Category: Life according to Angela

I am not who you see at family gatherings

Image from Pinterest, unknown artist.

We live life on many levels. I feel very good about my inner life, where my thoughts and ideas and study have a home. My outward life is good, too. With neighbors, I am outgoing and try to be thoughtful and friendly. Among extended family, however, I usually draw inward. I feel my loss of integrity at family gatherings with guilt and surprise. Again and again, I wonder how I can feel so “together” about my life until I need to interact with relatives.

I disengage because there is a smaller chance of me messing up or facing assessment. I need to stop being afraid of what others think and say. It robs me of myself and better family relationships.

A favorite great-aunt continues to be my ideal for how to interact at family gatherings. Recently, I went over her patterns of behavior and realized she made brief, beautiful appearances and then retreated. She was often late, seeming to operate in her own time table. She brought expensive bakery goods to contribute. She had her place: she was the sparkle. She probably felt the pressure of her role very deeply. Was she late because it took a lot of effort to face us, with gifts, clothes, and food, perfectly arranged?  Her effusive compliments were a part of her script for a few hours and then she was gone. When she stayed for a few days instead of a few hours, she took time away from family to take walks and read. Clearly she had a need for personal time. I admire how she handled the high-intensity dynamics of a family gathering. She chose to turn outward, and this takes so much courage. She was kind and outgoing without compromising her need for solitude. I want to be like this.

Receive every offer, idea, and contribution with gratitude and grace. Greet warmly. Accept invitations with excitement. Express gratitude freely. Encourage and admire openly. Read another time. Celebrate individuality. Remember we are all children of the Most High and have a need to be loved.

Know Who You Are

The young women and their leaders in my congregation are at girls’ camp this week. Their camp theme is “Know who you are,” which I didn’t realize was a Moana thing until after I made this display for them. As I compiled these quotes, I saw that the scriptures have a whole lot more to say about who Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are than who we are. This is another religious paradox: we don’t learn who we are by focusing on ourselves. Instead, a knowledge of God is essential to know who we are and who we can become.

Some of what I found in my study isn’t popular. I felt myself having to draw some courage to write one of the quotes. This message from Sister Bonnie Oscarson, General Young Women president, helped me:

I worry that we live in such an atmosphere of avoiding offense that we sometimes altogether avoid teaching correct principles. We fail to teach our young women that preparing to be a mother is of utmost importance because we don’t want to offend those who aren’t married or those who can’t have children, or to be seen as stifling future choices. On the other hand, we may also fail to emphasize the importance of education because we don’t want to send the message that it is more important than marriage. We avoid declaring that our Heavenly Father defines marriage as being between a man and woman because we don’t want to offend those who experience same-sex attraction. And we may find it uncomfortable to discuss gender issues or healthy sexuality.

Certainly, sisters, we need to use sensitivity, but let us also use our common sense and our understanding of the plan of salvation to be bold and straightforward when it comes to teaching our children and youth the essential gospel principles they must understand to navigate the world in which they live. If we don’t teach our children and youth true doctrine—and teach it clearly—the world will teach them Satan’s lies.

Offering

I have watched children place offerings on teachers’ desks: smudged notes of thanks, treats, and drawings. They hope that their teachers will be pleased. I have placed my attempts to write, make calculations, balance reactions, and identify terms and anatomy on many desks. I always hoped I would get an A.

Other offerings I collect for a different Teacher. I place before him my poor attempt to give food to a young homeless person. She didn’t want the food I handed her, and she asked for cash to buy organic food instead. “My body is a temple. I don’t eat crappy food,” she said with defiance, pointing to her cavernous waist. When I tried to talk to her, she turned her back on me and said, “You can’t help me. Go on and have a nice day.” Unsure, I left her without speaking again, the cash (Can I truly call it mine?) still in my purse, and the food still in my hand. Was it judgment based on a substance on her breath that made me leave? Was it her challenge to my motives and level of charity? Was it because I had my family with me that I felt enough courage to approach her? Did she read fear or judgment in my eyes? Was my attempt really more like the priest’s and Levite’s, even though I didn’t physically cross to the other side of the road to avoid her?

This was a mangled offering, bruised and imperfect. I didn’t feed her. She was right. As I am now, and as she is now, I can’t help her. Somehow, my efforts made her hate me. There are no grades given in efforts like this. Instead, I must wait to see what my teacher will make from my attempt.

As I allow his lessons from this event to rest in me, I feel tender, aware of my shortcomings, and awakened to more suffering in others. Maybe this new heart and the memory of her eyes will help me navigate better next time. Extending the parable, how many times did the Good Samaritan try to help people before he was successful? Was his process to become a selfless servant just as awkward as mine?

