WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO TAKE?

I was a bit of a late bloomer. A tulip in October. Oh, sure. I could sponge on a good game of blue eyeshadow and had some sweet, tight, curling iron ringlets that I earnestly feathered and sprayed. But was I successful? Not really.

Now that’s not to say I was a stranger to “going” together. Beautiful days filled with passing notes, marking the yes box and then avoiding each other like the plague until a friend was sent to break up with you. I started with Troy and ended with Brian and filled all the years in between with spitty kisses, unrequited expectations and one poor mother’s stolen jewelry that was handed off to me in my coat pocket because I refused to pull my wrinkly, dry hand out of that pocket to clasp his sweaty palm. 

Which reminds me, want to know how to keep your children chaste? Give them grandma hands. Or a concave bosom. Or warts or zits or some other hideous disfigurement they’ll be ashamed to parade in front of others and will go to great lengths to hide and never reveal. Just a thought. Anyway…

I finally emerged from the dirt just in time to press on some Lee nails and go on a blind date with a guy who had a heart of gold. He spent most of his attention and money on me and called me, “Beautiful” like it was his job. I loved it, but because I was still a bulb at heart, I didn’t fully understand my part in this relationship. One day I was talking to my friend at work and got a little confident. 

“I can get a dozen roses.”

“How?”

“Watch.”

And when my boyfriend called me at work, asking what I was doing, I said, “Oh, just looking at Kristen’s half dozen roses…”

See what I did there? 

By the end of the night, I had my dozen roses. 

The relationship didn’t last, thank goodness. For both of our sakes. You see, I was a little disgusted with him—how easily I could play him. For years I told the story, always from the point of view of the woman who got what she wanted and lost respect for the man who gave it to her. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how embarrassed I should have been. 

A few days ago, my daughter came home from a date. 

“There’s something that kind of bugs me about him, Mom. It’s just…I feel like he would do anything for me. Like, anything. You know what I mean?” And I thought for a moment, remembering the boy of 18 who would have done anything for me. 

“Yes, I do know what you mean.”

Then I thought about the 54 year old man by my side who was currently on day 763 of an unbroken streak spent scratching my back while we watched TJ Hooker. The man who would do anything for me. One I played. One I married. What was the difference?

The difference was me. 

The world would have us believe that “edge” and “cynicism” trump giving hearts and happy eyes. That the guy willing to rub our feet is somehow inferior to the guy who refuses such an act, instead pulling off his own socks and wiggling his toes in our face. 

The real question isn’t what is he willing to give…the real question is, what are you expecting to take?

When Heavenly Father wraps up a person who offers you his coat and holds your hand and sends you roses and calls you pretty, do you mock and roll your eyes and lose respect because the present isn’t edgy enough? Because you aren’t torn and bleeding from the sharp angles that hurt your feelings and make you cry? No.

What you do is you lift up that gift like a new baby in church, ooo and ahhh and appreciate every nuance of it, then declare in your LOUDEST spiritual voice how grateful you are to have this gift and that you will never, ever, take advantage of it. 

And that you will try really hard not to ruin it. 

And will make it homemade bread. And occasionally cheese soup.

And let it go four wheeling. And shoot guns. 

And pull the long, gray hairs out of its ears at church so it doesn’t lose credibility.

And be its greatest hype man, loyal and adoring, and buy it great ties.

And will try not to yell when it crashes another really expensive drone.

But most importantly, even if that gift is willing to give his all, you will be unwilling to let him. Because you love him as much as he loves you. 

(But you can for sure let him keep scratching your back because it seems like he must really enjoy it and you’re probably blessing his life, so it’s a win/win and everybody is happy.)

I KNOW HOW TO STAND

 

I know what you're all thinking, and you're right. It's true. I was a junior high cheerleader. 

I thought it was the answer to all of my prayers when they announced my name. This was it. This was all I needed. And it was...in ways I couldn't even imagine. But it took the form of a curse that would haunt me nearly every single day of my prison term in that short, pleated skirt. 

I didn't step-clap correctly. I talked too much about my sister. And I always asked how much things cost. "Why did you even try out if you couldn't afford it?" was their elitist response as they ordered me to go buy the bum cheek exposing pair of shorts for our day uniform.

A couple of weeks into it, we were told by the captain that we'd need to gather $400 plus so we could go to cheer camp. To the other girls on the squad, this was nothing. Most of their mothers lived vicariously through them in their cheer years and thrilled at the prospect of spending a hundred bucks on white Nikes. My mother didn't care how high I could jump split and $400 was our family's grocery budget for a month. 

I told my parents about the request. "We can't afford it and that's the same week as girl's camp," they said.

"I know. But they'll hate me if I don't go."

Long story short, I didn't go. 

And yes, they hated me. 

They even went so far as to make a pact that none of them would teach me the dance for the opening assembly. But one girl took pity on me. She had 20 minutes before her mom picked her up and with angelic help I learned that frickin' dance in 17 minutes flat. Thank you, Jesus.

The others were really ticked. They wanted to punish me for not conforming. And when it turned out this wasn't in their control, they spent the rest of the year belittling, mocking and eye rolling everything I did and said. Every other day I'd open a folded note that looked benign only to have ugly words tumble off the lined paper, or a "friend" would pull me aside and say, "Guess who hates you?" and my heart would drop into my stomach. Wretches. My skin got thicker and my poker face straighter until I could finally experience the greatest relief I'd ever felt, at least up to age 14, as I put those shredded pom poms in the Halloween costume box and was released from my year long lesson in loneliness. But by damn, I knew how to stand.

Now here I am, staring at the adult version of junior high having been thrown back into the mire, this time in public service. "Guess who hates you" is now a tag in a facebook post. And folded notes have become emails sent from "concerned citizens" who tell me to "do what we tell you to" right after calling me apathetic, corrupt, stupid and gutless. It's super fun. Kind of like when someone pinches your upper arm fat. 

