Perennial

Long ago, like back when I overplucked my eyebrows and had the “Rachel” haircut, I knew a woman named Margaret Wilcox. We attended the same church congregation, she was a quilter, and she was famous for her homemade breads. Beyond bread tutoring she had a lifetime of wisdom to pass on (as most old people do). This is the best thing, and I mean even better than her awesome potato bread recipe, I learned from her:

Margaret grew up poor, like most people her age, and lived in a one-room house with an outdoor kitchen enclosed on one end. By the time she was a young teen there was a newer kitchen and the old outdoor kitchen, the glorified shack offering privacy nonetheless, became her bedroom. It was difficult to sleep in wintertime because her afterthought dwellings were not as insulated as a real home. In other words she froze every night and hence became a quilter.

She recalled one particularly rough night of tossing and turning. Every restless movement unknowingly slid her covers downward. She awoke to the rooster coverless and numb; the last inch of her quilt was hanging on her big toe. She said her body told her she was paralyzed but her mind told her get to your big toe. It seemed impossible but ever so slowly she reached out her frosty fingers, snatched the quilt before it fell to the icy floor, and wrapped it tightly around her body with both hands.

Margaret then compared her quilt to a testimony.

You can accidentally (or purposely) lose it in dark but it will cling to the last, tiny piece of you as long as it has to. It will silently stand by while you suffer and try to live without it. It will hang on, as far from your heart as humanly possible, until you wake up and choose to grab it with both hands. Even if you are past feeling it’s still never too late to grab your quilt.

While my testimony is tightly tucked around my torso her metaphor extends to other arenas of life. In fact, my testimony may be the only thing safe and sound these days. I am a mess. My schedule, sleep, diet, emotions, time-management, stress-management…all hanging by a shred on my big toe. I wish I were little and not accountable for my own progress. I wish my parents could poke their heads in my room every night to check on me and pull my proverbial covers up while I sleep. Alas, I am now 40 years old. I’ve been repeatedly educated how to stay warm. If I’m cold it’s my own fault.

I’ve had the annoying little reminder IF IT IS TO BE, IT IS UP TO ME in my head for weeks now. I’ve also had these paraphrased remains of what I’m guessing was originally a Maxwell or Holland quote swimming around the ol’ noggin: In this age of "anything goes" the only control left is self-control.

Seriously. Married white female seeks lost self-control. Reward for clues to whereabouts.

In theory it’s easy. Just go to bed early, wake up early, eat healthy, study the stuff that matters, serve others, focus on the good. In practice it’s killing me. Was this how it felt to look at the brass serpent? Why is it so hard to do what I know will make me thrive? Why can I not pass Swiss Cake Rolls without opening the box in the store? Why can’t I go to bed before midnight? Why am I waking up at 8 when I used to work at 5:30 a.m.? Why can’t I tweak life's excel chart and crank up my efficiency 487%? Why am I still going to the store almost daily when I plan my menu two weeks at a time? Why did I stop lifting weights and stretching? Every other day I think I can handle it. The next day I wilt. Why am I bound and shackled by every poor decision I make? Oh, President Monson, you were right. Decisions determine destiny and here I sit a disgruntled destiny’s child. Wah Wah Waaaaaaahhhhh.

I’m not sure how much more my big toe can handle. It’s time for the rest of my body to pitch in and remove the dead weight of several hanging quilts. It’s time for my mind and muscles to kiss and make up. It’s time to stop postponing change until I’m not pregnant, or until the baby is six weeks old, or until we move, or until the twelfth of never. It’s time for a cozy comeback.

*I love the story of Enos in the Book of Mormon. I personally believe (but am happy to be wrong should I discover otherwise in the next life) it is the tale of a man who “grabbed his quilt” after many years of freezing (a.k.a. “wrestling” as he puts it). That little line about “the words which I had often heard my father speak sunk deep into my heart” makes me think he had latent learnings. I feel like Enos’ miraculous crossroad is included in the Book of Mormon to show it’s never too late to do the right thing, to be converted, or to have full happiness. I think it is a relief for anyone who struggles with doing what they know is right. I also think it’s a super hopeful story for parents who aren’t sure their kids are listening.

definition of latent: existing but not yet developed or manifest; hidden; concealed. Synonymns: dormant, untapped, unused, undiscovered, underlying, invisible, unseen, unfulfilled, potential.

Photo purchased from iStock.