A few weeks ago, my mother unearthed a little poem I'd written a long time ago about the role of women. The text was taken from the Doctrine and Covenants, a collection of scriptural writings compiled mostly by Joseph Smith during the early days of our church. This particular writing was given to his wife Emma, who assisted him in teaching and ministering, and for a short time wrote for him while he was dictating the Book of Mormon. I wrote the poem at my mother's request, for a church hymn. Now she is matching these old words to a new song, a beautiful melody accompanied by sparkling arpeggio chords, a piano piece that would be perfect even without a solo voice above it.
Looking at the words after such a long time reminded me of the first time I really thought about womanly gifts. I was dating a guy who was preparing to be an LDS missionary, and he was thinking about my place in his life for the next two years. We talked often about the unique gifts of women, and after thinking of beautifying and nurturing, we came upon the concept of comfort. He wanted a woman to be his comfort, most of all. He left for his mission to Peru and sent me a necklace spelling the word "consuelo", the Spanish word for "comfort" to remind me of his love and my vow. For 23 months I wrote at least weekly, supporting him as best I knew how. In the end, though, I married someone else and wasn't comforting at all! He did get over it. I still have the necklace.
These days I live a dozen roles. I am a provider, a mother, a daughter, a friend. I hope I am a comfort. The words I wrote are simple, and they beg a third and fourth verse. So far, the words are these:
To Emma Smith was given
Sweet counsel from the Lord
Designed to help all women
Who love His gracious word.
A woman's role is gentle,
To comfort and console,
For meekness is her mantle;
Compassion makes her whole.
Through spirit-guided learning,
His scriptures to expound
She gains pure understanding--
Truth's saving notes resound!
With blessings past comparing,
To covenants she must cleave:
She seeks the joyous crowning
The righteous shall receive.
As I look at these words today, I realize that at age 19 I never directed the conversation the other way. What is a man's primary role? I never asked the question back! It wasn't until I read Twilight and fell in love with the Edward I created in my head (while disdaining Bella for her passivity!) that I discovered the idea of protection. Edward protects Bella perfectly--day and night, near and far, from without and within. I read with new gratitude about the 2000 stripling warriors in the Book of Mormon who protected their families, and I am tenderly grateful for those who protect mine. From Alma 53:
"they entered into a covenant to fight for the liberty of the Nephites, yea, to protect the land unto the laying down of their lives; yea, even they covenanted that they never would give up their liberty, but they would fight in all cases to protect the Nephites and themselves from bondage."
The roles are not exclusive; men comfort beautifully, and a good woman protects her man fiercely. But there is something lovely about a woman who recognizes the softness of her gender and follows Joseph Smith's counsel. Emma probably needed it. I know I do.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Relevance
My students witnessed a meltdown Friday. Luckily, it wasn't nuclear, or any other catastrophic event that could compromise their health. It was me who melted down. This is what happened.
Our PTA has asked the 6th graders to take part in an evening college fair event that will help open all our school children's eyes about future college plans. Our role is a fun one; we are creating fantasy universities with dreamed up sports teams, scientific accomplishments, graphic designs, famous alums, all located in real places in our actual physical world. Students may work alone or in groups of two or three, and they are displaying their creations on project boards at the evening event. Prizes will be give to the universities with the most "recruits", and so students are also designing fliers, buttons, and handouts to draw applicants. So far we have a Justin Bieber School of the Arts, a university with unique space shuttle access, and I am suggesting a Jimmer Fredette Stadium to anyone who will listen. We are having a lot of fun.
As part of their projects, I am asking each team to write a mission statement for their college. And in order to teach about mission statements, I showed them our school district's mission statement from the Canyons Website. In part, it reads, "The mission of the Canyons School District is to encourage and help every student become career- and college-ready and find a meaningful purpose in life." Things had been going just fine up to this point. Then the catalyst for my meltdown: I asked my students if this mission statement is working for them. Is their school experience preparing them for real life?
Hands went up all over the room, and immediately students began answering negatively. "School isn't teaching us anything we need to know!" was repeated in different students' voices over and over. Some were willing to grant that parts of school would be useful for a few students--a scientist could find science class useful preparation; a writer could appreciate the work done in writing class. But few voiced value in anything universal about their school experience, and most saw little relevance to their future lives outside of school.
I was aghast. I asked more questions. "You learned to read in school, right? That is useful, isn't it?" Mostly I was met with blank stares. One girl explained that she had learned to read in preschool, and many others couldn't remember anything about learning to read at all. At this point I got dramatic. "Have you ever seen homeless people? Poverty? Don't you know that the difference between them and you is education???" Still more blank stares. I was not making progress and I knew it.
I live in an upper middle class neighborhood with mostly professional parents. Families are generally small, and many of my students are only children. I have been concerned all year about their apathy regarding work completion in general, and homework in particular; I write lists of missing assignments on my white board that by the end of the month leave me little space for actual work, starting fresh each new month just so students don't drown. I send individual lists each Thursday, along with explanatory emails to parents sometimes daily. I work before and after school, and I offer incentives at the end of each month for students whose work is complete. From my point of view, I do everything possible to urge success, and with this effort more than half our class has their work done by the end of the month. Without it, the success rate would drop to a fourth. Yet after all I can do, there are many students left behind.
So my students' response in class clicked with what I had been observing all year: school is not relevant to them. They don't know why they come, why they rotate from reading and math to science to social studies. It makes no sense to them to learn about stars and revolutions and problem solving. I asked them, then, to write me a 150-word letter explaining all their feelings and frustrations, so I could show someone more powerful how they feel about school. I started their letters with these words, "I am writing to tell you about how useful school seems to me..."
Many of their written words are more supportive of school than their initial comments indicated. And some of them showed insight beyond what I expected regarding their awareness of the disconnect between their values and their actions. One student who rarely completes assignments wrote, "I don't like school, but it is not pointless or stupid. School has a point. I don't like it, but I need it." But so many voiced a complete lack of understanding about their individual reliance on an education! A girl wrote, "My first subject is math. I have never really liked math at all. People say you do it in everything, and I partly agree with them. But the one, lifetime dream job I want to be, doesn't involve any math what-so-ever!" She wants to be a heli-ski guide (and she will be great at it; her father is one) and an architect. She says, "I know that I suck in math, but I heard that it can be a two-person job. Like, I can design a house, and someone can do the math for me." She also said this about homework: "Homework is just a waste. It is a waste of trees and time. Then we just throw it away after. So it gets us through the years, but so what?"
