17

It's a scary world out there.

 But whether or not he can get out of bed,

 or how many people are following him,

or where he leads us,

we will always have a living prophet guiding the way.

Typically I associate the number 17 with the day both of my credit card payments are due. Bleck. I also think 17 is not a visually pleasing number; it's off balance and sharp. However, Russell M. Nelson was announced today as the 17th President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, our modern-day prophet. I watched the press conference while I ate breakfast. I felt the spirit witness that he is the Lord's mouthpiece on the earth (even though I wasn't expecting or needing such assurance). His last line about serving "until his last remaining breath" really got me. I stand corrected. I love 17, and I will forever associate it with a Mandarin-speaking, heart-fixing diplomat who skis at 93, smiles when he speaks, and speaks lovingly to us for the Lord. He is the lantern bearer.

Photos from Bears in the Night by Stan and Jan Berenstain, all the way from 1971. (71 is a backwards 17...just sayin')

Buildup

 

Two roads diverged in a wood.

One led to my sofa cushion covered in winter sunlight and the squishy yarn afghan Sandra Grace crocheted. It was quiet there because Baby and Toddler and Teenager and Dog were all sleeping. I wanted that sunny nap more than I have ever wanted chocolate.

The other road led to my shower where 97% of the tile grout was pink with mold. Turns out I haven't cleaned my shower since we moved in. In July.

Mondays I start out strong with meal plans, scheduled cardio, and general overzealousness but by week's end my tank is empty—especially concerning pink mold.

I took the road less travelled, meaning I scrubbed that wretched grout with all-natural cleaner until my rotator cuff gave up and at least three layers of soft skin went MIA. I'm not gonna lie. All week long I have showered in a mold-free fort with a head still throbbing from the three hours of sleep it is perpetually missing.

I took the road less travelled by, and that made not enough difference. Next time I nap.

Photo of a very old (circa 1990) magazine tear out I've been saving in my file cabinet for no good reason other than I've always suspected I'd have a use for it someday.

Becky et al.

I just mailed my last Christmas card. I've spent many nights seated at my kitchen table scrawling individualized blurbs of love at the bottom of each newsletter. Tick, tock, more cards done, more colored rooftops visible from our deck. Christmas inches closer. Maybe it's because we moved, but this year I was especially thankful for all the people on my Excel file a.k.a. The Spreadsheet of Joy. I'm in my dream home surrounded by upgraded finishes and more square feet...but none of it makes me happier than my peeps do.

The last few years were pretty intense for our family. There are days I wake up, stretch, and gaze across the valley still shaking my head we're still alive and well. (Cue Barry Manilow's "I Made it Through the Rain".) We survived. Life isn't just beautiful, it's crystal clear. Moving clarified relationships: which ones will last, which ones will fade. I am thankful for those who are sticking with me.

Jenn was my first next door neighbor in my first home. She has since moved twice, but she remains my FNDN (Forever Next Door Neighbor). Our fence created a bond that can't be broken and we'll be friends for life. After Jenn left, Becky moved in. I remember Jenn had multiple offers on her house, but she and Ryan prayed to sell their home to the right people. They didn't take the highest offer but the home was sold to the right people, to Ryan and Becky.

Becky had four well-mannered and honest boys. She worked full-time. She was always in scrubs, pulling in, changing in a phone booth, and pulling back out to head to a soccer game. Becky's arm had a large dent in it from donating blood and plasma weekly, from which she took her treasures on the trip of a lifetime to California. Becky was always involved with scouts. A fellow neighbor confided at a recent pack meeting Becky baked individual loaves of banana bread for every boy scout but came up one loaf short. She went home that night, baked an additional loaf, and delivered it to the straggler before heading to work early the next morning. That was Becky.

Jenn planted fruit trees in her yard in hopes of harvesting peaches, apples, and nectarines down the road. She grew a raspberry patch as long as her house. She often shared her crop with us; I have a sweet photo of our two daughters hunting for deep pink berries in their Sunday dresses. Just before we moved, Becky brought over a laundry basket full of apples. She asked if I could use them because she didn't have time to get to them. I made applesauce with Becky's "Jenn apples." That night as I boiled, mashed, and strained the sweet pulp I got a little emotional (surprise surprise). I felt like the spirit of Jenn was in Becky, or like the home Jenn always wanted remained that home with Becky. If Jenn had still been living there she would have brought me apples. But she wasn't, so Becky brought them. I was lucky to have had two busy mothers with hearts of gold for my next door neighbors; each willing to lend a hand, an ear, or their apples. Good women do much good; stacked schedules can't stop them.

