Happy Scars

I am building a new crop of scars as I write--a half moon on my inside left calf, with a series of oozing constellations mirrored on both legs. Poison ivy designed the scene, aided and abetted by my eventual inability to resist the overwhelming urge to apply long fingernails to the blisters. I have rarely felt anything as glorious as those brief seconds of relief from the infernal itching! Besides, since I encountered the ivy to begin with in the midst of an absolutely perfect family vacation, I can hardly complain. I scar easily, it seems, and the scars leave a map of my life on my skin, prompting memories, odd snapshots of random moments frozen in time.

Not far from the emerging constellations rests the scar of a small hole in my shin. I was five, running down the street with my friend Jenny in Vermilion, South Dakota. Jenny was my first best friend, and we played together whenever our mothers met for church functions. That day, while our mothers chatted or baked bread or planned some now long-forgotten event, we took Jenny's little sister for a dash in her stroller. The stroller hit a bump, stopped dead, and up in the air I flew, only to land quite precisely on a small, pointy rock. Jenny moved a year or two later, but I think of her now and again and wonder what sidewalks she has jogged since that 1970s summer afternoon.

My ring finger sports a battle scar from a round lost to a small pot of startlingly hot tea water. College summers found me working in some of America's most beautiful vacation spots. I cooked Rocky Mountain oysters for drunken lodge guests near Yellowstone, brewed endless pots of coffee to welcome wealthy fisherfolk to the brilliance of early June mornings in the Alaskan bush, and served tea to the more sedate guests at a Vermont country inn on the lakeshore. Truth be told, I was a rather terrible waitress. Still, I loved the scenery and the people I met. On misty mornings, Brenda and I brewed our own steaming cups of herb tea and settled into Adirondack chairs on the wide porch to contemplate the waves lapping the beach and the splendid freedom of the early blush of adult life.

Other scars tell perfectly mundane stories of trays of chocolate chip cookies placed a little too close to the top rack of the oven or the new (to us) television Brad and I carried up a flight of stairs. Only a few scars, like the white cross on my forehead, bring the memory of pain. The rest remind me of a rich life filled with the laughter of family game nights, breathtaking discoveries of beauty, and the warmth of friendships. I thank God for the sweet memories, made all the sweeter by lessons of the white cross.

Backward Glancing

The upcoming weekend finds me traveling back to Vermont for the first time since we moved to the Midwest two years ago. My somewhat nomadic lifestyle left me in Vermont far longer than any other place I have called "home" over the years. I left readily; Lot's wife and I have little in common. And yet, the thought of New England air sends me looking back fondly.

I picture rolling green hills and lakes clean enough for swimming. I feel the magnetic pull of the stretch of meadow at Fays Corner in Richmond and the early morning mist over Lake Champlain. My feet itch for a walk along Burlington's Church Street, past the usual crowd of 21st century New England hippies. We will have just missed the Jazz Festival on the waterfront, but perhaps we can stop by the Ben & Jerry's scoop shop for a double scoop of Chocolate Fudge Brownie and Cherry Garcia (frozen yogurt if I feel like being healthy, ice cream if I feel like walking on the wild side).

I find myself picturing favorite spots with layers of memories. For instance, I remember shopping on Church Street 25 years ago. I was a young college student, playing my way through the summer as the maitre d' at a country inn on North Hero Island. With a day off and my roommate's car, I drove in to Burlington to soak up the summer crowds along the cobblestone street of the marketplace.

Seven years later, I returned to Church Street. I bypassed What Ale's You and the Skirack this time in favor of street vendors and the Discovery Channel Store. Along with my two-year-old son, we embraced life with gusto. Devin turned heads with his blond curls, his movie star sunglasses, and a heart-stopping smile. We paused to climb every boulder between the Unitarian Church at the head of Church Street to Sweetwater's Restaurant near the bottom.

Over the next eighteen years, we returned to the cobblestones on frigid New Year's Eves for the annual First Night Dancing Dragons Parade, on humid summer afternoons for Italian sausage from Bookie's street cart, and occasionally for sumptuous desserts at Leunig's Bistro.