But forty years later, I've learned some things. Like, I totally know how to step clap, so super confident there. Also, I will talk about my sister whether you want to hear about her or not. But, even now, I haven't stopped caring about how much things cost. Specifically fully staffed fire departments, traffic units and merit pay for our police, and parks and recreational space for an ever growing city, to name a few. But highest on my list is how much it costs for a young family to live, well, anywhere in Utah, really. But most especially, here in our city. 

"Why do you even try to live here if you can't afford it?" Is their elitist response, as they order them to buy a house and a piece of land that exposes their empty bank accounts and student loan debt. 

Their empathy is negligible, their discernment is limited and their insistence that the world doesn't change fuels their indignation toward anyone who says otherwise. 

"You're ruining my view!" 

"We are a farming community!"

"All developers are greedy!"

Actually, let's tell it like it is. You ruined my view, you shop at the grocery store and you live in a home provided by a developer. Your car is on my road, your house sits in my field, your children crowd my schools. And never once have I told you that your kind doesn't belong here, that you are corrupt or that you have ruined my city. 

Go ahead and throw your heads back like human Pez dispensers at everything I say. You can belittle, mock and eye roll until the Second Coming, but I won't conform. I don't need your vote, I'm not 13 and if I am forced to do junior high over again, I'll do it on my terms. Because after 50 plus years on this earth, by damn, I know how to stand. 

And yes, Hilly Holbrook, I am talking about you. 

HEAVEN'S COMING WITH ME!

I’m eating a lot of treats. Chocolates, jelly beans, assorted marshmallow fluffs. I know, big surprise, right? Welcome to Thursday. 

But I’m preparing spiritually for the WORLDWIDE FAST to kick Rona’s rump. #ronarumpkick #fullastfast #don’tfeedtheworld

I’ve been surprised and delighted to see so many people wanting to participate, especially when we often hear people declare that they abhor, or at the very least, dismiss, “organized” religion.

There are a lot of reasons given. “I feel closer to God in nature.” “I talk to Jesus all the time, I don’t need a building to do it in.” “My ‘church’ is holding my baby, swinging on my front porch.”

And I get it. All of these things are true. We can absolutely feel close to God in the midst of His creations. We can talk to Jesus any time we want, and there’s hardly anything more delightful than a beautiful evening spent at home sucking in the sweet smell of babies and cut grass. 

But to suggest that organizing something diminishes or corrupts, is not only disingenuous but intellectually lazy.

Take, for instance, education. Organized. From recognizing colors and shapes to scientific theories and algebra—organized. Line upon line and building upon facts, you learned and earned that degree that was organized according to your field of focus. 

Want me to perform your brain surgery? No? I guess I don’t blame you. My knowledge and skill set aren’t very organized. We assume and even base our life on the expectation that a neurosurgeon learns all that is required to remove a tumor based on organization. Someone had to figure out what the brain does, how it’s organized, and precisely how it can be effectively dissected to remedy the worst case scenarios.

The car you drive? Organized. Unless it’s a Pinto. The computer you’re reading this on? Organized. Circuits that all have a specific place to go and a precise way to get there to show us the very best cat videos the world has to offer.

Your career? Organized. Money and it’s value? Organized. Government? Organized (with a condescending smirk). Music? Casserole? The Avengers? Organized. My fridge and shoe collection and mind? Incredibly disorganized, but that’s not my point.

My point is this—although there is tremendous value in the individual and the lone, there is even more to be said for bringing together the many, the complimentary, the like minded and the diverse. To say that corruption only belongs to the organized is nonsense. Corruption happens on every level. Maybe even more so when we’re left to our own thoughts, choices and a bag of Doritos at 1:00 a.m. with nobody around to save us from ourselves.

It’s also important to recognize what happens when somebody or something refuses to organize. Take YOU for instance. You are one of the most perfectly organized events in the world. Your cells split and multiplied at just the right time and in just the right way to allow your heart to beat, your eyes to see, your brain to think and your bum to stink. What happens in the instance that our cells go rogue? All hell breaks loose, that’s what. And speaking of hell, if you don’t think they are organized, well, you are up in the night. With a bag of Doritos. About to regret every decision you’ve ever made. 

But maybe we’re using the wrong term here. Maybe it’s not so much about organization as it’s about unity. Unified cells. Unified people. Unified purpose. 

Anyone who knows God, knows His house is a house of order. And that doesn’t mean there are vacuum tracks in the carpet, although I am sure there are, along with pink roses and lilacs in crystal vases and robin’s egg blue walls and…but I digress. No, I think it means one heart, one might, one mind, one faith.

One God.

Organized.

United.

And that’s why we can expect a miracle as we gather in His name, fast for one purpose and lend all of our hearts to this cause.

LOOK OUT RONA! I’M COMING…AND HEAVEN’S COMING WITH ME!

THE RONAS DONE GOT US!

Well, the Ronas came and they done got us, you guys. Ruined our weddings, senior years and the mental applause we were sure to receive in our Easter Sunday dresses. 

When Rona first declared she was in charge, we didn't even lift our heads from our virtual shopping. Hawaii and Women's Conference and Rod Stewart in concert? Add to cart. We rolled our eyes at the jock straps and bras that were tied to people's faces and questioned the sanity of the people wearing water coolers as head gear. "Bat shiz crazy" (I still stand by that assessment) we called them as, speaking of such, we walked past the toilet paper aisle and figured we could go another couple of days with what we had. 

But now, just look at us. We prematurely carry our grass filled baskets through the house, gnawing on hardened marshmallow peeps and Chicks and Rabbits, wondering why we didn't have the foresight to not sign up for that weight loss app that is now charging us for every single notification and prompt we ignore, because LISTEN, NOOM, WE ARE JUST TRYING TO SURVIVE, OKAY?  FIRST A PANDEMIC AND THEN AN EARTHQUAKE AND ISOLATION AND NOW YOU WANT US TO EAT AIR AND GO TO THE GYM? WELL WE CAN'T, OKAY NOOM? NOBODY CAN. WE WOULD IF WE COULD, ACTUALLY THAT'S A LIE BECAUSE WE DIDN'T WHEN WE COULD, BUT YOU CAN'T PROVE IT, SO JUST BACK OFF! 

