Show of Hands

OUR FAMILY JOURNAL FOR HOW HEAVENLY FATHER IS WATCHING OVER US

(inspired by Elder Henry B. Eyring's October 2007 General Conference Talk)

11 Oct 2007 - Thursday  Heavenly Father helped the hotel maid not throw away our Polly Pocket packaging so we could take Polly back to the gift shop because it was a fake Polly and the Sleeping Beauty dress ripped when we tried to put it on her.

12 Oct 2007 - Friday  Heavenly Father helped us squish on the bus to Epcot - it was already full but they let three more people squish on. We only had two hours at the parks and didn't have to wait 30 more minutes for the next bus and we got to ride Soarin one extra time! And He helped us fly home safely and get Max. And our house was safe while we were gone all week.

13 Oct 2007 - Saturday  Heavenly Father protected Max. We were all shouting for him and he was on Mom's new mattress, which is too tall for him to jump off of (or else he might break his back like the Pitt's bunny, Cheetah, who just died of a broken back). Heavenly Father helped Max stay on the bed and not jump off even though he always jumps down and races to us the second we call him. He didn't get hurt and was only stretching when we got to the bed. Mom needs to buy a bench for the end of the bed so he can get up and down on his own.

14 Oct 2007 - Sunday  We just remembered this one. When Mom got her x-rays at Dr. Packard's office in Murray she had to take off her wedding ring and accidentally left it on a table. Teeno ended up driving there to get it, but Ari wanted to note that Heavenly Father kept the ring safe and made no one steal it.

24 Oct 2007 - Wednesday  Heavenly Father has totally watched over us while designing the catalogs. The email server never went down, our phone worked, and Quark and Acrobat never crashed even though a gig of work was running at all times. And he helped Ari's cough go away before Mom and Dad leave for Denver.

Spring 2015  Mom woke with a start in the middle of the night; there wasn't a sound. She kept listening, nothing. Something wasn't right. She raced to Archer's room and he was in the corner of his crib with the bumper ties wrapped around his neck, struggling to get untangled. He wasn't making any noise because he was choking. Mom got him untangled, took the bumpers off his bed, and watched him through the cracked door to make sure he fell back asleep safely. We know the Holy Ghost woke Mom up so she could save Archer.

20 February 2018 - Tuesday  It's been a mild winter but a massive snowstorm hit Sunday and Monday. There was no school Monday, which was lucky since we had 18" on the driveway and drifts up to three feet in places. Dad got up at 5:45 this morning to shovel the driveway so RE could leave for school at 7:15. He had to do it manually because we do not have a snow blower. We do not have a snow blower because we were tapped out after we moved and wanted to buy a sofa instead of a machine. It was also one more thing to research and Mom couldn't handle that. Dad shoveled until 7:10 and still had the last ten feet to go- the worst ten feet closest to the street all heavy with plow residue and water. His arms were burning and he was exhausted. He had not stopped shoveling for almost 90 minutes and didn't know what else to do, so he said a prayer that he would be able to clear enough to get RE to school. A minute later our next door neighbor, Kelly, walked over with his snow blower running and busted those last ten feet out in mere minutes. Greg got teary when he told us the details. If we were in our old ward he would have told that story in the "How have you seen the hand of the Lord" part of Sunday School. The funny thing was RE walked out into the garage with her backpack and smoothie and saw Greg shoveling (after 90 minutes) and said, "Did it snow last night?".

13 March 2018  After months of waffling and deliberation Mom ordered two matching vanity mirrors back in November. They arrived and the first one she opened was so pretty she hung it immediately. The second one was smashed in a thousand pieces and so she had to ship it back. The company said they'd send a replacement as soon as the broken one returned to the warehouse. During broken mirror's three day trip to Ohio the mirrors sold out and were backordered until March 7. On March 7 Mom got an email saying the mirrors were removed from the website due to quality issues and were not being restocked. We had no matching mirror for the one already mounted to the wall with two giant anchors. Mom reluctantly shipped the pretty mirror back and got a refund. BUT...she quickly found two new mirrors that were cheaper and even prettier than the originals. Miraculously, their hanging hardware was in the EXACT spot as the previous mirrors, so we didn't have to thrash our sheetrock with more anchors. Crazy. Mom never actually prayed that her backordered mirror would be in stock, but she's thankful she found prettier mirrors for less money. It's a little thing, but it's still a blessing. The Lord knows Mom cares about color schemes and proportions and budgets. Dad doesn't even know what to do with himself now that he has a mirror above his sink eight months after moving.