This year, as I wrote Becky's Christmas card, I had the overwhelming feeling that I needed to record how she was my smiracle when I was pregnant with Archer. I had shared the story at church with a few people, but I guess it needed to be written in stone:

When I finally got pregnant with Archer I was overjoyed. I was also really hoping it was a girl. RE had been the easiest child and I was comfortable with girls. When I found out it was a boy I was visibly upset, stunned, and then guilt-ridden for feeling so. I just didn't know what I was going to do with a boy. I put on a happy face and lied to many people about how excited I was to have a boy. But I wasn't. I was terrified.

I was worried about being whacked with a sword for the next 18 years or eaten out of house and home (which RE is currently doing). I worried about stinky, giant feet and voice changes. I worried about unfamiliar anatomy and my total lack of love for sports. I mean, if they didn't play American Girl dolls or ride bikes with flowery baskets what did boy moms do? I fretted and stewed, stewed and fretted.

Weeks passed. I felt like my true feelings about boys were starting to harm the boy growing inside me. Cue the smiracle. I was in my second-story master bathroom early in the evening. I heard laughter; genuine bursts of happiness. I turned to the window and looked over Jenn's and Becky's fence. Becky was in her scrubs, just home from work, playing some kind of ball game with her boys (who were big now...the eldest in high school). They were running bases and trying to get each other out. Becky was taking them down one by one. They dog piled her and she escaped. Running, chasing, the shrieks of laughter I heard from above. Becky was loving her boys and they loved her.

I had the strongest impression that boy moms do the same thing girl moms do: they love their kids and the rest is cake. I felt the Spirit witness that I would love my boy and that it would be natural and easy to do so. I felt that my boy would make me laugh and that he would make me happy. All this went down while I was spying on Becky in her backyard. Jenn's raspberries and fruit trees were witnesses.

Isn't it glorious how long it can take a miracle to unfold, like a home-selling prayer succoring a worrisome boy pregnancy eight years later? Isn't it funny that when we are true to our emotions, when we simply live our lives and laugh in our backyards, we are other people's miracles? Isn't it odd that when you think no one is watching you're actually saving someone? And isn't it divine that anyone can be an instrument in the Lord's hands, even those that claim to not be musical?

Et al. is an abbreviation for the Latin phrase et alia which means "and others".

Photo of my first "Mom letter" from Archer, written October 2017. Always an exciting day to get the first of many "mom mails" to come. Our kids say Da-Da first, but they write M-O-M first!

I love me some boys. I even had a second one. I love being charged, tackled, and kissed. I love ninjas, destruction, dirt, and fire trucks. I love mini barrel chests and muscle flexing. My boys did not wreck my china closet—they turned my already-blessed life into Shangri-la.

Becky's Fruit Dip (always served at our street's July 24 party)

1 packet Dream Whip, made as directed

Add:

1 c sugar

1 pkg softened cream cheese

1 t vanilla

I can't think of Becky without picturing a disposable bowl full of fruit dip and a second bowl full of apple slices and strawberries, each covered with Glad Press-N-Seal wrap. Oh, neighbors. So good for the soul.

Epiphany

 

FORGIVENESS, Part III of III

In the parable of the prodigal son there are two sons. One is loyal, the other is a rebel. I know that we all resemble each son at times but for the great majority of my life I have always considered myself "the good son". I'm a daddy's girl, happy to stay at home close to that dad and reap the natural rewards that come from a close relationship. I am a pleaser; I don't want to bend the rules, much less break them. I spend my inheritance in budgeted chunks and have never gone wild.

I've mentioned I have struggled with forgiveness in recent times. So much, in fact, that trying to forgive has felt harder and hurt more sharply than anything I ever suffered with infertility. Infertility only involved me. I had to come to terms with my life and be at peace with myself. I was pretty easy to fight with; the stronger me dominated the pushover me and it was settled. But forgiving others involves, well, others. It's messier. It's complex. There are multiple sets of eyes, each seeing their own injustices, and multiple hearts, each broken with unique cracks. I have turned myself inside out soul searching on this one. What is my deal? Why can't I follow this commandment?

Cue the prodigal son: the world's most famous tale about forgiveness. It doesn't have many details, but pay attention to the robes.

A foolish younger brother went to his father, asked for his portion of the estate, and left home to squander his inheritance in “riotous living.” His money and his friends disappeared sooner than he thought possible—they always do—and a day of terrible reckoning came thereafter—it always does. In the downward course of all this he became a keeper of pigs, one so hungry, so stripped of sustenance and dignity that he “would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat.” But even that consolation was not available to him.

