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.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
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.
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