2013: Gratitude for Good Things

The Family, August 2013

Last January, following the example of our niece, I plunked a Mason jar on the kitchen counter and labeled it "Good Things 2013." We began to fill the jar with reminders of moments both awe-inspiring and (more often) quietly joyful. As the year enters its closing scenes, the jar fairly bursts with little scraps of folded paper. We will open the jar on New Year's Day, and you will thank me for sparing you the long list of happy events that matter mostly only to those of us who lived them. Still, since the year has brought such an abundance of memories, I'll pick out just a few to give you a glimpse of life with the Wallace/Larsen clan over the past year.

January marked our 19th wedding anniversary. That means, of course, that in just a couple of weeks we will celebrate 20 years of marital bliss. Once upon a time, we planned to celebrate our 20th in Scotland or Italy. As the milestone drew closer, we scaled the plan back to a return to Key West (where we celebrated our 10th). Now, with the day fast approaching, I'm thinking we'll maybe go out to dinner and catch some live music downtown. Reality has a way of catching up with us!

In February, Brad and I discovered the Central Illinois Jazz Festival in Decatur, an event we will most certainly make an annual tradition. Then we sent Alec off to Logan, Utah for the out-of-staters weekend at Utah State University. After a weekend of college life and snowboarding, his senioritis really kicked into gear!


March brought spring break for the kiddos, which began with our one real snowstorm of the year and ended with a wonderful family getaway to St. Louis. We built a magical snow castle, cavorted with butterflies at the Butterfly House and crawled through endless tunnels at the City Museum.

April flew past, with May and the end of the school year fast on its heels. Alec and Juliana celebrated the end of early morning seminary, while Jared and Kristina left 7th and 1st grade in the dust. Days later, Alec graduated from high school and wowed us with his senior piano recital. We love having a houseful of pianists!

July brought a flurry of house guests, culminating in Devin's long-anticipated return from his mission to San Antonio, Texas. Nothing stacks up to that first post-mission hug...even though we only got to keep him home for a week before Devin and Alec headed off to Logan and a semester as roommates at Utah State. Juliana flew West days later for an absolutely perfect bucket list hiking trip in the Wind Rivers. Brad took his turn in the Rockies in October when he joined the boys in the Salt Lake temple as Alec began preparing for his mission to Paris, France. (He's scheduled to enter the MTC on January 22, and he's beyond excited!)

In November, Brad and Jared officially ended the football season with a tournament in Missouri, and Brad thoroughly enjoyed what will probably be his last chance to coach one of his sons in football. Then we put the pads away and pulled out the basketballs for the next few months. Even Kristina gets into the action this time, playing on two teams.

Now here we are, basking in our Christmas goodie hangovers. Brad's parents and sister and our big boys all made it to the prairie for Christmas, and we are filling every bit of remaining space in the memory jar. For the first time in years I have enjoyed the Christmas season from beginning to end. For that, for family and for countless gifts from the Savior whose birth we have so enjoyed celebrating, I find myself filled to the brim with gratitude.

Sarah Laughed

And Sarah Laughed, by Abel Pann

My husband reminded me that I left the story hanging with my last post. "Aren't you going to write a followup post?" he asked. It was a momentous week, after all--surprising, humbling, a turning point. As I predicted, by the time I clicked Publish on my last post, I had found my equilibrium. The sun began to shine again, and peace returned. But it was only intermission. The story had yet to play itself out.

Do you remember the Old Testament account of Sarah and Abraham? Like most good Hebrew women, Sarah desired to raise children. To add strength to that perfectly righteous desire, God had promised Abraham that his posterity would be as the sands of the sea. And yet, not only did Sarah fail to conceive, but she had to watch her handmaid, Hagar, deliver Abraham's child in her place. For decades Sarah suffered the disappointment and shame of her childless condition, until at last she reached menopause. And then, one day she stood in the tent door listening while a holy man told Abraham, "Sarah thy wife shall have a son." What did Sarah do? She laughed to herself. The holy man promised the impossible; it was past time.

A couple of days before my recent fit of melancholy, I sat in the temple listening for the inspiration and answers that generally come to me there. The thought that tiptoed through my mind was a vision of Sarah and the gift of Isaac, a gift that came to her only after she had given up hope. Like Sarah, I had for decades desired a particular blessing. It was a perfectly righteous desire and, like Sarah, I had mostly given up hope of receiving that blessing. Mostly, but not quite. Recent events had rekindled just a spark of my hope, and the reminder of Sarah fanned the flame.

Sadly, the evening brought a resounding "no," seemingly straight from Heaven, and the loss of a newly revived hope sent me spiraling downward. My heart cracked just enough to let the faith drain out and the melancholy rush in to take its place. My husband flew to Utah on a trip that now seemed pointless, while I wallowed back at home. But sunshine and exercise, friends and the memory of faith lifted me. I still doubted my own ability to recognize inspiration, but I decided I could live without the desired blessing. After all, I had lived without it for years already.