He had a good teacher, that is certain– one who could make him just what a fellow traveler needed him to be. I will keep laying my imperfect offerings at the feet of this teacher, and depend on his grace to make me equal to lifting my own wounded stranger. I want that, even if I never know I have done it.

Cherry Tree

Outside my kitchen window, in my neighbor’s yard is a large, mature cherry tree. In the spring, its white blossoms dominate my view. After a foggy winter night, I will awaken to its bare branches swathed in white frost. After the hush of a snowstorm, every twig carries a deposit of snow, highlighting the intricacy of its design. In summer, the filtered light through its leaves at sunrise and bright red cherries are my delights. In autumn, its leaves are some of the last to fall among the trees in the neighborhood.

Today there are green cherries all over the tree. In my view of so much emerald green, my mind struggles to remember the more harsh views of winter. My memory feels feeble and ungrateful as I try to remember what it was like to look out the window just a few months ago. Winter is beautiful, but when the leaves are out, it’s hard to remember that there was a winter.

I drive my truck around the neighborhood, with several simple birthday gifts for Relief Society sisters on the seat next to me. I could easily walk this route, but I want to finish my errands quickly. The more noble part of me wants to knock on the doors to give the women the carefully wrapped gifts and cards written with my heart. The shy part of me wonders whether I should just leave the gifts on the doorsteps and avoid knocking. After all, this week’s demands have been great. Perhaps I have given enough. But then I remember the tree outside my window.

How many times has this tree blessed my life? How many times has it provided fruit and shade in the summer? How many cold seasons has it weathered, to live to amaze us with its unrestrained display of white flowers? How many times has its presence been enough to inspire me, in frost, in heat, sunshine, and storms?

I knock on the doors. I can be like this tree.

Worth the time?

A pretty house near Weber State campus that I saw on my walk during Daniel’s SAT exam.

What is the value of a minute in a day? Some of the most important words and acts in our lives take less than a minute to accomplish. What is the value of a few more minutes, consistently given each day to a cause or a goal? An hour devoted to something every day adds up quickly to a good measure of who we are and what we accomplish.

This way of looking at time opens my mind to so many possibilities. Even if I can only give 10 minutes a day to something, over a week, that is better than not trying because I think 10 minutes isn’t enough.

We become who we are by the things we do. Our faith, fears, weaknesses, responsibilities, obligations, and bodies compete for attention as we make decisions about our time. I have learned the value of down time, of play time, and time for serious study and effort. I have also learned the value of morning hours for accomplishing big things.

I have given a lot of faith and time to allow people into our lives on this blog. Maybe it’s just entertainment to people, and not a means of feeling connected, as it is for me. As the years go by, there is less about the kids and more about me in the posts. They need their privacy as they grow up. I don’t blame anyone for giving up reading. I don’t need much attention, but I want to do something that matters to someone beyond myself. I am beginning to feel writing this blog is not worth the time it takes to do it. This post has taken an hour, interrupted by a conversation with Mark and some morning tasks. A really “good” post takes a few hours. Surely more things could have been accomplished if I hadn’t done this, but it’s not without value to me personally.

You get a car… and you get a car!

We learned very quickly that having four drivers, three jobs, and three schools was a real challenge in logistics for our family, so we bought another car. It’s like an episode of Oprah here. Not that I really watched that, but you know what I mean.

Richard finished work on our PUP trailer (notice my lingo) this weekend.

I re-shelved the school books on Friday through teary eyes. I will face the clean-out of elementary school books someday.

Daniel and Timothy have a penchant for finding funny YouTube videos to show our family, especially at bedtime when we all need to be doing other things.

Paige, the sous chef, is back and I love the company in the kitchen. Mark still excels at muffins and other breads. Timothy, growing tall rapidly, lingers at the stove each night, watching things simmer, pitifully hungry, asking when dinner will be served.

Timothy pines for a smart phone and refuses to carry his dumb/non-smart phone. No problem; every other human has one he can use to call home. Slight problem: we can’t get a hold of him. Timothy has always been very smart and determined. He will probably win soon. Don’t tell him that.

I am in the middle of reading 5 books again. I find this is the magic number of what I can’t handle. I look at the stack, can’t decide what to read, throw my hands in the air, and take a nap instead.

Memorial Day weekend was simply the most beautiful and perfect I have ever enjoyed. The weather, the neighbors’ yards, the flags at every house in sight, the memories, the neighbors’ children and grandchildren playing in the cul-de-sac, and good food made it wonderful. I spent an afternoon reading and napping beneath our trees. I love how our neighborhood comes alive this time of year.