I found our family journal in the bottom of my last pile! I thought it was a blank journal but we wrote on the first four pages. It was a fun little treasure to find 6-year old RE's perspective toward miracles. I think the smiracle seed was planted in my heart in 2007. I added the snow and mirror stories because I had two post-it notes on my monitor reminding me to not forget them. I don't want to forget the little things because they are actually pretty big. I have renewed vigor to keep our family's "Hand of the Lord" journal.

Photo of the Snowball Bush (viburnum) we planted for Max after he died. It's at our old house next to the shed. We picked it because the blooms looked like his puffy Bichon fro after he'd been groomed. When Max died I remember thinking it was worse than my miscarriage, worse than anything I'd lived through. I saved the tuft of his hair in his brush and didn't wipe his nose smears off our window until we listed our house several years later. Now I don't even think about him. It's weird how something that feels like it might kill you can morph into something you literally forget about. "These things shall be but a moment." 

Stir

I get mad too much. Usually at my family. I don't want to be mad and I don't want my kids to remember me as a mean mom who was always mad. In my head I'm grateful and cheery; I bounce when I walk and flash a toothpaste commercial smile at my kids. In real life I'm less bouncy and more irritated. There are so many reasons one gets mad: things are out of control and we want to control them, we're hangry, we're tired, someone scratched our surface, someone stabbed us deeply, someone else was hangry and tired and forgot their filter, someone accidentally bumped our raw nerve without trying, someone ate fishy crackers on my couch again. The possibilities are endless. 

It's also no secret I love being a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom) and that a big part of me enjoys being Harriet to Greg's Ozzie. I love my role as a wife and mom and I do not, for one second, want the burden of being the provider. I do not want to go to work. (I do want to escape sometimes but not for a paycheck. Just for my sanity.) I love wearing aprons, rolling pie crusts, stacking plates, and buying cute towels for the hand wash to dry on. I love kissing my man when he walks in from work and sitting down to a hot dinner. To each their own but I pretty much belong in the 50s. (Except I'd like to wear clothes from the 20s and 30s. Hey, it's my dream. I get to clarify.)

There is a quote that keeps surfacing in my life. It is about anger, but the picture it paints in my head is one with a turquoise Kitchen-Aid mixer, wooden spoons, and red polka dots edged with ric rac. It is probably happening this way because it mentions stirring and I love me some stirring. I love stirring blueberries in the muffin batter with a gentle figure eight and folding the whipped cream cloud into the dark mousse base. I watched Chocolat on Sunday and every time that aerial shot of Vianne stirring the glossy melted chocolate came up my mouth salivated. Stirring is good.

Except for the stirring Elder Lynn G. Robbins describes:

Satan damages and often destroys families within the walls of their own homes. His strategy is to stir up anger between family members. Satan is the “father of contention, and he stirreth up the hearts of men to contend with anger, one with another”. The verb stir sounds like a recipe for disaster: Put tempers on medium heat, stir in a few choice words, and bring to a boil; continue stirring until thick, cool off; let feelings chill for several days; serve cold; lots of leftovers.

Am I good at cooking anger? I think so. I'm for sure a control freak and I'm awesome at choice words because I'm a decent writer and thesaurus lover. This is a terrible skill to have. This is NOT what Harriet would do in her black house dress and high heels. This is also not what Jesus did. This is not what I am here to do.

