Consuelo

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Wind Beneath My Wings

When I was 21 I opened a little preschool in Provo. Not needing to work full time, but wanting a project, I designed a program blending early literacy with lots of playful exploration and recruited my husband to build a school. Since we had a detached garage and lived on a charming street in a quiet neighborhood, we decided to make the garage into a school house. For three years I welcomed about a dozen precious little children into my school for classes twice a day, made a little money, and gave their mothers a few hours of relief. I quit a few months after Seth was born; parenthood was my new fascination.

One of my favorite books in our classroom was a poetic story about the seasons. On the pages about Spring, I read that the wind blows in March to dry the earth from Winter's storms. I had never thought much about the purpose of wind; certainly blustery spring days had seemed more annoying than useful in my world. After that, though, in class we danced the wind, sang the wind, listened to the whisper of the wind. And I suppose I remembered about trade winds and sailing explorers, and the need for pollination and rain, fresh air and kites, and wind became, after all, very useful.

I've been thinking lately about adversity and how much it is like the wind. A little breeze of it barely stirs a leaf; a shrieking gale can shred everything in sight. But in between these two edges, wind is a constant, steady agent of change. So is adversity. Looking back, I am amazed and grateful for its effects.

Ten years ago, I became responsible for the financial needs of my family, and I wasn't at all prepared. Even during my BYU years, financial needs were largely provided for me, and I went from college to a husband who paid most of the bills. My university degree suddenly was the most valuable paper I owned, though my teaching certificate had long before expired. I had no idea of what to do. Inspiration came from a church employment seminar; I learned there about financial aid and nearby college programs, and I was encouraged by stories of other parents who survived unexpected financial turmoil. Within a few weeks I was enrolled in a master's program, completed the necessary recertification tests, obtained a temporary teaching license, and interviewed with local school districts to substitute teach. Oregon requires a current teaching certificate to be a substitute teacher, so at the beginning I was only qualified for a limited kind of job.

My first substitute assignment changed my teaching perspective forever. I walked into a classroom lit with flashing Christmas lights and met a radiant teacher whose sole focus during daytime hours was to provide stimulation and enrichment to a half dozen children with severe mental and physical impairments. Most of them could not even sit, so with the assistance of her aides, she rotated the children between several therapeutic chairs and beds to keep them comfortable. Regular ed children visited often to read stories or sing. My assignment was to assist a ten-year-old boy who was both blind and mentally challenged. For hours I walked him around the playground, singing "Zippity Doo Dah." I spent four days in that environment, amazed that for ten years their teacher had greeted every day with passionate love for her children, never bored or cynical about their limitations. I wanted to be like her.

That first year I supported my family on $9500, some leftover student loan money, and the sweetness of good neighbors. I worked as a sub about 3 1/2 days a week and went to school at night. My children ranged from kindergarten to tenth grade, and even though our lives were stressful, we laughed together more than ever before. Often we would find a sack of fun groceries on our porch--sugar cereal and brownie mixes, dropped off anonymously by kind friends. One day I was called in to our bishop's office; someone had given him an envelope filled with cash for us. It held $600. When my car broke down, a mechanic from a reputable shop called me with news that someone was covering all the repairs I needed. There were angels all around us.

After a year at school, though, I was more broke than ever. I'd sold the grand piano and taken out $16,000 in student loans. More than anything, I wanted to keep my home--for the sake of my children. Then one night I had a dream. In it, I'd been designing a kitchen remodel, but to my horror, I looked out the kitchen window to see a bull dozer driving straight into my kitchen wall, demolishing everything. I only had time to run in and save some glass dishes belonging to a friend who had brought us dinner, and watch my house crash down in ruins. I woke up knowing my divorce was far more than a remodel to my family, that we would have to completely start over.

A month later we moved to Utah. That was nine years ago. Adversity pushed us out and on, and in spite of the devastation it created, our lives are better and stronger for it. Each day I learn something new, and some days I actually make a difference in a the life of a child. I now have a resume that can sustain me as long as I am healthy and able to work. I am pleased with my accomplishments and the possibilities ahead. All this because of adversity.

