Letters from Home – Page 143 – A blog by Angela Ross

Betty Burns

Betty Burns, 2003-05

While we were living in Texas, we adopted local aunts, uncles, and grandparents for our children. One of our favorite adopted grandmothers was Betty Burns. Our friendship began when she was assigned to visit me every month as a visiting teacher. She will always be one of my favorites. She came every month and taught me the gospel and loved our children.

Betty lived in a small apartment and had limited means, but she lived with generosity. She joined our family activities naturally, coming to dinners, lunches, and a road trip. If the kids were a little grumpy, she was there to diffuse the situation with a grandmotherly laugh which taught me not to react in a negative way.

Paige invited Betty to her 8th birthday dinner. We have a video of Betty as Paige opened her handmade gift, an apron with ballerinas printed on the fabric. Baby Timothy pelted her with a balloon and she just laughed at the little boy’s painless attacks.

Baptisms and baby blessings can be lonely when you live far from family and they can’t make the trip to attend. Along with my parents and Rob’s family, Betty and a few other friends came to Paige’s baptism. I felt overwhelmed by support. Betty’s attendance at the baptism sealed her adoption in my heart, along with the other friends who were there.

One January day she invited the kids and me to her apartment to see her decorations. She had been sick during December and hadn’t been able to decorate her house for Christmas, so she decided to do it in January instead. We walked in to a cozy scene with nativities of many kinds everywhere. The festive decorations trailed all the way through her apartment, not just in her living room. She told us stories of where her nativities were purchased and let the kids touch them. I realized that this wasn’t just a casual visit: we were her special guests, invited to celebrate Christmas with her. She presented me with a large box and we opened it to find a beautiful porcelain and gold Nativity from Dillard’s inside. This nativity has a place in our home each year.

Betty was my ally. She cheered me on in my efforts at church and with our children. I have kept all of her notes to me during those years. They are full of encouragement, clothed in thanks. I was in my late twenties and she was in her seventies, and she could move among the roles of mentor and elder to friend and confidant. I needed this nurturing at this time in my life, especially because I was serving as the Relief Society president and had a responsibility to nurture many people in our church congregation. I think she needed our children, and our children needed her. One of their favorite memories of Betty was when Richard took the kids to her apartment to fix her computer. She fed them ice cream at dinnertime, as any good grandmother does.

What did I learn from Betty? I learned generosity in friendship and faithfulness in visiting teaching. I learned that generosity needn’t spring from a healthy bank account. She showed me in endless ways that she cared. I learned that generations need each other. With her laugh and attention to our kids, she influenced me to view them in a more precious way, not being so hasty to correct them. I learned that the important relationship with grandparents can be filled by someone who isn’t related to us.

Thank you, dear Betty.

Winter sights

Snow continues to fall often. Mark’s art on the refrigerator keeps things cheery in the house. When the sun comes out we have dazzling light, reflected off the snow, stream through the house. Today is one of those dazzling days.

Every few days I get a call about someone else that has been hospitalized. Winter has been hard on this neighborhood and my congregation. I feel grateful for health and strength to help, and see real service being rendered by so many people. It is so humbling to have a front row seat to goodness.

Counting

I have a couple of statistics counters on my blog to tell me how many visits I get on the site. My counter tells me that I have a very small handful of faithful readers. I am thankful for each person who reads. If I can be a friend to you through writing, I am glad.

I installed a new counter last week. I didn’t know this would be the outcome, but this counter shows me how many malicious login attempts are made on my blog. In less than a week, there have been hundreds of attempts by computers all over the world. I am shocked. My blog is not a worthy target. I have no economic power, no sponsors, no voice in important circles, and only a few people would notice if someone took down my site or filled it with malicious links. Perhaps this is another illustration of the truth that there are no unimportant people.