Many other students voiced career plans that don't require much academic preparation. A beautiful girl might be a supermodel. Another girl wants to be a pet babysitter.
I wish I could start the year again, and begin with something of impact. Native cultures sent children this age out on survival rites of passage; what can I do?
I usually end a blog entry with my idea of a solution. This time I am looking for your ideas. Egocentric kids, raised in a culture of entitlement, lacking understanding of the precipice they stand on that is banked by education. How can I reach them?
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Hidden in a Quiet Heart
It is a quiet evening. Snow is falling softly outside, and I am at a neighbor’s house, having just put their darling children to bed. I have been enchanted all evening. The little twins have finally settled down; I heard happy playing for at least an hour through the monitor in the kitchen. The four-year-old son is patiently laying in his parents’ bed, eyes obediently closed, but hoping to still be awake when Mom and Dad return. All evening long he called his sisters “Gorgeous”. This is a good home.
I am reminded of all the memories, hidden in my heart, of my own little children. I remember the night Seth was born, finally falling into a deep sleep after his difficult birth, only to be cheerfully interrupted by the night nurse who brought him in to be fed two hours later. He’d been bathed and wrapped all in white and he shone with dignity and purity. I’d never been wakened by motherhood before, and it was such a surprise to be suddenly so responsible. Humility overwhelmed me, along with a sense of amazement at God’s willingness to trust his noble son to my inexperience. That amazement and humility linger when I look at him still.
I didn’t have any time for quiet reflection with Rachel. She was inconsolable from birth, and we didn’t learn until she was three weeks old that delivering her had broken her collarbone. She was unhappy until she was about ten months old and could finally run as fast as three-year-old Seth. At fifteen months, she climbed a 15-foot metal slide at a playground and happily slid to the bottom. Everyone at the park exhaled a sigh of relief when she safely reached the grass. At twenty two months she sang all the “Saturday’s Warrior” songs with me as we rehearsed on stage. There are a hundred scenes I would revisit with Rachel: her joy at giving Seth his Batman car for a birthday present, her adoration of him that resulted in a very boyish Michael Jordan birthday party, her sparkly charm being a 7th grade cheerleader—along with her wisdom at quitting when she realized the coaches had no more maturity than the most spoiled thirteen-year-old on the squad. I wish I had redo’s with her, and consider my greatest blessing in life that she has forgiven my mistakes and we are the best of friends.
Four years after her birth, Rachel mimicked me when playing house at preschool by saying, “I want to be the mother, and I’m going to take a nap.” Aubrey came a few months later, tiny and perfect. People compared her with a porcelain doll, black hair curling around her soft brown eyes. She was my calmest child. I loved watching her at the neighborhood indoor playground as she gathered all the baby dolls in the huge gym, ignoring the play structures and the riding toys. Her delicate sweetness contrasted even more sharply when in the block room at the private “developmental” kindergarten where she went to school large noisy boys built structures all around her, knocking them down, while she tenderly minded her babies. Black hair now falling in ringlets clear to her waist, she was completely undisturbed by the chaos around her. She is still that way. I want to be more like her.
Daniel was the only pregnancy I didn’t have to work hard for, and I can’t write about him without getting teary. He was the last. I etched every feeling of his pregnancy in my heart, from the blossom of early motion to the ripeness of knowing his body was strong and supple, his feet tucked under my ribs, ready. I expected to linger with him; the other children had been content to nurse for many months, but he was impatient, restless, independent. He brought unexpected gifts: I had to go to work when he was in kindergarten, and despite being the fourth child, he never got sick. He never needed help with homework. His compass points true, and he follows it. I am grateful for his integrity.
I think when I am old all that does not matter will fall away, like drops of water puddling under the feet of laughing children as they step out of the bathtub. All that will be left are the memories, hidden in my heart, beating with my love. Memories of my children. I will be happy.
I am reminded of all the memories, hidden in my heart, of my own little children. I remember the night Seth was born, finally falling into a deep sleep after his difficult birth, only to be cheerfully interrupted by the night nurse who brought him in to be fed two hours later. He’d been bathed and wrapped all in white and he shone with dignity and purity. I’d never been wakened by motherhood before, and it was such a surprise to be suddenly so responsible. Humility overwhelmed me, along with a sense of amazement at God’s willingness to trust his noble son to my inexperience. That amazement and humility linger when I look at him still.
I didn’t have any time for quiet reflection with Rachel. She was inconsolable from birth, and we didn’t learn until she was three weeks old that delivering her had broken her collarbone. She was unhappy until she was about ten months old and could finally run as fast as three-year-old Seth. At fifteen months, she climbed a 15-foot metal slide at a playground and happily slid to the bottom. Everyone at the park exhaled a sigh of relief when she safely reached the grass. At twenty two months she sang all the “Saturday’s Warrior” songs with me as we rehearsed on stage. There are a hundred scenes I would revisit with Rachel: her joy at giving Seth his Batman car for a birthday present, her adoration of him that resulted in a very boyish Michael Jordan birthday party, her sparkly charm being a 7th grade cheerleader—along with her wisdom at quitting when she realized the coaches had no more maturity than the most spoiled thirteen-year-old on the squad. I wish I had redo’s with her, and consider my greatest blessing in life that she has forgiven my mistakes and we are the best of friends.
Four years after her birth, Rachel mimicked me when playing house at preschool by saying, “I want to be the mother, and I’m going to take a nap.” Aubrey came a few months later, tiny and perfect. People compared her with a porcelain doll, black hair curling around her soft brown eyes. She was my calmest child. I loved watching her at the neighborhood indoor playground as she gathered all the baby dolls in the huge gym, ignoring the play structures and the riding toys. Her delicate sweetness contrasted even more sharply when in the block room at the private “developmental” kindergarten where she went to school large noisy boys built structures all around her, knocking them down, while she tenderly minded her babies. Black hair now falling in ringlets clear to her waist, she was completely undisturbed by the chaos around her. She is still that way. I want to be more like her.
