Pro Tempore

I've been reading We're Going on a Bear Hunt to my little boys a lot. I read it like a chant with my leg keeping the rhythm. Whichever boy gets the bouncy leg enjoys it all the more.

We're going on a bear hunt, we're gonna catch a big one. What a beautiful day! We're not scared! They're not scared until they hit the roadblocks: oozy mud, deep rivers, whirly swirly snowstorms, dark caves. We can't go over it, we can't go under it. Oh no, we've got to go THROUGH it. Every time I read it I hear the African American spiritual "My God is so High" in my head:

My God is so high you can't get over Him

He's so low you can't get under Him

He's so wide you can't get around Him

You must come in, by and THROUGH the Lamb*

This last go-round of speed reading the Book of Mormon made one thing very obvious to me: it's all about Jesus. Everything points to Him and all roads lead to Him no matter what road you started on. However, I also noticed that while Jesus is the endpoint, if you will, he's also the middle, the here and now, the pro tempore. I can explain with mazes.

This is the maze I imagined as a child, when I was taught truths with flannel boards and filmstrips: 

I thought if I worked really hard at being really good then I'd meet Jesus after I died, and if I was good enough I'd get to live with him forever. This maze isn't inaccurate but it sure is lonely.

This is the maze I see now:

Yes, Jesus is at the end, but he's also here today, for the bear hunt, for the THROUGH. (Careful, I'm mixing my metaphors. RE always rolls her eyes and says, "Mom! Too many metaphors! Just say it!") He is the Good Shepherd who will picnic and roam with me through waving grass. He is the Redeemer who will clean up my mud stains. And he is the Light that banishes all shadows and makes caves bearable, if not pretty. Whoa! Sparkly stalactites!

This is all I'm trying to teach my kids, my young women, and anyone else who cares to hear. Jesus Christ is the world's individual and collective panacea. Whatever you need, Jesus is it. He will meet you now, as you are, and help you get somewhere better. He'll get you through so that when you finally meet him on the other side it won't be a formal meet and greet, it will be the reunion of best friends who are finally face to face. I love how President Russell M. Nelson said it:

In a coming day, you will present yourself before the Savior. You will be overwhelmed to the point of tears to be in His holy presence. You will struggle to find words to thank Him for paying for your sins, for forgiving you of any unkindness toward others, for healing you from the injuries and injustices of this life.

You will thank Him for strengthening you to do the impossible, for turning your weaknesses into strengths, and for making it possible for you to live with Him and your family forever. His identity, His Atonement, and His attributes will become personal and real for you.

Mazes certainly have times and seasons; I've run self-esteem mazes, scholastic mazes, dysfunctional family mazes, physical health mazes. Perhaps the most exhausting race I've run was the race of waiting, which mostly involved standing still. Stillness has its own way of killing confusion—of letting you hear what's on the other side of the wall and believing it is real.

President Nelson also talked about tough mazes:

We live in a most difficult dispensation. Challenges, controversies, and complexities swirl around us. These turbulent times were foreseen by the Savior. He warned us in our day the adversary would stir up anger in the hearts of men and lead them astray. Yet our Heavenly Father never intended that we would deal with the maze of personal problems and social issues on our own. God so loved the world that He sent His Only Begotten Son to help us. And His Son, Jesus Christ, gave His life for us. All so that we could have access to godly power—power sufficient to deal with the burdens, obstacles, and temptations of our day.

I don't think there's a human on earth not befuddled with the perplexities of a maze. All of our mazes are different and not everyone has a puzzle-loving mindset, so worry about your own maze and don't say things like, "No fair! Your maze is easier than mine!", because we're all bumping into walls and sharp corners and doing our best.

Isn't is telling that Jesus Christ, who is the expert of my life and the one who can see my progress stretched out for miles**, simply wants to walk beside me while I figure it all out.

Turtle comic featuring the word of the day: THROUGH.

Alternate line of the song sometimes reads "by and through the Door" (referencing John 10:9 "When Jesus said he was the door to the sheepfold, he meant that there is only one door or way by which one can return to God the Eternal Father. That door must be through Jesus himself and is a very narrow door which is designed and constructed to conform not only to his teachings but also to his works. If we enter in through that door, it must be in the Father’s way as Jesus demonstrated through his own life of instruction and service and not by some other way prescribed by man." -Theodore Burton) No matter, Christ is the Lamb and the Door so it doesn't really matter which way you sing it!