Plus that cinnamon roll ain't gonna eat itself, am I right? 

Just chalk up my chins to a casualty. Unintended consequences. This Rona has been a ruinous thief in the night and as my daughter ran into my arms in the parking garage of the airport, I couldn't help but consider the collateral damage we're now experiencing. More has been stolen than just our simple joys and expected homecomings—also our sense of purpose and control.

Julia's 18 month mission was cut short by 14 months. She went from teaching people about Jesus Christ and writing us stories about the *misguided (see *meaner than hell) folk who threw coffee on her car every day, to a midnight phone call telling us she was coming home tomorrow. 

I hardly slept that night. 

I worried about everything from her sense of worth to my own part in this play. Although it was true that her asthma put her in a high risk category, it was also true that for months, she'd had the lazy trained out of her until productivity was her new normal.  

Now, overnight, she was told to stay in her apartment, do nothing, go nowhere and think of only herself and her companion while nobody accepted the invitation to be taught or contacted. Indefinitely. That's kind of like telling a nursing mother to stop producing milk and forget her baby for a few weeks or maybe months. Despair is sure to follow. 

"Don't lament the experience," they said. "Celebrate the homecoming and act like nothing was lost!" "Just focus on all of the good that's coming from this time in the world," they suggested. 

Wonderful advice. But really hard to follow when you hold the other end of the experience stick.  This side feels incomplete and disappointing and fills the palm with slivers as we pretend to only notice the smooth wood. 

The other night, Julia said through tears, "I know you're disappointed in me. Go ahead. You can tell me. You wanted me to stay on my mission and you're disappointed. So am I."

For a moment I considered the lie. But then I thought better and I told the truth. Yes, we are disappointed. But not in our daughter. Not. In. Our. Daughter. This was not all she was meant to have or experience and we are sad. Pretending it doesn't exist is like telling that nursing mother she has nothing more to offer her child when everything in her says otherwise. 

But grieving is not the same as wallowing. And sitting in the sadness for longer than is necessary negates all that is ahead. Julia is meant to have and experience more than she did, and that is what the rest of her days are for. The weeping ends and she'll rise again.

We're not the only ones looking at a weird, surreal wreck right now. And this isn't the hardest thing that has or will happen to any of us. We are all together in this misery, and it turns out the old cliche is true—Misery loves company. It also loves Cadburys and pandemic memes and Dr. Pepper and sweats. And it loves prayers, fasting, sunshine and hope. 

But mostly, misery loves Christ. Because if ever there was somebody who knows what it feels like to be isolated, disappointed and sad, it is Him. And yet, He didn't wallow for any longer than was necessary to redeem us from the weight of our burdens. 

He had the rest of His days to live, so He rose again. 

And we will, too.

IT'S DUE TOMORROW

Sometimes my mind becomes a sepia toned filter and I lament my vanishing days of wine and roses. The days of apple juice in baby bottles and matching Easter outfits in the spring. The handpainted roses on the nursery walls and the satisfaction of opening a new bag of diapers and filling the drawers with stacks that smelled of baby powder...if only for the time being.

On cold wintery nights, I slowly walk the streets while my dog tears up the landscape, sniffing the ground like it holds the secret to life rather than another dog's urine, and I'll think of what's lost and wish I could go back..."If only for a day, what day would it be? Would it be Christmas Eve? Or camping at Bear Lake? Or the day they were born or..."

But my reverie is interrupted when a booger covered mini-van flies down the road carrying a frantic mother with murder in her eyes on her way to Smith's hoping to hell she can find EVERY SINGLE ITEM NECESSARY for her 4th grader's Science Fair project—including the actual scientific theory—that is due tomorrow.

I know this because I experienced this. I also experienced sending a kid to school without his decorated shoebox county float because said kid never mentioned the assignment until the actual morning it was due. Oh, well. Sometimes you just have to keep in mind that their record isn't permanent until Freshman year. And college is overrated.

I also screamed my children out the door nearly every other morning, even though I had a Come to Jesus with myself EVERY DAY to remind me that I was the voice in their head and if all that voice did was scream, well then, it was almost certain that my name would be brought up in front of a judge or a therapist one day.

But that didn't stop me, because then there were the mornings that I heard a honk outside at, like, an ungodly hour. This would cause me to fly out of bed, throw open the shutters and tear the sash off the wall as I tried to figure out if the car was in front of our house while hoping and praying it was at the neighbor's. But it never was. It was always freaking at our house. Which meant, ONCE AGAIN, that one of my children had made arrangements for something that required them to act like responsible adults, and then didn't tell me. Well EVERY MOTHER KNOWS her kid isn't responsible. SHE is responsible. Her kid has a wonky, underdeveloped, crippled frontal lobe and that is why they aren't allowed to do practically anything without adult supervision at that age. So WHO ARE THESE FOOLS WHO LET THEM MAKE PLANS WITHOUT CLEARING IT WITH THEIR MOTHER?!

The honk was always followed by me turning on every light in the house, yelling up the stairs to the guilty party to, "WAKE THE HELL UP! YOUR RIDE IS HERE!" then running to the door with Bride of Frankenstein hair to make the universal, "Hey! Yeah, hi! Good to see you. Just one minute and they'll be out. Sorry, we're just running a little bit behind," sign—a deprecating smile and holding the pointer finger aloft.

There was also the day I came for a PTA meeting and saw my son in the principal's office. I thought, "He's probably being given an award. Wonder why they didn't call me?" Turns out he was pointing at his bum and telling all the little girls to, "Kiss this." Mm hmm. That's right. #metoo.

Add to these stories the broken teeth and broken arms, the slug fights at 1:00 a.m. because, "HE'S SNORING ON PURPOSE!" Julia intentionally stomping on the heads of her sleeping brothers in the truck because they were in her way, the baby hands grabbing the burning griddle, the croupy coughs, the lost elections, the poop in the tub and the vomit on the plane.

Now ask me if I'd go back for a day?

The answer is yes.

But it sure as H wouldn't be the day of the Science Fair.