I miss the feel of Vermont, from the taste of the air on the first full-blown summer day in June to the unapologetically tree-hugging politics. I miss the bluntness of native Vermonters (although one has to search harder and harder to find them these days) and the eccentricities of my fellow church members there. I miss the music, from Mozart on the shores of Lake Champlain to the hot summer day we spent at the Vermont Reggae Festival in a rolling meadow up north. I dream of a day beginning on the Sunset Ridge trail on Mount Mansfield and ending in the charm of a tiny theatre in Waitsfield.

July will find me once again contentedly roaring past endless cornfields on the motorcycle and anticipating the glory of Friday night football underneath the lights. For this slice of early summer, however, my heart returns to an earlier home.

Of Lofty Quests and Stubbed Toes

I have been musing lately about truth. More specifically, I have been musing about the search for truth and the powerful effect that search can have on an individual. I love "light bulb moments," those epiphanies that alter my perspective in significant ways. Those moments have, at times, carried me through dark hours or shaped the course of my thoughts for years. As much as I love epiphanies, however, I recognize that the process leading up to that "aha" lends perhaps more power to my life than the moment itself.

Joseph Smith once said "by proving contraries, truth is made manifest." He spoke in the context of addressing spiritual concerns, although I think the concept applies outside the realm of religion, as well. We occasionally come upon pieces of doctrine (or, perhaps, scientific or sociological evidence) that seem to conflict, either with each other or with our own understanding. As we work through the sometimes long and arduous process of resolving those conflicts, we reach insights about the world around us and, more importantly, about ourselves. Eventually, if we stay with the process to completion, we break out into wonderful vistas of truth. The view is spectacular, but there is no shortcut. Without the climb that preceded it, the mountaintop experience would lack power.

When not grappling with issues of eternal import, I often exercise. (Actually, come to think of it, philosophy and exercise complement each other nicely, but that's a topic for another time.) I set goals for myself to decrease my minutes per mile or increase the weight I push. Anyone dedicated to exercise recognizes the necessity of goals. However, the health benefit does not come when we reach our goal. That 6-minute mile or 400-pound bench press (my husband's goal, not mine) is relatively immaterial, except insofar as it motivates us forward. But the process leading up to that milestone yields incredible health benefits.

I stop short of putting eternal or scientific truth in the same category as an exercise goal. Truth in and of itself ennobles us as individuals and as a society. However, the process of arriving at the truth can prove equally life-changing. A genuine desire for truth, combined with a commitment to stick with the process to its completion, no matter what obstacles arise, builds us brick upon brick.

Eighteen years ago, I found myself unexpectedly in love. I was a young widow, blessed not only with a second chance but also with the assurance (rare, I think) that marrying Brad was the right choice for me. Still, as a lifelong follower of a religion that holds eternal marriage as a central belief, I now faced a dilemma both doctrinal and extremely personal. I had married once in the faith already, a marriage decreed eternal. I now prepared to marry for a second time. I had several options, each with its own degree of pain and each carrying the necessity of faith.

I weighed the options, studied them out. I fasted, prayed, knelt at the gates of heaven and pleaded for understanding. I talked with Brad, with my ecclesiastical leaders. Over a period of months, I gained the understanding I needed. I made my choice and felt peace.

God could have given me the answer at the beginning. Ironically, in fact, He did just that, but having not yet wrestled with the question I was not at that point ready to accept the answer. During the ensuing months of studying and pondering I learned much about eternity, about the blessings God rains down upon His children, and about my own relationship with my Heavenly Father. Brad and I grew closer together, strengthened through the struggle.

I will always love the "aha" moments, the view from the mountaintop. But I treasure the lessons of the climb, lessons paid for with sweat and aching muscles and toes stubbed from stumbling along in the dark.

Christmas Eve 1954

I have decided to write a biography of my grandmother, Florence. What follows will likely become the Epilogue of the book (or perhaps the Prologue). I did not write this piece, but for me it embodies so much of what I am learning about my grandmother.