In the midst of the calm, the phone rang. Astonishingly, the resounding "no" had turned to a "yes." Only after it was impossible did the blessing arrive. The next day, some of the people I love best of all stood together in one of the places I love best. Back home, I smiled. God remembered Sarah, even though she laughed, just as God remembered Rachel and millions of other covenant women. And God remembered me. It feels good to be remembered. I'm humbled that I dared to think my Father would forget me.

It occurs to me that I have not, in fact, really told the rest of the story. After all, most of the telling belongs to other actors in the scene. Truth be told, I suspect that in the end this episode will prove to be just a small part of a tale that continues to unfold. But it is enough to remind me that my notions of possibility can hardly hem in the God of the Universe.

One of THOSE Days

I feel very fortunate to have dodged the clinical depression bullet. But every once in a while, melancholy
descends briefly, leaving me in a tangled heap on the floor, tears hot on my cheeks. I fantasize about cutting a tiny X on my ankle, mostly just to feel the purity of the pain. I resist. Even on a dark day I realize that some doors need to remain firmly closed. Eventually, I stand up and walk slowly from room to room, one foot in front of the other. I pick up a toy, start a load of laundry, wash a dish, tidy the pile of music in the front room. I'm listless, but I begin to catch momentum. Then an email sets me off and I collapse again, wrapping my arms around my gut to embrace the stab of utter uselessness. Part of me stands apart, shaking my head at the silly dramatics that no one else sees in the empty house.

Years ago, on another day like this, I called home, needing my father's usual wisdom and comforting words. But Daddy answered the phone in a bad mood, and I hung up quickly, feeling defensive and cheated. Prayer feels like that this week. God hears; I'm sure of it. But He declines to answer, busy with more important things than my petty mood, or accurately recognizing that I can muddle through just fine on my own and need the experience anyway. I will agree with God tomorrow, probably even pulling some profound tidbit from the process. Today, though, I feel abandoned, my faith buried under cynicism.

Evening wallowing loses its charm after a while, so I exercise. For an hour or so, I can outrun or out bike the melancholy. As my legs pump and my heart beats, I feel strong. Endorphins push the gloom away, and I rise to the surface to take a deep breath. Before long, I'll float to the top for good. By the time you read this, in fact, today's cynicism and gasping sobs will have faded into a memory of a day that I let the world win.

I hope I keep the memory, though, hope that in some way I can imagine these hours of melancholy stretching on for days or weeks. Then perhaps when I come across a friend buried under the waves, the heart that feels like stone now will find the empathy that I need to stretch out a hand. Perhaps I will stand on someone's porch, like a friend did for me today, not so much saying the words that needed to be said but offering a small patch of settled ground to help me gain my balance.

Cologne, Confessions and Opportunity Cost

I know it’s a bit retro, in a 1980s mullet kind of way, but I have to admit that I still think cologne is kind of sexy. I don’t mean Axe body spray, and I don’t mean Old Spice (even though the commercials make me chuckle). I mean good, old-fashioned cologne, the kind we used to buy our boyfriends for Christmas in college, back in the long ago day. I even miss wearing a little Estée Lauder myself. My husband bought me an Egyptian musk a while back, and he tells me it smells wonderful, but apparently it fits my biology perfectly, because once it hits my skin, I smell nothing. That’s how it should be, of course, and I even hesitate to wear the musk very often, so as to avoid offending the olfactory sensitivities of my allergic friends. Still, I miss the lovely dose of nostalgia that comes with an unexpected scent on the air. Sigh. I miss peanuts on airplanes, too. I’m such a cretin.

Since I started along this confession path, I may as well get it all out there.

I miss swearing with abandon. Yes, I still swear, but I do apply a filter much more frequently than I used to. They say that profanity is a sign of a small vocabulary. That may be, but you would be amazed at how creative a literate person can wax with a few well-chosen four-letter words. Did you know, for instance, that many expletives can morph into almost any part of speech (noun, verb, adjective, adverb…)? I can thank my college education for that little gem of knowledge.

I miss wasting time on a regular basis. I freely admit that I still manage to lose a few hours to blogs and Facebook on occasion, but I feel guilty about it every time. I remember spending whole days wandering Cache Valley in search of, well, nothing really. And I remember watching late night TV or talking until dawn. These days, I sneak in a nap or a chapter of a book and then kick myself for the items I could have checked off my “to do” list instead. Blast that stupid list!

I miss partying. Oh, don’t have a conniption. I never drank, never felt the need to drink. But I do miss being able to let go, to dance without worrying about how silly I look. I miss late night philosophical discussions, half in Spanish and half in English, on the front stoop under the stars, with music drifting through the screen door behind me. I hardly admit to knowing any Spanish these days, afraid someone will expect me to speak, and I will make a fool of myself.