Wouldn’t it be interesting/alarming if we had “counters” for all the malicious attempts made toward us by the adversary each day? Would our counters spike high when we turned on the television or computer? Would we see a decrease in malicious intent as we stepped into our churches and temples, served our neighbors, and gathered our families to pray? I think so.

Conversely, wouldn’t it be interesting to have a “counter” for the number of times people were thinking kind thoughts about us, or praying for us, or speaking about us in a positive way? What about a measure for the divine influence around us? I think we would be amazed at the effort, love, protection, and power that surrounds us, especially when we seek it. Good not only outnumbers and outlasts evil, but it is more powerful.

And when the servant of the man of God was risen early, and gone forth, behold, an host compassed the city both with horses and chariots. And his servant said unto him, Alas, my master! how shall we do?

16 And he answered, Fear not: for they that be with us are more than they that be with them.

17 And Elisha prayed, and said, Lord, I pray thee, open his eyes, that he may see. And the Lord opened the eyes of the young man; and he saw: and, behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire round about Elisha.

-2 Kings 6:15-17

Looking back

It’s amazing that out of all the billions of people who had ever lived, no one has had a heartbeat exactly like yours.

In the same way, God has given each of us a unique emotional heartbeat that races when we think about the subjects, activities, or circumstances that interest us. We instinctively care about some things and not about others. These are the clues to where you should be serving.

…Don’t ignore your interests; consider how they might be used for God’s glory. There is a reason that you love those things.

-Rick Warren, “The Clues to Where you Should be Serving,” RickWarren.org, September 26, 2015

Last January my friend Heather shared this quote in a lesson at church about making goals for the New Year. This quote inspired me to make some specific goals according to my interests.

My goal to make dolls was my favorite from last year. It only brought joy…and empathy…and love…and friends.

I realized that writing is a way I can serve. I gave myself permission to write, from little pieces about family and motherhood, to letters and journal entries. I learned that people enjoy a great letter; that sometimes a piece of writing is just the right thing to help someone through a confusing or heartbreaking time. I have loved writing our family stories to share with the kids and Richard.

I focused on music, resolving to always have a piece or two ready to perform on my violin. I wanted to be more prepared for last minute requests to play. I played only two times in public last year, but I was calm and prepared. The extra practice made a difference.

There were other goals, met with varying success, but I learned that our interests ARE an indication of where we can focus our efforts and serve people best. So many New Year’s resolutions are about improving what we can’t do well. Last year I learned to make goals that emphasized my strengths and interests to help others. It was a good year.

They Looked to their Mothers

Our children perform piano pieces in front of judges once or twice a year. I think it makes the piano teachers happy to have some validation for their efforts. I also think that these events push the kids to work harder and achieve a higher level of mastery. I’ve seen my children blossom under pressure and falter under pressure. I experience it with them, whatever the result.

One year at a judging event, I sat in a different place in the audience than I ever had before. Normally the audience faces a profile of the student and if you’re lucky, you can be on the side of the audience where you can watch their fingers fly over the keys. At this school where the judging was taking place, the audience surrounded the piano in a half circle in a choir room. I watched the pianists play through a window created by the raised grand piano lid. Framed by a wooden support and lid, I had a full view of their faces.

I watched many children perform through this new window and I noticed something I hadn’t seen from a profile view. Almost without exception, when a child ended his piece, he looked immediately to his mother.

They looked to their mothers, not the judges, not their peers. I met my two boys’ looks with silent, fervent approval and encouragement to carry them through the long pause while the judges made their notes between pieces. My inaudible support included a pantomime to remind them to breathe. I watched the other parents in their silent motions and expressions do the same.

I’ll always believe that the best honors go to mothers, and it’s not in the usual form of great accolades or certificates. It’s in the form of hastily-crayoned words on a lopsided, handmade heart; it’s being the person the child runs to when in danger, during sickness, or in times of worry; it’s being the person they want to talk to when something goes really well; it’s in their looks of vulnerable hope, framed under the piano lid, hoping to find encouragement. It’s enough for me to see my children look to me in times of trouble or excitement to know how important my job is.

