Mom's Life Sketch

Mom's engagement photo - 1968

When I see the word “sketch,” I think of a drawing. When I see the word “life,” I think of a body. My dad wrote a beautiful obituary of his wife and I will refer you to that for a more chronological timeline of her life achievements. For this service, I want to draw you a portrait of my mother with words.

Mom at about 3 years old riding her tricycle in front of their home in Hall, Montana

I’ll begin with her head and her beautiful mind. Mom was an intelligent, educated woman. She grew up on an isolated ranch in a small town in a sparsely populated state. I mention those details because without the influence and encouragement of her own educated parents and an innate desire to learn, she could have easily claimed school learning didn’t matter much. Living on a ranch required a lot of daily chores and hours in the fields but mom had her priorities straight, and often snuck away to hide in a closet or tree so that she could read instead. She was motivated to do well in school and graduated valedictorian of her high school class. Her love of the English language and literature led to a career in teaching others to love the English language and literature. She loved grammar and was the family go-to authority when it came to the confusing use of lay, lie, lain, lying, laying and laid. Mom was the kind of teacher who would sign up to drive a car full of college students to New York City for a Model UN convention as well as the kind of teacher who could take a practical joke. Once, she got locked inside a classroom by some of her students. We think they must have barricaded the door to keep her in but rather than waiting for help or crying about her situation, mom climbed out the window, dropped to the ground, reentered the school and walked into the next class she had to teach. Her students were stunned. They asked, “Miss Parker, did you climb out the window?” and she responded with a smirk, “Is that something you think I would do?” Although she valued the classroom and its importance, when giving a college final interfered with meeting her brother at Lake Tahoe to go water skiing, she did what any responsible professor would do: she found a TA to stand in her place and went!

High School graduation photo

At Lake Tahoe

We are all gifted with senses. On paper, we see eyes, ears, noses, tongues and skin but Mom used her senses as tools to create and enjoy beauty. We grew up in a home where classical music was played, piano lessons were required, community concerts were attended, dinners were eaten together and presented on a table with a tablecloth and food in bowls - never pans. Flower beds adorned her yard and in the spring and summer, vases were filled with the bounty of her gardening skills. She was never snobby about her tastes but using dishes she had collected from her travels abroad and the silver from her wedding gave her a lot of joy. She knew and loved opera. It excited her and I remember her being given an assignment to teach an opera appreciation class to her Relief Society and her concern once she realized most opera stories are pretty R-rated. I believe she taught it anyway and focused on the beautiful music and majestic sets. She crafted beauty. We girls were constantly outfitted in dresses she sewed and all of us children and grandchildren have benefited from her talent at knitting and quilting. This week, I saw an old class report my sister did on Ireland and rather than just leaving it in a plain binder, my mom bound it with green cloth and cross-stitched the title “Ireland” on the cover. She loved her jewelry, especially her necklaces and dangle earrings and always made an effort to look nice. I think she loved beautiful things because she was so beautiful. 

Sewing on scout patches for me

Mom was thrifty. She knew the value of a dollar and of hard work. Every summer, she used her hands to pick fruits and vegetables, cut them up and can them for use in the winter. At dinner time, one of us was usually sent downstairs to what we call the “fruit room” but is actually the laundry room that also has a wall of shelves for food storage to get a bottle of peaches or pears. A half-dozen loaves of bread were made each week and I remember looking at my friends’ store bought, Wonder bread sandwiches with envy because mine were made with thick, hand sliced, homemade bread. Poor me. Two Christmases ago, because of a fabric sale and a 40% off coupon, Mom decided to make all 15 of her grandchildren and some of her children and in-laws a pair of BYU pajama pants as a gift. Never mind the time and hassle of getting measurements, sewing with elastic, and shipping it all because none of us live close. It was cheaper than buying everyone a pair. Likewise, literally dozens of Easter, choir, prom and bridesmaid dresses have been made because there was a sale on velvet, satin, taffeta or chiffon. Poor Jon sort of got left out of the fun of homemade clothes, being the only boy, but when he needed his own space and privacy from his five sisters and the budget didn’t allow for a bigger house or an addition, Mom converted most of the fruit room into a bedroom for him. He still had to share it with a washer and dyer but she brought in carpet, wallpaper and even some wood paneling to make his new space more inviting and comfortable. There wasn’t much that could put Mom in a better mood than getting something for 70% off. Going to Dillards, Macy’s or JC Penneys and finding that kind of deal often warranted a phone call to share the good news or maybe even a fashion show if we happened to be visiting. She would even find these kind of deals for my dad, who never immediately appreciated her finds. Sometimes it took a few years, but eventually he usually came around and when he finally wore that discounted belt, shirt, pair of pants or shoes, she would call with that good news too. 

Mom’s arms were open, welcoming and ready to give. If she had something she could give, donate or share that might benefit another, she handed it over freely. This generosity often appeared in the form of patience, wisdom and emotional support but when it manifested in material form, it didn’t conflict with her thriftiness. She loved giving someone something she found for 70% off too! Our childhood toy box was filled with her fancy, formal dresses that she donated for our play. My favorite was a pale pink tulle dress embellished with crystals and rhinestones but I loved her scarlet red organza dress too. I thought it was a little bit scandalous when I learned the long, yellow silk dress we loved to dress up in was actually her wedding nightgown. Entertaining five daughters and our friends was more important to her than preserving her personal gowns for sentimental reasons. Similarly, she donated her wedding dress to Deseret Industries, a thrift store. I know she donated her peace and quiet and, possibly, her sanity during our teenage years. We were incredibly noisy playing our music, jumping on the trampoline or playing basketball late at night, eating whatever we could find and rarely cleaning up after ourselves. A lot of our friends have let us know this past week in their condolences how unbelievably kind and tolerant she was and how she never complained or sent anyone home. She gave us a safe, comfortable, happy place to be. Her generosity extended to the early hours as well. Many of our church friends pit stopped at our house after early morning seminary and breakfast was at the table for those who were hungry. Several of her bookclub friends have sent letters and they’ve mentioned how much they enjoyed her sharing what she knew about literature during their evenings together, elevating a girls night out into a meaningful discussion about a common interest. She did this with us kids as well. This past year, my teenage son accidentally drove our 4-wheeler into a tree. When I called her to lament about his irresponsibility, the expense and other woebegone, she told me a story about when she was a teenager and wrecked her dad’s truck when he was out of town. She worried all week about how mad he was going to be and what her punishment would be but when he came home, all he said to her was, “I heard you had a spot of trouble while I was gone.” My kids ruin a lot of stuff so she may have hared this story with me more than once. 

With her 15 grandchildren, whom she adored. 

Mom wasn’t an athlete and not even very coordinated (the only C she ever got was in Tumbling), but her legs and feet took her on many adventures. She has traveled the world. During her single years, she toured all over Europe, Canada and the United States, including Alaska. After we left home and she could freely travel again, she lived abroad in China and Myanmar with Dad, and visited Thailand, Mexico, Israel, Egypt, Jordan, England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland and had plans to go to Italy, Greece, Turkey and France this May. I annoyed her last year when I posted a picture on Instagram and captioned it, “How cool is my 80 year-old mother as she tries snorkeling for the first time?” She huffed, “Why don’t you mention your 39 years too while you’re at it?” I mentioned her age in the picture because it was the best part of the story. All of her adventures kept her young. She loved being asked if she qualified for a senior discount and shocking them with her actual age. I know she shocked and delighted her Relief Society sisters when she went tubing with them at Canyon Ferry a few years ago. She certainly earned some cool grandma points when she rode the Colossus roller-coaster at Lagoon during our last family reunion. 