Daniel was the only pregnancy I didn’t have to work hard for, and I can’t write about him without getting teary. He was the last. I etched every feeling of his pregnancy in my heart, from the blossom of early motion to the ripeness of knowing his body was strong and supple, his feet tucked under my ribs, ready. I expected to linger with him; the other children had been content to nurse for many months, but he was impatient, restless, independent. He brought unexpected gifts: I had to go to work when he was in kindergarten, and despite being the fourth child, he never got sick. He never needed help with homework. His compass points true, and he follows it. I am grateful for his integrity.
I think when I am old all that does not matter will fall away, like drops of water puddling under the feet of laughing children as they step out of the bathtub. All that will be left are the memories, hidden in my heart, beating with my love. Memories of my children. I will be happy.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Utah's Curious Alcohol Divide
Rachel and her husband were in town the past few days. We managed to pack every moment--dinner at Rodizio Grill, ice cream at Sub Zero, Saturday morning Nutella crepes (Is there a food theme here?), a fast-paced game of Settlers (well...they played while I watched BYU basketball)--along with the wedding activities that brought them here in the first place. Last night we attended an Irish band concert downtown at the Depot. Rachel's best friend Brittany came too, with her husband, so the six of us shouted, sang, and danced at the front of the crowded floor through three hours and two bands, leaving with ringing ears and tired feet. It was a lot of fun.
What impressed me most about the evening was watching my son-in-law, Josh, and Brittany's husband, Tyler, have a good time without a glass of beer in their hands. They are both ruggedly handsome, easily fitting the target audience of alcohol commercials that promise a better life with one brand or another, but they are both devoted to a church that abstains. Their casual abstinence--I don't think either of them even thought about alcohol during the evening--is one of the masterpieces of a church that strengthens individuals and protects their families through a broad and simple approach: we just don't drink. I've been thinking about the power of this abstinence all day.
I grew up on a children-filled street in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C. On Saturdays and all through the sticky summers, we argued through passionate games of kickball in the street, roller skated furiously up and down the sidewalks, adoringly watched my best friend's beautiful older sister twirl her baton in her driveway. We rode our bikes the couple of miles each way to the library to check out new books and built forts in the forest behind our homes, lining the ground with moss, overlaying cut branches to provide a shady roof overhead. We snuck in games of Hide and Seek in the model homes a few blocks from my house, surprisingly never getting caught. It was an idyllic time, before video games and laptop computers lured children into staying indoors, before adults worried about strangers and perfection and began scheduling all their children's free time. In the evenings, my friends' fathers brought their lawn chairs to their front walks and sipped beer while they watched us play. These good Catholic fathers coached their daughters on Sunday softball leagues, working hard the rest of the week to support their families. It was clear to me that alcohol use by itself did not prevent a man from being a good dad.
Then I moved to and from Utah, and frankly, I didn't think much about alcohol for about the next 25 years. I kept to a social circle of active Mormon friends, and I think the only times I ever saw anyone drinking was during a rare trip to Las Vegas or on an airplane. It wasn't until a subsequent move to Utah, this time as a single parent, that I began to realize the social chasm between drinkers and non-drinkers that exists here, with misunderstanding and hurt on both sides. For nearly 10 years since, I have paid careful attention, wishing for a return to the calm acceptance of my Virginia street, at least as I saw it as a child. But there are some difficult obstacles. Overcoming them requires an understanding of at least three different myths.
Myth #1: People who drink alcohol are inherently and equally evil. I encountered this myth in my first teaching job in Tooele. I was daily inspired by a teaching partner who was from California and a practicing, believing Catholic. Her prayers were every bit as sincere as mine, and God answered her with regular miracles. She brought coffee to work every morning, and she openly expressed gratitude for the glass of wine that greeted her at home at the end of a tough day with fifth graders. Unfortunately, she was ridiculed by misdirected Mormons who often chastened her for her indulgences. I witnessed a member of my faith, and I apologize for her behavior, approach this dear teacher friend and admonish her to repent quickly so she could be with her children in Heaven, after they all passed on. Mercy Me!
Myth #2: People who chose to abstain from alcohol (in Utah) are all judgmental prudes. The experience listed above is an exception to my more common belief that abstainers just want to quietly live according to their own value system. The 25 years I didn't think about alcohol is evidence of that point. I didn't think about drinkers like I didn't think about tennis players or street sweepers. I was busy being a mom and concerned with my own issues. But it does seem that drinkers here are sure non-drinkers are trying to ruin their party--more than in other parts of the country. Having lived in other parts of the country, though, I see liquor regulation everywhere: on the beaches, on the Sabbath, in designated parts of town. In Boise, a regular fleet of policemen cruise the club district, visible about every 5 minutes. In Salt Lake City, that level of attention would be labeled Mormon meddling and harassment.
Myth #3: Drinking makes people happy. We watch a lot of sports TV at our house, and I see lots of beer commercials. Some of them are ironically true: in various ways, wives and girlfriends are thoughtlessly passed up for a refreshing cold beer. I am not sure why those commercials are funny. But more commercials are not at all true. Inevitably, the guy drinking the beer has more power, good looks and sexy fun than anyone else deserves or receives. I am sorry for this lie! In my immediate circle of experience, I have seen a husband drink himself to death, leaving his children fatherless, and I know many other husbands come home only to fall into drunken sleep on the sofa, leaving their children nearly as fatherless as the orphans. In an article about violent crime and television, this sobering fact was highlighted: almost all violent crime involves alcohol; often both the victim and the perpetrator have been drinking. It is true that good men exist who drink in moderation. But far too many don't.
Which brings me back to Josh and Tyler, in the Depot last night, without beer. Their wives are blessed to have husbands who see through the allure of it all, who can drive them home safely, walk a straight line, and get up with clear heads in the morning. They are ruggedly handsome, and good. I hope they will line up lawn chairs, on summer evenings, to watch their children play. And if you drink, I hope they will invite you to watch the children with them, as did the fathers on my childhood street, drinking without drunkenness. Only with moderation and tolerance can we cross Utah's curious alcohol divide.
What impressed me most about the evening was watching my son-in-law, Josh, and Brittany's husband, Tyler, have a good time without a glass of beer in their hands. They are both ruggedly handsome, easily fitting the target audience of alcohol commercials that promise a better life with one brand or another, but they are both devoted to a church that abstains. Their casual abstinence--I don't think either of them even thought about alcohol during the evening--is one of the masterpieces of a church that strengthens individuals and protects their families through a broad and simple approach: we just don't drink. I've been thinking about the power of this abstinence all day.