I recognize, with some heaviness, the opportunity cost of decisions I made long ago with much deliberation. I chose adventure over home, and now I begin to realize how little I know my extended family and how amazing these people are who share my heritage. In another sense, I chose home over career, and even after more than a decade away from the office, I struggle to find my sense of self without the projects and accolades. In either case, I would make the same decision all over again, but I sense the cost of those decisions more than I once did.

I find I do not mind the sense of loss too much. As long as I avoid getting stuck in the memory, a little backward glance now and again reminds me just how rich and full my life has been over the years and hints at the possibilities ahead. I don't imagine the coming years will find me hitchhiking in Yellowstone again, but the memory of my Yellowstone summer prods me to stick my metaphorical thumb out and see what surprises life has to offer down an unknown path or two.

Beginning, Middle and End

We recently renegotiated our satellite dish contract, a lovely little dance we engage in once a year when they raise our monthly fee. Consequently, we received a few weeks of free movie channels, the company’s way of saying “thank you” for buying into dozens of channels we need about as much as we need a hundred bottles of Marshmallow Fluff. I rarely watch television, but it does provide a good motivator on those days when I exercise indoors. While my husband plays heavy metal during a workout, I find the distraction of a good movie helps me bring my knees a little higher and push the weight a little longer. Nothing says “Work it, girl!” like Dr. Who or Sense and Sensibility.

I have enjoyed this temporary break from Netflix and the chance to watch a few movies I would have forgotten to watch otherwise. I do have one complaint, however. Unless I time my exercise just right (simply not gonna happen), I end up watching portions of movies and rarely catch the story from beginning to end. I start a movie with just half an hour left of my workout and realize with a sigh that I will never find out whether Sandra Bullock finally gives in to Hugh Grant’s charm or aliens win the war they have waged against a future earth. (Oh wait, aliens never win those, do they? And everyone eventually gives in to Hugh Grant; he’s just that charming.)

Having watched the beginnings of some movies and the endings of others, I have decided that, if I have to choose, I am definitely a “start in the middle and see the end” kind of girl. There is something so very satisfying about a conclusion, particularly one that someone else designed. If I come in at the middle of the story, I imagine the beginning, putting together the pieces from the dialogue and the story as it continues. But imagining an end to the story in my head feels like cheating. Besides, while I can turn a phrase now and again, conclusions have always given me fits. I tend to end my pieces rather abruptly, without much elegance or substance. Give me another writer’s twists and turns and winding up scenes, and I will watch happily while applauding their brilliance. I might even shed a tear or two if I’m feeling particularly hormonal.

Mosque over Tomb of the Patriarchs, Hebron (photo by  Mirari Erdoiza)

I suppose I apply this penchant for conclusions to my outlook on life, as well. At the risk of sounding apocalyptic, I love the thought of living in the winding up scenes of the world, a time when the history and philosophy, the literature and science, the art and music and religion of thousands of years blend together in glorious ways.  I even have a few story lines in mind that I hope to see through to the end.

• For instance, I know the path involves devastating wars and impossible heartache, but I want to see Isaac and Ishmael come together again to honor their father Abraham, as they did once long ago in the field of Ephron (Genesis 25:9). Come to think of it, there are a few more brothers and sisters who could stand to come together in Ephron and remember a common heritage. God, for reasons of His own, may seem to favor one person or group over another in the short term, but that hardly gives us an excuse to do the same. 
• On the national political scene, I hope to live to see some wise recess monitor teach the boys and girls in the Congressional playground to play well together. After two hundred years of setting the rules, they seem to have forgotten the basics.
• Our world has evolved quite far from that first garden. I look forward to a day when we as a people evolve enough to remember the commission to take care of the garden, to cherish both our Eden and the plants and animals that grow there.
• Technology that seemed fantastical science fiction decades ago has become a reality. Perhaps I will never have the chance to give the “beam me up, Scotty” ready call, but I hope to see the day when I can travel the world—and even the stars—by miraculous means.

And, though I probably will not live to see the end of the world as we know it, there is part of me that dreams of waking up on that day when everything has changed. Back in my singing days, I used to sing a wonderful spiritual called “My Lord What a Morning,” and in my mind I can just catch a glimpse of that day “when the stars begin to fall.” I can feel a bit of the wonder, breathe a bit of that new air. I imagine the stars will fall long after I have moved on, and I will find I have lived the middle of the movie, after all. But, when it comes to the heart of the matter, what is a conclusion but a commencement?

No Apologies: I Am a Believer

(Author's Note: This piece appeared originally on the Mormon Women blog.)

Who am I? I am a writer, or at least I aspire to be one.  I am a teacher. I am a wife and mother. And I am a believer.

Why am I Mormon? I came by my religion the easy way. I inherited it from folks like my Great-Great Grandmother Decker who crossed the plains as an almost single mother and helped found Parowan, Utah. But my faith, the reason I stay? Now that raises a different question entirely. My wilderness hikes and forest prayers have never led me to burning bushes or shining pillars of light. No angel ever stopped my tracks on the road to Damascus.