Pretty sure Julia tried to kick Ashton's pumpkin right after this shot was taken.

Is there ever a time that a costume knife isn't a good idea? Prove it.

Sunday morning chic.

I made those vests. I rocked the homemaking scene.

Goggles. An accessory for every outfit...or lack thereof.

And they all turned out just fine, despite my worst efforts.

IT WILL NEVER BE

My childhood friend's dad died.

Today I sat in the chapel, looking at the back of his daughter's head with her beautiful gray hair, sitting next to her mother behind his flag draped casket as they listened to the last song they'll ever experience as a family in this realm. And I remembered when she used to wear her hair curly and pulled back with little butterfly barrettes. And laughed so hard and so easily that we did all we could to get her going. And accidentally dropped the baby hamster when it pooped in her hands and every kid in class yelled that she probably killed it and made her weep because we were young and dumb and couldn't see past our own 11 year old noses to care how we made other people feel.

You see, I was there for the beginning. But most of the time we're not. Most of the time we know the ending and can't imagine it's ever been any other way.

I didn't know how Angela's dad began. I just knew he wore a hat, was really smart and always smiled. Turns out he loved horses, talked so much that his date (who later became his wife) thought to herself she'd never marry him if he was the last man on earth, and when it came time to pop the question, parked his car and said, "Well?...Well, you know...What do you want to do?...I guess...I guess we might as well."

And they did.

They were married on a cold winter day, with snowflakes as big as quarters falling down as they drove through Sardine Canyon on their way to Logan. Only the two of them knew that at 5:30 that morning, she had locked her purse with their temple recommends inside the apartment and he had to hoist her up to climb inside the window. The perfect way to start their eternal journey—depending on each other.

They fought while she proofread his papers. They had a daughter and raised her as their only child. They worked on a lesson plan to teach people about Christ. They lived for nearly 50 years in a home on David Drive and together made memories to last a lifetime.

And that's just what they did. They lasted his life time. All the way... to the end.

I've known a lot of people lately who have found themselves in this space. Faithful friends walking behind coffins, thanking people for coming, telling stories of how it used to be and wondering how it all happened so fast and why the end came so soon.

And those of us left behind can't help but feel that way. Like it's the end. And we can't imagine it will ever be any other way.

But one day, we'll all be on the other side, waiting for our loved ones to come back to us and we'll know...

we'll know.

It was only the beginning.

And it will never be
Any. Other. Way.

BECAUSE OF HIM

MILLIONS OF CATERPILLAR LEGS

"Once upon a time, there was a caterpillar. He had a million legs. Every day he would look at all of them, trying to decide which one he should move first. Finally, he died in the same position he began. The end."

A few months ago, I was feeling ambitious. So much so that I pulled up Amazon, found the unabridged version of Les Miserables and clicked order. When the over 1200 pages arrived, they looked more friendly than I expected and I immediately poured a bath so I could get to know them.

Several months later I climbed out of that bath a changed woman—shriveled and pruned and dehydrated from weeping so long and so hard—and changed. Of course, as we all know, "changed" rarely lasts. Just as Baby in Dirty Dancing, great intentions get shoved into the corner of our minds as we tend to forget why we were inspired, what we were always going to remember and what flash of brilliance was revealed to us in those fleeting moments.

It made me sad to think that those godly ideals would stay hidden in the shadows of my library and dimming mind. So I picked up my worn book, a yellow highlighter, and climbed back into that watery casket intending to mark the brilliant passages and use them as a catalyst for my blog. Weeks have passed and I am still stagnant, but this ends today.

Here I go, moving one of my caterpillar legs.

"...you are looking at a plain man and I am looking at a great man. Each of us may benefit." Monseignor Bienvenu—Bishop of Digne

I was a pretty big deal in elementary school. I could roundoff back handspring across the entire field, I was "going with" Troy who gave me his lunch orange every day and I had started wearing a purse and blue eyeshadow before most of the other girls. As I said, a pretty big deal. The world was my chocolate box and as I wiped the brown drool off my chin I had no reason to believe it would ever be any different.

The first day of junior high I kicked open those school doors and those school doors kicked me right back, figuratively knocking my teeth out and giving me a bloody nose. My face was wrong, my words were wrong and my jeans were wrong. Apparently Kings was not the place to buy them. Falling from grace was painful and humiliating and I spent the next few years trying to become what I used to be, only to Pinterest Fail over and over again.

During this time, my big sister was my opposite. She was Valentine royalty, Best All Around and Homecoming Queen. Every boy was secretly in love with her and like Ursula, I would watch her, trying to figure out her secret powers and how I could steal them from her. I used her perfume and chewed her gum. I tried to emulate her walk and her talk and even read her journal. (Sorry 'bout that, Nick.) I would hear, "Why don't you be more like Nicki?" as often as I'd hear, "Why do you always try to be like Nicki?" I just couldn't figure out the perfect recipe and she became a blessing and a curse to me until I eventually came back to myself.

Fortunately, confidence returned with highlighted hair and a savage tan, and popularity was no longer my master. But I had definitely benefited from being plain and looking at a great man. Turns out Nicki's secret was kindness. To everyone. They loved her because they knew she loved them. In appearing lowly, she was great.

Nicki continues to be great, but I'm sure she'd tell you she's been on both sides of the window in her lifetime. We all have. The lesson is in seeing something worth aspiring to no matter which set of eyes you're looking through. Great or plain. Low or high. It doesn't matter. Each of us may benefit.

JUST KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT

My son screaming that life isn't fair

Lori, this one's for you—

A couple of things; first, went in to the dermatologist today on account of I'm nearing the half century mark and every day is a new and exciting pending disease. Second, you've never lived (and by lived I mean died a slow, humiliating death) unless you've tried to keep your 49 year old chest from spilling out of a too small surgical gown that you accidentally put on backwards while seeing your speckled and freckled skin under fluorescent lights while a younger, thinner, more intelligent you-in-a-parallel-universe-where-you-applied-yourself examines and judges your lack of self care. That poor dear. Full frontal is super offensive after four babies.