Photo of me and Greg in our leased green Honda Civic as we set out for life in 1997.

pro tempore < Latin "for the time being" (which I learned from the Pro Tempore art exhibit featuring the works of Ryan Moffett, Jason Lanegan, and Justin Wheatley that focused on enduring mortal trials)

**Matchbox Twenty "Could I Be You" lyric which pairs nicely with this line from the Draper Utah Temple Dedicatory Prayer on March 20, 2009:

In a time of departure from safe moorings, may youth of the noble birthright carry on in the traditions of their parents and grandparents. They are subjected to the sophistries of Satan. Help such youth to stand firm for truth and righteousness. Open wide to their view the gates of learning, of understanding, of service in Thy kingdom. Bless them with a lengthened view of their eternal possibilities.

Free image of Jesus from lds.org

Russell M. Nelson first quote here and second quote here

Last thing, but RE came home from school and we were standing by my window looking down at the grassy terraces in our back yard. The half-melted snow revealed grassless zig zag paths (WHY did voles get on the ark?) and RE said that our yard looked like pangea. Then she said, "Mom, did you know there's a word like pangea but with a c?" I vaguely recalled the word panacea but didn't know its meaning. After googling its definition (Greg was right, nobody uses dictionaries anymore) I realized it's the exact word I've been waiting for to finish this piece. I was just really thankful for RE, who is so often just what I need even though she doesn't know it. I counted the Saturdays until she goes to college as she was driving us home from the spin class she forced me to take with her and totally cried. I will miss her so much. I'll miss her playlists amplifying from the cup holder in the Honda, her health food, her sisterly kindness to the boys, and her light. Oh man, I'm not even kidding that Life Without Ari at Home is a maze I don't even want to step foot in.

Balmy

My dream life (other than my current one) would have been running a medieval apothecary inside a hollowed-out tree trunk deep in a forest. Yes, like a Berenstain Bear pharmacist during the Black Death. Bundled herbs hanging from the rafters, a mortar and pestle for grinding potions, little bottles to label, and bins and knot holes to organize my supplies in. Combine that with my love of anything miniature and you can guess why I love samples of beauty products.

In truth, I'm the sucker that is funding the beauty industry's empty promises. I continue to invest in lotions, primers, and plumpers that probably aren't doing anything as effective as staying hydrated and sleeping eight solid hours at night. I'm most gullible toward serums. If you are a glass vial with a dropper I will buy you. I can't say no. My apothecary needs you, too.

I was lamenting my aging face to my aunt; a few days later Hope in a Box arrived.

Yes, I'm the odd duck that takes photos of free samples instead of selfies with her husband.

I'm happy to say I have used up every last drop of these. I'm sorry to report that I don't look any younger. But—it was fun while it lasted, and if you can't gamble on the power of a secret African flower's root or the juice from a rare melon's rind what is the point of being 40-something?

I think I have loved the term "balm of Gilead" since I was a kid. What WAS that miracle cream?

The balm of Gilead was an aromatic spice used to heal and soothe, a popularly traded commodity, and always in high demand. It was made from the resin of a bush that grew plentifully in Gilead in Old Testament times and therefore came to be known as “balm of Gilead”.

President Thomas S. Monson said,

There will be times when it appears there is no light at the end of our tunnel or no dawn to a night of darkness. We feel surrounded by the pain of broken hearts, the disappointment of shattered dreams, and the despair of vanished hopes. We are inclined to view our own personal misfortunes through the distorted prism of pessimism. We feel abandoned, heartbroken, alone.

Often we live side by side but do not communicate heart to heart. There are those within the sphere of our own influence who, with outstretched hands, cry out, ‘Is there no balm in Gilead?’ (Jeremiah 8:22). We are the Lord’s hands here upon the earth, with the mandate to serve and to lift His children. He is dependent upon each of us.

There are many of us who don't have it quite as bad as that but the balm doesn't discriminate. It can heal a gaping war wound as well as an accidental paper cut. My needs change daily but it's safe to say I'm in high demand for healing 24/7.

Elaine Jack said, "Wherever we are, we can carry with us a reserve of our balm of Gilead and we can spread it around." She added that receiving the balm of Gilead from someone "inspires us and takes the edge off our problems". As someone with plenty of edges I love that last bit. A little tenderness can make a big stroke.

Add up my love of serums + office supplies + dark chocolate + sleeping in + imported wool yarn + setting a table with china + Oscar Wilde cheese + American Ninja Warrior and you have how much I believe in the balm of Gilead.

The balm of Gilead is the healing power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, the master physician. It is also the healing power of good people who do good things for one another just like Christ would do if he were still here. I get a little dose every day from one angel or another and it makes me prettier than anything I actually apply to my face. I have a healing sphere that trades balm regularly and that is priceless. Some people are bird watchers; I'm a balm watcher. I have hope when I look around. I see a world full of little kindnesses and healers.