And yet, like the Savior’s companions in a storm-tossed boat, I have received the witness of peace. I have read the scriptures, seeking for wisdom, and marveled as words once spoken to prophets took new life in direct answer to my pleading. I have knelt in prayer and felt the warmth of the Comforter envelop me. I have taken the advice of the Book of Mormon prophet Alma to "experiment upon the word" (Alma 32:27), acting on subtle promptings, and I have watched my faith grow as the Lord took my hand.

I have a dear friend who challenges my faith. She cannot fathom how I can accept the history of polygamy in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints or support a priesthood to which I cannot be ordained. I have thought a great deal about that. Every Mormon woman at some point has to grapple with her relationship to these issues of faith and others like them, and unfortunately epiphanies come with a built-in “non-transferrable” clause. God knows the value of a good test of faith, and pioneer ancestry hardly makes one immune to the need for conversion.

For me, that conversion has come in stages. As a young adult, fresh out of the comfortable arms of home, I read scriptures on a mountainside in Wyoming and recognized a tender mercy in the magnificent double rainbow that appeared just when I needed a creative “hello” from my Heavenly Father. As a young widow, I came to the quiet realization that God’s plan of happiness was true. The plan became more than merely a lesson taught by young missionaries or enthusiastic Sunday School teachers. We really do live again. Families can last forever.

And here, in my middle age, I am beginning to learn to trust in God’s love for me, for all of His children. I have seen too many prayers answered to claim coincidence. Joseph Smith once said, “I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it, neither dared I do it; at least I knew that by so doing I would offend God, and come under condemnation.” (Joseph Smith-History 1:25)

While the angel Moroni very kindly lets me sleep at night, God has sent me numerous angels from all walks of life. He continues to supply the wisdom that I lack. I cannot deny that. I am a believer.

Moonlight Magic

I greeted a friend last night and noted the weariness apparent in her face. Her eyes mirrored the expression in so many faces I see. Perhaps autumn catches us all a little off our game with the abrupt switch from the delightful chaos of summer to the post-vacation structure of papers to sign, appointments to keep, children to motivate. Perhaps this friend, like so many of us, navigates a period of transition.

In a couple of hours, another friend enters the hospital for surgery and the beginning of treatment for breast cancer. She wonders if she will find the strength and the courage she needs. I know she will. My oldest son adjusts to life after a two year religious mission, reminding himself how to negotiate finances and dating, while his brother prepares to enter the mission field and give up the world for a time.  One cousin finishes a college degree in mid-life, while another battles cancer and contemplates graduating from life a little early. Meanwhile, I bike through falling leaves, and the wind carries a chill from the north. The seasons are changing.

This year feels momentous for me. It isn’t really, in the eternal scheme of things. We have our own family transitions, with half of the children living on their own now and the two at home growing so quickly. And yet, we still get up every morning, drink our kale smoothies for breakfast, send the children off to school, go to work, wonder how we will pay the bills even though we know the money always comes through in the end. The sun rises and sets. The farmer will harvest the corn outside my window soon and then plant again in the spring, as he does every year.

Perhaps this year feels momentous because I want it to be, because I believe it has the possibility of sparkle and depth. Some days, many days, I feel the weariness I saw on my friend’s face last night. Today I feel oddly powerful as I sit in my office in my workout clothes, procrastinating exercise and listening to my dog snore on the floor at my feet.

For me, the new year begins with the close of summer. This year the close of summer found me in the Wyoming Rockies while I crossed “hike the Wind Rivers” off my bucket list. My adult boys and I spent a few perfect days hiking, philosophizing, and soaking up beauty in the Green River Lakes region. In the evenings, I watched the moon rise over the mountains while I stirred the fire. For me, Rocky Mountain moonrises hold a special magic, the promise of adventure. They carried me into adulthood my first summer away from home and presided over my farewell when I headed East for a new life. I can see clearly in my memory the progress of the moon over the mountaintop, teetering on the edge for strength before launching into the sky.

Obviously, the moon holds no inherent magic, whether it rises over the Rockies or over a Midwestern cornfield. But perhaps, if I work hard enough to let that moonlight shine through this change of seasons and into the next, I can bring the magic in. I can write more, pull myself out of a rut and into a rhythm, reach higher, breathe more deeply, soak in more of the beauty that surrounds me. I can make the year momentous.

The Surprise Love Affair Continues

I never expected to like St. Louis. News reports of kidnappings and other crimes over the years left me with a sour opinion only enhanced by the rather large footprint of Anheuser-Busch and billboards advertising the likes of Hustler's boutique erotica. Please! Nothing screams "redneck" quite like American beer and Larry Flint.

After a couple of years of monthly jaunts down to the LDS temple in St. Louis, I discovered Trader Joe's and Sweet Tomatoes, and my perspective slowly began to shift. After all, who can resist TJ's Cookie Butter or Sweet Tomatoes' won ton chicken salad with one of those delicious blueberry muffins on the side?