Walking along the Great Wall of China

Snorkeling in the Caribbean

Before an elephant ride in Myanmar

Her strong shoulders lifted and held up her family. Mom had three siblings who died before she was born but the four she grew up with were her best friends. Because she was 34 before she had kids of her own, she was the “cool aunt” for many years. Between her siblings and my dad’s, she has 42 nieces and nephews and I’m sure she could have told me where each one lives and what they are doing right up until her death. Growing up, it felt like most of our family trips were centered around their missionary farewells and homecomings or one of them getting married. When it came to her children and grandchildren, she came to support us in our activities as often as she could. She was so proud of our achievements and was looking forward to seeing her two oldest grandsons graduate from high school this spring. When her own mother had a debilitating stroke at 87 and required live-in care, Mom moved her in with us for the last six years of her life. Having Grandma in our home had a powerful impact on our family. I think most of us attribute her influence on why we are such a close family. I didn’t think much about it when I was young but now, with my adult perspective, I think, “Wow…how?” We didn’t have the obvious room but Mom made room. Mom dressed her, brought all her meals except dinner on a tray to her room, bathed her and really only took a break from caring for her when my dad would come home for lunch and spend an hour with Grandma watching Guiding Light. One of the most influential memories I have happened during the last winter of my grandma’s life. We attended church at the other LDS building in Helena up on 6th Avenue and its design is different from this building. There is a longer sidewalk to the front foyer doors that took my 93 year-old grandmother a good 5 minutes to amble along with her walker on a good day. Back then, Mom drove a brown, diesel powered Chevrolet Caprice Classic and I vividly recall the absolute mortification I felt when mom decided the sidewalk was too icy for Grandma, jumped the curb and drove our loud, large car all the way up the sidewalk to the front doors. Something that an ignorant and egocentric 8th grade girl did not appreciate then is now viewed with the most tender of hearts. She loved her mom. She served her mom. She was taking her to church, where Grandma could partake of the sacrament, in the safest, most comfortable way for her frail body. 

Mom, around age 10, with her parents and siblings. Back row from left to right: Marie, AnnaLou, Ruth.  Front row: Fred, Edna (mother), Fred (father), Karen (her)

Where do our testimonies reside? Do we know it in bones? Feel it in our gut? The Book of Mormon prophet, Mosiah, teaches us that we must “open our ears that we may hear, our hearts, that we may understand and our minds that the mysteries of God may be unfolded to our view.” Mom did this and her strong testimony pervaded her entire body. She grew up learning the gospel was true through good parents, teachers and study and certainly lived it and obeyed the commandments but it was while driving home from a single-adult conference when she lived in California that she felt the spirit of God manifest His truth and comfort her in a way she would never deny. She was having a moment of self doubt…wondering if perhaps she should have cared more or tried harder to find a spouse during her younger years. She felt like maybe the Lord had forgotten about her and her desires to be a mother and wife while she was busy earning her degrees, working and seeing the world and she asked in prayer, “Are you aware of me?” With tears in her eyes, she testified to me that God answered her question with the warmest, most loving feeling she had felt in her life with the response, “I know who you are and I know your heart.” 

Because of her firm testimony that Heavenly Father would answer her prayers, it was an easy decision to become engaged to my dad after only a week of dating. They had known each other their entire lives and she trusted in her covenant to love and become one in purpose with him. 

At her wedding reception in Logan, Utah.  From left to right: Fred, Grandma Parker, Ruth, Marie, Mom, Dad, Cal Wardell, Grandma Hatch, Grandpa Hatch

Because of her firm testimony about the Plan of Salvation and the importance of families, she was able to cope with such a drastic change in her day-to-day responsibilities when, less than a year after marriage, she had her first baby and then four more after that within six years. Her last and sixth baby came just after their tenth anniversary at the age of 43. I have asked her, more than once, if she ever had any regrets or wondered what kind of life she might have had had she not given up her career. She was a successful, educated, professional woman with the freedom and means to come and go as she pleased and then she was up to her elbows in cloth diapers and crying kids. It is probably a blessing that she doesn’t actually remember these years but she always replied, “Never! I have been grateful for every one of you. I thought for a long time I wouldn’t get the chance to be a mother.” It does something for a child to know that their mother happily and repeatedly chooses them- their messes and their drama, their expense and inconvenience. 

Christmas 1978. These clothes were handmade.

Because of her firm testimony that the scriptures are the word of God, she was a great teacher. She loved teaching and her favorite callings were teaching Gospel Doctrine or Relief Society. It was a treat to come home and be in her classroom. One time, uncomfortable comments were made in response to a question she asked. This person went on and on in a negative way about the faults and shortcomings of members of the church and my mother stopped the ramble, lovingly, but firmly and said, “Not if they are living the gospel. And that is what we are here to learn.” Like so many things my mom did, it has stuck with me throughout the years. She always helped me navigate my own doubts and concerns. She was an intellectual who lived with faith. And when I came to her with my own rambles and complaints about this policy or that, she testified in that powerful way of hers that the gospel is true.

I love this picture of her

Because of her firm testimony in the life and mission of Jesus Christ, she fed His sheep. She made so many blankets and leper bandages for humanitarian aid. She spent hundreds of hours indexing names from census records for family history and loved serving in the temple. As sad as it makes me and as unfair as I originally thought it was, I think the fact that her fall came when performing an act of service for a friend that she loved and who needed help is a fitting end for her life’s story. She was always a high achiever and it has to give her some bonus points or extra credit when it comes to judgment time. She’ll probably be the spiritual valedictorian up there too. 

Mom slipped on the ice on a Thursday morning. The following Tuesday, just five days later, Mom and Dad were planning to leave for a trip to attend the Open House for the new Provo City Temple and to stay with me in Durango for a week before heading to Arizona. When she fell and we all came to realize how serious her injury was, the six of us came to her bedside in Great Falls as soon as we could. That is what you do when your mother is as noble as ours is. Those days together in the hospital, when Mom could wake up and converse with us, make us laugh with her sassy answers and complain about the overcooked food were a miracle and a gift. Before the stroke that took her movement, speech and possibly understanding, she was alert enough and herself enough to know that we were there with Dad. She was able to FaceTime with her grandchildren and in-laws to tell them she loved them. She read your words of love and encouragement on Facebook.  I want you to know that she knew she was loved. 

In the hospital with mom.  Emily took the picture

I hope you have seen my mother’s beauty, power and grace with my sketch. In conclusion, I have one final story that I hope will add some shading and texture to her picture. To preface, it is embarrassing to admit after extolling her many skills and abilities that many of her homemaking skills were not passed on to her daughters and son. We cannot sew or knit or quilt. She always told us that instead of teaching us how to do it, she taught us how to learn and we could learn how to do it should we choose. But, she didn’t make us suffer in our ignorance. When she came to our homes, she would offer to bring along her sewing machine and do our mending and such. Perhaps because I am the most inept of my siblings, I always took her up on her offer so when I got to the hospital on Friday night and came to her side, I kissed her cheek, told her I loved her and then jokingly asked, “Mom, are you trying to get out of the pile of clothes I have for you to hem and fix?” She wasn’t very alert and her eyes were closed but she whispered back to me, “You can do it.” That was her final lesson to me: I can do what is required….what is necessary…even if it is hard and beyond my current skill level or understanding. I think of those words now when I think of having to endure the rest of my life without her constant support and influence. 