Room transformations

We have transformed a couple of rooms during the past few months. Decorating is hard for me. I need to agonize over things for months, even years before I do something new. The other day when my visiting teachers came over, they were so kind and raved about the changes. Now I have some confidence to share some pictures. A lot of the changes are just rearrangements and repurposing of things we already had.

The living room just off the kitchen has never been very good for accommodating guests and conversation, so we bought a couple of inexpensive sofas, broke up the 3-piece entertainment center into two units, and hung some mirrors over a really scarred wall we were hiding behind the television. The television is no longer the focal point. We have it tucked away behind doors in the corner. This room is a better gathering place now.

Yes, my red rug is very Downton Abbey.

Over the past year our invisible projects with wiring have made some transformations possible in the upstairs bedrooms. Our master bedroom was the summer project.

I am old fashioned and traditional. Period.

We decided it was time to get a larger table in the dining room. Richard and I had an adventure buying it, racing to get the last one left in town. We moved the smaller table downstairs for a school table. Mark was growing out of his little desk.

Phew. This may be silly to post these, but I have learned that I like watching our houses evolve into homes through pictures. This post is for me.

Parenting in the Trenches

Last week we finally celebrated Timothy’s birthday, one month late, with his friends at an arcade. I baked some cupcakes just minutes before his friends arrived. I was thankful for the arcade. It was a redemption from Timothy’s frustration and a compensation for my lack of the fun gene in my DNA.

I had a mouth full of ulcers last week and these cankers were bad enough to put me to bed for about a day. Richard ran to the store for milk. The next day when I was feeling better, I bought milk before checking the refrigerator. When I got home from the store, I discovered that we had a combined total of 11 gallons of milk. Ha!

I received an email from the piano teacher asking me to monitor my child’s piano practice better. I don’t know how I am going to do that.

I gave my gray stocking hat to one of my sons who was sledding with friends. I watched him tuck it into his pocket rather than put it on his head as he walked away from me. Now the hat is missing.

I tried to register Daniel for EFY summer camp only to discover that we had lost and forgotten his passwords to get into the site. I called and waited on hold for an hour, and was scolded by the operator for my attempts to get around my lost password problem. “You shouldn’t have done that. Now it will take more time to fix it.” And later, “Oh, I’ll just register you myself,” she said with a sigh. “Thank you!” I said, genuinely grateful. Exhaustion had set in and I was docile as a lamb.

There was a prescription which took two days to acquire for one of the boys, including a trip to the doctor and 3 trips to the pharmacy. The clerk at the pharmacy was so helpful. I felt like she really understood, and I was so thankful.

We arrived at church separately, as usual, because of meetings, and we couldn’t find one another. Richard saved a place for me and I saved a place for him. We sat apart for a good portion of church before Richard found us.

I was late in renewing the library books again. It’s a good thing I am taking another violin student next month to help fund my forgetfulness. And the books aren’t even that good. They are fact books about Utah.

I took Mark to a book store during a lunch break and the clerk asked me why he wasn’t in school. It seemed odd to me that she was worried about his education. I was buying a stack of books for him! I just smiled and reassured her. In my mind I chanted, “I’m a good parent, I am a good parent, I am a good parent.”

And my definition of a good parent is someone who keeps trying, day after day, through all the challenges…and fun…and adventure.

Our First Teen Party

Our first teen party involving boys and girls took us by surprise one night in early 2015. Daniel asked if he could invite some friends over to play games in an hour. I assumed that Daniel was having another game night with the guys, which happens often enough. Daniel went to parties all the time with boys and girls, but never at our house. I had decided that our house was never going to be a magnet for teens. Among Daniel’s friends, you will find homes with a media room, pool, trampolines, ping pong, and pool tables. We have lots of books and a piano. I thought that ours could be the “bakery house” and I began preparing chocolate chip bar cookies to serve in an hour.