Anyway, turns out the moles I thought were worrisome were not and the ones I took no notice of were. A squirt of lidocaine and a melon baller later and I'm several hundred dollars closer to meeting my deductible. And maybe have cancer. But whatevs. I deserve it. Just today I said these words...out loud, mind you..."At this stage of life I no longer tremble at the thought of trials." See? Same as yelling, "COME AT ME, BRO!" to Heaven and Hades. Idiot.

On a lighter note, guess how many times I've seen The Greatest Showman? FOUR! But that pales in comparison to Karyn who is going on SEVEN. Cuz Hugh. (She's kind of a stalker, but I get it.) And if by chance you're lucky enough to sit by me next time, you're welcome in advance for how much better you're going to know the lyrics by the time the lights come up.

Also, full disclosure—I lied and told my daughter I'm off pop. But back to trials—I've had some dear friends and family gut punched lately with the wiles of this earth life. None of it fair, none of it easy and none of it with a clear map of how to navigate. Of course, we all know from experience and our mothers telling us every day for the first 20 years of our lives, "Fair? FAIR!? (maniacal laughter) Life has never been fair. I never promised you a rose garden. Also, hogwash and pig guts, Lisa!" Maybe that last refrain was unique to our household—hard to say—but unfair was a visitor in every home which is how we became adept at splitting a piece of Wrigley's spearmint without it being obvious we kept the biggest piece for ourselves.

But cancer is not a piece of gum. And divorce is about thorns, not roses. Hogwash and pig guts applies to pretty much everything that's ever been, but that goes without saying.

Years ago I heard a man express an interesting viewpoint. He said as he rode through a war torn country and saw little children suffering, he decided they must have been bad people in another life. That made him feel better. It was punishment. He couldn't imagine a god who would allow opposition and he just felt better knowing that bad things only happen to bad people.

I'm not sure how he convinced himself of this distortion, but hopefully most of us understand the real need for opposition. It is a masterful teacher. What better way to learn the blessing of sleep than to go a night without it? What finer way to enjoy a spring day than to endure what feels like a year of Januaries? And what greater way to appreciate life than to suddenly find yourself fighting for it?

No, life is not fair. And my goodness, shouldn't we be grateful? If it were, I hate to imagine what I'd deserve. All that I have is through no fault or goodness of my own. Why do I get to live in a country where I can get skin removed before I die of its mutation? How come I don't have to fight or kill to go to church on Sunday? Why do I deserve to live in a fantasyland filled with Chick-Fil-A, Dirty Dr. Pepper and Kate Spade purses?

The answer is—because life isn't fair.  If we ask why bad things happen to us, we also have to ask why good things happen to us. And to be honest, I am completely unwilling to even things out. Please let Heavenly Father never figure out how undeserving we are of His goodness.

I will even give you the biggest piece of gum if you promise to keep your mouth shut.

THIS IS HOW IT ENDS

So this is it, you guys. This is how it ends.

One day you're young and perky and able to bend forward far enough to shave your own legs and you feel like it's always going to be this way. Like those stories you heard growing up about a grandma who went outside to get the mail but tripped on the hose broke her hip and died were just crazy talk. And you're going to be different. You're not like other grandmas. You're the special kind of grandma who will never need to trombone when you're reading a menu and who people think is the mother of the baby you're carrying and say when they're your age they hope they look half as good. The kind of special grandma who, when you feel like it, will have the option to get into shape and start running marathons and can hold your grand baby without your arms shaking and your body will always produce hair and hormones and red lipstick will be your forever friend. THAT is the kind of grandma you're going to be and you just really feel sorry for all of the normal grandmas out there who did something wrong along the way which is why they find themselves in such a sorry state—those poor dears.

But then one day you wake up in agony because you threw your back out turning over in bed and you realize that you are, in fact, not the special kind of grandma, but are, in fact, going to have to wake up your husband to help you get to the bathroom.

Here's some of what we've got going on here:

Daily medication for migraines.

Aging eyeballs, but not the way normal people's eyeballs age. Nope. See, mine still see close up but can't focus once I look farther away unless I give them a few minutes to pull their shit together.

High blood pressure, which I always insisted was anxiety induced because every time they checked it I was at the doctor where they nearly killed (weighed) me, then told me to "scoot your bum down to the end of the table aaand relaaaaxxx..." So is it any wonder? But then after years of daily indolence, Dr. Peppers and doughnuts, anxiety induced turned into me induced.

Hiatal Hernia which is a displaced stomach with some kind of hole or tear or fissure or I really don't know what but what I do know is it is responsible for SONIC BOOM burps, lots of stomach aches and the inability to take a swig of water in the middle of the night. Or in the morning. Or in the afternoon or really any time on a clock.

Herniated (bulging) disc with nerve impingement. Didn't even feel the needle they stabbed into my foot.
Sciatica. Could barely drive without screaming.
Achilles Tendonitis in FREAKING BOTH FEET. I don't want to talk about it.

But what I do want to talk about is these bumps all over my body but mostly on my legs that just kind of appear every few days with no explanation of where they came from or where they're going but with all their belongings strapped to the top of their car and a beach bag on their arm clearly intending to stay a while as it seems my middle aged body is ocean front property and my vanity is paying their taxes.

So THAT is where I find myself.  And as I hobble out to the mailbox eating a fistful of pills, pale pink lipstick feathering away from my thin lips and avoiding the tangled hose, I realize I am a normal grandma which means, according to my logic, I must have done something wrong. But I'm even more sure I did something right to be blessed with doctors and husbands and aging friends and beautiful grand babies and nude tone pantyhose and Kate Spade purses to journey with me to the bitter end.

Speaking of grand babies, I present to you all LYDIA EVE BINGHAM and her eyebrows. She's my favorite...for now.

HUSBANDS CAN SLEEP THROUGH ANYTHING

A couple of Sundays ago, while singing praises with the choir, I tried to make loving Easter eye contact with my children. However, against my warnings, they were in a relationship with their smart phones so they didn't even notice. But as it turned out, they had a very good reason for being on their phones as our east coast kids had texted that they were on their way to the hospital TO GIVE BIRTH TO OUR VERY OWN EASTER CHICK!

