I can tell what my boys have been up to when I walk into the room based on what they leave behind. This morning’s clutter trail included two Bibles that they read independently before setting out on their adventures. All clutter was forgiven immediately.
Refinishing the Piano, 1998
A recurring theme in my journal from my years of marriage is my desire to be accepted by my mother-in-law. She has been welcoming and generous to me, but any suggestion she has made has sunk deep into my soul.
“You should refinish that piano,” she said, when she saw the piano in our apartment in Provo, just months after Richard and I were married. She told me about her experiences refinishing pianos and other pieces of furniture. My mother-in-law’s laundry room was full of paints, stains, chemicals, and potions for the application and removal of anything.
The piano was a nearly 100-year-old Kimball, tall and heavy, that my dad acquired when I was a teenager. For many years, my dad loaned it to families in the neighborhood so their children could have an instrument. When I was married, the piano came to me.
It had a deep cherry stain but no piano bench. Years of sitting in homes without a bench left it with some chips in the finish below the fingerboard where chairs had been pushed against it. Richard’s mother gave us the piano bench that Richard made for her in high school and pushed it beneath the keys.
On a later visit, Richard’s mother showed me how to take apart the piano in a further effort to convince me to refinish it. My over-active self-doubt and desire to please her haunted me as we finished college in that apartment. I had no time to refinish a piano, but its chipped surface and the idea that I should fix it really bothered me. We had our baby shortly after I graduated from BYU, and now I really felt I had no time to refinish a piano with an infant to care for and Richard finishing a graduate degree and working in a lab.
We moved to Texas in 1997 and Richard began the first job of his career at National Instruments. I felt the stretch of motherhood at this time pretty fully. I had had my first exposure to the antics of a 15-18-month-old during that first year in Texas, far from family and among uninitiated friends. It’s been true for most of my children: at age 15 months, they begin whining, become more demanding, and make a lot of trouble for the next several months.
In my frustration, I turned to religious music. I took Paige on walks and blew lots of bubbles and built block towers, but she was still whiny and destructive. I decided that having only one focus (my baby) wasn’t working. I decided to refinish that piano.
The hardware store had low-fume chemicals to begin the process of taking off the finish. I decided not to worry about the mess and the fact that I had a toddler to entertain. The winter Olympics were on and I spent days with the television turned to winter sports as I worked during Paige’s naps and beyond. As I focused on scraping the old finish from the wood, she learned to entertain herself. She liked playing on the piano and seeing what it looked like inside. The sliding door of our apartment was always open that winter during the project to vent out the fumes. I grew to love a warm Texas winter.
Next time you see a piano, take some time to study it. There are so many pieces. Some you can remove. Others you can’t. Count the crevices and indentations. This project took me a long time. For months, we had a partially dismantled, partially bare wood piano. I can still hear the sickening slap of the brush applying the noxious chemical stripper to the wood. I can remember the bubbling of the stain as the chemicals seeped in. I wore long rubber gloves as I scraped the red finish off with a putty knife and collected the bacon-like strips of the old stuff in my hands. Bag after bag of soggy, orange-red paint and stain exited our apartment during those months. When Richard left for a week-long Scout camp in Tennessee that summer, I spent the nights pushing myself to finish the project. When he walked in the door a week later, the piano was finished; no longer cherry red, and showing a beautiful wood grain.
The refinished piano moved with us three times, to a house in Texas, a house in Arizona, and another house in Arizona. After we bought a grand piano in 2007, we sent the old Kimball to my sister Susan. I tried to plant a seed as I said to her, “Make some kind of improvement on it before you pass it on. Perhaps you could start by replacing the covers on those chipped keys.” I am not sure if my words haunt her, but I know she will be glad if she makes a couple of improvements to it.
In the end, I didn’t refinish the piano to please my mother-in-law. In fact, I don’t remember what she said when she saw that I had done it! I refinished the piano for myself. I have my mother-in-law to thank for the idea and some guidance. I learned a skill and a life lesson: be creative. Always be building or making something. Don’t give yourself to your family so much that you forget to create. Perhaps she wanted to teach me the satisfaction of such a project. I am a better mother and wife when I have something to work on outside of childcare and house work.
