film community, the church community, friends, and even strangers. I share him with his colleagues, his students, and aspiring others. I share him with our extended family and our children. And he always comes back to me, eventually.

Tonight is our anniversary. And I’m sharing him with our oldest son. They’re on a male-bonding road trip, on their way to a film festival. And I’m strangely okay. Because I’m used to sharing him. And he always comes back to me. Eventually. And he really is mine. Eternally. That’s totally worth all the sharing I have to do now.




Happy Anniversary, Honey. You are one of my very most amazing gifts.

Twelve Gifts: #10 REMEMBRANCE

The Christmas after my mission I received an abundant stash of gifts from friends and family, but I can only remember one: It was a beautiful surprise from my mother. She had compiled a scrapbook of all the letters and photos from my mission. I had absolutely no idea she’d been working on it, could not even imagine the number of late-night hours she’d put into it without my knowing. But I was now leafing through a complete set of memories of my missionary experience, made tangible in this handmade folio. There was nothing “cute” about it -- no trendy cropping or die cuts or even colored backgrounds. My mom wasn’t that kind of mom, and this wasn’t that kind of scrapbook. But it was rich with memories, and with a kind of reverence. This was an unbelievable treasure. I was overwhelmed. This was the first time I realized what an amazing gift Remembrance could be.

. . . . . . .

Fast-forward to Christmas 1992. I lost both my mother and my magic “Mrs. Santa Claus” grandmother that year. We’d been through the Rodney King riots, and a series of earthquakes and fires and mudslides in Los Angeles. Life felt like it pulled the rug right out from under me.

We went to Utah for Christmas so 1-year-old Josh could see his grandparents, and we could be nurtured by the security of Home. As we gathered around the tree at my in-laws’ house to open presents, no one could miss the stunningly-wrapped package tucked off to one side. It was enormous, and wrapped in the most gorgeous mauve foil adorned with a magnificent, multi-colored bow. There was even a little silver key tied on as an ornament. Jim, my father-in-law, always gives Bonnie the most stellar gifts (one year it was an ankle-length leather coat) and we couldn’t wait to see what was inside this box. Surely he’d outdone himself this year.

As the ribbons and paper flew and the squeals of delight rose up, there was no question people’s gift lists had been matched and spirits were high. Nearly every package had been opened, but the mystery box still remained. Jim went over to read the tag. “Charrette” he said. I’m sure everyone was shocked, but no one could have been struck with as much disbelief as I was. I felt like the girl in Grandma Winters’ Christmas story, when the “little rich girl” reaches for the big, beautiful package and the kind, older gentleman gently says, “Oh, no. That’s not for you, it’s for Cozette. Go ahead, Cozette. It’s yours. Go ahead and open it.”

So I carefully undid the beautiful ribbon and set the little silver key aside. I tried not to rip the shiny pink paper as I lifted the tape. And then I could not believe my eyes. (I’m trying hard not to bawl my eyes out just writing about this now.) It was a spray of flowers from my mother’s casket. Somehow Bonnie had managed to secure a representative sampling of blooms and taken them to a florist friend of hers who arranged them very artistically. They were framed in a beautiful glass box, along with the program from the funeral -- including the portrait I had drawn for the cover.

Remembrance. A most wonderful gift. At a time when I wanted to remember every little thing about my mother. Every little scrap of paper with her handwriting took on enormous significance now that she was gone. I wanted to surround myself with anything that reminded me of her. And here was something spectacular and meaningful to hang on my wall.

I still have the little silver key from that amazing package I opened 16 years ago. It reminds me that people I love found the key to my heart that year by going to extraordinary lengths to give me the gift of Remembrance. And I have never forgotten.


. . . . . . . .

I learned another great lesson about Remembrance that year. I learned that when we lose someone we love, any opportunity that allows us to remember them is an extraordinary gift. This gave me a whole new appreciation for the Sacrament...a weekly ordinance designed to help us remember Someone we love very deeply. (“That we may always remember Him, that we may have His spirit to be with us...”) That year I realized that that remembrance, too (not unlike Christmas) is a gift from a loving Father. And I cherished it like never before.

Twelve Gifts: #9 ETERNITY

“I think I’m broken,” I told my friend on our ritual morning walk. Two months earlier I delivered a baby that was stillborn, and I didn’t know if I’d ever truly recover. Sure, I had survived the ordeal, but as time wore on I found myself plagued with feelings of failure and self-doubt. If I couldn’t keep my baby alive, what kind of mother am I?