I busted out of the chapel doors, dialing their number and apologizing to Jesus for the interruption while I raced outside. Sure enough, there were contractions involved and everything and they said they'd let us know what they found out. Well, that was as good as a birth announcement, so I made it official! Even going so far as to announce loudly and confidently to every. single. person. I. came. in. contact. with. that "UNTO YOU IS BORN THIS DAY..." and yes it is three weeks early but she went in for her exam a couple of days ago and she was dilated to a three and 80% effaced and I'm sorry that your grand baby is due this week and there are no signs of labor you have my pity but we've clearly been kissed by angels and oh my heck I bet she looks like me and I'll probably call the airline as soon as church is over and you know I just had a feeling something special was going to happen today and I bet she's already been born and they're putting a bow on her full head of hair right now and that's why they haven't returned our calls or been responding to texts and this is so exciting so STOP YOUR LESSON SO I CAN STAND ON THIS CHAIR AND FIELD QUESTIONS BECAUSE THIS IS BIGGER THAN ANYTHING YOU'VE PREPARED!!!"

By the time church ended, they were back home.

Son of a.

So we went about our labors (no pun intended) and tried to carry on as we had before, except for now she might as well have been three weeks late than early, because the shot had been fired and our baby runner was still just standing there on her mark while aaallllll the others were dashing past to win smocked dresses and minky blankies.

Dang chill baby.

Every day we ask and every day same story—No Baby—reported with a subtle undercurrent of seething, hemorrhoidal rage that only a woman sent home undelivered from the hospital understands.

Then a few days later, Madelyn had a new story to tell.

She had made herself a tasty peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner, and it just wasn't sitting well. For hours into the night, she dealt with acid, walking around, rearranging and fluffing pillows, hoping for some relief. Finally she decided she should go throw up. Just a little bit, you know. Like maybe a "smidge" would do it, as vomit is measured. So she dropped her head over the sink—no sense wasting a full flush on a smidge—and proceeded to retch until her painted toes came popping out of her nose holes.

She completely filled the sink. And covered the mirror. And most of the countertop. Apparently her stomach had been saving up for something special, and this was it.

It was a puke to be reckoned with, no smidge about it, and her nine months pregnant body couldn't contain...well, most anything...thus, she had to strip from the waist down if you know what I mean. So she's standing there, half dressed, stomach and bladder emptied out, and completely overwhelmed with vomit, then realizes somebody has to clean this up. And as all mothers eventually learn, she's it.

She tries rinsing it down the sink. The sink clogs. Of course the sink clogs. So she grabs the only thing she can find—a Star Wars cup—and starts to scoop and transfer cupfuls of puke from sink to toilet.

She's trying not to breathe, her hands are covered in spew and she cannot believe that none of this has stirred the sleeping man in her bed.

When she's all done scooping, transferring, wiping and cleaning, she flushes victoriously.

Toilet starts to overflow and clogs. Of course it starts to overflow and clog.

And that was it.
Her breaking point.

She starts to bawl...and curse...and does the only thing she can do in between sobbing swearwords, which is grab the cup and start re-transferring puke from toilet to sink, hoping to attain the perfect ratio of vomit, toilet paper and water. During all of this, she hisses to the heavens, "ALL I CAN SAY IS, THIS HAD #$%^&#  BETTER GET THINGS GOING WITH THE BABY!"

But as it turns out, she was less pregnant than she had been a week ago. The doctor's actual words were, "No progress." But she swears she heard, "Looks like your cervix is closing back up again. Weird."

Anyway, if you got this far in the story, you deserve some chocolate, so go get it while I finish up. The moral to the story is this; It can always get worse. And often does. Also, toilets can't be trusted to do their job. And probably even more important; husbands can sleep through anything.

And I mean aaaaannnnnyyyyyyythiiiinnnng.

Madelyn is far more beautiful than any soon-to-be mother has a right to be.

SHINIEST ORNAMENTS ON THE TREE

Our family was the featured entertainment at church yesterday. I decided to blog it for posterity. You're welcome.

Our daughter was asked to play a musical number during Sacrament meeting. She chose a Christmas favorite—"Oh Come, Oh Come, Emanuel," and the practicing commenced. For two months it commenced and commenced and commenced. In fact, so much did it commence that I almost preferred Feliz Navidad. Of course, by almost I mean that will never, EVER happen, but I was grateful when she finally perfected it.

We dressed her in Christmas plaid, long blond hair flowing over her shoulders and lips painted in festive red. When the speaker sat down, Julia stood up and Sterling and I grabbed each other's hands, knowing we were about to be the shiniest ornament on the tree.

Her fingers were like Olympic figure skaters, trilling and twirling and dusting up shimmering notes that hung in the air like magic. Our nerves dissipated as we relaxed our grip and both started to grin like arrogant Cheshire cats.

Suddenly, a troll escaped from Hell and came running across the piano keys.

At least that's what I think happened, because with no warning, every single note was wrong.  And I don't just mean wrong, but I mean it didn't even resemble the song. And this didn't just last for a quick couple of seconds until she got her bearings. No, this went on for at least—at LEAST—20 seconds. An entire page of convulsions. It was like her fingers were chasing the demon as he went crunking across the keyboard.

Then just as quickly as it began, it ceased, and she climbed up from the frozen ice to try that triple jump again. Unfortunately, just as before, the exact same thing happened—all Hades broke loose mid-refrain. Sterling and I looked at each other and we knew; this was going to cost her the gold.

It was also unfortunate that, by this time, I had started to laugh. And I use the term lightly because really, I had a complete meltdown—I'm talking the kind of collapse that gets you kicked out of a rock concert, it's so disruptive.

Mid hysteria, I looked over Sterling's shoulder as he shot a spiritual text to our other children who weren't there: "Your sister just slaughtered the shit out of her piano piece..." More was said, but that was enough. My composure packed up and left to start a band. To make a much too long story shorter, I sob-laughed for the rest of Julia's recital and two more speakers. Had to redo my makeup.