But the love affair truly began last January, when Brad and I finally made our first recreational visit to St. Louis. (Yes, it took us nearly four years to make the trip.) We took the kids back for spring break playtime at the fabulous City Museum, and a dear friend fed my cultural habit with a lovely evening at Spring To Dance 2013. Consequently, when we found ourselves with a rare opportunity to sneak away for a quick overnight trip without the kiddos, Brad and I once again made our way south.

We started on Thursday evening with Twangfest. You probably know exactly what to expect from an event called "Twangfest." I did not. I vaguely expected something on the order of bluegrass or the country music of my parents' generation. While Conway Twitty would have suited me just fine, I found myself pleasantly surprised with the range of sound and styles offered through the course of an evening at Blueberry Hill. Scarlet Tanager, Shivering Timbers, and Motel Mirrors opened with an eclectic offering of indie pop and country, alternatively haunting and playful vocals, fabulous harmonies and some killer string bass.  Joe Pug headlined, and to be honest, we left after a few songs. Joe channels Bob Dylan just fine, but after the color and depth of the previous bands, he lacked oomph.

We crashed at a hotel in Clayton for the night and made our way back to the Delmar Loop area the next day for an afternoon of discovery. After a walk down memory lane at Vintage Vinyl, a bit of incense at one of the fair trade boutiques and a few photo ops with the artsy Loop manikins and Chuck Berry (or at least his likeness), we dined sumptuously on Syrian food at Ranoush. The restaurant had me at the hummus and sealed the deal with stuffed grape leaves, baba ganoush (which I would order even if it weren't delicious, simply because the name sounds so nice rolling off my tongue), mint tea and knafeh, among other delights.

Aluminum tree by Omer Huremovic

Pleasantly full, we rounded off our afternoon browsing through the wonderful Componere Gallery of Art, chatting with owner and artist Eleanor Ruder and falling in love with sculptures by Alexzine Lewis and the copper and aluminum trees of Omer Huremovic.

After a requisite stop at Trader Joe's for Dark Chocolate Almond Toffee (yes, you must try it), we made our way home to continue the love affair another day.

Some People Collect Spoons or Goofy Figurines...

Ansel Adams, Redwoods, Bull Creek Flat 

(c) 2010 The Ansel Adams Publishing Rights Trust

I have little interest in decorative spoons, or stamps, or cheap porcelain angels. I like snow globes, but I would rather not have to dust them. Instead, I keep a collection of quotes. I collect quotes from books and talks, from random radio broadcasts or signs on museum walls. Some of the words inspire me. Some make me laugh. Some just sound nice rolling off my tongue. Because one cannot collect anything without imposing that collection on others, here are just a few of my quotes of the moment.

My friend Ansel on love friendship art nature

Ansel Adams tops my list of quotes this week. In a letter to his best friend, Cedric Wright, he once wrote:

"I saw a big thundercloud move down over Half Dome, and it was so big and clear and brilliant that it made me see many things that were drifting around inside of me; things that related to those who are loved and those who are real friends."

Adams went on to describe his epiphanies about love, friendship and art. I intended to include those epiphanies here, but then I read this sentence at the end of the letter: "I wish the thundercloud had moved up over Tahoe and let loose on you; I could wish you nothing finer."

I thought of a long ago moonrise over the mountains that illuminated something both essential and inexplicable for me, and I remembered the profound peace of a certain slant of light drifting through the leaves on a quiet Sunday afternoon. I understand the power of nature to bring clarity and make of life something noble and grand and positively divine, if only for a fleeting moment.  

Peter Lake on the satisfaction of responsibility

I love the book Winter's Tale, by Mark Helprin. For me, he is an Ansel Adams of words. In Winter's Tale, Helprin gives us the wonderful character of Peter Lake, a poet thief and master mechanic. Peter falls in love with Beverly, and at one point tells Beverly's father:

"When we drove across the lake this afternoon and Beverly held the little girl in her arms, I felt a responsibility far more satisfying than any pleasure I have ever known."

While perhaps not the most evocative example of Helprin prose, that quote strikes a particular chord with me today, on the heels of Mother's Day. No satisfaction I have yet experienced compares with the glorious weight of another soul intertwined with mine.

Alice Ann on teaching teenagers

This week brings to a close another year of teaching early morning seminary to a group of bleary-eyed, yet wonderful teenagers. Each schoolday morning we gather at 6:00 a.m. and study scriptures together. Sometimes they sleep or do homework. Often they sing spontaneously and out of tune in the middle of a lesson, and even more often they wander hopelessly off topic. Sometimes they grumble about early mornings and other injustices, and sometimes they sit rather sullen in the shadow of their hoodies. I regularly despair of teaching them anything of value. And yet, as my friend Alice Ann Harrop reminded us in a recent teacher training workshop:

"The Spirit isn't stopped by hoodies."

Despite the hoodies and the grumbling and the meanderings, I love these kids. I see glimmers of brilliance and compassion and deep thought that give me hope for the future.