The Book of Mormon prophet, Nephi, wrote, “Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life.” Karen Frances Parker Hatch followed this exhortation. I have no doubt as we struggle to adapt to life without our wife, mother, grandmother, aunt, cousin, teacher and friend, as we struggle to press forward and endure to the end, she would lovingly tell each of us, “You can do it.” It is my testimony that, through the atonement of Jesus Christ, we can, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

On Human Kindness

I like to think of myself as a kind person. One of my absolute favorite quotes is by Henry James, “Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.” In my dream world of hearts and rainbows (and chocolate), kindness would be the most esteemed achievement in life. Unfortunately, this week has witnessed a series of events that have challenged my views as well as my perception about my own personal kindness towards others.

Last Friday, Henry’s piano teacher, who also happens to teach music out at his school, pulled me aside after his lesson and asked if Henry’s teacher or the school counselor had gotten in touch with me concerning Henry. Completely baffled, I replied that they hadn’t and she proceeded to tell me that for the past several weeks, none of the girls in his class were willing to pair up with Henry when they practiced an Irish Jig that they are performing at the school’s St. Patrick’s Day party in a few weeks. She said she always downplayed it and just used him as her partner but she found it curious. I made a note to contact his teacher on Monday.

After conferencing with both his teacher and the school counselor, I learned that Henry has essentially been the class “cheese touch” since January (if you don’t know what a cheese touch is it’s from Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Basically, it means he is the person nobody wants to partner with, play with or sit next to at school). His teacher was obviously concerned about how this social isolation (which she says the kids are really good hiding when teachers are around) was affecting Henry...if he was acting out at home or not wanting to come to school and I could honestly say that it didn’t seem to be affecting him at all. He had confided in me a couple of weeks earlier that he had gotten in trouble with his teacher because he kept touching some girls’ hands and asking them to the valentine’s day dance (what dance???) after being dared by some of his classmates who said they wouldn’t be his friend if he didn’t do it. It’s quite a bit more complicated than I feel like sharing right now but, in short, Henry’s lack of social self awareness is both partly responsible for him being targeted and also the protective bubble that keeps him oblivious to the ridicule. I’ve always admired Henry’s unique personality but also worried if and when his charm and quirk would be labeled weird instead.  Turns out...third grade.  It made me so sad.

Then, the very next day, I got a call from Seth’s spanish teacher. Like all teachers, I feel like they try to lessen the blow by saying how much potential they see in your child but after buttering me up with assurances that he doesn’t think my son is a delinquent, he went on to say that he felt Seth was really underperforming in class and possibly bullying another student. I listened, acknowledged the likelihood of him not using class time wisely, but my heart hurt at the thought of him making someone feel stupid or small in class. It was extra surprising because the other boy mentioned by the teacher is a friend of Seth’s from cross country. I know my son well enough to know that he is not intentionally mean. Well, that’s not entirely true. He can be really mean to his brothers....but, he is mostly a huge tease and if he’s really comfortable with someone and thinks someone can handle it, he can say obnoxious things to them thinking he’s being funny. I’ve seen him do it with his cousins, coaches, church leaders, friends - and 90% of them actually think he’s funny.  I can’t tell you how many adult leaders have come up to me saying how much they love harassing Seth because he “can take it and dishes it right back at me!” And he can take it. He loves it. It’s like teasing is his love language or something. I told his teacher I’d be sure to have a talk with him about it.

It felt so weird to be simultaneously straddling both ends of the kindness spectrum. How was it that my boys were not recognizing the importance of kindness? After this Friday’s experience, I worry I may not be setting the best example.

The deacons and teachers had a fun, overnight trip planned for Friday night at one of the leader’s cabin. In the winter, the remote road gets snowed in and so the only way to access it is by snowmobile. All boys were told to meet at the church at 4:00 with their snow clothes on and all of their other belongings contained within a backpack. Because they were riding in and would need to use their hands to hold onto something, sleeping bags, pillows, snacks all had to fit inside a backpack. Jay and I made sure Seth and Sam were ready to go so I could take them straight to the church after I picked them up after school.  Jay even threw in an extra sleeping bag in the off chance that one of his deacons, who is on the autism spectrum, showed up. I couldn’t imagine that this boy would come. When he was in primary, he was always a challenge because he never wanted to be there and part of his personality is to loudly complain about what is making him uncomfortable. So...we and what we were doing in primary was often “stupid and boring.” It was hard to keep him in a seat because all he wanted to do was leave and wander. Mostly, he just wanted to play on his tablet. It was extremely difficult to get him to participate so we tolerated and accommodated him. His mom is a single mother who has her own mental health issues so it has never been something anyone could really take to the family for help. Tangent over, when I got to the parking lot, this boy’s mother was quickly driving away and her son was sitting on the sidewalk, with a stuffed pillowcase as his only luggage, ranting about how his, “big, fat, stupid mother” had left him and he wasn’t ever going to move and he wasn’t going anywhere until his mom came back to pick him up.

Jay was working and there was no way he was going to be available by 4, so he had already planned on driving up on his own later and either walking in (the guy’s in shape. He could do it) or, hopefully, having someone come and pick him up on a snowmobile. Because he is the deacon’s quorum advisor and the leader who has handled this young man on Sundays (he doesn’t come to activities on Wednesday night), none of the other leaders had any experience with his social tantrums. Once they saw me, they asked me what to do. Irritation at the entire situation pulsed through me. I am not a mental health or behavior expert. Jay isn’t either. I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t want to have to know what to do. I told several of the leaders that it was unfair and possibly harmful to have this young man go on this trip. I used the comparison of someone dropping off their handicapped son, who needs a wheelchair, without his wheelchair. He had no snow clothes other than his coat. He was mad but I might have felt just as mad. I was mad at his mother for just leaving him there (and not picking up her phone now when we tried to reach her). The other counselor in the YM presidency said they would do the best they could and if the situation turned impossible, someone would leave the activity and drive him home. That didn’t really help calm my unkind feelings. If anything, it just inflamed them more. I asked Seth and Sam that since their dad wasn’t there yet, could they be this poor, frustrating young man’s emotional ambassadors and help encourage him, or even just quietly ignore him while he ranted? They sort of glared at me but I watched Seth go and sit next to him on the curb and when they led him to get into one of the trucks, I watched Sam go and sit with him. When I got back into my car to leave, I called Jay to complain. He sighed and hoped for the best.