When the meeting was over, every lovely person in the ward put an arm around Julia and commiserated about what had happened, even while pretending nobody had noticed. Most of them ended with, "But you sure looked pretty" (as you went down in flames). Jules handled it beautifully, and I stood by her side, wiping remnants of eye liner off my chin, knowing I was an enormous liability, but grateful that the glare of the spotlight was dimming.

Turns out I was wrong.

At the conclusion of Sunday School, a good man stood up to say the prayer—a thoughtful prayer. There were several extended pauses between phrases and he finished one particular sentence with the name of our Savior. Well, in our culture, those are trigger words, you guys. Prompts, if you will. They signal the end of the prayer, and that's when we all exclaim, "Amen." But that kind of thing is all about the timing.

THIS time, it was my dear mother who misread the cue and offered up a hearty, "Amen", only to realize that, apparently, there was more to be said. He ignored her suggestion and the interrupted prayer continued. My mom, mortified, whispered, "Don't you dare start laughing," but it was too late. And I haven't stopped since.

We all gathered together that afternoon for dinner. Every few seconds, we relived our humiliation, and lamented that our nearly flawless facades had crumbled to pieces. But my mom put the prettiest bow on it when she said, "You know, I've never liked someone more because they were perfect. I only like them more when they're not."

Pretty sure a lot of people like us more.

I asked Julia for a Reader's Digest reenactment. She obliged, bless her heart. Just times this by 10.

I CAN'T WORK OUT

GOOD NEWS! I just received a .05 cent refund from Amazon. Must be living right.

By the way, did I mention we adopted a dog? Yup. Lost my ever lovin' mind. It seems one day I woke up and said, "I feel like I want a burden so heavy that it wakes me up at 4:00 every morning with anxiety. Plus, we have a lot of things that could use a good chewing; sprinkler heads, expensive shoes, fermenting garbage, our cat. How we've lived this long with our wicker furniture in great condition is beyond me.  Also, we have a lot of disposable income that could be spent on kidney jerky and stuffed animal squeaker toys to be strewn about the yard and ripped to shreds. And my parents have it too good. There is far too much peace in their lives, as they're able to get from house to car without a hairy beast charging at them. That's just wrong. There is but one solution: How about we adopt a puppy?"

And so we did. Luna Bingham is her name. Short for Lunatic. Also Lunachick, Lunar eclipse and Luna Tuna fish. She answers to all of the above as well as to any movement, light or sound of any kind made anywhere in the entire house or surrounding neighborhood.

A few things convinced me this was a good idea. Guilt, for sure. But especially the earnest promises from my children that they would ABSOLUTELY clean up her poop, take her for daily walks and train her to shut the hell up. And now it's clear I raised a bunch of lying jerks.

Every one of my pockets—jackets, robes, pants, pajamas—now house a roll of doggy pooh bags. I think twice before entering the kitchen which is adjacent to her laundry room vacation home. And anything that fits through her doggy door is pulled through her doggy door, whether it wants to be or not.

I was walking her in to her training class and some weirdo said, "Oh! I just love puppies! Don't you just love puppies? I wish they would stay that way forever!"

I wanted to say, "Did you hit your head? What does your house look like? How about your shoes? Your lawn? Do you like leaping over baby gates? Just can't get enough of vaccinations and the cone of shame? You must like to stand in negative temperatures and watch the steam escape your mouth as you plead for your puppy to, "Go potty! Go potty, Luna! Go potty! Come on, girl, go potty! Let's go potty! Luna, go potty! Go potty, Luna! Luna! Potty! Go potty! Go potty! Come on, Luna. Go potty! Go potty! Luna! Potty! Go potty, girl! Potty, potty, potty, go potty!"

Yes, I wanted to say all of that and then offer to sell the puppy to her in return for a cold Dr. Pepper, but I didn't, because I was suddenly yanked inside Petco by my Lunatic as she went in search of a very specific smell that ended up being her own rump.

Anyway, just thought you all should know I have a dog and that's why I can't work out. Don't ask me why, it's just the way things are. And yes, I love her, so shut up and quit judging me. But just because I love her doesn't mean I have to like what I've become.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a sharp piece of doggy bone I need to step on and some frozen feces calling my name. This is the life.

Luna and her cone of shame with customized duct tape extension. 

Sassy is not a fan of Luna. But still, here she is wishing her a Merry Christmas with her sweater.

YOUR BLACK SOULS

I don't know why I do this. I don't know why I let days then weeks then months and even years pass me by without putting finger to keyboard. Actually, that's a lie. I do know why.

Fear.

And a pinch (vat) of laziness, which my fleshy bod already bore witness to, so don't act like that's news.

But really, every day I pray that today will be the day. Today I will be BRILLIANT and HYSTERICAL and FILL YOUR BLACK SOULS WITH LIGHT! So I sit down to the computer, hours pass, and somehow, when I climb into bed at night, there is a new Kate Spade purse on its way and no new words on this blog.

I am plagued with insecurities.

What if I repeat stories?
What if I sit in front of the computer screen and nothing but farts come out of my fingertips?
What if each sentence is like a selfie taken from below?

I have lied to myself that I am simply being patient. Waiting for Heavenly Father to open the Heavens and heap humor into my skull like dung in a garden. But He doesn't operate like that. Something about, "Faith without works is dead."

So here I sit, belly full of salsa and yogurt (a combustible combination) and Christmas tree full of ornaments, hoping this screen will suddenly be filled as well. But the only thing that seems to be happening is Sterling is watching a Charlie's Angels episode without me, and my FOMO will not allow me to chill.

Thus, I will end my ramblings with a promise that tomorrow, I SHALL RETURN! I can't promise there will be brilliance, hysteria or that your black souls will be drained like the swamp of DC, but
I.
WILL.
BE.
BACK.

In the meantime,  enjoy this picture of the Kate Spade I'll be sporting come early spring and try not to let the envy turn you into a Christmas elf.

If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right.

THINGS WORTH DYING FOR

I like dirt.

Let me be more specific. I like to eat dirt.