In between my divorce and my remarriage I dated a wealthy man for a couple of months. He watched the financial crumbling of my life, promising that he would buy me more and better, when we married. When that relationship ended, I realized there was no knight on a white horse, racing in to save me. (Actually he was a pilot, owned his own plane, and he kept promising he would fly me to exotic lands.) But that's okay. With the love of good people around me, I can fly my own plane, thanks to adversity. It has been the wind beneath my wings.

Sing Your Way Home

I've always known my mother is a pretty smart lady, but like almost all daughters, I haven't always seen eye to eye with her about everything. One time I thought she was particularly crazy. I was a young mother, and my little sisters were teenagers, going through typically tough times. Every time my mother expressed her concerns for them to me, she would say, "Would you please just encourage them to take singing lessons?"

Singing lessons? They needed help with clothes, friends, confidence, more sleep, scripture reading, homework, gas for their cars, money for college, good boys to date, and my mom was thinking about music?

Nothing makes a child appreciate a parent more than parenting, though, and now I realize that my mother wasn't just pretty smart. She was genius smart. She knew that music, and particularly singing, directs all of the essence of humanity into one potent experience: physically, singing is an aerobic activity that increases the flow of oxygen to vital organs and releases endorphins, creating pleasure; emotionally, singing allows the expression of a reservoir of raw feelings as the singer interprets the meaning of the song; socially, music is almost always a shared modality, as it is practiced and performed with coaching, accompaniment and an audience; mentally, music stretches the mind as new lyrics and musical phrases are mastered; spiritually, because well-written music comes as close to communion with God as does prayer. Singing is a complete body-mind-soul activity that overpowers worry and pain, sorrow and fear. Music, particularly singing, is the answer to life's heartache and the incarnation of life's joy. My mother knew all of this.

My childhood was filled with singing. Like the VonTrapp family, we sang on family road trips, at home, and at church. My first experience singing harmony in public was when my brother, age three and I, age four, sang "I Wonder When He Comes Again" in Sacrament Meeting. (Years later, when we moved to Salt Lake City, kids taunted my brother and me, calling us "Donny and Marie". What they didn't know was their words didn't hurt my feelings all that much. I kind of liked the comparison.) As the number of children grew, so did the complexity of our songs. We sang our favorite, "Rain", at our parents' 50th wedding anniversary celebration last August. My brothers' soprano voices disappeared a quarter of a century ago, but the song was just as beautiful sung with the maturity and tenor of men. All seven of us sang together, and it was a tender, sacred moment.

Singing fills my home now, and singing lessons are alongside my 403b plan as investment money well spent. These are the results:

Aubrey received a superior rating at the Federation competition yesterday. Three notes into her first song, her accompanist was in tears. Everything they have worked for the past five years is happening with Aubrey's voice. She sang clearly, with strength and volume. Those who know Aubrey well, knows she has a piece of a chromosome missing, and the missing genes have affected her speech. Singing has been therapeutic for her, and her spirit has triumphed. Her disability is nearly gone, and her singing voice is exquisitely beautiful. Aubrey, I love you! Sue, Shelley, and Smith--thank you!

Daniel has joined the ranks and sang in his first Federation competition yesterday. His best friends are part of our music circle and his life is happier for music all around him. He has the grace to not complain when I am practicing my songs for the 100th time, just to learn the words, when he could memorize them instantly. Daniel, thanks for your patience.

Rachel just joined the Portland Mormon Choir. She has the voice of an angel. One of these days, soon, I will fly there just to hear her perform.

A few years ago, my children's voice teacher offered to teach me too. I hadn't had voice lessons in many years, and I was rusty and creaky. I tremble just like the teenagers when it's time to sing at a recital or competition. But the effect on my soul is remarkable! Sue (our teacher), and Shelley and Shauna (accompanists) have become my dearest friends. And when I am singing, everything painful in my life is gloriously still.