The author of today's guest post is my mother, Kristine, a rather amazing woman in her own right.

Christmas Eve 1953

"We're inviting a new couple in the neighborhood over for Christmas Eve, and we told them to have something for the program." These words in a letter from my brother a few years ago reminded me just what  Christmas Eve had come to mean to our family, and it brought back memories, too, of the influence behind those evenings.

Mother decided long ago that Christmas Day should be enjoyable and relaxing for her as well as the rest of us. So the traditional Christmas dinner with all its time-consuming work went out, to be replaced by what we simply called "Christmas Eve." Preparations actually began the day after Thanksgiving when the fruitcakes were baked and set in the basement to age. The week before Christmas, Dad made root beer and we kids capped the bottles. Candy was made somewhere along the way, and on the afternoon of Christmas Eve the ham went in the oven. After the traditional service at the church, we came back to the house along with relatives and one or two other families whom the folks always invited. After the meal came the impromptu program. I managed a piano solo. There would be poems, songs, maybe a story or two, and my slightly wacky aunt and uncle would always come up with something that would leave our sides aching from laughter. We ended with Christmas carols, and I was sure each year as I went to bed that it had been absolutely the best Christmas Eve ever.

Florence and Kristine

I suppose the one that I'll always particularly remember is the Christmas Eve of 1954, simply because we did spend it just as we had spent all the others. In May of that year Mother went into surgery for what proved to be a malignant brain tumor. The doctors took out what they could, but they couldn't get it all. For a few months after the operation she was much the same as she had always been. By the time school started, though, her arm and leg were becoming paralyzed--a consequence of the growing tumor--and she was spending most of her time in bed. Mother knew, of course, what was happening, though she never said much about it.

She called me to her room one afternoon in early November. She had just ordered Dad an electric shaver for Christmas. The store would call sometime in December, she said, and I was to go down and pick it up. She had asked Dad to get a record player for two of the younger kids, but since, as she said, he had a tendency to be a little forgetful, I was to remind him about it.

Two days before Thanksgiving she went into a coma, and four days later she died.

A day or so after the funeral, one of my brothers asked Dad if we would have Christmas Eve like always. Dad said we would. I personally thought he was out of his mind but went along with the plans anyway. Someone had made the fruitcakes, probably one of my aunts. Dad helped us with the root beer, and the ham was bought. The afternoon of Christmas Eve I got a call asking if we still wanted the electric shaver. I had completely forgotten about it. Dad had done a little better and remembered the record player.

Christmas Eve was more subdued that year, but it was lovely. There was a void, of course, but also an extra closeness that I don't think we've had any other time. We had only relatives that year, but people were dropping by all evening just to leave "a little something" for the kids. The living room was overflowing, and we were all a little overwhelmed. We'd finished singing carols and everyone had gone home, when I noticed a huge package in back of the tree and asked Dad who "that monstrosity" was for. He just laughed, but next morning a note was taped to the package saying, "Kris, this monstrosity is for you." Mother, remembering that I would be leaving for college the next fall, had told Dad to get me some luggage. She had seen that we were all taken care of. I don't remember what everyone got, but my sister and I still have pillowcases with tatted edges that she had asked a lady in town to do.

We've all left home now, and it's rare that we get together at Christmas time. But "Christmas Eve" still happens in our individual homes. There are variations: my brother and his family go out Christmas caroling--a tradition from his wife's family--and I've given up on fruitcakes which none of my family likes and now bake Christmas cookies which I don't like. We all, though, make it a point to invite someone over, just as Mother always did.

The Christmas of 1954 will always stand out in my mind, and the memory of what Mother did for us that year gives special meaning to the scripture: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these...ye have done it unto me."

The Gardener

For me, the most powerful image of Easter is an intimate garden scene. The crosses that towered on Golgotha under threatening skies two days before stand empty now, though the memory of blood and agony casts a shadow over flowers opening in the early morning sun. Mary stands outside the empty tomb, weeping, puzzled at the words of the angels, who proclaim, "He is risen." Her hands, carrying spices to anoint the body of her master, fall useless to her side. She does not understand, can only wonder while she lets the tears flow.