When I was little, I used to fill a small bucket with dirt, hide it under my bed, and every few days, eat a spoonful or two.  Shhh...sh...sh...sh...it's okay. Don't gag. There was only a little bit of potato bugs and cat poop in it, and I was too young to realize.

Fast forward a few years and I'm laying in bed, miserable with morning sickness and sobbing to my husband, "The only thing that I can even stand the smell of is dirt. Like I want to eat some. And that makes me sad!"

I was able to withstand the craving then, but only because grown women are frowned upon when they burp and sputter mud.

Fast forward even more years, and we've come full circle, as I just ordered a bag of dirt for my second son. To eat. For his own good. And probably there is a little bit of potato bugs and cat poop in it, but it's called, "homeopathic" and "food grade", so it's fine.

So why am I feeding Chris dirt? That's on account of he served a mission for our church in Uganda and Ethiopia. As you can imagine, he ate his fair share of impoverished third world parasites, and apparently, some are clinging with white knuckles to his innards, hoping to make it big here in the U.S., which is causing all sorts of intestinal distress.

Going on four years now. That's not exactly a recipe for peace. Bless him.

But he's not the only missionary in our family with issues. A few months ago,  Seth started experiencing some scary symptoms. The most alarming; his vision would suddenly flip upside down. What the?! Of course my conservative diagnosis was BRAIN TUMOR/CERTAIN DEATH, and I spent the next couple of weeks wringing my hands and contacting doctors about MRI results. 

While in the midst of this, I was talking to Chris, and he said, "Mom, it's okay. All of us have some sort of souvenir from our missions. Ash got fat and bald, I have eternal diarrhea and Seth has a brain tumor. But it's all good. Nobody gets out of these things unscathed."

Just the perspective I needed. (*Turns out my diagnosis was wrong. Not a tumor. Anemia, polyps and cysts. Needless to say, we've met our deductible.)

Then I remembered watching a documentary about missionaries where they interviewed a man who had served in a really difficult part of the world. Bullets had whizzed past him, causing him to lose his religion later in life. He said, "I just realized, they had no right to ask me to do that. There is nothing worth dying for in this life."

He clearly didn't understand that, intentionally or not, he would, in fact, die for something. Whether you give up your body for babies or your years in service to your country, or your beauty to hardship and labor...or just waste away on a couch in a dark room playing video games...like cash in a wallet, you will eventually spend your life on something, until you are left with no more.

None of us get out of this life unscathed. We weren't meant to. We were meant to spend it...all of it...on something of worth. Then return to our maker fat, bald, crippled and medicated, with incredible tales of what we did with the greatest gift we've ever been given. About how we used our hands to be His hands and brought great things to pass.

And so, I give a profound THANK YOU this Memorial weekend, to the courageous men and women who spent their lives in a noble cause—protecting our love of God, Family and Country—and passed to the other side not unscathed, but with the conviction that THERE REALLY ARE THINGS IN LIFE WORTH DYING FOR

The boys, before they were fat, bald, incontinent, and full of tumors

Grandpa Jack Wood and Grandpa Boyd Stewart 

Two incredible men who lived and died for what they believed

WHICH YEARS MATTER MOST?

'Tis a season of change upon us, can you feel it? The winds have shifted and we're about to watch boys and girls becoming men and women as they move their tassels and close the books on the last 18 years of their lives and suddenly realize...that there are even more books required—about $500 worth each semester—and no, you can't find them cheaper on the internet.

Add to that the kids who will also embark on LDS missions just weeks after high school graduation and you realize it's more of a hurricane than a light breeze.

And although I don't have a graduating child, change is heading our way, too. Six weeks from today, my son will step off an airplane and onto an escalator, where he'll take the fastest and slowest descent of his life, searching for a familiar face in a sea of Mormon families. Of course, ours will be the best looking (she said modestly).

Two years is a really long time, you guys.

So long, in fact, that when a sweet woman from his mission in New York asked me for "10 fun facts about Seth," I reverted to things like, "Um...he likes red meat. Like steak. And roast...does that count as three?"

Yeah. Way fun facts.

You'd think we were strangers. And in a way, we kind of are, on account of I carved him out of my heart and mind when he left us that sunshiny day in June. It was the only way to survive the missing of him. Surprisingly, several days could pass by where I was totally fine. And then, I would walk past his cardboard cutout on my way through the library and suddenly could hardly breathe, remembering how the walls shook when he thundered down the stairs and his genuine I AM ABSOLUTELY THRILLED TO SEE YOU EVERY SINGLE TIME I SEE YOU greeting and his guileless personality and his Captain America physique.

A few people might have seen me weeping down the cereal aisle, as I realized the days of buying Honeycombs in bulk and gallons of milk had come to an end. I had done this before so I understood that even when they come home, they never really come home. The dynamics are forever changed, and they will never again think of you, or themselves, as they once were.

Which is exactly as it should be.

Recently, Seth told me that he had been plagued by the concern that the way he had spent these last two years would be a precursor for the rest of his life. He admitted he had some regrets and guilt and hadn't always done what he should have, and he was worried that this was a sample of the man he would always be.

So let me see if I understand. In two years, you've made some mistakes and have guilt and regrets and wish you'd done a few things differently?

I should probably sit down while I put in my surprise eyes, because I never feel that way. And by never I mean constantly.

Of course, I know that what I did today can be repented of tomorrow, and it doesn't need to color the rest of my life. Two years as a missionary matters just as much as two years as a wife and two years as a father and two years as a daughter and two years as a student and two years as a friend and two years as a brother and two years as...well, a people.

If Heavenly Father had intended only one of these two years to matter the most, then He would have made two years the entire span of our lives. Which two years do you think matter the most? Exactly.

All of them matter, all of them can bring us closer to our eternal destination and all of them leave us forever changed, because we will never think of ourselves, or the people around us, as we once were.

Which is exactly as it should be.

So welcome to the next two years, dear friends! They matter more than any other two years of your life...except for the two years after that...from now until eternity.

Two years as my little boy

Two years as a student

Two years on his mission