Mutterings from the Cesspool of Reality

I find I don't mind middle age so much. I like the freedom that comes with children growing older. I like that we middle folks find it easier to toss aside the facade than we used to, that we seem to have grown more comfortable with the definition we have evolved for ourselves. I feel strong, involved (when I want to be), aware of connections in life around me in a way that I could not have been as a younger woman.

What gives me less joy is the fact that somehow in these middle years we give in to reality. We mature, we apply our experience to our vision of life. We work through our relationships and share our epiphanies with our friends who also struggle with making sense of their own lives. The challenges of raising children and growing a marriage hit us broadside in these middle years, more often than not, and sometimes we reel from the blow. Like most folks, I find a measure of comfort in realizing that my marriage is actually better than most, that the struggles we occasionally face as a family barely hit the Trials and Tribuations charts.

And yet, as I talk with friends and family, as I read blogs and even celebrity interviews, it seems that in our wisdom and maturity we give up on our dreams. Most kids fall way short of the brilliance promised in the proverbial Christmas letter. All marriages struggle. Gwyneth Paltrow reflected the collective middle-age marital wisdom in an interview recently. In that interview, she reported that her father said once that he and his wife have stayed together all these years because they never both wanted to get divorced at the same time. The reality is that most couples fight at least occasionally. The reality is that most professionals fail to find deep satisfaction in their careers. The reality is that few people reach the dreams that propelled them forward in their 20s.

Well, you know what? Reality stinks. The fact is that my dreams DID propel me forward. Reality carries nothing even akin to the motivating power of dreams. In fact, comforting as it may be in a low moment to realize that my failure to reach that far away star simply means I join the rest of humanity on the ground, I happen to like the stars. The view from the lofty heights (or even the view on the way up to the lofty heights I may never reach) awes and inspires me way more than the view from the stable rocks and well-worn dusty paths of reality.

So thank you very much for the wisdom and the camaraderie here on the ground. I appreciate the clarity, and I see the logic. Truly I do. But until I hit another low point, I think I'm going to go back to assuming that the universe has something grand in store if I can only fly high enough.

Pausing in Bethany

Bethany (from historyfish.net)

Every spring, much of the Christian world celebrates Passion Week, commemorating the events of each day in the last week of the Savior's life. Regarding one day in that week, we know almost nothing. Two days before his death, Jesus returned to the village of Bethany, and for a whole day the scriptures fall silent. We can assume with some confidence that He spent that day quietly with his close friends Mary, Martha and Lazarus. With them, as with almost no one else, Jesus could relax, could find solace, could step aside from the world that clamored either for His healing touch or for His blood.

In the midst of events of eternal significance, Jesus more than once paused in Bethany. He ate dinner with friends. We know He wept with them. I like to think He laughed with them, as well, and perhaps told stories of His travels or listened to their thoughts and dreams. They served each other, walked together, almost certainly enjoyed moments of peaceful, companionable silence.

Recently, I spent a weekend getaway with three friends. While we hardly save the world, we do each lead lives of eternal significance. We build marriages, raise children or siblings, heal bodies and spirits, teach youth, create. Sometimes we feel the weight of our worlds resting heavily on our shoulders, and sometimes we feel tiny and insignificant.

The weekend passed comfortably, easily, like slipping into a favorite pair of pajamas and sipping a cup of hot chocolate on a lazy afternoon. Our hostess possesses an uncanny ability to create a sense of peace with carefully arranged furniture and art, and that peace pervaded the hours. We made meals together, chatting over the kitchen counter while we ate. We lounged on the sofa and laughed about our lives. We played at the park like my daughter and her friends (though without the cartwheels), browsed through local art stores, took silly photos, basked in moments of silence, and even played with makeup. We did nothing worthy of note to anyone but ourselves, and we ignored schedules.

I returned home rejuvenated, grateful for my life and grateful, as well, for the friendships that ground me and add color and depth to that life. Because sometimes, pausing in Bethany carries its own eternal significance.

Side by Side

My children turn 7, 13, 18, and 23 this year. The youngest lost her third tooth last week. Son #3 recently gained bragging rights as the tallest family member living at home. Son #2 might suffer an ego blast at the need to look up to his younger brother, except for the fact that, like many teenage boys on the brink of adulthood, he is immortal, invincible and untouchable. Meanwhile, I continue to marvel at the fact that while I was distracted by football games and report cards, Son #1 grew into a man. This year I will exactly double his age, and that milestone has me glancing backward at my own life, setting it side by side with the lives of my children.