This was my hardest Christmas so far (even though Christmases are usually compared in terms of joyfulness rather than hardness.) We still had boxes to unpack from our move, and decorating the house for the holidays became a low priority. Then the fact that Christmas is all about a baby -- and I had lost mine -- made the season poignantly painful. Singing about the baby Jesus in choir practice was now so emotional I could barely get through a rehearsal without tearing up. And during “Mary, Did You Know?” I usually just had to get up and leave.(“Did you know that your baby ...has walked where angels trod...When you kiss your little baby then you’ve kissed the face of God...this child that you delivered ...this sleeping child you’re holding...”) It was all too much for me.

We spent Christmas in Utah that year. We got there early and Bonnie (my mother-in-law) had already turned our beds down and run baths for the kids. She is a natural nurturer. Just before we went to get ready for bed, she invited us into the family room by the tree and said she had a gift that she wanted me to open early. She handed me a small box, and I imagined maybe a sleep mask...or better yet a bottle of anti-depressants! Instead, what I discovered inside took my breath away. She had taken the diamond from her original wedding band, along with her mother’s wedding diamond, and had them set as pierced earrings. And she wanted me to have them. “I want you to wear them every day and never take them off,” she said. And I never have.

Every day when I look in the mirror I see two diamonds sparkling back at me, symbolizing generations of everlasting love. I see loyalty, honor, commitment. I see the world’s hardest material, symbolizing my own strength and potential. I see eternity.



I couldn’t wait to show them to my friend when we got back to Pasadena. Not for the bling or the glitz. For the symbol. “Maybe,” I pondered aloud, “Maybe I’m not broken after all. Maybe I’m being cut, one facet at a time.” She nodded knowingly, like she’d been waiting for me to discover that for myself all along.

That year, and to this day, I’m grateful for a wise mother-in-law who intuitively knew I needed that symbol of eternal love to help heal my broken heart. And I’m grateful for a Father who chose such a loving way to tutor me about my own potential. I’m grateful for a pair of diamonds -- and my own, making it a threesome -- that carry the power of transcendent love, and the whisper and hope of eternity.

Twelve Gifts: #8 MUSIC

Grandpa Bennett lived the entire twentieth century. He was born in 1900 and died in 1999. He never lost his health or his mental faculties...or the license to drive his Jaguar. Just quietly died in his sleep one night, at age 99-plus. Amazing.

They lived in a gorgeous English Tudor house with a stream and a waterfall in the back yard. (And a swimming pool for most of our growing-up years.) Our favorite room was the library. Glass doors opened into a quiet study with a giant dictionary on a stand, a big antique desk, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
Just beyond that -- on the other side of the glass doors -- was the grand piano. The one my mother learned on. It stood silent most of the time. But you could tell Grandpa’s first love was music. And that is my favorite gift from him.

At one time he had his own radio show. He would sing a favorite hymn, then present a beautifully-crafted personal essay on the meaning and text of the hymn, then sing the hymn again. One year when I expressed a particular interest, he presented us with tape recordings of every single one of his radio shows. What a treasure! I’m fairly sure I’m the only granddaughter who scored that entire collection.

For years he was the baritone soloist in the Messiah. His rich, golden voice was legendary. By the time we were old enough to appreciate such wonders, he was too old to sing in public, but he would ALWAYS sing for his grandchildren, once a year, at Christmas. Some of my favorite memories were the family parties we held in the top floor ballroom of the McCune Mansion. There our patriarch would gather his family, and (with my mom or me at the piano) conduct his 100-plus descendants in a rousing four-part sing-along of the Hallelujah Chorus. It was the highlight of the holiday.

Another highlight was caroling. We’d join as cousins and follow Grandpa through the neighborhood, an 80-voice choir, singing our hearts out from door to door in the freezing cold as he delivered gifts to his friends and neighbors. Best caroling ever!

But there was one more tradition, so sweet and so priceless it takes me right back to my earliest childhood days, with a memory so tender I lack the words to describe it. At the end of every family party, Grandpa would gather the children around him and sing the Christopher Robin Songs. Suddenly this dignified old gentleman was transformed into a young English lad. His eyes twinkled, and grew large and expressive. His mustache twitched under a boyish grin. His diction, demeanor and decorum were all that of a young London schoolboy. His real personality came through when he sang those songs. Meanwhile, my mother sparkled on the piano behind him. She had accompanied him for so many years I think she practically knew all the Christopher Robin Songs by heart. Everything was electrifying and magical when Grandpa sang.

After I was first married and moved away, I coerced Grandpa to sing the songs for me one more time, so we could record them for our children. I wish I could post a little video clip from one of those recordings. It’s a blustery day outside, but this is even better than a big jar of honey!