The rest of the story is both heartwarming and embarrassing. I was certain that this boy would be miserable and, in turn, make the entire activity miserable. I was wrong. By the time Jay got up there, ever other adult leader approached him independently and told him that Seth and Sam had saved the trip. By the time the group got to the cabin, this boy had calmed down, was laughing, and saying it was so much fun. He never snowmobiled and didn’t participate in any of the conversations or games but Jay said they eventually talked him into turning down the volume of his tablet and he helped the other boys make breakfast the next morning. Sure enough, when I picked up the boys the next morning and took this young man to his mother (who was at McDonald’s using the wifi and unable/unwilling to drive to the church to pick him up), he was happy. Not easy or socially adept or any less rigid in his conversation, but not angry and he kept saying, “I had fun.” I felt shame. Because I had been very unkind in both thought and deed.

I know I am not an unkind person. Perhaps, what I have realized is that all of us, to some extent, have unkind moments. The kids we don’t like have them. Our own kids have them. I think the goal is to try harder to show kindness to all.  I tthought of the words in a primary song, “Love one another as Jesus loves you. TRY to show kindness in all that you do. Be gentle and loving in deed and in thought for these are the things Jesus taught.” I think I am most kind when I feel secure in that love that Jesus has for me - when  I feel His spirit with me. I think of the sacrament prayer and the promise that it will be with me if I keep His commandments and always remember him. I need to do better at doing both. I didn’t realize how distant and distracted I’ve been lately and how infrequently I choose to “remember Him." It’s such a cycle. I think what I realized yesterday is that if I help my children feel Christ’s love, they will also be more likely to love others and themselves in the same accepting way Christ loves us. It’s easy to be kind to some people. It’s not as easy to be kind to others. I want to be better at being kinder to all.

The Problem With Depending On My Brain

Perhaps it’s only surface righteousness, but, on Sundays, when driving to church, I tend to try to listen to more uplifting programming than the normally tuned in pop music. Today, it was Henry who suggested I find BYU radio on Sirius XM (a recent addition to my car) and when we found it, they were rebroadcasting a talk Elaine Dalton had given sometime in the past. We didn’t get to listen to much, but as I turned onto 15th Street, she quoted her favorite scripture found in Proverbs.  It’s a very well known scripture and certainly not the first time I had heard it but when my ears got the signal, “Trust in the Lord with all thy heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways, acknowledge Him and He shall direct thy path,” my heart received its truth. I didn’t even know how much I had been thinking about the Lord’s truth and how mankind usually bungles handling His truth until I was sitting in Testimony Meeting. Sam had just been sustained in Sacrament meeting to being worthy to hold the office of a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood and almost like Jason Bourne, my brain kept flashing to all these thoughts I’ve been having over the past two weeks that all had to do with the priesthood and that scripture.



Two weeks ago, I had the amazing and blessed opportunity to travel to Mexico with my parents and sisters.  We had a marvelous time and the majority of memories will be attached to the sand, sun and nightly order of fajitas, but we spent one day touring some Mayan Ruins at Chichen Itza and Tulum. I’m sure any tour guide would have provided an interesting interpretation and explanation of Mayan history and archaeologic discovery but we chose to have an LDS tour guide who added his own thoughts and interpretations from his understanding of scripture. Most of what he had to say focused on how the symbolism they used in building and their traditions in sacred worship could be recognized as perversions, lost truths and misunderstandings of the gospel of Jesus Christ, which I believe had been brought to this land by different peoples and from Jesus Christ himself after his resurrection. For instance, there is an idol placed atop the place where human sacrifices were offered inside their temples. They called him Chaac Mol and this idol sat in a reposed position with a box of a sort onto of his torso (I hope I am getting this right. If I take the time to research this, I doubt I will ever get back to writing. I just need to get this post out!). In the box, they would place a human heart. Our tour guide theorizes that they had been taught at one time that God wanted “broken hearts and contrite spirits” and after many generations without any priesthood authority to keep truth in check, this perverted human sacrifice came as a result. It’s an interesting thought.

In a similarly gruesome comparison, my dad sent me a link to a story exposing the relationship between a Utah husband and wife who killed themselves and all but one of their children this past year and Dan Lafferty, a man who murdered my cousin and her daughter because of religious perversion. They had become infatuated with his teachings and person and had visited him many times in prison. The article reminds the reader about the horrific Lafferty murders and I just felt so sad that such evil could stem from someone who had once been taught the gospel.

While that depressing train of thought was swirling on one side of my brain, I simultaneously recalled a funny conversation I had with the two women who help me clean my house once a week. They have been helping me with my poor housekeeping skills for years and we have become pretty good friends. They will frequently ask me questions about my religion and we always have honest conversations about what we believe. Last week, I could tell they thought their question was weird based on how they asked each other if they should even ask me, but I laughed when they asked, “Is it like a rule of your church that you have to own a piano if you are Mormon?” I laughed and said that I was positive all non-musical and non-piano owners could also be Mormons should they so choose and even though it was a silly question, it made me start to think about how easily something can seem like a tradition or even become a tradition.

The church has done a valiant job during the past year of acknowledging past mistakes and admitting uncertainty about how some past church policies came into existence. I think it is both commendable and concerning. Why are we doing things wrong...ever...when we have the restored gospel, priesthood authority and a prophet? You know? Oh, I know, I know, I know. The church is true but its people aren’t perfect. Past prophets’ policies and ideas have been implemented when they weren’t necessarily revelations but merely opinions of men. I get it. I hear it. I just wish it hadn’t happened.

It’s so, so, so tempting to rely on my own understanding. I think I come up with some pretty good stuff. Still, I believe that priesthood authority matters and that that authority exists on the earth today.  I believe Sam received that power today, through an ordination of power given to him by his father who was given the power by another worthy priesthood holder. Not only do I believe that Sam now holds the priesthood but I believe that this power is what allows Heavenly Father to bless His children and direct His church through revelation. Without it....if it didn’t matter....if we’re just left to our own understanding....if it gets perverted....all hell breaks loose.  That’s what history teaches me. Really. Being forced to own pianos would be the most benign.

I’m proud of Sam. I’m grateful he has great examples of worthy, humble, dedicated priesthood holders to teach him how to best bless the lives of those around him. I will continue to trust in the Lord and let Him direct my path.

Model Sam

Still modeling

Sam is the same size Seth was when he turned 12.

It kind of amazes me what changes are in store over the next few years.

Daily Gratitude - Day 19

Today was the day I was going to get Seth to seminary on time. Every day, it is 7:07 or 7:11 or 7:04 by the time we arrive at the church. Never 7:00. I hate feeling so disrespectful to the seminary teachers that I think those five to ten minutes aren’t important.

We left the house at 6:42 - a miracle these days as the mornings are darker and I’m determined to keep our 6:30 family scripture reading appointment with whomever is present. Seth and I drove down the mountain and as I neared the stoplight where the two highways merge together, I saw the wreck.

Two cars were seriously smashed up. It looked like a head-on collision or something close to it. There aren’t any first responders at the scene yet and I was reminded of Mr. Roger’s quote, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things, my mother would say to me ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”  It’s true.  There were at least a dozen people out of their cars trying to do something to help.

Because of the location of the collision, no cars could really go anywhere and this combined paralysis of traffic in all directions soon developed into a serious traffic jam. There was no way Seth was going to be at Seminary on time. Really, that was no longer the point.

We sat quietly and sadly watching the lights and sirens rush to the scene.  At least six police, two firetrucks and two ambulances were there within 10 minutes of our arrival. As they controlled the scene, the police who weren’t involved in the struggle to get the crumpled car doors to open started to manage the backlog of cars. At 7:04, we finally merged onto the main highway.