Last week we sang at a recital, and my mother came to hear us. I was last on the program. I stepped up on stage, took the microphone into my hands, and walked over to the piano. Three notes into my first song, my mother burst into tears. She loved listening to me, and I loved watching her. Thank you, Mother, for music, for singing. You always knew it was the solution. "Singing my way home" is my resolution.

Ward Family

Something magic happens every Sunday. My kids feel it. My nieces, Chloe, age 8, and Savannah, age 5, feel it. Ernie's 91-year-old mother, Lucille, feels it. We feel the magic at church.

Not everyone notices the magic at the same age. Last summer, our family reunion at Bear Lake ended on a Sunday morning with a dilemma: who would go to church? Some of the families are regular church-goers; some go once in a while; some never attend. Chloe, who goes most of the time, cried for an hour for permission to go with her cousin, Sarah, who never misses. Seth's fiance, Erika, who has yet to feel the magic, was astonished. Why would a child cry to go to church?

After four hours of church today, feeling the magic, I can answer easily. The magic is the love of a ward family. Chloe and Savannah, Lucille, Aubrey and Daniel, and I all are wrapped in that love every week. Sometimes it comes from a lesson or a talk. Sometimes it comes from a hug in the hall. Sometimes it shines from heaven in silent witness that God is listening to our private conversations. Often it comes as a prompting to hug someone else, to peer into her soul or offer comfort for his pain. Always it comes through the music of the hymns with their words and melodies of strength and peace. Always it is God's love through his family at church.

I have so many examples! Ten years ago, Aubrey was baptized. It was a messy time for our family; I had just filed for divorce, and we had a restraining order in place against her father. It was lifted just for the occasion of the baptism, but the awkwardness of the situation was extreme. Our stake held baptisms once a month on Saturday evenings, and it turned out that Aubrey was the only child from our ward that month. Still, 150 members of our ward came to attend her baptism. The baptism leaders were astonished. They had never seen such a show of support. With no idea of the circumstances, they just thought we were loved. We were. Our strong ward family circled in and held our little broken family in their loving arms. We are still in awe.

Ward love doesn't have to be expressed in dramatic ways. Not too long ago I was asked to sing at a Relief Society meeting and had volunteered to bring a dessert too. Then school commitments got crazy, and I couldn't figure out how I would fulfill my assignments. Worried, but not wanting to back out, I gratefully received two phone calls the day before the meeting: the first was Lynn Condie telling me she had made a copy of my music for the accompanist, saving me a step, and the other was Janet Peery telling me never mind about the dessert. Both women knew I was in over my head and offered relief, without my asking. I was grateful for their love.

There are wards with less magic. I have only experienced one. But even there, a rare wise man or woman carries its power. My ward in Stansbury Park was less experienced and more challenged, families were young and many were inactive. We moved there a year after my divorce and in all honesty, most ward members didn't know how to react to us. I was ten years older than most of the adults, and single. But we never lacked spiritually while we were there, and we were assigned a home teacher who knew how to strengthen us. Just before we moved away, he became the bishop. He had such a job to do! A ward with two hundred primary children, half of them inactive. I am sure his love has helped that ward grow up and become a loving, magical place.

Maybe magic is the wrong word to use here, if magic implies something that isn't possible or true. But magic is exactly right if it implies a powerful, universal force for good that heals hearts and creates hope. Because that is what I feel every Sunday when I go to church. If I couldn't go, I would feel just like Chloe and cry. I'd surprise Erika even more though--I don't think I'd ever stop, especially not just after an hour!

Tender Mercies

I went to the Bountiful temple tonight with my niece, Kara, who will be married next week to her best friend and sweetheart. Kara is a beautiful girl with long, flowing blonde hair and exotic green eyes that are always smiling and kind. She is studying to be a teacher and will graduate soon from BYU.

Kara is also a miracle girl. Her parents, though loving and intelligent, both struggled with drug addictions during Kara's childhood. She lived for a couple of years with an aunt, and there she learned to pray and go to church and do her homework. After that, there were other angels in her life. Kara stayed focused, and now her dreams are coming true. In addition to all her own hard work, Kara has received tender mercies from the Lord.

I love those words--tender mercies.