Then the scripture says encouragingly, “He came to himself.” He determined to find his way home, hoping to be accepted at least as a servant in his father’s household. The tender image of this boy’s anxious, faithful father running to meet him and showering him with kisses is one of the most moving and compassionate scenes in all of holy writ. It tells every child of God, wayward or otherwise, how much God wants us back in the protection of His arms.

The younger son has returned, a robe has been placed on his shoulders and a ring on his finger, when the older son comes on the scene. He has been dutifully, loyally working in the field, and now he is returning.

As he approaches the house, he hears the sounds of music and laughter.

“And he called one of the servants [note that he has servants], and asked what these things meant.

“And [the servant] said unto him, Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound.

“And [the older brother] was angry, and would not go in: therefore came his father out, and intreated him.”

You know the conversation they then had.

This son is not so much angry that the other has come home as he is angry that his parents are so happy about it. Feeling unappreciated and perhaps more than a little self-pity, this dutiful son—and he is wonderfully dutiful—forgets for a moment that he has never had to know filth or despair, fear or self-loathing. He forgets for a moment that every calf on the ranch is already his and so are all the robes in the closet and every ring in the drawer. He forgets for a moment that his faithfulness has been and always will be rewarded.

No, he who has virtually everything, and who has in his hardworking, wonderful way earned it, lacks the one thing that might make him the complete man of the Lord he nearly is. He has yet to come to...compassion and mercy.

After I get over the sting I feel every time I read this, I always go back to the robes. The father gave his prodigal son a robe to celebrate his return. In fact, he told his servants to "bring forth the best robe". I'm sure it was a nice one, like one that hung on a satin puffy hangar in the cedar closet. Maybe it was a family heirloom. Maybe it had rare and expensive embellishments. It kills me not to know what made it "the best" but we all have to endure unsolved mysteries. I will simply say this robe must have been something special.

What of the older brother, the good son, the "me" in the parable? Well, he technically owned everything on the estate. The father told him, "Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine." That means all the robes. The story is clear he owned everything except compassion.

I never thought much about this until my yuckfest, during which page 10 of the Fall 2015 BYU Magazine surfaced in one of my "thinking piles":

Want to talk scriptural fashion? Rory Scanlon has an MFA in costume design from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and 16 years of Book of Mormon and Bible clothing research. He says that "understanding how clothing was made, what was worn, and why, suddenly gives new meaning to the scriptures."

For example, in Matthew 5:40 Christ says, "If any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also." According to the law of Moses, if you sued someone for their clothing, you could only take the chiton, an inner Greek garment. The law wouldn't allow you to take the himation, or overgarment. Taking someone else's warmth was illegal. So Christ was saying to give them everything-even what they couldn't ask for.

Give them everything-even what they couldn't ask for?

Give the person you need to forgive everything-even what they can't ask for?

Give that person your "outer robe", your law-appointed warmth-the very thing they can't ask for?

Forgive by giving away what is absolutely yours and only yours to control?

Double sting. So much stinging. I am such a natural man. Ow. Ow. Owwwww!

The father gave his best robe to a pitiful but humble child. He also owned a lot of other robes, all of which he gave to his obedient son. To be a father of this caliber, a God, you have to have an almost unfathomable amount of compassion. Gods give away their robes. Gods in training need to do the same thing.

I still want to be the good son in the story; robes were the epiphany for how to do so. I have no shot at gaining godlike compassion unless I give away the robe I earned fair and square. I have no shot at eternal estate inheritance unless I offer forgiveness to the person who has no ground, no argument, and no right to ask for it. It's scary to give up your security blanket, your self-justification, your protective shell. I currently own one coat filled with fluffy 100% pride, so it's a leap of faith to be willing to walk around unarmed in a world of permanent winter!

Part of me doesn't believe the lost and found paradox can be true, but the reason Christ asks me to molt my outer robe to the undeserving is so I can experience him bestowing a better, warmer replacement from his infinite walk-in closet on my cold shoulders. That vast closet is loaded with luxurious robes he will permanently restock if I will only donate my best again, and again, and again. To get all I must give all, including what I worked hard to gain and deserved to keep.

How many robes does God have? Enough. Enough to keep giving them away while staying warm himself. That is the miracle of forgiveness.

Indented portion from "The Other Prodigal", Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, April 2002.

Parable found in the New Testament, Luke 15.