I grew up on a children-filled street in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C. On Saturdays and all through the sticky summers, we argued through passionate games of kickball in the street, roller skated furiously up and down the sidewalks, adoringly watched my best friend's beautiful older sister twirl her baton in her driveway. We rode our bikes the couple of miles each way to the library to check out new books and built forts in the forest behind our homes, lining the ground with moss, overlaying cut branches to provide a shady roof overhead. We snuck in games of Hide and Seek in the model homes a few blocks from my house, surprisingly never getting caught. It was an idyllic time, before video games and laptop computers lured children into staying indoors, before adults worried about strangers and perfection and began scheduling all their children's free time. In the evenings, my friends' fathers brought their lawn chairs to their front walks and sipped beer while they watched us play. These good Catholic fathers coached their daughters on Sunday softball leagues, working hard the rest of the week to support their families. It was clear to me that alcohol use by itself did not prevent a man from being a good dad.
Then I moved to and from Utah, and frankly, I didn't think much about alcohol for about the next 25 years. I kept to a social circle of active Mormon friends, and I think the only times I ever saw anyone drinking was during a rare trip to Las Vegas or on an airplane. It wasn't until a subsequent move to Utah, this time as a single parent, that I began to realize the social chasm between drinkers and non-drinkers that exists here, with misunderstanding and hurt on both sides. For nearly 10 years since, I have paid careful attention, wishing for a return to the calm acceptance of my Virginia street, at least as I saw it as a child. But there are some difficult obstacles. Overcoming them requires an understanding of at least three different myths.
Myth #1: People who drink alcohol are inherently and equally evil. I encountered this myth in my first teaching job in Tooele. I was daily inspired by a teaching partner who was from California and a practicing, believing Catholic. Her prayers were every bit as sincere as mine, and God answered her with regular miracles. She brought coffee to work every morning, and she openly expressed gratitude for the glass of wine that greeted her at home at the end of a tough day with fifth graders. Unfortunately, she was ridiculed by misdirected Mormons who often chastened her for her indulgences. I witnessed a member of my faith, and I apologize for her behavior, approach this dear teacher friend and admonish her to repent quickly so she could be with her children in Heaven, after they all passed on. Mercy Me!
Myth #2: People who chose to abstain from alcohol (in Utah) are all judgmental prudes. The experience listed above is an exception to my more common belief that abstainers just want to quietly live according to their own value system. The 25 years I didn't think about alcohol is evidence of that point. I didn't think about drinkers like I didn't think about tennis players or street sweepers. I was busy being a mom and concerned with my own issues. But it does seem that drinkers here are sure non-drinkers are trying to ruin their party--more than in other parts of the country. Having lived in other parts of the country, though, I see liquor regulation everywhere: on the beaches, on the Sabbath, in designated parts of town. In Boise, a regular fleet of policemen cruise the club district, visible about every 5 minutes. In Salt Lake City, that level of attention would be labeled Mormon meddling and harassment.
Myth #3: Drinking makes people happy. We watch a lot of sports TV at our house, and I see lots of beer commercials. Some of them are ironically true: in various ways, wives and girlfriends are thoughtlessly passed up for a refreshing cold beer. I am not sure why those commercials are funny. But more commercials are not at all true. Inevitably, the guy drinking the beer has more power, good looks and sexy fun than anyone else deserves or receives. I am sorry for this lie! In my immediate circle of experience, I have seen a husband drink himself to death, leaving his children fatherless, and I know many other husbands come home only to fall into drunken sleep on the sofa, leaving their children nearly as fatherless as the orphans. In an article about violent crime and television, this sobering fact was highlighted: almost all violent crime involves alcohol; often both the victim and the perpetrator have been drinking. It is true that good men exist who drink in moderation. But far too many don't.
Which brings me back to Josh and Tyler, in the Depot last night, without beer. Their wives are blessed to have husbands who see through the allure of it all, who can drive them home safely, walk a straight line, and get up with clear heads in the morning. They are ruggedly handsome, and good. I hope they will line up lawn chairs, on summer evenings, to watch their children play. And if you drink, I hope they will invite you to watch the children with them, as did the fathers on my childhood street, drinking without drunkenness. Only with moderation and tolerance can we cross Utah's curious alcohol divide.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Last Rose of Summer
Roses are bred with unique names--Moonbeam, Ballerina, Mt. Hood. Every once in a while a great one is created, and its name is remembered for generations. The Peace rose is one such iconic name. Someone needs to create a vivid pink rose and name it Lucille.
Lucille is the name of my grandmother, born in August of 1919. My grandfather married her when I was nine years old, after my first grandmother died of cancer. He nearly died too, of grief. Then he met Lucille, and I don't think they stopped laughing together, the entire twenty years of their marriage. He built a home for her, on the same street as my parents, knowing that he would leave her a widow, and let her decorate the whole house in mauvy tints of pink. For my World War II Colonel grandfather, spoiling her in their dainty home was a first class act. He took her to almost every civilized country in the world, and a few dangerously uncivil ones too. He strengthened her with his priesthood and his devotion, and he made her queen in his kingdom. When he passed, he left his home and his money and his treasures all to his precious Lucille.
Lucille is now 91 years old, and a lot has changed for her since those world traveler days. Most weeks she is too tired to go to church, but she is thrilled when the deacons bring the Sacrament to her home. She doesn't always remember who I am, but she discerns my mood within seconds. It has been my privilege to coordinate her care these past few years, and I have loved every minute I have spent with her. From her, I have learned enough to write a dozen entries, but today I am thinking about specific lessons that teach purity, beauty, faith, endurance and generosity. Her life has been one of my favorite sermons.
Caring for an elderly person is new for me. It nourishes me to care for her body, just as if she were a newborn. Her purity personifies the Savior's request that we become as a little child. Dressing and bathing her are gifts of reverent love as I tenderly wash and powder her paper-thin skin. She is sexless now, and unashamed. Bringing her comfort is my privilege. Still, she is beautiful, and a woman. She stands taller when a man offers to take her arm. Her favorite visitor is the chaplain from hospice. She draws open her curtains each morning, drinking in the changing scenery in her yard, noticing the blooming and fading of each flower of her garden. Beauty is what sustains her: it is the blood in her veins.