I also experienced tender mercy at the Bountiful Temple. Rachel chose to be there for her own endowment, two and a half years ago. Since she was our first child to be married, Leslie and I were new at being divorced parents together in the temple, and I was uncomfortable. As I entered the temple, I walked up to the recommend desk, aware that Leslie could be there with his wife, Rachel would have her sweetheart, and I would be painfully alone. After my recommend was examined, I was surprised to see the temple worker look at my name carefully and then say, "Sunderland...hmm. Have you ever run across an Ernie Sunderland?" First I was surprised, then he was, as I answered, "He is my husband!" He looked at me and chuckled for a while before he spoke again. Then he said, "I was his football coach at Ricks. Tell him Coach Grant says hi. I always did have to look after those running backs!"

Tender mercies to me are those times when God surprises us with blessings. For the rest of the day, even though I was still alone, I felt the comfort that God was well aware of my sadness. It turned out that Leslie didn't bring his wife either, and we had a beautiful experience with our daughter. Coach Grant's chuckle has stayed with me to this day. I'm glad to know that God is still looking after his running backs.

Wood Shipp

I knew when I wrote the post about women and the priesthood that I was leaving out something significant. It took only a few days to realize the missing chapter was about Bishop Shipp. But in order to explain his influence, I have to turn over some ugly stones and write about pornography and its effects on a marriage.

Before I was twenty, my experience with pornography amounted to this: one day when I was in about sixth grade, some girl friends and I walked to the local drug store to buy treats. On a circular rack was a magazine featuring a picture of Burt Reynolds, advertising a nude centerfold. My friends rushed over to look and I didn't. End of story. (Now I am a little skeptical of the whole thing. Even in my liberal Virginia community I doubt a magazine available to twelve year old's included full nudity. I guess I'll never know.)

At twenty, everything changed. I got married. My husband was a returned missionary, a student at BYU, and we married in the temple. It never occurred to me to ask personal questions like "Is looking at porn your favorite pastime?" My first clue was on our second day married when we walked into a hotel in San Diego that had brown-paper wrapped magazines in the gift shop. I watched my new husband's eyes as he glanced across the titles. My heart sank.

The real heartache began when we returned home. I actually went with him when he signed up for cable TV and premium channels, never having watched them before, completely naive about content. When later that night the first hard R film came on, and I protested, his answer was, "That's why I got the channel." He could tell I was disappointed, so soon he learned to tape his favorite movies at night, while we were asleep, so he could watch them when I wasn't home. Hearing the VCR click on in the middle of the night brought me something like panic attacks. My heart would race and I was filled with sadness. This went on for years.

I can't see any reason to detail other marital experiences, but over time it became evident that my husband was very addicted to pornography. Looking back, it seems obvious that I could have ended my marriage, or made stronger demands, but the culture and the time didn't prepare me for those options. Instead, we built a family and continued a marriage. We moved to Portland, Oregon, and began associations with friends who will forever be dear to our family. One of our dearest friends was our kind bishop, Wood Shipp. Bishop Shipp had a daughter my age, and grandchildren, and a gentle, beautiful wife.

With his fatherly ways, Bishop Shipp knew how to make every girl feel lovely. I don't think at first he even knew I had problems at home. Still, during my first few months in the ward, he staged a melodrama for the ward's entertainment, and cast me as the heroine. I wore a vintage lace dress and ringlets in my hair, playing against a dashing young hero and an equally dashing, experienced villian. I was 28 years old. Now I know that therapy comes in many disguises, and one of them is the theater: Bishop Shipp was affecting my self esteem. I just thought we were having fun.

His kind demeanor and this experience alone were enough to cast Bishop Shipp as a hero in my eyes, but we had an even more poignant experience. Several years later a friend offered me a book about sex addiction. I stashed it away for several weeks before I actually dared read it. Then one afternoon when I was alone I pulled it out and read it cover to cover. Never before had written words impacted me so deeply. I felt like it had been written just for me. The next Sunday I mentioned the book to my bishop only to have him answer that he had just picked up the same book and had read it on a plane flight the day before. Then he gave me a priesthood blessing, promising that my self esteem would no longer be impacted by my husband's actions.