Solo

FORGIVENESS, Part II of III

In dealing with my need to forgive I bought and read the book Twice Blessed by Michael Wilcox. The title refers to a line from Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. I highlighted or underlined something on every page but one thing that clung to me and dug its nails in was the phrase

FORGIVENESS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE OTHER PERSON

Nothing to do with the other person? Say what? You mean I surrender my white flag to an enemy who doesn't believe he did anything wrong? To a foe who has no intentions of changing? To a human who treats me inhumanely? Isn't this backwards? Isn't the world's way YOU FORGIVE ME AND I'LL FORGIVE YOU? Or YOU CHANGE AND THEN I'LL BE HAPPY? Or YOU MEET ME HALF WAY AND WE'LL CALL IT A TRUCE?

The world is wrong. Babylon's backward logic will never propel me forward. Only Christ can move me forward. His way is the only way. "Turn your thinking around," said Gordon B. Hinckley.

Nothing to do with the other person? Maybe that's a blessing. I am already in charge of my own happiness, growth, and gain and that is work enough. Who has time to sort through another person's lifetime of baggage and circumstance? Not me. I barely have time to shower. In fact, my last 30-second shower resulted in three broken Christmas ornaments and an unrolled TP roll.

Neal A. Maxwell, a personal hero and man I'm thankful to have met via BYU Catering, said, "The meek go on fewer ego trips but they have far greater adventures." I think it's easier to have an adventure if you're not obsessed about being right. Greg always says IT'S NOT WHO'S RIGHT, IT'S WHAT'S RIGHT when we argue. He's right. (Drat!)

Sheri Dew told a frank and inspiring story about forgiving her father just before he died:

My father had many virtues. After his death, we heard story after story about his quiet generosity. And my father's word was gold. But my dad had an Achilles' heel: a temper he never conquered. We knew he loved us, but we often bore the brunt of his anger.

One afternoon a few days before he died, I was sitting at his bedside as he slept. Suddenly, I found myself asking the Lord to forgive him for years of angry outbursts. As I prayed something unexplainable happened to me. In an instant I felt decades of hurt simply fall away. The feeling was spiritual, but it was also tangible. I could remember his anger, but I couldn't feel any of the pain. It was gone. It was "beauty for ashes" (Isaiah 61:3).

It sure seems like forgiveness had nothing to do with her father in that story.

She later said, "No earthly remedy could have done for me what the Savior did in that moment...and it was His healing power that healed a lifetime of wounds."

I want to be healed. I scar easily, so I must forgive quickly. To quote Neal A. Maxwell (again), "The world's way is the equivalent of using Band-Aids for arthritis." Is that not the best visual for faux forgiveness? The world sells you cheap topical stickers for pain that aches in your marrow and sinews. And the world's Band-Aids are not even good ones! They are those non-sticky generic strips that peel off if you had 0.0478 ounces of lotion on your skin when you stuck them on. Oh, life is too short for worthless Band-Aids. (And non-sticky washi tape. That drives me crazy, but I'll forgive the cheap washi tape manufacturers because they're out of my control unless I become a lobbyist for lovers of decent office supplies. Which actually sounds like my dream job.)

Band-Aids blame anyone but yourself. Your mother, your childhood, your boss. Not you, though. You're good.

Band-Aids withdraw, exclude, and put those who have crossed you in their place. That place is usually not a nice place.

Band-Aids have veeerrrry tricky lingo and hypnotic phrases that lull your shoulder angel to sleep.

Band-Aids promise to validate all victims, but no matter how many times you redress old wounds you don't see improvement and you don't feel better. Band-Aids lie. They never deliver the healing claims on the side of their box.

The Savior, on the other hand, can heal that black part of your heart that is preventing you from acting like Him. He only tells the truth and always keeps his promises. Sometimes the truth hurts: seventy times seven, motes, debts, turned cheeks, held tongues. But the promises don't hurt: my way is easy, my burden is light, I will forgive you your trespasses.

There is nothing harder, or simpler, than forgiving.

Sheri Dew, "Sweet Above All That is Sweet", May 1, 2014, BYU Women's Conference address

Neal A. Maxwell, Even As I Am, 106.

Extra Michael Wilcox quote that rung my bell:

Ironic as it seems, pain can be very influential in the creation of love. We learn we are stronger than anything life can throw at us, for compassion, kindness, and mercy are stronger than transgression, anguish, and heartache.

God is trying to make us into beings like Himself, and He can take every experience and shape us with it if we allow Him, but He can't do this if we continue to feel sorry for ourselves or bitter or want to tell other people how much they injured us. So let us release the need to wound others because we are wounded. Let us let go of the need to let others know how much we suffer.

"If we can find forgiveness in our hearts for those who have caused us hurt and injury, we will rise to a higher level of self-esteem and well-being." -President James E. Faust, "The Healing Power of Forgiveness", Ensign, May 2007, 68.