I feel like I say the phrase, “Please bless us to travel in safety,” quite often in my prayers. I know I remember to ask for the blessing before I go on a road trip. I also usually remember to be thankful for our safe arrival...again...after a road trip.

But, I spend hours, everyday, traveling. Three miles here.  Eight miles there. I travel through that intersection where the wreck occurred at least four times a day, usually more.

I’ve lived in this house now for four and a half years.  That’s 1643 days....ish. Four times a day means I’ve passed through that intersection about 6,570 times.  I know I haven’t been grateful for the grace that gets me safely through that many times.

However many times I've remembered to give thanks, today, that number has increased.

Daily Gratitude - Day 18

I am grateful for Advil PM. That is all.

Daily Gratitude - Day 17

Have you ever played Would You Rather? It’s totally my kind of game and I’ve played it my whole life, even before I owned a copy of the very silly board game. I recall spending many hours debating the merits of this vs. that and being spectacularly arrogant with some of my answers. Somewhere, in my tangled heap of embarrassing memories, I remember declaring to a date that of all my senses, hearing was the most important to me. It was during the 90s and I was probably wearing Doc Martens and sitting in a coffee shop and I give you that image so you can full appreciate the dramatic moment. I went on and on about how important music was to me and how I would rather lose my sense of smell, sight, touch and taste before I lived a life without hearing music.

For real. Oh to be 19 again (never!).

I haven’t thought about which sense is the most important in my life for a while but, today, my sense of smell wins the prize. My sniffer helped prevent Daniel from burning down the house.

Remember how I had that Christmas project that I really needed to focus on and finish and that I have poor multi-tasking skills? Well, I was working on that very thing today and really doing my best negligent parenting. The TV was on a morning cartoon...Daniel was somewhere...and I was at the computer working on a deadline (it had to be done today).

I didn’t hear the microwave open. I didn’t register the sounds of the buttons beeping or the microwave starting.  So much for my desperate dependency on hearing, eh?

What I did notice was when the overwhelming smell of smoke reached my nostrils. Then, my brain zoomed away from my project and my eyes noticed the smoky room. That makes two senses that I would normally prioritize over smell that sort of failed me. It was smell that saved the day.

I ran over to the whirring microwave and pushed the Open Door button.  More smoke billowed out of the small box stemming from a source of black ooze.  I hollered for Daniel, who was no where to be seen. It didn’t look like metal so that wasn’t responsible for the mess (we have dealt with that before as well.  Older boys have learned to take foil off of pizza if they want to reheat it). After taking out the circular tray and really inspecting the charred semi-solid pile, I deduced that it was a severely overcooked package of Pillsbury mini pancakes.  I guess Daniel was hungry.

He must have gone to the big freezer and pulled out the pancakes.  His older brothers do this all the time. He obviously put them in the microwave. Again, he must have learned this through observation. I don’t know how much time he put on the microwave but 26 minutes and 14 seconds were left on the timer.  The instructions on the packet say to heat them for 45 seconds. He was very, very thorough in the cooking of his pancakes.

The entire house smells like smoke. It is cold but doors and windows have had to be open for hours to try and mitigate this stench.  But, if it wasn’t for that stench, and the amazing ability of my body to sense it, who knows the extent of damage a two year-old and a little package of pancakes might have caused.

Take that, 19 year-old, Lucy.

Daily Gratitude - Day 16

Ward Conference was today and the talks all focused on the importance missionary work. I listened obligingly but it didn’t pierce my heart until the counselor in the stake presidency started talking about how he’s noticed throughout the years that when he makes a concerted effort to improve a quantifiable statistic, like missionary work or home teaching, by emphasizing its importance and our responsibilities to perform it, the numbers usually go down. That caught my interest. I admit I was tuning out before because...well...I’ve heard it all before. And I still have never been a great missionary or visiting teacher. This guy was going to to explain to me why he thought that was.

What he went on to say was not new. I’ve heard it all before as well. But I had a the-wicked-taketh-the-truth-to-be-hard moment when he suggested that true conversion needs to take place before we can expect the motivation to share the gospel and help others as Christ did. Am I not converted?

I thought I was. I think I am. So, why don’t I devote my life to sharing the gospel - both with the members of my ward I have stewardship to serve and with my friends and community? I’ve been trying to come up with a satisfying answer the entire day. I don’t know. I know I’ve said before that I lack the activist gene and while that is definitely true, I never feel compelled to convince someone else that what I think is right is what they should think is right, it is a weak defense. I’ve never invited anyone to church with me. I think I’ve given a copy of the Book of Mormon to one friend in my entire life. Anytime the missionaries ask me for the name of a friend, I say no names come to mind.  And it’s true.

And yet, anyone who knows me knows what religion I am. I go to bookclub and I don’t drink the wine and I don’t swear and I answer the inevitable questions about mormons that come so I think I’m being a good member of the church and setting a good example. If only that were enough. I am definitely one of those that hopes that someone will know me....respect me and my lifestyle...and want to take the missionary discussions. I swear I hear these conversion stories all of the time and I wonder, “Why doesn’t this happen to any of my friends? Is it me?”

After that talk, I’m thinking it’s me. So, I’ve got some work to do. On my own conversion. Or something.

Tonight, we fed the sister missionaries dinner. They are awkward and I admit I dread the appointment a bit but after they left my home tonight, I had an about face. These two young women (I think they are both only 20) are spending 75 percent of their work day knocking on doors in an attempt to find the people whose souls yearn to hear the gospel of Jesus Christ. Most people don’t yearn or aren’t ready to yearn yet.  I know that’s part of the reason I’m hesitant to share what I believe.  I’m so certain that everyone I know is fine and happy with their own beliefs. After all, I am. But these missionaries have committed 18 months of their young lives to share the gospel.  I envy them their singular focus.

I want to be converted. I want the Lord to know that I am. I want to be an instrument in blessing the lives of others. In the meantime, I’m grateful for the missionaries who work and serve and take up the slack in my own effort.

Daily Gratitude - Day 15

Thank goodness for vaccines and healthy children. What an incredible time to live, when diseases that have ravaged populations for millennia can be prevented with sniff and a shot at a Saturday visit to a clinic, with free lollipops to boot!

Unfazed by shots. And definitely determined to handle it better than his older brother. 

Daily Gratitude - Day 14

It's been a day. Not a bad day but just one of those days that has a lot of...circumstances. Daniel has some sort of stomach bug which doesn’t make him act sick or whiny but has had 4 episodes of diarrhea, which is pretty messy when dealing with the newly potty trained. Not very fun for mom to clean up but I feel for the guy. He still felt happy enough to sing this sweet ditty right before his nap.




I started working on a Christmas project that is going to take many hours to complete but I kept finding ways of interrupting myself.  I am not a good multi-tasker so the only way I tend to get things like that done is to focus, ignore all the other to-dos, and work until its done. It's not a very pleasant or efficient way to accomplish things but it's how it goes. Next week is so busy that I'm nervous I'm not going to get it done unless I can sort of neglect things one day this weekend and hopefully finish.