Soon the doorbell rang and in walked a girl with long blonde hair with some pink or purple streaks through it. I was so surprised that I just nodded to her from the sink, speechless until I finally spurted out a little hello as she disappeared down the stairs. Mark and Timothy hurried to me in tandem, eyes wide, and nostrils a little flared. “Who is THAT?” one whispered, clearly amused and looking a little mischievous.

Collecting myself, trying to make it sound like it was no big deal, I said, “That’s just Gamuhmuh (mumbled)… or somebody.” The truth was, I didn’t know this girl that just walked down to our basement with our 15-year-old son. I was unprepared to see girls coming in the house. No way was I ready to go downstairs to introduce myself, but I tried to listen for hints of what was going on. Now and then I heard the girl laugh. Everyone but this girl was a half an hour late to the party. I wondered if anyone else would show up. I was grateful that I had some cookies baking in the oven. This, at least, would be a way that I could naturally enter the conversation as I served cookies later. How could this girl have such an unsettling influence on me? Who was the adult here?

More kids showed up at the door, some familiar, but others strangers to me. My confidence wavered a little as each rang the bell, but I put on a confident face and smiled and waved from the kitchen as their heads disappeared behind the banister as they walked downstairs. When the sounds of male and female laughter continued to drift upstairs, I felt relieved that they were having fun. I began to think that it could be nice having Daniel’s friends over at our house for a change. I prepared the cookies on a plate and invited them to come upstairs.

I tried to remember all the things that make teenagers cringe about their parents. I decided to be the present, but silent type and try not to be one of them. It took me five minutes to fail with that plan in an uncomfortable attempt to joke around with one of the boys. Yes, I reminded myself, I would need to be the present, silent type of parent for sure. As they ate their snacks in the kitchen, I sat in the next room trying to be invisible. We were watching a movie, but all I could focus on was the flirting going on in the kitchen. The memories of my teenage attempts at interaction at game parties came back to me with clarity: I had been just like these kids. My hair had been bigger, but I was the same. And the empathy of the moment caused me some pain and a little amusement. It is hard to be a teenager.

There have been many parties, movie nights, and kids hanging out at our house since then. In the early days, I did bake, but I don’t always do that now. That first night, I learned from Daniel that they loved the baked goods; the girls liked my decorations; the house smelled good. It was a pleasant surprise to see that having a few girls over to the house made Daniel more aware of my efforts in homemaking and entertaining. I basked in the praise and the satisfaction that we can host a fun night for teens at the Ross home.

Louie Stories, 2008

Over several months when Timothy was 5 years old, I told him stories from my own imagination, shared in small installments each night in the dark. Sometimes he would ask me to repeat a story, and this would be a challenge because I didn’t write them down. My stories were about the adventures of a young mouse named Louie. When you are a third child and second son, few things come to you that aren’t hand-me-downs. Louie stories were my original, individualized gift to Timothy each night.

We lay on his pillow together at bedtime and Timothy would say, “Mom, can I have a Louie?” and remind me where we left off in the story the night before. While I spun my stories, Mark nestled in his blankets in the crib at the foot of Timothy’s bed. For those few months, Mark didn’t need me at bedtime and I could give Timothy some one-on-one attention. I avoided cutting my hair at this time because twirling it seemed to be linked to Timothy’s feelings of security at night.

I wrote a synopsis of Louie’s world that year to help me to remember it.

Louie is a young brown mouse living in the middle of a neighborhood in an empty lot. His neighborhood is friendly, with houses all around. Although there are people living around Louie, most of them do not know he is there. He has a few people friends but most things Louie does happen when people aren’t looking. It’s just safer that way. Louie’s best friend is a cat named Jack who lives up the street. Jack is an old orange cat who is too tired to chase mice anymore and often lets Louie ride on his back as Louie looks for adventures around the neighborhood.