Turning, she sees a man standing before her. Perhaps tears cloud her vision. In her distraction, she sees only a gardener. "Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away."

"Mary."

Just one word turns anguish to joy, despair to hope. For Mary, for the world, light has pierced the darkness. No angel choirs herald the event. No cheering crowds shout hosannas. One woman kneels at the Savior's feet in awe and joy and whispers, "Rabboni."

I have not touched the scars on those feet, and I can scarcely imagine the tenderness of the exchange on that resurrection morning. And yet, I have sometimes felt the Savior call my name, His voice gently wiping away the tears and doubt. I have had no visions on the road to Damascus, just a multitude of answered prayers, of unexpected rainbows and slightly dusty angels bringing "I love you" notes from the master gardener.

No More Waiting

After three days of casually glancing out my front window at the mailbox every few minutes, I opened the mailbox this afternoon to find a beautiful white envelope addressed to Elder Devin. There followed a chaotic quarter of an hour devoted to setting up a conference call among Devin in Utah, those of us at home, Dad at work and little brother at his playdate.

The verdict? San Antonio, Texas mission, reporting July 27th. Devin will be the third generation of Texas missionaries in the family. Now the fun begins!

Waiting for the Call

My son called yesterday to say that his mission call is in the mail. In a few short days, a white envelope will arrive to tell us where Devin will spend the next two years of his life. I will, of course, resist the powerful temptation to steam open the envelope, only to fake surprise later when we open the call together as a family. The transformative process leading up to this mission call has been powerful, and this is Devin's door to open.

In a way, I envy my son the certainty of a calling. It has been some time since I could claim any certainty about my "mission in life." When hiking, I relish the opportunity to wander aimlessly for a while, admiring the flowers and the view along the way. In life, however, aimless wandering soon leaves me restless, searching for the magnetic pull of a purpose. Amory Blaine, whose coming of age Fitzgerald chronicles in This Side of Paradise, reaches the far side of a period of disillusionment to discover a general sense of his purpose. The narrator explains:

"He found something that he wanted, had always wanted and would always want--not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved, as he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable."

I learned long ago that no one is indispensable. However, that desire to be necessary resonates with me. For me, the need goes a bit further. I want to be necessary to people, but also to God. I crave the feeling that the universe somehow needs me. I like the idea of the interconnectedness of life. For instance, it's pretty nifty that for one in every five breaths I take I owe a debt of gratitude to Prochlorococcus, an oceanic microbe that no one even knew existed until 1986. More powerful is the philosophy that all human experience is intertwined: the present linked to the past and the future, individual lives all dependent on the weaving that binds disparate threads into complex patterns.

Still, demanding soul that I am, I want more. I want to know specifically how I can lift my corner of the universe. Long ago, I pledged to consecrate all that I am and have to God. It's a lofty pledge, noble...and sometimes rather vague. I find myself looking for a blueprint. Even a scrap of paper with a quick note will do, like the ones I tack on the fridge for my own children. "Dear daughter, I need you to spiff up that tiny spot in the corner over there. Use that cleaning bucket of talents I gave you--the blue one this time--and make it sparkle."

For whatever reason, God seems generally loath to hand out the task and the tools at the same time. Either he gives us a task and leaves us to figure out a plan of attack, or he helps us find our set of tools and talents and then leaves us to figure out a use for them.

Today I pondered this notion of consecration. I have found that when I give in to impatience and try to design my own calling, I invariably spin my wheels. I gain greater traction when I throw my effort into finding and developing my talents, sharpening the tools. If I listen hard and exercise what little patience I possess, eventually something nudges me down the right path. Perhaps the trick to consecration, then, sometimes rests in consecrating the desire to serve. Perhaps if I do that and stop obsessively checking my cosmic mailbox every day for a call, I will in time find myself serving in meaningful ways.