These pictures came to me gradually over the week that Mark was gone. It was a fun to see how far he traveled each day. He said he really, really loved Mount Rushmore and many other things on his trip with his cousins and grandparents.
I know Mark will always remember this trip and love his grandparents for the time they took to get to know him better as they traveled. It’s really a priceless gift.
Mark is on a trip to Mt Rushmore with two cousins and his grandparents. Richard and the boys are on a high adventure trip. Paige is at work. I am alone for more than 45 minutes for the first time in years.
What?
Please don’t ask me to account for how I spend this time. I make no promises of productivity.
We celebrated Father’s Day for Richard a week late, since we were fleeing Arizona last Sunday. This illustration Paige created on the card from the kids makes me happy.
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.
We had a picnic in the mountains with Richard’s family. We visited our neighbors in Sahuarita, surprised Paige’s dance teacher, and walked around the desert museum. We saw our old house. We toured the Tucson Temple with Maria and her family. And then we came home. Phew!
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.
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.