I'm getting some new furniture for my living room delivered on Monday so I'm finally utilizing the
“sunroom” of my house (a room behind the kitchen that has walls of windows on 3 sides that I’ve basically used as a storage and workout room for the past 4 years so there is quite a bit of stuff to transfer to a new place. Or get rid of.) and converting it into an additional family room by moving our current living room furniture into it. I'm also putting an additional TV in there in the hopes that this will become the sort of go-to hang out room for my kids.  I constantly battle them bringing food into the living room when they are watching sports and I don’t want the battle over spills on my new furniture. My point is, that a new TV required another Direct TV genie receiver which required an installation from a Direct TV service guy which required me dealing with a stranger in my house for over 3 hours because whoever originally wired this house did it weird. Every service person that’s ever come to work on anything (plumbing, electric, cable) has said it. Three hours with a stranger is  a lot of discomfort for me. I don't know what I'll do if we ever remodel because I sort of dread anyone in my house.

My replacement phone from cracking the screen on my iphone was also delivered. I purchased Apple Care with my phone which is kind of dumb when you don't live near an Apple store. I could barely make out text on my screen it was cracked in so many places (I dropped it in the church parking lot several weeks ago) but they have this deal where they will send you a matching refurbished model and you send back your broken phone. It sounds easy but it wasn't  I had no idea about the SIM card, because I've never had to know about it before, so I had to have a lengthy conversation with verizon technical support when I couldn't figure out how to activate my replacement phone. This all happened while my kids started trickling home from school and while strange Direct TV guy kept asking me questions I didn't know the answer to while cursing about how confusing everything was in my house.  Oh...and earlier....while I was showing him how to access all of the cable in the crawl space, I found a dead, decomposing mouse I had to discard. I wanted one of those Ebola hazmat suits but had to use what I could find which was some tongs, a lot of paper towels to make sure my skin didn't come close to any of it and a large paper bag. Blech.

I realize that I am being obnoxiously melodramatic about what are undoubtedly first world problems (except for the diarrhea and dead rodent.  Those are legitimate grievances by any world standard). But, yeah, wah wah about having to get new furniture and TV and phone. Poor me). Thankfully, because I am not trying to audition to be a Real Housewife on a reality TV show, I wasn’t grumpy or anything, just not relaxed or really not wanting to deal with much more before I did have a stress meltdown. It was probably not the best day, then, for Henry’s playdate with his friend, Owen. Unfortunately for Owen, I had promised and arranged for him to ride the bus home with Henry so now I had another extra person in the house (Direct TV guy is STILL here) and it’s raining and cold and there is no working TV and....and....and...

I was fine because I knew I had a night out with Jay ahead of me. Before he left for work, he had left a cute note on the kitchen counter asking, “Will you go out with me tonight?” with a box for yes and a box for no.  I checked “yes” and looked forward to it all day.

The Direct TV guy finally left after 3 hours (he had to reinstall cable through the entire house. I have no idea why), Owen’s mom came to pick him up, I went into town and got Seth who was playing basketball with friends at the Rec center and picked up Burger King for dinner for the gluten kids. I made a quick broiled roast beef and cheese sandwich for Sam and, finally, Jay and I went to the 7:00 show of Interstellar. Our dinner was popcorn, diet coke and milk duds but it was fine. It’s all fine. I’m with him.

I am still in love with my husband. Of course, I love him, because I know that love is a verb and we have so many sacred shared experiences together that I can’t imagine not loving him. But I am also in love with him. He is my favorite thing. The other stuff becomes funny side stories when I get to spend an evening laughing about it all with him.

I know this is basically two days in a row of Jay gratitude and I thought of leaving out all of the annoying commentary about an ordinary day and just being grateful for dates and time with him but it’s more than the date and it’s more than the time. It’s him. It’s the promise of him. No matter what happens, I know he will be the yin to my yang and, the salt to my pepper, the twinkle to my star. Forever. I am blessed.

Daily Gratitude - Day 13

I’ve tried to come up with a less personally intimate statement but none come to mind so I’ll just say it.  I love taking baths. They are restorative to my soul.  For the past three weeks, I have been missing the sanctuary of my tub. Like faucets tend to do over time, the tub faucet had developed an annoying drip.  Not being handy or very smart about these things, I just kept trying to turn it tighter so that the dripping would stop because it isn’t very relaxing to listen to “drip...drip...drip” for an hour which is the approximate normal length of my bath time.

Handles will only turn so far, however, and when I tried to push that boundary, I broke it right off.  Drat.

“It’s an easy fix,” said Jay. I hesitated. Jay is incredibly handy and I’ve been quite impressed with the  his ability to both fix and learn how to fix (he claims you can learn how to do anything with a Youtube video) but he’s also the kind of guy that doesn’t have a lot of spare time. The lawnmower doesn’t work and you can get it running again when you get around to it? That’s fine. I can wait. Let the lawn grow overlong. The bathtub might be out of commission for a few weeks.  WTH?!?

Actually, I’ve been very supportive and patient. On the outside. Inside, I’ve been dying. Every day off Jay has had, he’s worked on getting it running again. It was complicated, I guess.  He’d think he was almost done and something would go wrong...it would be too late to go to Home Depot...he’d get to it on his next day off.  I smiled, always offered to call a professional plumber and then pine for my hot soak when Jay assured me he was quite capable of finishing the job himself.

It may be ugly but it’s such a comfy tub! Oh, how I’ve missed this burgundy beast!

Today was the day he proved himself true! With almost the same amount of pride the astrophysicists must have felt landing their spacecraft on a moving comet after 10 years, Jay glowed with pride when the water came out of the faucet with no leaks anywhere.  Hallelujah.  Of course, with three weeks of Home Depot runs, it looked like a construction zone.  I didn’t care. I scrubbed down the inside of the tub, filled it up with really hot water and the soothing bubble bath sent by my sister, Sarah, and took a bath at 4:30 in the afternoon. It felt like heaven. Balance was restored.

So, I’m grateful for baths, obviously, but I’m also grateful for my smart, multi-talented hunk of a man who seems to be able to do anything he sets his mind to do.

Daily Gratitude - Day 12

Today has been a bit of a whirlwind. I'm tired in that satisfying wow-I-got-a lot-done-today way. So, to give my brain a well deserved night off, here's a list of things I'm grateful for....today.

• Washing machines
• Dryers
• Blendtecs
• ammonia
• clean sheets
• kind emails
• apple care
• sisters
• drive-thru banking
• drive-thru library returns
• the internet
• businesses that allow me to schedule things online so I don't have to talk to anyone on the phone
• businesses that allow me to chat with service people online so I don't have to talk to anyone on the phone
• my comfy car for the many, many, many, many, many hours in which I spend driving, dropping off and generally waiting for others to be done with something.
• Zia Taqueria and their delicious wahoo fish salad bowl
• efficient grocery store checkers
• buy one get one free sales on meat
• vacuum lines
• scrubbed clean toddlers in footed pajamas
• family prayer

Daily Gratitude - Day 11

You know...I sort of thought doing this daily gratitude thing would make the month seem full of hearts and rainbows. Isn’t a happy heart a grateful heart? Well..yesterday, in spite of lasagne tasting better fully cooked, the day was quite awful. I wasn’t feeling grateful at all.