What I learned from Grandpa, and again from my mom, is that Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without music. I love singing about the baby Jesus at Christmastime. Singing helps me access the deep crevices of my heart and offer up gifts I didn’t even know I had tucked inside. I can sing love and testimony and gratitude and grace that I can’t express any other way. I can rejoice as I lift up my voice with choirs of angels. Life doesn’t get more jubilant than that. I think any other ritual or tradition could come and go (like the residents of Whoville when the Grinch took all their presents) but music makes Christmas. And I’m glad I’ve been blessed with so many wonderful ways to participate.

Twelve Gifts: #7 – ANONYMITY

When I was in high school I had a friend from work who was older, in college, and already had her own apartment. When she went home for Christmas, she asked me to house sit for her. I LOVED “playing house” over there, having a quiet place to sit and read or listen to music. I even had fun cleaning.

She had left in a bit of a rush, so every day when I went over I tried to put a few things away for her, wash the dishes, scrub the stove, sweep, dust vacuum. At the end of the two weeks I brought her home from the airport and when she walked into her apartment she exclaimed, (and I quote) “Thank heaven I cleaned before I left!” That was just about my favorite thing ever. At first I thought, "Now wait a minute..." But then I saw the happiness and relief on her face, heard it in her voice. And that was recognition enough. It actually made me extra happy that she had no idea I’d done all that for her. My service was anonymous. And there was a certain joy that came along with that I’d never really experienced before.

About seven years ago I felt it from a whole new perspective. Design work had been slow (sometimes non-existent), and being self-employed, there was no steady income. Jeff had been out of work for about six months, and we were really feeling the pinch. We miraculously scraped together enough money to cover the mortgage every month, and put food on the table, but little else. It wasn’t looking too good for Christmas.

But on the 14th of December a package showed up on our porch...and then another. Two different people delivered “Twelve Days of Christmas” packages to our doorstep every single day for the next 12 days. Reading the notes and discovering the surprises was delightful! The children loved it too. We couldn’t wait to come home and see what had been left for us each night. Some of them were funny -- like ten rolls of toilet paper! Others were so thoughtful: My favorite lipstick. Matching mugs for hot chocolate. One day it was a collection of Christmas poems and stories. Another day it was a gift certificate to a favorite taco stand! So much fun!

On Christmas Eve I literally wept as I opened the door and found not just a dozen doughnuts or some other trinkets, but gifts for everyone in the family, wrapped and ready to put under the tree. I was stunned. Overwhelmed.

Now, here’s the best part: We never found out who the givers were. I have my suspicions. But it remains a mystery. And here’s what happened that I never could have predicted: As we started to guess, “Could it have been her?” “I wonder if it was THAT family” “Maybe it was our neighbors down on Topeka Street...or those friends from church...” All those musings caused us to reach out more, to be a little bit kinder. Because we loved our mysterious givers, whoever they were, we wanted to be extra kind and gracious to them. And because it could have been virtually ANYONE...we felt this humbled, grateful sweetness toward EVERYONE. It was the best feeling in the world.

No wonder Jesus said, “...let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth,” promising that whatever we give in secret will be richly and openly rewarded. As usual, He wants us all, givers and receivers, to be deliriously happy. And it works.

Twelve Gifts: #6 ROOM in the INN (Entertaining Angels)

We arrived on the scene in Los Angeles homeless and jobless. We weren’t being utterly foolish. We had both a job and a home lined up -- managing an apartment complex in the San Fernando Valley. But when we arrived in L.A. and called to pick up the key, we got the unbelievable news that they’d sold the building right out from under us while we were on our honeymoon. Welcome to L.A.! The battles there are far-flung and hard won, as we were beginning to discover. But thankfully, we were not friendless.

Jeff called some friends from church, and they invited us to stay in their back bedroom, rent free, until we could find an apartment. I came down with a flu that first night and was in bed with a high fever for most of that first week. Our hosts didn't seem to mind at all, made us feel completely welcome and comfortable. In fact, our first apartment was a studio space that opened up in their complex. Thanks to Dave and Elizabeth, we didn’t have to spend our first two weeks in Los Angeles without a home. They were good to us, and we were very grateful.

. . . . . . . .