Faith, however, is the marrow in her bones. Her prayers are personal and vibrant, and those who share her thoughts know how close the angels are. A few weeks ago, she prayed for "an interesting day". Even before she closed that prayer, someone knocked on her front door. All through the day visitor after visitor came into her home; all through the day she was greeted by those who love her, coming unannounced to see her. She prays simply, for those she loves, and those she knows are in need. Her prayers are answered.
Old age is not for the faint-hearted. Mostly, these days I learn about endurance from Grandmother Lucille. One day Ernie watched from the window as she tried to stand up from the sofa to answer his knock on the front door. He watched her try seventeen times before she was finally successful. She struggles to eat and drink, and her fear at descending our front steps is only overcome by her trust in those who are helping her walk. At this stage of her life, nothing is easy. Every breath, every swallow, every step, every word, every thought--every action is a mountain of effort.
Such a struggle to live brings me to the most amazing strength of all: Lucille's example of generosity. Wouldn't it be easy in her situation to complain? To be cross and ornery and self absorbed? She isn't. Every laborious breath, with very rare exception, is focused on those around her. Are we comfortable? Happy? Working too hard? Hungry? Thirsty? She is alive because of her concern for us, I am sure of it.
I love an Irish song, and sang it last year at a recital. As I learned the words, I realized this song is about Lucille. These are the lyrics:
'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone
All her lovely companions are faded and gone
No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes and give sigh for sigh
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem
Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them
Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead
So soon may I follow when friendships decay
And from love's shining circle the gems drop away
When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown
Oh who would inhabit this bleak world alone?
I thought this week we might be losing dear Grandmother Lucille. She was ill, and nearly unresponsive to me. She was not comforted by my presence, more preoccupied with the next world than ours, talking to her mother, remembering long-ago events. It seems selfish to want her to stay, when in the next world it is always Spring and the roses are always in bloom. But it is not my selfishness keeping her here; I simply didn't factor in her strength. As soon as the antibiotic began its healing, Lucille returned to her mortal journey, blessing us with her faith, beauty, purity, endurance and generosity. I will pay careful attention. She is a vivid bloom.
Lucille is the name of my grandmother, born in August of 1919. My grandfather married her when I was nine years old, after my first grandmother died of cancer. He nearly died too, of grief. Then he met Lucille, and I don't think they stopped laughing together, the entire twenty years of their marriage. He built a home for her, on the same street as my parents, knowing that he would leave her a widow, and let her decorate the whole house in mauvy tints of pink. For my World War II Colonel grandfather, spoiling her in their dainty home was a first class act. He took her to almost every civilized country in the world, and a few dangerously uncivil ones too. He strengthened her with his priesthood and his devotion, and he made her queen in his kingdom. When he passed, he left his home and his money and his treasures all to his precious Lucille.
Lucille is now 91 years old, and a lot has changed for her since those world traveler days. Most weeks she is too tired to go to church, but she is thrilled when the deacons bring the Sacrament to her home. She doesn't always remember who I am, but she discerns my mood within seconds. It has been my privilege to coordinate her care these past few years, and I have loved every minute I have spent with her. From her, I have learned enough to write a dozen entries, but today I am thinking about specific lessons that teach purity, beauty, faith, endurance and generosity. Her life has been one of my favorite sermons.
Caring for an elderly person is new for me. It nourishes me to care for her body, just as if she were a newborn. Her purity personifies the Savior's request that we become as a little child. Dressing and bathing her are gifts of reverent love as I tenderly wash and powder her paper-thin skin. She is sexless now, and unashamed. Bringing her comfort is my privilege. Still, she is beautiful, and a woman. She stands taller when a man offers to take her arm. Her favorite visitor is the chaplain from hospice. She draws open her curtains each morning, drinking in the changing scenery in her yard, noticing the blooming and fading of each flower of her garden. Beauty is what sustains her: it is the blood in her veins.
Faith, however, is the marrow in her bones. Her prayers are personal and vibrant, and those who share her thoughts know how close the angels are. A few weeks ago, she prayed for "an interesting day". Even before she closed that prayer, someone knocked on her front door. All through the day visitor after visitor came into her home; all through the day she was greeted by those who love her, coming unannounced to see her. She prays simply, for those she loves, and those she knows are in need. Her prayers are answered.
Old age is not for the faint-hearted. Mostly, these days I learn about endurance from Grandmother Lucille. One day Ernie watched from the window as she tried to stand up from the sofa to answer his knock on the front door. He watched her try seventeen times before she was finally successful. She struggles to eat and drink, and her fear at descending our front steps is only overcome by her trust in those who are helping her walk. At this stage of her life, nothing is easy. Every breath, every swallow, every step, every word, every thought--every action is a mountain of effort.
Such a struggle to live brings me to the most amazing strength of all: Lucille's example of generosity. Wouldn't it be easy in her situation to complain? To be cross and ornery and self absorbed? She isn't. Every laborious breath, with very rare exception, is focused on those around her. Are we comfortable? Happy? Working too hard? Hungry? Thirsty? She is alive because of her concern for us, I am sure of it.
I love an Irish song, and sang it last year at a recital. As I learned the words, I realized this song is about Lucille. These are the lyrics:
'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone
All her lovely companions are faded and gone
No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes and give sigh for sigh
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem
Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them
Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead
So soon may I follow when friendships decay
And from love's shining circle the gems drop away
When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown
Oh who would inhabit this bleak world alone?
I thought this week we might be losing dear Grandmother Lucille. She was ill, and nearly unresponsive to me. She was not comforted by my presence, more preoccupied with the next world than ours, talking to her mother, remembering long-ago events. It seems selfish to want her to stay, when in the next world it is always Spring and the roses are always in bloom. But it is not my selfishness keeping her here; I simply didn't factor in her strength. As soon as the antibiotic began its healing, Lucille returned to her mortal journey, blessing us with her faith, beauty, purity, endurance and generosity. I will pay careful attention. She is a vivid bloom.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
My Hero Dad
Last summer Daniel marched with members of our ward in the Salt Lake City Pioneer Day Parade. I wanted to see him, so my father and I met about 5 am at a south valley MAX stop, found a cozy place along the parade route, and settled in to wait for the parade to start. It was a great morning. We drank juice and read the paper, watched the marathon runners, and commented on beauty queens as they rolled down the street on glittery floats. I think we were both home by noon.