Juliana in 1st grade

Kristina in 1st grade

At seven, like Kristina, I looked forward to the end of first grade and the beginning of another glorious summer. It was 1974, and I attended Stewart Elementary School in Yankton, South Dakota. Every schoolday morning I walked down the alley behind our house to the school. It was a 5-minute walk, and back in the old days I made that 5-minute walk again at noon to go home for lunch--except on taco days. I loved the greasy, hardshell tacos, just as I loved playing on the bars at recess or those wonderful days when the P.E. teacher brought out the parachute and we made a "mushroom" or played popcorn with gym balls. On Sundays we attended church in a rented chapel in one of the buildings on the Yankton College campus. It was at church that I met my best friend of that period, Jenny West. She lived a half hour away, in Vermilion, but church formed the centerpiece of our lives and besides, our mothers were friends. With my neighborhood friends, I organized clubs in the schoolyard or played across the street from my house at Fantle Memorial Park. We climbed trees and played make believe for hours on end. All the while, I looked up to my older sister. She seemed impossibly grown up, finishing her first year of middle school and playing violin. While Daddy taught English at the college, Mother taught piano lessons in our living room, and I drove her crazy trying to chat with her students. I think of that now when Kristina interrupts my own music lessons.

Jared in 7th grade

Juliana in 7th grade

By the time I turned 13, we had left the Midwest and traveled south. Like Jared, I enjoyed seventh grade. With the other kids in my suburban neighborhood, I boarded a bus every morning to travel downtown to Capitol Heights Junior High, an imposing three-story school with considerably more diversity than the early days up north in South Dakota. We had lived in Montgomery, Alabama for nearly two years by then, and I loved my time there. I lived and breathed ballet that year (1980), dancing with the Montgomery Civic Ballet. It was my second year with the company, and I began to land some good roles. Outside of the studio, I had good friends in the neighborhood and at school, but my lasting memories are those of my best friends: Miriam Henderson and Cathy Brett. We took turns hosting sleepovers, made sugar muffins and flour tortillas, worked on Young Women's projects together at church, played in the ditch behind my house, rode our bikes on the paths through the woods, giggled about our sisters' dates and checked out the cute boys at the Friday evening baseball games down the street. Rather to our surprise, the end of seventh grade brought an end to the trio, as I moved to Kentucky, and Cathy abruptly moved to California within a week of each other. Fortunately, we have connected periodically through the decades since then, and I still count those two among my short list of lifelong friends.

Alec as a senior

Juliana as a senior

Another five years took me from Montgomery to Frankfort, Kentucky and on to Mesa, Arizona. Looking back on the spring of 1985, I can empathize with Alec's current case of senioritis. Like Alec, I took a mid-winter trip to Utah State to check out campus and came home energized about the excitement of college life. Like Alec, I tried to keep my mind sufficiently focused to prepare for Advanced Placement exams. Dates with college boys distracted my focus, as did my plans to leave home as soon as the ink dried on my diploma. I loved the opportunities available to me in a metropolitan area, but I hated the desert. I had secured a summer job near Yellowstone National Park and could not wait to head to the mountains and live on my own. In the meantime, I enjoyed the chance to see my cousins in the halls of Mountain View High School, and I worked with a great group of kids on the LDS Seminary Council. I spent occasional afternoons pretending elegance in the ritzy stores and cafes in Scotsdale, and I relaxed in the pine woods near my grandparents' cabin up in Strawberry. I owned life, and everything felt possible.

Devin

Juliana and Devin 1990

As the late 1980s flew by, I grew up (a bit), graduated from college and settled into the beginnings of a career and married life. Like Devin, at 23 I began to see glimpses of what I might make of a life that, up to that point, had mostly provided me time and space for adventure. I worked as a technical writer for a small software company in Logan, my first real job. We lived in a mobile home in the married student trailer park, and Brady tried valiantly to attend school, although the after-effects of a brain tumor and two brain surgeries impeded that process. That August, I gave birth to my firstborn.  When I returned to work a few weeks later, Brady and I tag-teamed the parenting duties. Devin was a nearly perfect baby, as all first babies should be, and I confidently planned out the next decade in my head. I would work while Brady finished college. We would move to some beautiful suburb and raise a beautiful family. I would teach Sunday School, earn accolades in graduate school, publish something besides computer manuals. Oh, how God must have chuckled at my feeble attempts to plan! And yet...for all of its twists and turns, God's version of my life has given me such magic and memories.

Resting Between Sets

I have spent my life with my eyes fixed on one goal or another, checking items off a myriad of lists line by line along the way. Those checks help me round out my sense of self, and the lure of unknown wonders around the next bend pulls me forward. I earned a degree, built a career or two, completed projects, lost the baby weight (finally), hiked mountains and conquered fears. Ah, but those milestones on the road to wonderful feel good!

Every once in a while, my current crop of goals grows stale. Life moves on to the next phase, and I find I require a new rhythm, new purpose. I study, ponder, try to match my heartbeat with the divine. Such was the case last fall, and over a few months I reached some surprising conclusions. Step back. Read. Breathe. Live in the present. Learn to radiate joy. And the hard one: defy logic and set aside the lofty goals for a time.

I embraced the plan initially. Learning to find joy, to accept life without the constant fight to make it fit my plan, felt incredibly liberating.