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland cautioned, "Anger damages or destroys almost everything it touches. As someone has said, to harbor anger is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. It is a vicious acid that will destroy the container long before it does damage to the intended object. There is nothing in it or its cousinly vices-violence, rage, bitterness, and hate-that has anything to do with living the gospel or the pursuit of happiness. I do not think anger can exist-or at least be fostered and entertained and indulged in-in a life being lived 'after the manner of happiness.'"

Great. I'm also awesome at the cousinly vice of bitterness. (Too much dark chocolate?) Am I a wicked witch with a commercial kitchen? Six burners all the better to roast you with? Inside one of my journal covers written in caps is SELFISHNESS DESTROYS FAMILIES. Is anger anything less than selfishness? Aren't we ultimately mad because we can't have it our way?

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf said, "There is enough heartache and sorrow in this life without our adding to it through our own stubbornness, bitterness, and resentment. We are not perfect. The people around us are not perfect. People do things that annoy, disappoint, and anger. In this mortal life it will always be that way. Nevertheless, we must let go of our grievances. Part of the purpose of mortality is to learn how to let go of such things. That is the Lord's way." 

Isn't it wonderful that there is advice like this? While I am cheered by colorful cookbook spines and the exhilaration of starting a new grocery list there is nothing like being awakened to the truth that the throes of motherhood have made me the Executive Chef of Hell's Kitchen. I'm damaging those I deem most precious with my temper. No matter how many culinary gadgets I own (and I even have that little bird that holds a lemon wedge and squeezes juice out of its beak) I've got to call it quits and get out of the kitchen. I've got to let my anger soufflé fall flat. I must stop being selfish and let go of my stirring spoon.

Be awesome at something else, Melissa, something good. And order pizza until you figure it out.

The best part about cooking is recipes. My recipe book is like my life's yearbook of friends. I have Jenn's shortbread chocolate chip cookies and pot pie, Michelle's whole wheat bread, Aunt Lynne's meatloaf, Dad's lemon bars, Mom's sloppy joes, Marcy's breadsticks, Heater's salted carmelitas, Jaime's mulligatawny soup, Frenchie's tarte tatin, Ryan and Mary's spring rolls, Mother Bear's apple pie, Tracey's stuffed mushrooms, Kenon's tortilla soup, Carson and Amy's salmon. I can prove no man is an island by my recipe book. I have lived! And my friends can cook!

A+

 

Arturo Toscanini, the late, famous conductor of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, received a brief, crumpled letter from a lonely sheepherder in the remote mountain area of Wyoming:

“Mr. Conductor: I have only two possessions—a radio and an old violin. The batteries in my radio are getting low and will soon die. My violin is so out of tune I can’t use it. Please help me. Next Sunday when you begin your concert, sound a loud ‘A’ so I can tune my ‘A’ string; then I can tune the other strings. When my radio batteries are dead, I’ll have my violin.”

At the beginning of his next nationwide radio concert from Carnegie Hall, Toscanini announced: “For a dear friend and listener back in the mountains of Wyoming the orchestra will now sound an ‘A.’” The musicians all joined together in a perfect “A.”

The lonely sheepherder only needed one note, just a little help to get back in tune; he could go on from there. He needed someone who cared to assist him with one string; the others would be easy.

I’m human and therefore out of tune, be it ACCIDENTAL prone to wander, INTENTIONAL you knew what I was when you picked me up, or my best efforts FALLING FLAT If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it; Every arrow that flies feels the attraction of earth. General Conference was simply historic this last weekend. It was a 10-hour “A” being sounded.

I approached Conference with specific personal questions. How can I be mad less? What does RE need from me? How can I find joy with my two littles when I feel so exhausted all the time? How do I handle phones in Young Women?

The Holy Spirit employs dozens of gentle and pleasing ways to speak to man but only two uncomfortable signals: piercing and pricking. I felt both this weekend and I am glad of it. It is said the Lord comforts the afflicted and afflicts the comfortable. President Henry B. Eyring said, "Our Father in Heaven is concerned not just about our comfort but even more about our upward progress."