Mondays are early-release day from school so the boys were home early, around 3 o’clock. Fall sports have finished and Winter sports not quite begun and so there was nothing for us to do or be in town for. I thought it would feel nice to be home and not be running around in the car.

Perhaps I should have sent them outside. Perhaps I should have organized a board game. Really, other than the 2 year-old, I don’t feel the need to keep an eye on my kids while they play. And when the older boys are home, my eye frequently leaves the 2 year-old as well. With nothing planned and no where to go, they went to play in the basement. Unsupervised, calamity struck.

Literally. Into the flat screen T.V. downtairs that is only a year-old. A mini-football helmet was errantly thrown or accidentally batted into (the story isn’t confidently told) the TV and the screen is cracked. The TV no longer turns on.

I heard the “oh no”s before I knew what caused them. I closed my eyes, prayed for patience and went downstairs. My blood felt like boiling.

Weak excuses. Mea culpas. I tried not to lose it.

“Go upstairs. I don’t want to see any of you. Start cleaning something and get your homework done. I feel so, so mad.” I quietly and probably scarily seethed to them. I was proud of myself for not screaming but I think my low, growly, batman threat might have been equally as scary to them.

They scurried upstairs to their bedrooms and I just got more and more mad the more I looked around.  Messes. Food that doesn’t belong downstairs. Xbox games left out. That awful cracked screen.

Even though Seth wasn’t downstairs when the accident occurred, he had actually broken his phone earlier so he knew that his own irresponsibility contributed to my dark mood. He wisely disappeared too.

It was only 5 o’clock and already mostly dark outside.  Jay wasn’t home yet and after texting, I knew he wouldn’t be home for hours. I decided to teach the boys something about perspective.

We’re so comfortable. So blessed. We have the things we need and a lot of the things we want. Our home is large, surrounded by space and trees and we all get to do so many things that cost a lot of money. They have iPods and video games and bikes and nike elite socks and none of it seems to mean that much to them. At least, they don’t seem to understand that a lot of kids aren’t nearly as fortunate.

So, although I was irate and wanted all of their annoying-breaking-things-selves away from me, my decision to make them go without dinner wasn’t just me being cruel. I wanted them to be hungry. I wanted their perspective to include the thought that maybe they shouldn’t take all of their comfort and material possessions for granted. Maybe, if they were hungry for one night, they would remember to take care of their stuff and stop breaking my and Jay’s stuff. Maybe, in their want for food, they would be humbled. Look at me playing God.

They stayed in their rooms the rest of the night. I heard some giggling here and there and Sam let me know there was some stealthy gathering of all of them in his room for Halloween candy and I made them a big bacon, eggs and hashbrown breakfast this morning and all is well but do you want to know what really changed over night? Me. My perspective. Some sleep...perhaps some elevated hormones approaching more sane levels got me remembering that things are things and people are people and my kids are my beloveds. Maybe they’ll be more careful with their stuff. Maybe not. They are boys and they are so wild sometimes so I know things will continue to be ruined and I will continue to lose it and be mad and dole out my punishments. But, today, I’m so grateful for nights’ rests and boys who are sorry and anger gone from my body. I hate feeling angry. I love feeling peace.  Everything has its opposite and anger and peace are definitely opposites. So, I suppose I’m grateful for anger even though I hate it. Because, I love, love, love peace.

Daily Gratitude - Day 10

Even though my mother is an excellent cook, I never learned how to cook until I was married. I lived off of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches pressed with my handy snack master at college and never really thought about meals until...well...I had to think about meals.

It has taken years, lots and lots of years, to feel confident in the kitchen. My staples for the early years of my marriage were things like Hamburger Helper and Suddenly Salad.  Anything that came in a kit or only required the dumping of a few cans together were my go-to meals. Jay’s diagnosis with celiac disease over 7 years ago really changed how I felt about my role as the main preparer of food. Once easy meals were no longer easy because I could no longer use certain ingredients and restaurants were no longer an easy option because most don’t have gluten-free food and those that do are prepared in a way that rarely made Jay feel confident that what he was eating was actually gluten-free. As much as I’m sure we all wish for a cure or even drugs that could reverse the effects of eating gluten, his and later, Sam’s, diagnosis had one unintended benefit: I became a decent cook.

It’s still not something that I really enjoy doing, from the thinking of what to make, the shopping, the prep and the clean-up, but I love having family dinners together and I love hearing my boys say, “I love Mom’s enchiladas/mac-n-cheese/salmon/chili/roast/salad/etc”. It brings me joy to know that something as mundane as a meal is making a happy imprint on their childhood. Perhaps because I have so many of my own favorite from my childhood (Mom’s rolls, her wilted salad, her fruit salad, cheesy potatoes, homemade pizza, creamed corn, stovetop chocolate cake), I feel somewhat accomplished in learning to do something that does not come naturally to me.

While I do still try new foods and search out recipes for variety, I have some go to meals that no longer require my looking at recipes. Sunday’s lasagne was one of them.

I added all of the spices and seasonings to a pound of ground pork to make a sausage. I chopped an onion and browned the sausage along with some ground beef. I added chopped garlic. I added tomato sauce with other spices and seasonings and let all of that yummy goodness meld together on the stove. In a blender, I put in some chopped green onions, cream cheese, ricotta cheese and an egg until they became a smooth, white cheese layer. I layered these things with gluten-free rice lasagne noodles  and topped it all with asagio, romano and parmesean cheese, because those taste better than mozzarella to me. Because my boys have bottomless stomaches, I also made a salad, jello, and had gluten-free baguette for Jay and Sam and a regular one for the rest of us cut up. With confidence, I set the table for what I knew would be a lovely, Sunday dinner with my family.

I’m not sure where my brain was that day but I way undercooked the lasagne. The noodles weren’t fully cooked and the ricotta cheese layer hadn’t set and it was...well...gross.  Thank goodness for the jello, bread and salad. Everyone left the table happy and full but I was still so disappointed. Mistakes like that don’t create, “I love my mom’s lasagne,” memories.

Because there was literally 3/4ths of a large 9 X13 pyrex still full of lasagne, I decided to put it back in the oven. It cooked for another 20 minutes, I took it out , let it cool and then put it into a bunch of different tupperware containers for left overs.

I had one for lunch today. Jay took one for lunch for him. It was soooooo much better fully cooked! He texted me his agreement and I thought, “I am so grateful for second chances.”

Whether it’s about something as silly as undercooked lasagne to some of my more horrible foibles, I truly am grateful for do-overs and forget-about-its. I love knowing I can improve and learn even while making mistakes. Sins require repentance. Unkind words and actions require apologies. Faucet handles can’t just be turned tighter and tighter if there is a drip (this post will be coming up). And lasagne definitely needs a full hour to be cooked through. Hooray for second chances.

Daily Gratitude - Day 9

I can’t decide which is worse. Being in the rinky dinky ward choir or leading the rinky dinky ward choir. Without a doubt, I enjoy singing more than I enjoy conducting. However, I also enjoy having a say in the musical programming (what songs are being sung when) so it’s nice to have control over the choir music. None of it is very fun when five people show up for choir.