Things I loved about last week:

  • going out for pizza with Mark and Paige
  • watching BBC’s War and Peace
  • discovering the Great British Baking show master classes
  • giving some time for a stranger and making a new friend
  • driving in a clean car
  • having a clean mud room and school room
  • helping my boys assemble furniture
  • planning adventures this summer

 

Favorite Things

Last week for a Relief Society activity, we did a modest gift exchange, keeping our purchases around $5. The gift was supposed to represent some of our favorite things. For the gift I brought, I included an extra fine point pen, some Jelly Bellies and some lipstick. Into the bag also went this paper with a few favorite scripture verses. I ran out of room before I could do much from the Bible. Trust me, there are lots of favorite Bible verses in my life.

Perspective

Perspective is almost impossible to have without stepping back and allowing light, space, and sometimes time to give us necessary wisdom.

Mark plays a console game on our television after his school and piano work are finished. It is a 30-minute reward for his efforts. He doesn’t sit as he plays; he jumps and dodges on one spot of rug, mimicking the moves of the game. The inexpensive rug in the room is starting to show wear on his spot. Exasperated, one day, I pushed my laundry baskets over the area and asked him to play on a different square of carpet. Days later, as I vacuumed over and over the spot, trying to pull up the fibers of the rug so they wouldn’t look so matted, I realized that I was being ridiculous. If Mark were to no longer be part of our life, I would treasure that square of rug because it was his spot. I would be sad that I had been more concerned about the rug than him enjoying his reward for hard work. No more complaining about the rug.

I have on loan two books which commemorate 25 years of our neighborhood church history. On its pages I see the portraits of my friends when they still had their children living at home. I read the accounts of their service in the church, doing the work I do now. Younger, more vibrant faces shine up at me from the pages, showing my now elderly neighbors in their days of deep service in the Church and the community. We are living the same story, 10, 20, 30 and 40 years behind our friends. I see ourselves in our friends’ faces in the book, taking our turn to serve with the youth and Relief Society. We will keep changing responsibilities, just as they did, and find ourselves back in Primary or Sunday School, and perhaps back again. What do my friends in this book teach me? That these days are fleeting. They are the adventures we will look back on for years to come. The stretching we feel now can help us grow to be a little more wise and kind– a little more like our friends.

I am tenderhearted this week as I finish the end of an era of teaching home school. The books on the shelf have served  their purpose. What will I do with them now? I am not ready to give many of them away. They are a monument to how we have spent our days together. I gained a bit of perspective recently as I mourned this loss. I realized that what I have given my children, and the bond we have because of it, will not be taken away, even though circumstances change. As I step away from the books, papers, projects, and especially precious time together, I begin to see the fruits: our relationships and abilities rise up and take their place. I am so thankful for these years.

Snowy morning, a Great Explore, and a Pilgrimage

The sounds of rain stopped sometime after 4:30 am and several inches of snow, silent in its descent, fell on our new plants and young tree foliage. The Sistine Chapel blue of the sky reveals itself between the retracting clouds, and I can hear the thaw begin. Clumps of snow fall from tall branches and the roof releases the water held in crystals, water vapor rising, and liquid water falling, adding to the chorus of dripping water sounds that I hear when I step outside for a photo. There are several accidents on the roads on the way to work and school. The roads aren’t slick, but the snow seems to have shifted capacity for patience or reaction time. Mark may never forgive Nature if the snow is here for his birthday tomorrow. Richard carefully applies the blow drier to his new tomatoes to release them from the weight of snow. I stop at the store and pick up a movie, War and Peace to put on while I fold laundry this afternoon. Richard leaves a little later for work after his garden resuscitation effort.

Earlier this week my sister stopped by after a dentist visit with her children. Excused from public school and home school for a few hours, the children went on an “explore” through the neighborhood without their mothers noticing. Worthy of anything written in a Winnie the Pooh book, the children and baby left the backyard in search of Mark’s favorite hill. I should come with a warning: If you get into a deep conversation with me, you are likely to get lost driving (accidentally drive to Wyoming instead of the family cabin, ’06), burn your dinner (bread caught on fire in the oven, ’04), or lose your children for a while (the great explore of ’17).

We reserved our tickets to the Tucson Temple open House in June. I am so excited about it that I told my sister about it twice while she was here. We will see old friends and take a trip to the Desert Museum; we will eat at La Placita and take a drive to our old haunts. My heart will ache when we drive by our old house which sheltered precious childhood years. We will try to glimpse into the backyard full of lizards and the brick retaining wall that little feet ran across every day. I will be too warm there, but I am grateful to visit the place I was so anxious to leave and give it the proper thanks for all it was to us.

Did I mention we are going to Tucson in June?