While I would love to be someone comfortable enough to not need progress I do not deflate when pierced. I've watched the currant bush film enough times to not fear correction. The gospel is a gospel of change; the Lord accepts us as we are but expects us to become better. I find it cleansing and invigorating that God speaks to man through prophets as well as personal revelation. My favorite line from the weekend? Elder Lynn Robbins: "Failure is a tutor, not a tragedy." 

The irony is not lost on me that our new prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, has perfect pitch. An online article stated, "He's pretty much a musical superpower. If you ask him to sing an A on the musical scale, he can do it without needing to hear it first." Not only can he sound the perfect "A", he's legitimately in tune with God and completely qualified to instruct us in becoming worthier instruments. A symphony starts with a single note. I have the right note. Now to change directions and create harmony.

Photo quote from Deposition of a Disciple, 28.

Violin story told by Elder David B. Haight in "People to People", October General Conference, 1981.

Comfort vs. Progress quote by President Henry B. Eyring in "My Peace I Leave with You", April General Conference, 2017.

Big Box

I spent a lot of years daydreaming about a new house. I fell into the common trap of thinking that a bigger, better house would make my life, well, bigger and better. Life would have to be easier without a baby in our closet or having to go down to the spidery, 60-watt crawl space to get the juicer, right? Having hard floors by the garage entry or double vanity sinks would perfect my patience? Surely I'd bake my own graham crackers and granola bars with a walk-in pantry. Naturally I'd catch up on scrapbooking when I had a room dedicated solely to my supplies instead of stuffing everything under the bed/in the linen closet? With so much hope on the line I hired a space planner to cover my bases. Even he promised me the moon with his Prada glasses, Mont Blanc pen, Fiat and custom leather man satchel. All signs pointed to the EASY button being hit once we changed locations and sprawled out.

To all the people so squished in a home that Shel Silverstein might write a funny poem about you, hear ye this: A house doesn't change anything.

I am not better rested and my kids still whine. I don't exercise more. I still step on toys all day. I still fight with my husband, stay up too late, and have more projects than I have time. Every family dinner is not delicious and my kids don't laugh robustly while they pass the basket of hot biscuits like the family in the Pillsbury commercial does. I was banking on some serious moving magic. It didn't happen.

I'm not going to lie: I really love my home. It is full of light and things that mean something to me. It is nice to have space. It feels good to feel organized. But we all know that happiness does not come from upgraded finishes and personal change does not come from square feet. There is only one plan of happiness and it has nothing to do with how squishy your carpet pad is. (Although Greg does seem happier from the additional hot water tank. That boy and his long showers! I now compensate for his luxury by taking 90-second showers every other day.) Change occurs by choice, not circumstance. No one accidentally changes. If I want to overcome any of the outstanding issues I had in my old house I'm going to have to crack down and deliberately grind them out.

A house is just a box you invest in but it does not invest in you. I am literally the same person living the same life I lived before. I'm glad that moving was a reality check. It was a reminder to think outside the box.

Photo of the plate I drew in 1980 as a 4-year old Montessori preschool student in Dallas, Texas. It is a favorite kid lunch plate.

No Strings Attached

Guy de Maupassant, the French writer, tells the story of a peasant named Hauchecome who came on market day to the village. While walking through the public square, his eye caught sight of a piece of string lying on the cobblestones. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. His actions were observed by the village harness maker, with whom he had previously had a dispute.

Later in the day, the loss of a purse was reported. Hauchecome was arrested on the accusation of the harness maker. He was taken before the mayor, to whom he protested his innocence, showing the piece of string that he had picked up. But he was not believed and was laughed at.

The next day, the purse was found and Hauchecome was absolved of any wrongdoing. But, resentful of the indignity he had suffered because of a false accusation, he became embittered and would not let the matter die. Unwilling to forgive and forget, he thought and talked of little else. He neglected his farm. Everywhere he went, everyone he met had to be told of the injustice. By day and by night he brooded over it. Obsessed with his grievance, he became desperately ill and died. In the delirium of his death struggles, he repeatedly murmured, "A piece of string, a piece of string."