And then I stepped out of a rare mid-day bubble bath one afternoon and looked in the mirror in a moment of hormone-inspired introspective clarity. (Women, you know those moments.) "What a load of hooey!" I thought (in roughly those terms). "I have simply lowered my expectations of myself, of life. I have given up in defeat, thrown away the dream. I have become the lazy servant with his talent buried firmly in the sand." The thought pattern continued on with a fair amount of ranting and raving and glum expression, but that's pretty much the general theme. A quiet voice in a far corner of my brain reminded me that I had arrived at this path deliberately and under inspiration, but louder arguments drowned it out.

Winnie the Pooh has his favorite "Thotful Spot," a place made for "deciding what to do today." I have my own favorite thoughtful spots, and after a day of ranting and wallowing, I went to one of them. My mind wandered to one of my recurring goals that has impacted my life significantly over the past decade. I exercise religiously, and several days each week my regimen involves weight training. I love feeling strong, and I love the curve of a solid muscle. I thought about how those muscles grow. In simple terms, under the stress of pushing weight, the muscle tissue breaks down. It is in the recovery period (the rest in between sets, the good night of sleep) that the muscle rebuilds and grows.

Uncomfortable as it is to learn to define myself without the measuring stick of goals and accomplishments, this time of recovery is critical, and it will not last. This is a time to build strength and patience, to gather wisdom and grow faith. This is a time to hone insights, to cement good physical and spiritual habits, to nurture relationships. I still have a work to do, mountains to climb, loads to carry. Soon it will be time for the next set of reps, and I will need all of that strength and faith and insight when the time comes. For now, I will breathe, read, smile...and grow.

St. Louis Celebration

Brad at the Jewel Box, Forest Park

Just about 19 years ago, Brad and I drove to Washington, D.C. (or, more accurately, the LDS temple in Kensington, Maryland) to celebrate our marriage with our families and some close friends. We have all added a few wrinkles since that January day. We have also added a few children, a few addresses, a few jobs, a dog, hundreds of sunrises and sunsets, a little rain, and a few spectacular storms.

Butterfly House

In honor of all those years of more sunshine than storm, we decided to run away to St. Louis for the day. After all, we have lived in central Illinois for nearly four years now, and we have never explored what turns out to be a surprisingly charming city. The weather gods blessed us with a January thaw and sun. Consequently, after waving the kids off to school, we jumped in the car and headed south.

We intended to start our adventure at the Butterfly House in Chesterfield but arrived to find the site closed for the month. Feeling quite mellow and adaptable, we shrugged our shoulders, took a picture of a huge stone butterfly, and moved on to downtown St. Louis. More about butterflies next summer...

Mosaic detail

Next stop: the Cathedral Basilica of Saint Louis, with 83,000 square feet of mosaic art created by twenty artists out of 41.5 million tesserae. (Yeah, I had to look that one up. Tesserae are the little squares of stone or glass that go into a mosaic.) Mosaic covers every bit of the massive ceilings and much of the walls, depicting Biblical scenes in the rich tones of over 8000 colors. The beauty of the scene certainly inspires awe, if not worship.

And awe inspires...hunger, apparently. Fortunately, the Cathedral Basilica lies in the heart of the upscale Central West End, close to the trendy restaurants and shops of Euclid Avenue. Hoping to infuse a bit of health into our day of play, we stopped in at OR Smoothie and Cafe for a lunch of organic, vegan yumminess, topped off with a couple of signature smoothies. I confess to stopping for a chocolate filled croissant when our after lunch stroll took us past the St. Louis Bread Company, but the guilt feelings faded quickly as the chocolate oozed over my fingers.

The Jewel Box in Forest Park

Pleasantly full, we turned our attention to nearby Forest Park. As we wound our way through the park, we stopped first at the Jewel Box, a charming Art Deco floral conservancy characterized by its unique cantilevered glass walls. The greenhouse is a popular wedding spot, and even without the colorful gardens that surround the building in warmer seasons, it offers a lovely retreat from city life. We had the flowers to ourselves for a few minutes, and we drank in the rich air of the lush indoor garden.

Little Dancer of 14 Years (Edgar Degas)

After a few turns of the park road, we passed by the St. Louis Zoo (packed with families enjoying a rare warm day in January) and drove up to the Art Museum. Through the feature exhibit, we watched the evolution of the masterpieces of Federico Barocci, then wandered through galleries of Impressionist, Realist, Asian and African art. I finally learned why in the world so many talented artists waste their time painting fruit, and I stood nose to nose with one of Degas' dancers. (The girl had an attitude! My kind of girl...) I even discovered a new addition to my list of favorite paintings: John Martin's "Sadak in Search of the Waters of Oblivion." Art does good things for the soul.

We wound down with a little window shopping in Richmond Heights and stuffed ourselves with a late dinner at Maggianos Little Italy. Good conversation carried us home, and I crawled happily into bed just after midnight. What a glorious day!