I am sure there are women who don't care about a husband's fascination with airbrushed, cosmetically enhanced, professional fantasy sex partners. I now know that his addictions had nothing to do with his love for me. But it took a long time--and a divorce--for me to separate them. It wasn't until just a couple of years ago when I was sorting through old memorabilia that I came to a pile of all the special occasion cards he had ever given me. In one he had written "To the most wonderful person in the whole world." I believe now that he really thought that about me. I know now that his addiction grew from his own self esteem issues and a sensitive, idealistic temperament, and years of unmet needs as a child. I wish I could have been better prepared for his weakness and more helpful to his rehabilitation. But instead I was devastated.

Bishop Shipp's blessing planted the seeds of detachment that later gave me the strength to divorce. And yet he gave still another gift. This one happened quite a while after he was released as bishop, but it still counts! A few months before I moved away from Portland he planned another melodrama. He'd done a couple more since I'd been the star, and he'd always had young, perfectly cast heroines. But this time he wanted a reprise. He asked me to be the heroine. He staged me with a young, handsome hero--ten years younger than me. Every time I had to smile and bat my eyes I felt like my face would crack. I was a 39-year-old divorcee whose dreams had been shattered. But over the weeks of rehearsals I actually learned to sparkle just a little. And when we performed, the audience (my ward) joined in the spell and loved it.

There are so many ways to rescue a human being! For wives, love comes by feeling beautiful, capable, sexy. My ninety-one year old grandmother just told me how happy she was because two people that day had called her pretty. Pornography destroys that confidence in women. Bishop Shipp had just the knack to restore it.

Infinite and Intimate

I acquired an addiction a few months ago at school. While most teachers are covering up their consumption of diet Coke (not me) or chocolate (okay, me), I could not stay away from a new vice--a microscope. After school, instead of grading papers or planning for the next day, I admit to hours spent watching little protists skate across a microscope slide. I am fascinated that things so tiny could actually be alive!

There is a lesson in the contrast between reading about protists and actually seeing them. I'd been drawing paramecium and amoeba creatures since elementary school. I'd memorized their structures--could tell you about cilia and vacuoles, endoplasm and ectoplasm--but until this year I'd never actually seen one move. Similarly, I'd read about outer space and visited lots of planetarium shows, but until a few years ago when Ernie and I met some friends in the middle of the night in the Skull Valley desert, I'd never seen the rings around Saturn with my own eyes.

There is a lesson here about how to teach science, and how much more I could have learned if I'd been exposed to real things years ago (after all, I got a 33 on my ACT in science and all I've seen are protozoa?), but the greater message to me is about perspective. It's about seeing--both intimately and infinitely. And ultimately it's about love.

Microscopes are the tools scientists use to see intimately. No soft focus lens there! That's the way Christ sees us. With intimate understanding, not put off by our weakness, he loves "day-by-day, hour-by-hour, even moment by moment" (Callister, 2000). I've seen that kind of love in action. While I was visiting my sister with a newborn child, her Relief Society president dropped by for a visit. In her arms she carried a bag of fresh vegetables, and while she was there she prepared a fragrant homemade soup in my sister's kitchen. When my own family hastily checked into a motel for a night, a woman who barely knew us brought coloring books and candy for my children. Intimate Christlike loves dares to peek behind our smiling made-up faces and see hidden sorrows and feeble knees. That is the lesson of a microscope.

Telescopes are the tools scientists use to see infinitely. Time blurs as light travels long distance, the present becoming just a speck in the expanse of eternity. We can learn to see one another that same way, through the light of distant perfection, bringing patience to current struggles. C.S. Lewis said: "For God is not merely mending, not simply restoring a status quo. Redeemed humanity is to be something more glorious than unfallen humanity would have been...And this super-added glory will, with true vicariousness, exalt all creatures." I'm reminded of the perspective of eternity when reading a patriarchal blessing, watching a sleeping child, listening to the Sacrament prayer. That is the lesson of a telescope.