With variations of characters and circumstances, that story is relived many times in our own day. How difficult it seems to be to forgive those who have injured us! We are prone to brood on the evil done us, and that brooding becomes as a gnawing and destructive canker. Are there virtues more in need of application in our day, a time marked by litigious proceedings and heated exchanges, than those of forgiving, forgetting, and extending mercy to those who may have wronged us or let us down?

There are those who would look upon these virtues as signs of weakness. But it takes neither strength nor intelligence to brood in anger over wrongs suffered, to go through life with a spirit of vindictiveness, to dissipate one's abilities in planning retribution, or to press a grievance when someone else is "down." There is no genius or peace in the nursing of a grudge.

Paul speaks of "the weak and beggarly elements" of our lives (Galatians 4:9). Is there anything more weak or beggarly than the disposition to wear out one's life in an unending round of bitter thoughts and scheming gestures?

There is great wisdom and restraint in turning the other cheek, and, in the process, trying to overcome evil with good. General Omar Bradley is quoted as having said: "We have grasped the mystery of the atom and rejected the Sermon on the Mount...Ours is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants. We know more about war than we know about peace, more about killing than we know about living."

Those who nurture in the hearts poisonous enmity toward another would be well served to ask the Almighty for strength to forgive and to extend the hand of mercy. Hatred always fails, and bitterness always destroys. Selfishness is the cause of most of our misery. The willingness to forgive is a sign of spiritual and emotional maturity.

So many of us are prone to say we forgive, when in fact we are unwilling to forget. Have we not all made mistakes? Have we not all lived beneath ourselves from time to time? And have we not all also been in a position to extend a hand of forgiveness and fellowship? Our Redeemer reaches out to us in forgiveness and mercy, but in so doing He commands that we repent of our wrongdoings. A true and magnanimous spirit of forgiveness will become an expression of that required repentance.

-Gordon B. Hinckley, Standing For Something, p. 70-73

Something really cool happened/is happening. Shortly after we moved I was asked to volunteer with the young women of the church. I had to choose people to help me to do so. I prayed about who to pick and relied on heavenly insight since I scarcely knew anyone. I selected seven women to assist me in teaching and serving the youth. They obviously knew nothing about me or about the open wound I'm nursing because I can't find the last percent of true forgiveness to heal it. Ninety-nine percent forgiveness doesn't cut it, sadly.

One recent night I found myself visiting with two of these women. Somehow the word vegan entered the conversation and I rolled my eyes and made a mockery of vegan cheese made from cashews. The new friend next to me said, "I love cashew cheese. I make it all the time." It wasn't even close to the worst time I've put my foot in my mouth, truly this was a 0.2 out of 10 on the whoops-o-meter, so I quickly confessed I have no problem with vegans, I just don't have the time to make my own fake cheese. She laughed and assured me, "I can't be offended." I asked her if that was true in real life as well as vegan inquisition. She nodded and reiterated she simply couldn't be offended, that she refuses to let herself be offended. I was amazed. The second friend added she was physically incapable of holding a grudge, even when a grudge might be a good thing as far as emotional protection goes. I was astounded. I mentioned to another of the women that my photographic memory is terrible for forgiveness; I truly can't forget how I've been wronged. I remember everything (except to pick up my kid from Nursery). She replied that notwithstanding her super smarts she "can't remember the wrong done to her." They are all forgivers, the whole lot.

Even the select few I made fast friends with before this assignment are paragons of this virtue. It would seem everybody in Suncrest forgives (and washes their car). It is another lived-and-learned testimony of divine design and non-coincidence. The Lord loves me and knows me individually; He knows all about my oozing wound and how much first aid I've tried. He knows what I'd give for a scab or a scar. Here I thought I was all special and chosen, using my elite calling to pick classy ladies to help me with the youth, but what really happened is the Lord put me in my place (ow, but it's good to be humbled) and helped me build a human hospital without me knowing I was the patient. He booked my last round of healing. He intentionally surrounded me with a string of righteous women to help me release my tattered piece of string.