The best part of the whole day was being with my dad. He has been my hero for a very long time. I promised him after his 50th wedding anniversary party that I would write a "Top 10" list for why I love him. Dad, it might be six months late, but this list is for you!
10. My dad knows more than anybody about everything! He keeps up with sports and politics, history and business, but he especially knows about God's creations. He knows about stars and mountains and every kind of rock in the Earth. For all the 25 years I've been a mother, if my kids ask a question and I don't know the answer, I say, "Ask Grandpa." He always knows!
9. My dad loves beauty of all kinds. Everyone loves a purple sunset or a majestic mountain, but my dad finds beauty in a desolate desert landscape or a high windy plateau. If he was one of the pioneers, he would have glowingly reported the possibilities available to settlers of the most barren wilderness. He also creates beauty. From rocks collected all over the earth he cuts and polishes, designing a unique silver setting for each one, and makes necklaces, bracelets, rings, and belt buckles. Notice the people around him. The lucky ones are wearing his priceless jewelry.
8. My dad has limitless energy. At age 73, he became a pioneer trek legend in his stake. He was NOT one of the original planners, otherwise they would not have staged their trek so early in the year at too high of an altitude during a late, snowy spring. He knows better. But once the decisions were made, he supported and strengthened their efforts. He helped alter plans to make the trip safe for all the participants, and he led them in miles hiked with enthusiasm and speed. I love hearing the stories of hiking with President Green! He is a marvel!
7. Did I say my dad has limitless energy? At age 74, he works at least two mornings a week at the Jordan River Temple, starting his day at somewhere around 2:30 a.m. After a 9-hour shift, he still goes to work some days each week at the state office he retired from (and did I say the man who replaced him when he retired just resigned because the job was too stressful? That man only had 1/2 my dad's job.) Then he handles various committee assignments with the City of Taylorsville and other church work. His work days are often 16-20 hours long. I work hard but I could never keep up with his schedule!
6. My dad can do anything! This is really part three of my dad's limitless energy. After all that work, he still maintains an acre of stubborn land, preserves all the garden produce, and shops and cooks for my mother and him. He invites us all over for dinner once a month and cooks like a gourmet. His apple cobbler and dutch oven meats are the best ever. He sends us out the door with homemade salsa and jelly, and makes fresh bread most of the time when we eat over. Does this sound like hyperbole? It's not! He really can do anything!
5. My dad is a pancreatic cancer survivor. It's rare for my father to be sick, but when something happens, it is bad. When I was in 9th grade, he got pneumonia and had to stay home for several weeks. It was so not like him to be under the weather! I remember his sadness at not being able to attend a performance of "The Crucible" at school where I was playing a role. He also got a rare eye disease when I was a young child. We were scared he might lose his sight. The worst, though, was when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My mother was so frightened! How could we lose this man who had the energy of a volcano and the peacefulness of a still mountain lake? His cancer was treated surgically, and miraculously, he is cancer free. He says his hospital stay was completely pain free too. My father's life is a miracle.
4. My father loves his family. When I was a child, I knew my father loved us. I was the first born, lucky enough to be born to newlywed parents. My mother tells the story that as a little girl I called everyone "Honey" and charmed the rough construction workers building their first new home. Truth was, all I knew was the love of my parents for each other and me, and all I ever heard was "Honey". Later, my father wanted to protect me from all the dangers of the world. My mom let me know that my dad was considering chaperoning me on all my dates until I was 18. That would not have worked so well! As a compromise, I was only allowed to date the same boy twice in a row, and then I had to see someone else. It was a tricky plan, and it only worked because I was in a group of kids that dated around a lot. It did keep me from having boyfriends, sort of. He also kept an eye out for me at church. Once, before I was even 16, the boy I was going with broke up with me one evening after Mutual. He said he couldn't stand the way my father scrutinized him during Priesthood Meeting. Turns out, he was drinking every weekend with his friends and had a guilty conscience. Thanks, Dad, for watching out for me!
3. My dad loves our Heavenly Father. I was a toddler when my father was first called into a bishopric. I've been told that one time I was misbehaving in Sacrament Meeting and my father left the stand to come take care of me. I yelled, "Daddy, don't spank me!" all the way down the aisle. All through my childhood and adolescence, and even into my adulthood, my father was a leader at our church. I love his ability to give moving and eloquent talks, teach inspirational and interesting lessons, and be a hero to the youth. I was a young wife when he was called as a stake president and set apart by Elder L. Tom Perry. I loved being proud of my dad. I love it even more, now, that he is a temple worker. Attending a session where he was the officiator was one of the spiritual highlights of my life. My dad was so humble, so pure, so devoted to the Savior in that setting. There are no words to express my love for him! I hope to have many more experiences like that one.
2. My father isn't quite perfect. Once, when my dad was about sixty, he announced at dinner that he had just discovered that paying tithing throughout the year was better than waiting to tithing settlement and catching a year's worth up at once. I was stunned! My dad wasn't perfect? And maybe that's why I was always struggling to get the tithing paid off in December. He said he'd had a better fiscal year than ever before and gave us examples. Because of that, I decided to actually turn in my tithing checks every time we were paid, instead of holding them as cushion in the checkbook. Voila! My economic stability strengthened as well. For the past many years, through thick and thin, I've paid my tithing as quickly as I've earned any money. I hope I never do it any other way. There are other ways my dad still isn't perfect, and I'm glad. I like that he is still learning! He leaves a path for me to follow.
1. My dad is my friend. Even though my father has seven children, he has been able to maintain a unique, special friendship with each of us. My place is his firstborn. I always knew I was like him; he is the oldest child in his family too. As the oldest child, I was able to sneak back up after everyone was in bed to watch football with him in his study. I helped his set up the campsite and cook breakfast for all the family while on long summer road trips. I stayed awake to keep him company when everyone else napped in the car. I was the first one old enough to go on difficult hiking trips, and he let me always set the pace. Because he valued my company, we climbed Lone Peak together and backpacked into beautiful wilderness areas of the Uintah Mountains, the Wasatch Range, and the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia. If I knew as much as him, I could tell you all the peaks and rivers and valleys and campgrounds, but I simply don't know their names. I always relied on him. Countless times I followed my father as we drove from Salt Lake City to Portland, or Portland to Salt Lake City. Countless times he has listened to my troubles, given Priesthood blessings, made me a meal. Every week or two while I was a student at BYU, in the days before cell phones, he stopped in to visit me at my apartment. My dad has always been one of my best friends.