Today's resolution is to see with intimacy and infinity, to love actively and patiently, to work joyfully and tirelessly. Again, solutions taught perfectly by the Savior.

Women and the Priesthood

I came of age during the famous ERA years in American politics. During my freshman year at BYU there were frequent political cartoons in local newspapers depicting the conflicts women and especially LDS women faced. I saved a few in my journal. One showed a woman with a flat tire who had just left an ERA rally taking off her rally button before asking a man to stop to change her tire for her. Another showed women protesting outside a session of LDS General Conference, and the caption read: "Mormons for ERA: A Non-Prophet Organization".

Of course the Equal Rights Amendment didn't pass. I'm glad it didn't. But what I didn't know then, that I do know now, is women half a generation before me needed some problems addressed. It was not unheard of for a woman to be refused a temple recommend if she used artificial birth control, even when fertility strained her health and her marriage almost to the breaking point. It was rare for women then to have much of a public voice in meetings that included both women and men. Sometimes women felt ignored in church matters. My own mother tells of crying herself to sleep at night while my father was in many positions of responsibility in the church and she herself had five different church callings and half a dozen children. She was exhausted and no one was listening, including my father. By contrast, I remember some years later, when my father was called as a stake president, my mother was invited to be part of all the organizational meetings as his new stake presidency was organized. By then, her voice and her partnership were valued assets in church governance.

I appreciate these cultural advances that make women more influential in church government and more balanced at home. I appreciate more, though, the fact that doctrinal elements didn't change. Priesthood authority is a man's grace. It helps men become like the Savior.

I left my father's home at seventeen, and since then, sadly, have little good experience with priesthood in my family. Within a ward family, though, priesthood power has guided my most significant decisions and fueled my spiritual, financial, intellectual and emotional growth. Beginning when I was a student in the dorms, a good bishop recognized my willingness to serve--and my immaturity. As an eighteen-year-old Relief Society president I didn't even know that a girl in one apartment next to me was pregnant and a girl on the other side was suffering with bulimia. I think the bishop's wife took care of most of the welfare issues. But I organized Sunday meetings and homemaking meetings, visiting teaching and parties. I learned a lot. I felt inspiration and love. Under the direction of the Priesthood, I was part of the Savior's ministry.

Many years and many ward callings later, it was a bishop who mentored me through a sacred period of spiritual understanding. I was a Primary president at the time, serving on his ward council. During one Sunday council meeting he introduced a new plan. The ward council would go to the temple together every Tuesday morning, meeting at the 5:00 a.m. session. Other ward members were invited, of course, but we were pretty much required to go. He suggested we have an early family home evening Monday night and all go to bed with the temple in mind. A peaceful, early night would make a 4:00 a.m. wake-up time easy. He'd been doing it for a long time.

I went purely to be obedient to my bishop's counsel. I didn't have an early or a peaceful night. I had four children, the youngest were preschoolers and the oldest a young teenager. My marriage was in chaos, and my husband was always angry. Getting up at 4:00 a.m. was not fun or easy. But I did it. And I continued to go. Within a few weeks, I understood the urgency behind our bishop's directive. Frequent temple attendance brought sweet miracles into my life. Soon each Tuesday morning felt like Christmas and the heavens were filled with singing angels.

During this period, the contention at home became more severe. I loved my Primary calling but knew I could no longer serve and take care of family matters. I called my dear bishop to explain, only to have him say, "I've known for three weeks that I need to release you. I've just been trying to figure out how to tell you." Later this bishop was instrumental in helping me follow the inspiration I had received to divorce. This kind priesthood holder was a savior to me.

Divorce, however, brought financial challenges. I hadn't had a paying job in nearly fifteen years. My former husband was suddenly out of work. It was another church event, an employment seminar, that guided my decision to return to school to do graduate studies, take out student loans, and become marketable. Through the work of the Priesthood I was on my feet again, becoming financially stronger and intellectually better. The Savior cares about our growth in all these areas.