Photo quote from the hymn "Lord, I Would Follow Thee" by Susan Evans McCloud (3rd verse)

BEAUTY BONUS! GIFT WITH PURCHASE! I couldn't have made this up if I wanted to. This is how it went at Nordstrom on my birthday last year: 

Me: Hi, where is the Cle de Peau booth? ("Clay duh Poe" is how I pronounced it, like I'm a Texan in France)

Salesman Mica: We don't have one. You need to talk to Daisy.

Me: So you don't sell it? Where is Daisy?

Mica: Over there. In the fur vest. She's busy. You'll have to wait. Everyone waits for Daisy.

---waiting 10 minutes or so----

I meet Daisy, a middle-aged fiery Asian woman with the skin of a baby who mans the Shiseido booth 

Daisy: Hello. How can I help you?

Me: Do you sell Cle de Peau?

Daisy: No, but I get it for you. I get it for lots of people here. Come with me. (Moves to the computer, pulls out a binder with all the CDP item numbers) What you need?

Me: Concealer

Daisy, looking me square in the face and squinting: Caucasian woman only use beige or ivory. Ivory give you raccoon eyes. Beige your color.

Me: Great, I'll take it.

Daisy: You have serum?

Me: What serum?

Daisy: Cle de Peau serum for eyes. If you no have, your concealer no work. No work, no chance. Not on that face. 

Me: Is something wrong with my face? I have eye creams. Even an intense night one. This is the best my skin has ever looked. I just got new makeup.

Daisy: What brand?

Me: Oh, a little of everything. Good stuff.

Daisy: No good. Nothing you doing is right. I take one look at you and could tell you not drinking enough water or using any right products. Utah is ruining your face. You need my products.

Me: Which products? Cle de Peau? Or Shiseido?

Daisy, making a pfffhhhttt sound with her mouth: Shiseido for women who take shortcuts. Cle de Peau for luxurious woman who loves her face. You need Cle de Peau. Their foundation, you need it. You see my face? You see I'm 59? You see anything wrong?

Me: No, you look amazing. But you're also Asian and have different—

Daisy: Don't blame Asian on me! Chinese women can't even believe I'm 59. Not Asian! Cle de Peau does this.

Me: Well how much is the foundation?

Daisy: $250 

Me: No, thank you, I just don't have that kind of money. Even the concealer is a gift from my aunt in California. She mailed me a check for it.

Daisy: California? Oooooh, I work seven years in San Francisco for Cle de Peau before moving here. I know your California aunt. She your father's sister and married a rich man in California? She get everything she want?

Me, blinking in amazement: Kind of. She's very generous. I'll just take the concealer.

Daisy: You work? 

Me: I'm a stay at home mom.

Daisy, snapping her fingers: Ah, darn. If you work I say you deserve it! You pay this off in no time. Hmm. But you no work. Your husband give you anything you want? Tomorrow is Mother's Day. He take care of it?

Me: No, he's already taking care of me. Just the concealer, please.

Daisy: Ok, I order for you but when it comes you drive up here and I show you how to massage face so you not so droopy. You need serum. You sure you don't want serum?

Me: How about I think about it?

Daisy: Fine. Happy birthday. I put sample in your bag. Text my iPhone when you come. Have a nice day.

(Daisy, who felt like a human paintball gun, did know her stuff. Beige is my color. And one tube allegedly lasts a lifetime. So I'm set. Even without the serum.)

Title of Liberty

Sunday was my favorite day of the week until last year. And now because of Sundays half of my Mondays are still kind of yuck. I'm almost Garfield. I almost hate Mondays.

It's because Sunday is the day I relive every minute of Young Womens trying to ascertain what I did wrong, what I could be doing better, who needs extra help, why no girls give me hugs, why almost no girls give me eye contact, and why I come away from that last hour feeling so empty when I'm giving it my all.

That kind of reflection is a gateway to reminding myself that I've only exercised once since January 1, still stink at sewing zippers, give bad haircuts, am addicted to sugar, can't wake up early, am afraid to drive in the snow and why did we move to the top of a mountain, feel tight even in stretchy jeans, hate making lunch for my kids which means I must hate my kids, and haven't cracked the spine of the Avoiding Awkward Conversations strategy book I bought at Education Week (which means awkward apologies shall perpetually remain on my forecast till the end of time). Plus Ari doesn't know how to handle any type of raw meat and is ill-prepared for college and will likely become a vegetarian due to my lack of mothering.

Sometimes I just feel like a failure even though I hide it with general happiness.

Luckily for me January has been wide open now that the stocking and Book of Mormon are finished, so I had time to view all the lists and memos on my phone. And guess what I found? A timely old note I made from a class taught by one of Lone Peak High School's therapists:

FAILURE IS A MAN-MADE TERM

This therapist, Tawnie Sloat, said nowhere in the scriptures can you find God referring to man as a failure. In fact, fail is only used in faileth, as in charity never faileth. So if God doesn't see us as failures we shouldn't see ourselves (or anyone else) as failures.