In Louie’s world, a Cheerio is a full meal; trash left behind by humans is treasure; friends are those he can trust with the secret whereabouts of his house and family. His mom loves to see that Louie is well fed with interesting meals such as half a grape and a goldfish cracker or a Cheerio with a half an M&M for dessert. Louie’s mom also sees that Louie is tucked in at night and gets his rest.

Louie’s dad goes to the dump each day to forage for the family. Louie often goes along with his dad to the dump to find interesting and useful items to use around the mouse house. They dig into trash bags to find food to eat or lumber for the latest project. Popsicle sticks are an especially helpful find. Transportation to the dump is important, since Louie can’t scurry that far without getting exhausted. It’s a hilly road leading to the dump, and the well-worn roller skate makes for a great ride downhill.

The park is another place that Louie enjoys visiting. He has a possum friend who lives in the park trash can and there is a whole network of tunnels under the park where the park mice have dug nests and dens. Who knows if this is what real mice do? But in our stories, mice like tunneling. Louie visits mice friends named Sam and Rosie in the tunnels and an old, eccentric scientist mouse who keeps a helpful stash of batteries in his den.

Childhood bedtime rituals are as powerful as they are temporary. We both loved the Louie stories, but one night we stopped sharing them. Months went by and when I pondered what to give Timothy for Christmas, I decided to type up the stories and print them out in a book for him. Putting them in writing narrowly reflects the impromptu details and tenderness that accompanied their creation. They are merely echoes of one of the details of mothering, but for the memory of his childhood that that they represent, I am grateful.

The Engagement Ring, 1995

When Richard proposed, he gave me a diamond solitaire. He said that we would reset the diamond in a setting that I chose. I had never thought about wedding rings and the diamond was more than I would have chosen for myself. It was beautiful. One day someone came up to my counter where I was working at the mall and caught me admiring it. I didn’t see them there because I had hypnotized myself with the patterns of light reflecting from the facets of the diamond. When I looked up, startled, the customer just smiled and said something like, “My, what a pretty ring you have.” My face probably became ashen and then crimson within seconds.

Richard and I shopped around at several jewelry stores to see what we wanted. I decided that I wanted a simple wedding band with small diamonds to go with the solitaire. The jeweler that Richard had used was in Salt Lake City, so after we decided what we liked, we needed to travel there to have the setting made.

We left campus on a dreary January day as soon as our classes were over, around noon, to drive to Salt Lake City to make the final arrangements for our wedding rings. We were in Richard’s small red Toyota hatchback. As we drove north, the weather grew worse. Wet, slushy snow was falling and we hit a patch of ice on the freeway. We slid, spinning, from the far right lanes, across the freeway, to land on the far left side, our car facing oncoming traffic. I don’t know how we were so isolated that we didn’t hit anyone and Richard was able to right the car before we were hit. This happened one more time on that trip, with nearly the same spin and the same miraculous result of no harm.

I was young and that feeling of invincibility hadn’t worn off. I knew that we had been in a scary situation, but I didn’t marvel enough at the time how we had been protected.

The day’s adventure continued when we stepped into the jeweler’s shop and selected the setting, a wedding band, and Richard’s ring. The jeweler quickly set my diamond in the new setting while we waited. I had gathered almost all of my savings from the bank and carried it in cash to buy Richard’s ring. When I handed the man the cash, he seemed uncomfortable to handle it and excused himself to try to find some change at the restaurant next door. I didn’t have a credit card and his behavior made me feel foolish and immature, like a little girl who had broken her piggy bank full of pennies and nickels and dumped them on his counter. That wasn’t far from the truth. It was my savings from my childhood. I learned that day that when you’re buying fine jewelry, it’s best to use a credit card.

Richard reassured me that it was okay. He was good at that. As we drove back to Provo, we didn’t have any more trouble with ice. We were one step closer to being married and after my mortification over the cash was over, I could enjoy the new ring on my finger.