It is hard to write about current and recent priesthood leaders. My feelings are tender, and the goals we are working on are still in progress. I have a home teacher who has embraced my family's needs now for almost eight years. Every fall he gives blessings to each one of us as we begin a new school year. We work hard to follow his counsel, and because of his blessings we are healthier and happier. I've listened to three bishops in these nearly eight years, each one loving and guiding our family. Our current bishop inspires me to be good and kind; his gentle example of love and service reminds me always of the Savior. I want to be more like both of them.

There are women who suggest that priesthood leadership is domineering and demeaning. That women's growth is limited by male control. Culturally, there are occasions where this is sadly true. Men in my own life have been all of these things. However, these women misunderstand. Priesthood is not the problem with men. Priesthood is their solution.

Roses from Ashes, Part 2

I first started keeping a journal when I was about thirteen. Mostly it was a lot of slurpy stuff about boys; I wrote pages and pages while listening to Chicago play "Color My World" and Donny Osmond sing "When I Fall in Love" in his new deep voice. I also wrote about how good I wanted to be when I grew up. I would always have fresh lemonade in the refrigerator and watch sports with my husband. I wouldn't gossip or criticize and I would always help the poor. I would have ten children who would come home from school to warm cookies and cold milk and a tender, involved, loving mother.

Then after I was married, the entries tapered off. Something about the contrast between sweet idealism and bitter reality silenced my voice. About ten years ago, however, I started writing again. This time, my entries are powerful and sharply focused. Their literary value is deeper.

My life had turned to ashes.

This isn't the time to recount painful details. In fact, I barely remember them, which is exactly the point. Looking back, almost every entry for about a year and a half tells the story of a miracle. A family is rescued, a life remade. And through it, an undeniable witness of God's love.

I want to write about the subject of suffering, not to recount my own story (which is neither unique nor extreme), but to add my few drops of understanding about why we suffer. It's simply the only way most of us learn to trust in God with all our might. It's simply the only way most of us learn the value of a human soul. It's simply the only way most of us distill the vital from the trivial. It's simply the only way most of us learn how much Jesus Christ loves us.

My Christmas reading has been from Tad Callister's The Infinite Atonement. He quotes Ezra Taft Benson, who taught: "There is no human condition--be it suffering, incapacity, inadequacy, mental deficiency, or sin--which He cannot comprehend or for which His love will not reach out to the individual." Then Callister elaborates: "This is a staggering thought...when calculating the hurt of innumerable patients in countless hospitals...the loneliness of the elderly...the hurt of hungry children, the suffering caused by famine, drought, and pestilence. Pile on the heartache of parents who tearfully plead on a daily basis for a wayward son or daughter to come back home. Factor in the trauma of every divorce and the tragedy of every abortion. Add the remorse that comes with each child lost in the dawn of life, each spouse taken in the prime of marriage. Compound that with the misery of overflowing prisons, bulging halfway houses and institutions for the mentally disadvantaged. Multiply all this by century after century of history, and creation after creation without end. Such is but an awful glimpse of the Savior's load." (p. 105)

My favorite scripture, from Isaiah:

"The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me because the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, ...to comfort all that mourn....to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness..."
--Isaiah 61: 1-3

Last week I watched as Erica lifted the box holding her mother's ashes. I've never been so close to death as when our little family buried their mother and grandmother. I'm glad for the beauty that awaits because of our Savior's Love. Beauty from ashes. Roses from ashes. Jesus is the ultimate solution. Being with Him is my ultimate resolution.

So when it gets distressing it's a blessing!
Onward and upward you must press!
Yes! Yes!
Till up from the ashes, up from the ashes grow the roses of success.
--from "Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang"

If I Were a Shoe Store (Ya Ha Deedle Deedle, Bubba Bubba Deedle Deedle Dum)

Over the Winter break I read yet another book on school reform. This one, written by a respected educational historian with a brilliant mind, exceptional education and experience, and strong political connections to both parties, criticized the current trends of accountability and school choice. She based her point of view on the erosion of democratic neighborhood school stability that is the fallout of these efforts and the lack of sustainability that seems to be their long term results.