A couple of months ago we had the opportunity to open up our own little inn to some road-weary travelers. Jeff's cousin (who we'd barely crossed paths with a time or two in the past twenty years) needed a place to stay, and for who knows how long? But it felt like the right thing to open our doors, and our hearts, to this virtual stranger. A few days turned into a few weeks, and the inn remained open. The amazing thing is, after a few days I’m usually more than ready to see our house guests on their way. But this cousin was different. She was here, off and on, for about six weeks, and I was actually sad to see her leave last weekend. My office doubles as our guest room, and I often have a hard time giving up that space, and that computer, even for a night or two. But somehow I was completely content to be displaced. Hardly noticed any inconvenience. (As many of you may have noticed, the blog went dormant. But even that didn’t seem to matter.)

This wonderful guest in our home, despite her own family crisis, quietly went behind the scenes looking for ways and places to serve. She and her daughter helped the children with their homework, folded loads of laundry, cleaned out the food storage room, replaced the lights in the master bathroom, helped fix the kitchen sink, assembled my new drawing table...the list goes on and on. Somehow, too, she captured just the right balance of spending time with us without ever getting in the way. She didn’t expect us to babysit or entertain her, yet was always willing to engage if we wanted company or needed a listening ear. Normally, I expect houseguests to bring with them a certain amount of chaos, but this one brought calmness in her wake.

Initially I thought we were doing them this huge favor, letting them stay with us for an indefinite amount of time, but it ended up being such a gift to our family in ways I never imagined. The renewed friendship. The calming influence. The quiet determination to help out. The laughter, understanding and love. Just amazing.

I couldn’t help but be reminded of that night in Bethlehem when Mary and Joseph were looking for a place to stay. Turned down by countless others, the weary couple finally settled in a stable for that night of all nights. I’m sure at first the Innkeeper thought he was doing them a favor, letting them spend the night in his stable, but can you imagine the blessing it would have been to house the Christ child, the Holy Family, even for one night? I’m sure the stable-owner was blessed in ways far and above the little manger he offered the weary wanderers: The light. The spirit. The miracles. The love.

I keep thinking about our lovely guests, and how very Christlike they were in the way they occupied a space in our home, and what an unexpected blessing it’s been to have them here. It makes me want to recommit to make more room, both in my home and my heart, for the Savior. Every day. Because I realize now that making room in the inn is not just a gift we provide, it’s also, in the very act, a gift we receive. And it’s one of my favorites.

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. (Heb. 13: 2)

Twelve Gifts: #5 – PERSPECTIVE

Our across-the-street neighbors were the coolest people! They were tag-team parents: She worked the day shift as a television producer, and he was a stay-at-home dad who worked the evening shift as an actor. I marveled at the way this close, Christian family worked everything out so seamlessly in a dog-eat-dog metropolis and such fiercely competitive industries. They were an inspiration. Bill entertained the boys, kept the garden looking great and also cooked like Martha Stewart...then transformed in the evening, playing major roles in touring Broadway productions like Ragtime and Lion King. Lynette had wild curly hair and a loud voice and a grand sense of humor. At work she hunted down human-interest news stories (often involving the neighbor kids), and at home she loved to hunt down vintage collectibles at yard sales and swap meets. Their house was decorated with a theme for every room. The boys’ room was nautical, the family room was bedecked with antique toys, and the kitchen -- my word, the kitchen! It was a pink-and-gray monument to 1950’s space age chic -- every appliance was streamlined pink enamel with diner-esque chrome trim, including the formica-topped dinette set. Fabulous!

Every once in awhile Bill would have to go out on an audition during the day, and asked me to watch the boys for him. When Lynette came to pick them up one afternoon, Nick started to whine, “I had a bad day.” I, somewhat mortified, tried to explain, “We actually had a lot of fun. We made cookies and they played pirates on the swingset and...” Nick cut me off. “I did. I had a bad day.” Suddenly his older brother Noah started clapping his hands over his ears and called out urgently, “No, Nicky, No! Don’t say it, Nicky. She’ll tell you the Christopher Reeve story!” And sure enough, Lynette launched in emphatically as if on cue, “You did NOT have a bad day, Nicky. Christopher Reeve had a bad day. He went out horseback riding and came home a quadriplegic. Now THAT’s a bad day!”


And who could possibly argue with that? I guess for most of us, when you put things in perspective, there ARE no bad days! What's more, Christopher Reeve became more heroic in the trials of real life than he ever was in his role as a superhero. Inspiring.

Thank you, Lynette, for the gift of perspective....


Of course the most important outlook to grasp, yet also most fleeting and difficult to hold onto, is infinitely positive --eternal perspective, the ability to see “things as they really are”, as God himself sees. That rich, expansive point of view that shrinks our sorrows and broadens our joys is truly among the greatest of gifts.