I love my father. My top ten list could easily turn into a hundred wonderful memories, or a thousand, or more. We have plans to meet again this July 24th for the Pioneer Day Parade. You can join us if you'd like, my dad and me, side by side in our lawn chairs, the newspaper spread out between us. We are a lot alike; he just knows more and does it all better. My dad will always be my hero.
The best part of the whole day was being with my dad. He has been my hero for a very long time. I promised him after his 50th wedding anniversary party that I would write a "Top 10" list for why I love him. Dad, it might be six months late, but this list is for you!
10. My dad knows more than anybody about everything! He keeps up with sports and politics, history and business, but he especially knows about God's creations. He knows about stars and mountains and every kind of rock in the Earth. For all the 25 years I've been a mother, if my kids ask a question and I don't know the answer, I say, "Ask Grandpa." He always knows!
9. My dad loves beauty of all kinds. Everyone loves a purple sunset or a majestic mountain, but my dad finds beauty in a desolate desert landscape or a high windy plateau. If he was one of the pioneers, he would have glowingly reported the possibilities available to settlers of the most barren wilderness. He also creates beauty. From rocks collected all over the earth he cuts and polishes, designing a unique silver setting for each one, and makes necklaces, bracelets, rings, and belt buckles. Notice the people around him. The lucky ones are wearing his priceless jewelry.
8. My dad has limitless energy. At age 73, he became a pioneer trek legend in his stake. He was NOT one of the original planners, otherwise they would not have staged their trek so early in the year at too high of an altitude during a late, snowy spring. He knows better. But once the decisions were made, he supported and strengthened their efforts. He helped alter plans to make the trip safe for all the participants, and he led them in miles hiked with enthusiasm and speed. I love hearing the stories of hiking with President Green! He is a marvel!
7. Did I say my dad has limitless energy? At age 74, he works at least two mornings a week at the Jordan River Temple, starting his day at somewhere around 2:30 a.m. After a 9-hour shift, he still goes to work some days each week at the state office he retired from (and did I say the man who replaced him when he retired just resigned because the job was too stressful? That man only had 1/2 my dad's job.) Then he handles various committee assignments with the City of Taylorsville and other church work. His work days are often 16-20 hours long. I work hard but I could never keep up with his schedule!
6. My dad can do anything! This is really part three of my dad's limitless energy. After all that work, he still maintains an acre of stubborn land, preserves all the garden produce, and shops and cooks for my mother and him. He invites us all over for dinner once a month and cooks like a gourmet. His apple cobbler and dutch oven meats are the best ever. He sends us out the door with homemade salsa and jelly, and makes fresh bread most of the time when we eat over. Does this sound like hyperbole? It's not! He really can do anything!
5. My dad is a pancreatic cancer survivor. It's rare for my father to be sick, but when something happens, it is bad. When I was in 9th grade, he got pneumonia and had to stay home for several weeks. It was so not like him to be under the weather! I remember his sadness at not being able to attend a performance of "The Crucible" at school where I was playing a role. He also got a rare eye disease when I was a young child. We were scared he might lose his sight. The worst, though, was when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My mother was so frightened! How could we lose this man who had the energy of a volcano and the peacefulness of a still mountain lake? His cancer was treated surgically, and miraculously, he is cancer free. He says his hospital stay was completely pain free too. My father's life is a miracle.
4. My father loves his family. When I was a child, I knew my father loved us. I was the first born, lucky enough to be born to newlywed parents. My mother tells the story that as a little girl I called everyone "Honey" and charmed the rough construction workers building their first new home. Truth was, all I knew was the love of my parents for each other and me, and all I ever heard was "Honey". Later, my father wanted to protect me from all the dangers of the world. My mom let me know that my dad was considering chaperoning me on all my dates until I was 18. That would not have worked so well! As a compromise, I was only allowed to date the same boy twice in a row, and then I had to see someone else. It was a tricky plan, and it only worked because I was in a group of kids that dated around a lot. It did keep me from having boyfriends, sort of. He also kept an eye out for me at church. Once, before I was even 16, the boy I was going with broke up with me one evening after Mutual. He said he couldn't stand the way my father scrutinized him during Priesthood Meeting. Turns out, he was drinking every weekend with his friends and had a guilty conscience. Thanks, Dad, for watching out for me!
3. My dad loves our Heavenly Father. I was a toddler when my father was first called into a bishopric. I've been told that one time I was misbehaving in Sacrament Meeting and my father left the stand to come take care of me. I yelled, "Daddy, don't spank me!" all the way down the aisle. All through my childhood and adolescence, and even into my adulthood, my father was a leader at our church. I love his ability to give moving and eloquent talks, teach inspirational and interesting lessons, and be a hero to the youth. I was a young wife when he was called as a stake president and set apart by Elder L. Tom Perry. I loved being proud of my dad. I love it even more, now, that he is a temple worker. Attending a session where he was the officiator was one of the spiritual highlights of my life. My dad was so humble, so pure, so devoted to the Savior in that setting. There are no words to express my love for him! I hope to have many more experiences like that one.
2. My father isn't quite perfect. Once, when my dad was about sixty, he announced at dinner that he had just discovered that paying tithing throughout the year was better than waiting to tithing settlement and catching a year's worth up at once. I was stunned! My dad wasn't perfect? And maybe that's why I was always struggling to get the tithing paid off in December. He said he'd had a better fiscal year than ever before and gave us examples. Because of that, I decided to actually turn in my tithing checks every time we were paid, instead of holding them as cushion in the checkbook. Voila! My economic stability strengthened as well. For the past many years, through thick and thin, I've paid my tithing as quickly as I've earned any money. I hope I never do it any other way. There are other ways my dad still isn't perfect, and I'm glad. I like that he is still learning! He leaves a path for me to follow.