This gave me hope. I promptly removed the zipper foot from my sewing machine, snapped on the presser foot, and with $4 of felt (and Everett on my lap removing pins as we went) knocked off the banner from Magnolia I've had my eye on. Because I needed the reminder big time.

YOU WERE BUILT FOR THIS

I am not a failure! This is what growth looks like! Heavenly Father sent me to Earth to figure out how to be happy while I work out the kinks! I think my biggest kink is listening to Satan's nonstop whisperings of doom. My lesser kinks will smooth themselves out if I refocus with hope. I can do this. All of it. Even my kryptonite zippers.

Finished banner with Everett's foot.

Holy Tide

As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints I believe in angels, both heavenly and earthly. We believe angels are messengers for Heavenly Father. The scriptures are replete with accounts of angels; some are anonymous and some have names. I've noticed that angels who had a previous mortal ministry are often assigned a mission tied to their earthly efforts. For instance, the angel Moroni tutored and directed Joseph Smith in regard to the golden plates. Mortal Moroni spent a lot of his existence hauling around, protecting, adding to, and burying the plates 1400 years prior. Moroni was clearly invested in the Book of Mormon. 

In this frame of mind I have pondered much, especially in the recent weeks celebrating Christmas, as to why Gabriel was the angel sent to deliver the life-altering news to Mary that she would be the mother of the Son of God. We know from modern-day revelation that angel Gabriel is the prophet Noah.*

Noah, who with his ark survived the earth's baptism by flood, was the father of all living in his day. God made special promises to him after the puddles dried and signed his word with a rainbow arcing across the sky. Noah means "rest".

How beautiful that the prophet who witnessed storm and flood, dove of peace, and prism of promise got to announce the babe who would flood the earth and erase our storms with His promise of peace. I can't help but think Christ is both the flood and the rainbow, the power and the love, the cause and the effect of true joy. He is the Master of ocean and earth and sky; the scepter of rest for all who shall ever have life.

Lucky, lucky Gabriel.

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All other doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

(7th verse of the authorless, dateless, allegedly-the-oldest-carol "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen")

*Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, p. 157 

Photo image purchased from iStock photo.

Beautiful Battle

Sometime around November 1st, when I was making my list of projects to accomplish before Christmas, I had the sickening realization I had never sewn Everett's stocking. I bought the kit shortly after he was born thinking I could whip it out in five months. I forgot I was designing a house, tying up all my emotional loose ends with the people I'd loved for years, and trying to not become a crazy person.

Last Christmas I assured myself Everett didn't even know what a stocking was. (Which was true. Christmas morning he didn't even charge the tree or unwrap a present due to bewilderment overload. A sparkly stocking might have actually done him in. I think I did him a favor.)

Seven weeks ago I was rationalizing whether or not an adult can remember anything from their childhood at age 2 1/2—and then I realized it's RE's last Christmas living under our roof and for some reason I needed to have all five sequined stockings hanging in a row on our P-E-A-C-E stocking hangars.

I also had a small heart attack when I realized I needed to read the entire Book of Mormon per President Nelson's challenge. At this point Greg gave me his "I-read-a-lot-of-business-studies" lecture about how people need deadlines to produce results.

So I listened to the Book of Mormon while I sewed and this little project got me to Ether. Can I just say I am old, I am blind, I will never sew a stocking again, my thumb will be split for another three months, and my neck might never recover–but I love my son, our prophet, and the Book of Mormon (which I will surely finish at 11:57 pm on December 31). Between me snipping the stocking's last thread 24 hours before Christmas and RE applying for college two hours before her December 15 cutoff the two of us are crushing it in the deadline department.

My Dad sewed six stockings, I've only made five (Greg, the kids, my father-in-law). He is my hero. I'd be a lousy doctor due to my fainting near blood but if I could stomach gore I would have been good at stitching up wounds. I'm decent with a needle and thread. Actually, all of my siblings are good with handheld precision.

I took these pictures to text to my dad. He was my cheerleader these grueling seven weeks and gave me all the pats on the back I needed, like complimenting the deer's eyeball.

I really love the front of Everett's stocking. It's intricate and complex. The colors are balanced. It's perfect.

The back of his stocking is a royal mess. I lined it so the mess will never show or snag his tiny finger when he reaches in to grab a Christmas orange.

His stocking reminds me of that thing President Eyring is always saying, about being kind because everyone you meet is fighting some sort of battle. A lot of us look like the fronts of stockings while we feel like the backs of them.

Hence why it's a battle—both sides are true. Also why it must feel so good when someone "has your back" and loves both sides of you.