Because of our low, low numbers, I have curtailed ward choir to a seasonal thing. I’ve learned that most people don’t enjoy being at church for an extra half-hour to hour, even if they enjoy singing. Besides that, ever since I have been the primary music leader, I’m rarely in the mood to cheer lead another music session. So, ward choir will learn something for Easter, usually something for the summer, like Pioneer Day or Fourth of July and then, of course, music for the beloved holiday season. It’s not asking for a lot of extra time. Still, there are usually only about five people that come - three of them frequently relatives of mine. It’s disheartening.

A very talented musician in the other ward and I have become good friends and two years ago, I helped her put together a musical fireside for Christmas. She did most of the work but I had our choir perform a few numbers, I sang a solo and I accompanied a string ensemble on the piano. I can’t quite remember why we didn’t do it last year but we decided to do it again this year but have it even more combined. We’re going to combine our two rinky dinky choirs into one small but stable choir and add other numbers to enjoy the wonders of Christmas music. Our first practice was right after church today.

There were only seven people there. I know we’ll get more trickling in for our next three rehearsals but it’s still so frustrating as a director because you can’t really ever do much more than teach parts when you have new people showing up each week. The great thing about this exercise in gratitude had me searching for the good, however. And I found it listening to Henry’s wonderful, off-key, enthusiastic young voice.

There used to be an unspoken (well...it was probably spoken. I’m sure Jay did some vocal encouraging) rule that my family was in the choir. They were there anyway and I wanted other families to know that choir certainly wasn’t limited to only the adults so for the past few years, all of my boys have sung with us. Henry often didn’t as quick speech and quick singing are so hard for him but as he’s gotten older, and he’s become a solid reader, he’s become the most eager to sing, by far. In fact, Seth and Sam have reached an age (Sam earlier than Seth because younger brothers are so heavily influenced by their older brothers) where no amount of persuasion really can get them to sing with me anymore and I would never force it. So...Henry and Jay were it from our family today. Henry  (and any child) really should stick with singing the melody but he sits with his father and, truly, whatever he sings is usually in an endearing and loudish monotone so he learns the men’s part. As I went over the part a few times for Jay and one other young man from the other ward, I looked over the top of the piano at Henry, sitting on a chair where his feet couldn’t touch the floor, glasses sliding down his nose, hands struggling to hold the music open and singing of Christ’s birth, my heart nearly burst from love and pride.

Henry is who he is. He has no real guile. He is charming and friendly and innocent and unique. There really is no one quite like him. For years, I haven’t quite known how to handle this curious person sent to our family. He is not always easy to handle but I know I can learn a lot from him. When I watched him enjoy each “Gloria In Excelsis Deo” and my brain connected the dots between teaching everyone the notes and Henry reminding me about the spirit and joy of the phrase, even with only seven singers, I felt grateful.

Daily Gratitude - Day 8

Being able to play the piano brings me enormous pleasure. I’m no concert pianist and I’m a teensy bit jealous when I hear someone play with that kind of technical skill, but, mostly, I just feel lucky, pleased and grateful that when I see a sheet of music, I can figure out what it sounds like. I can read the rhythm and the notes and not only enjoy this blessing in my own life but use it to bless and enhance the lives of others.

There are so many things I can do because I studied piano in my youth. I think of music almost like a foreign language: everyone can appreciate the sounds and cadence of a piece of music but when you can read it...play it...hear it fluently, then the language is useful tool in communicating with others and enhancing life. I love being in choirs. I love accompanying musical numbers. I love teaching music. I love hearing and recognizing musical theory.  I really attribute a lot of my musical confidence to understanding the language of music.

Sure, I could have learned how to confidently read music from other types of lessons (guitar...violin....oboe...didgeridoo) and participating in choirs definitely had a part in helping my brain interpret the sounds and little black notes on a page but I think piano, with its 88 keys and multiple staffs, is most like a master key to that musical lock. It’ll get you into any musical door!

I guess that’s why I just felt as pleased as punch when my boys played in their recitals today. Sam, who I can learns music the way I did, was a lot better than his duet partner (today. Normally, he plays his part better) and I was happy with his polish. Henry, whose brain can read more advanced music than his uncoordinated fingers can play, is progressing every day. I love sharing this language with them. I love knowing that with each lesson...each recital, they unlock more and more doors into this joyful, musical world.

Daily Gratitude - Day 7

Jay will sometimes joke with me if I’m really into a book and ignoring him, “Hey...how’s that passion  of yours coming along?” or something along those lines. You see, we’ve had more than one conversation where I compare myself to him, a man who absolutely invests, commits and enjoys his own passions, and complain that I have none of my own.

“You love reading,” he usually responds in an attempt to soothe my self-loathing. Is it fair to compare reading 50 or so books a year to someone who gets up at 5 am, everyday, to train for marathons? Or, someone who meticulously studies the genetics of cattle, going so far as traveling for an artificial insemination course in central Utah so that he won’t have to hire anyone to do something he figures he can do just as well.  Heck - it’s not about saving money - he enjoys it! It’s all part of the passion that brings balance and fulfillment to his life.

We enjoy the fruits of his passions as well. He is hard-working and dependable and interesting and handy and so very much fun to be with. I think it’s a good thing to admire your husband, yes? I do so admire his passions.

And, so, if the incomparable act of reading books really is my passion, is it as worthy of admiration? What do I accomplish other than having that greater empathy I mentioned a few days ago? I am an excellent contributor at book club. I am usually quite reliable to be able to recommend a book or two or three off the top of my head should anyone be desperate for a recommendation. Oh...if only reading a book burned calories! Then my inevitably svelte body would certainly garner some praise.

“But how do you find the time to read?"

"It’s just a matter of priorities. An hour or two a day is all anybody needs.”

These are just a few of the quotes I found on pinterest about being passionate about fitness, which, I think is a passion that gets more kudos than most:

“Excuses are for people who don’t want it bad enough.”

“Fit is not a destination. It is a way of life.”

“What have you done today to make you feel proud?”

“Stop waiting for things to happen.  Go out and make them happen.”

(Great. Now I just want to go work out! Those motivational posters really work!)

I just finished Liane Moriarty’s Big Little Lies and it’s not Pulitzer literature but it’s more than dumb chick lit. I really have a lot on my mind right now from reading it. Like, the appearances we put on for others vs. our real selves. The power of words - all kinds of words - from gossip, threats, confessions and testimonies. The competitiveness and insecurity of parenting. How genuine friendship can heal wounds. I really enjoyed reading it. I really enjoy reading.

Maybe it’s a passion. It’s just not the adjective usually associated with reading. Avid...yes. Really, have you ever seen a more overused adjective to describe someone who likes to read? “So and so is an avid reader.” Thesaurus says “ardent, devoted, eager, fanatical, fervent, hungry, impatient, insatiable, keen, PASSIONATE, ravenous, thirsty, voracious (o.k. That one is also used a lot), zealous, rapacious, greedy and intense are all synonyms of avid. So, I’m an avid, voracious, passionate reader. The other ones all seem a bit...violent. No wonder they aren’t used.

O.K. Here goes.

Reading a book is not a destination. It is a way of life. 

Too tired to read? Enjoy that mushy brain. 

No book gets read just book looking at its cover. 

I wanted to read that book...I wanted it bad. 

Oh! The power of motivational quotes!

I love books. I love thinking. Reading gets me thinking.

I’m a reader. And, today, on this 7th day of gratitude, I’m glad to have something in my life that I enjoy so much.