1. My dad is my friend. Even though my father has seven children, he has been able to maintain a unique, special friendship with each of us. My place is his firstborn. I always knew I was like him; he is the oldest child in his family too. As the oldest child, I was able to sneak back up after everyone was in bed to watch football with him in his study. I helped his set up the campsite and cook breakfast for all the family while on long summer road trips. I stayed awake to keep him company when everyone else napped in the car. I was the first one old enough to go on difficult hiking trips, and he let me always set the pace. Because he valued my company, we climbed Lone Peak together and backpacked into beautiful wilderness areas of the Uintah Mountains, the Wasatch Range, and the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia. If I knew as much as him, I could tell you all the peaks and rivers and valleys and campgrounds, but I simply don't know their names. I always relied on him. Countless times I followed my father as we drove from Salt Lake City to Portland, or Portland to Salt Lake City. Countless times he has listened to my troubles, given Priesthood blessings, made me a meal. Every week or two while I was a student at BYU, in the days before cell phones, he stopped in to visit me at my apartment. My dad has always been one of my best friends.
I love my father. My top ten list could easily turn into a hundred wonderful memories, or a thousand, or more. We have plans to meet again this July 24th for the Pioneer Day Parade. You can join us if you'd like, my dad and me, side by side in our lawn chairs, the newspaper spread out between us. We are a lot alike; he just knows more and does it all better. My dad will always be my hero.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Roses from Ashes, Part 3
Twenty four years ago, this past Christmas, one of my sisters told our family that she was pregnant. She was sixteen years old. Over the next six months, two memories stand out most in my mind, the first being my mother's grief. My tender mother spend whole days and nights in broken tears--for the sudden maturity facing her daughter's young body, for the public response that would not always be understanding , for the private heartbreak of a daughter whose pregnancy came without the support of a marriage relationship. Over time, though, I think her tears sprang from suffering the pain of more bitter truth: she was too ill after raising her own seven children to parent this precious grandchild, and her pregnant daughter was not ready to be a mother. Her grandchild would need to be given to more prepared and ready family. This child would not be hers.
The second memory is of my sister's devotion to her baby's well-being throughout her pregancy. She ate carefully, exercised moderately and took her vitamins. She got enough sleep. She had regular checkups with a good obstetrician. Though her body was young, she gave her baby every advantage any woman could offer, and she took no risks. She also glowed with love and tenderness. My son, Seth, just a toddler at the time, loved his Aunt Cherilyn with a new kind of attachment that could only be explained by her soft radiance. Whenever we were together, they were inseparable. She also took care of her own needs. She finished her school work and graduated from high school with her class. I was very, very proud of my smart, capable, and wise sister.
When the baby was born, a beautiful girl with lots of dark hair and unforgettable eyes, my mother visited the hospital often and held her for hours. A new thought emerged: could someone else in the family keep her? I had waited almost four years for my first baby, and it didn't look like a second child was coming any faster. This precious child, with her tiny hands and perfect face, could join my family! LDS Social Services advised against it; the child's identity would be complicated and attachments could be troubling for her. Emotions swirled as we discussed her future. Through all the discussion, though, Cherilyn was steady and her decision never wavered. The family selected for adoption would receive her. Cherilyn knew exactly what was right.
These memories are on my mind because a few days ago my sister's daughter found her. At the time of her birth, LDS Services arranged closed adoptions, and it wasn't possible for a reunion until after the child's eighteenth birthday. Cherilyn gave contact information a few years ago, so that if her daughter wished to locate her, such a reunion would be possible. And now a reunion is happening. The daughter sent an email, which has led to more communication, and after almost 24 years of wondering--joy.
The specifics of this daughter's story are not mine to tell. It is enough to say that she is good and happy, and forever grateful for a young mother's recognition of her inability to provide a stable family. I hope we get to share her a little bit. She loves music and the gospel and writes like we do. She might be interested to know that her birth mother's mother has a song in the church hymnal and her family includes a long history of poets, writers, musicians and artists. Her baby has beautiful dark hair and unforgettable eyes, just like all the girls in our family. My daughter, Rachel, is nearly her age (yes, I did become pregnant again soon) and would love a cousin with so many similar interests. But the future is as tender as the past, and it must be written with steady, careful hands. We will wait and see.
God is in the details. Again, roses spring from ashes.
The second memory is of my sister's devotion to her baby's well-being throughout her pregancy. She ate carefully, exercised moderately and took her vitamins. She got enough sleep. She had regular checkups with a good obstetrician. Though her body was young, she gave her baby every advantage any woman could offer, and she took no risks. She also glowed with love and tenderness. My son, Seth, just a toddler at the time, loved his Aunt Cherilyn with a new kind of attachment that could only be explained by her soft radiance. Whenever we were together, they were inseparable. She also took care of her own needs. She finished her school work and graduated from high school with her class. I was very, very proud of my smart, capable, and wise sister.
When the baby was born, a beautiful girl with lots of dark hair and unforgettable eyes, my mother visited the hospital often and held her for hours. A new thought emerged: could someone else in the family keep her? I had waited almost four years for my first baby, and it didn't look like a second child was coming any faster. This precious child, with her tiny hands and perfect face, could join my family! LDS Social Services advised against it; the child's identity would be complicated and attachments could be troubling for her. Emotions swirled as we discussed her future. Through all the discussion, though, Cherilyn was steady and her decision never wavered. The family selected for adoption would receive her. Cherilyn knew exactly what was right.
These memories are on my mind because a few days ago my sister's daughter found her. At the time of her birth, LDS Services arranged closed adoptions, and it wasn't possible for a reunion until after the child's eighteenth birthday. Cherilyn gave contact information a few years ago, so that if her daughter wished to locate her, such a reunion would be possible. And now a reunion is happening. The daughter sent an email, which has led to more communication, and after almost 24 years of wondering--joy.
The specifics of this daughter's story are not mine to tell. It is enough to say that she is good and happy, and forever grateful for a young mother's recognition of her inability to provide a stable family. I hope we get to share her a little bit. She loves music and the gospel and writes like we do. She might be interested to know that her birth mother's mother has a song in the church hymnal and her family includes a long history of poets, writers, musicians and artists. Her baby has beautiful dark hair and unforgettable eyes, just like all the girls in our family. My daughter, Rachel, is nearly her age (yes, I did become pregnant again soon) and would love a cousin with so many similar interests. But the future is as tender as the past, and it must be written with steady, careful hands. We will wait and see.
God is in the details. Again, roses spring from ashes.
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