While I agree with some of her conclusions and lament the lack of her faith in certain progressive capacities of the reform movement, it seems that she too is missing the mark. On my first day of teaching I recognized why schools fail some students completely and all students at least a little bit. The problems are easy, and the solutions easy too. Just imagine that my classroom were a shoe store!

If I were a shoe store, I'd be out of business my second day. But let's start on Day One. As an ambitious entrepreneur, I would have spent weeks preparing for this Grand Opening! I would have stocked a perfect inventory, anticipating the demographic that would walk into my store. I'd have a showroom and a back room, a counter for checkout and the latest technology for managing transactions. I'd have places for customers to sit and attractive window displays. But this shoe store would not have hired any additional help. I'd be working all alone.

Imagine my showroom, filled with interested patrons, waiting to be fitted for shoes. Imagine me running back and forth, arms spilling over with boxes and boxes and boxes, needing to find the perfect pairs for each customer. Now imagine me at the cash register, then again in the back room, then again on the showroom floor. Clients handle the displays, and they don't put them back in the right places. Now I am struggling to fit, sell, transact, record, straighten, replace, fit, sell, transact, record, straighten, replace, fit, sell, transact, record, straighten, replace...all by myself, with a showroom full of people needing service with a smile, one at a time.

How long would my clientele remain happy? How soon would I be deserted for a store with a staff of eager salesmen and a counter clerk ready to ring up their sales?

Teaching children is a lot more difficult than fitting shoes. I have students who are ready for college level reading and high school math. I have students who can't draw a model of 5/4. I have students who can't sit still longer than an average two year old and students who are better disciplined than I am in a classroom setting. I work alone--planning, preparing, designing, implementing, grading, recording, filing, cleaning, communicating--and start the process new each day. I work a hard eight or nine hours at school, pressing through recesses and lunch, minimizing my own bodily needs to squeeze every possible use out of every possible second. And then I take the rest home.

I'm not a martyr. I love what I do. I miss my kids over breaks and my heart wrenches when I fail them. I wish I had another two hours with students in each school day to accomplish more. I check my email every few minutes all evening long in case one of them or a parent needs me.

But it's an impossible job. There is no way I can meet all of the needs.

If I were a shoe store, everyone would be screaming, "Hire some help, for goodness sakes!" But because children have no political voice, and they are not a commodity worth greater investment, the public looks for a magic answer without recognizing the obvious. I could work magic if a classroom were structured more like a retail environment. Imagine three teachers working together with twenty students. One could be preparing, filing, grading and recording. The other two would be teaching--a lead and a support teacher for every lesson. Small group instruction could happen as children fall behind or move ahead. Three trained professionals, working together, just like in a shoe store. Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.

Roses from Ashes, Part 1

There are a few experiential moments in life that are larger than life; they influence our perspective and color our choices. One for me happened just a few days ago when I went with my stepdaughter Erica to a cancer center. Erica is undergoing treatment for breast cancer just months after her own mother's death to lung cancer, and the day following her chemotherapy I accompanied her to the infusion room where she received a follow-up shot. (Living three thousand miles away, I have not been a part of her cancer path, but I did share a few short days with her over our Christmas break. She is a brave and inspiring woman.)

The twenty minutes I spent in that room changed me more than a thousand chapel sermons about compassion ever could. Every few feet around the perimeter another dear human being sat in a recliner, linked by IV tubing to chemotherapy medications. Most were sleeping; a few were reading. Only one woman spoke to me, a leukemia patient who had been undergoing treatment for seven years. She smiled at me, explaining that she hoped her hair would last long enough this time to donate to Locks of Love. I didn't dare invade anyone else's privacy enough to look very closely, but I wondered about each of them. Who would conquer their cancer? Who would fail? What important or routine events in their lives were disturbed by the relentless slowness of cancer care? The contrast of the drip-by-drip medication and the fatigue all around me with the cars speeding obliquely past just twenty feet away on the highway was startling. Just moments before I had been one of those fast cars. Now, whenever I pass I cancer treatment center I will bow my head a little and pray.