One day this month, Richard took our boys to Fish Creek for a hike. They met up with Richard’s dad, brother, sister, and their families. I can’t narrate because I wasn’t there (my toe isn’t ready for 7 1/2 mile hikes), but the pictures tell a good story.
I am quilting again. I made the pink fish for this quilt that we made for a new baby in our ward. It was my first paper piecing project and I enjoyed it more than I can say, especially when I saw that my square could be used in the quilt. I once made a quilt block for a group project in school and it was rejected for use in the final quilt. The teacher used my square to teach the class “how not to make a quilt square.” I wish I still had it. I would probably frame it, a symbol of how far I have come since then.
“Some people aren’t meant to be quilters,” I remember my teacher saying to the whole class as she held it up. Ha!
*I accidentally pushed “publish” before this essay was ready. Perhaps you read one of my early drafts that I published by mistake. I have made a lot of changes over the past day.
As the seasons change, I realize that we have just a little over 1/3 of the year left. How am I doing on my 2015 goals? I am trying to make an honest assessment of myself while still being gentle.
There were some lofty goals I set for myself in January, to try to be an author, a doll maker, increase my New Testament scholarship, be physically fit, and practice the violin almost every day. In January and through the spring, I had the time to do these things.
As I look back over the summer, I can observe my big goals fizzled out, one by one, along the way. I was asked to do different, more complex things at church. I broke my toe. My computer died. I couldn’t walk, write, or find time to practice. I clung tightly to my scripture goals and made a few dolls this summer, but gave up many other goals. This is my surface assessment of what has happened. If I look more deeply, I can see that I exceeded my writing goal for the year before summer hit. I can see that since having more responsibility from church, my hours feel like they have been expanded. I have been able to accomplish more, even if they are different things than I planned in January.
I’m learning that the version of myself that I wanted to be in January 2015 was good, but maybe the Lord has something different in mind for me. My goals were good because they prepared me for something I couldn’t expect. Through all that writing about motherhood, I was prepared to nurture young mothers, remembering how challenging their days are. I grew closer to my family as I took time to write about them. My testimony of motherhood and family grew. Through my scripture study goals, I have learned many things I want to share with others.
Questions I ask myself as I partake of the sacrament lately revolve around the theme, “How can I do all that I need to do?” The answers have come. Sometimes the answer is to do less. Sometimes the answer is to do more by making better use of little minutes between things. Always the answer is to eat and sleep, and to not neglect my family. One answer came in the scriptures in Deuteronomy 30:
11 ¶For this commandment which I command thee this day, it is not hidden from thee, neither is it far off. (The footnote says: not hidden from thee=not too hard for you)
12 It is not in heaven, that thou shouldest say, Who shall go up for us to heaven, and bring it unto us, that we may hear it, and do it?
13 Neither is it beyond the sea, that thou shouldest say, Who shall go over the sea for us, and bring it unto us, that we may hear it, and do it?
14 But the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that thou mayest do it.
With this passage of scripture the Lord told me, “This is not too hard for you. I am with you, so you can do this. The words are in your mouth as they are needed; the word is in your heart that you may do it.”
These words apply to all of us. It’s not too hard for you. It’s not too hard for me. The Lord is near and makes a way for us to pass through.
We tubed, we danced, we ate. We played, we talked, we rested. The cousins are growing up together and it’s pretty entertaining. Daniel didn’t have anyone his age to talk to, so he ferried cousins in the canoe and gave scooter pushes. Learning how to interact with people of all ages is an important skill you learn in a family. It was a nice Saturday retreat at the Weber.
The stroller
Spring of 1998 was the first time I watched the Texas bluebonnets bloom along the roadways. We were building a new house. I had time to do projects and I spent some of that time sewing clothing for one-year-old Paige. I bought cheerful flowered fabrics for play clothes and a gauzy organza fabric for her Easter dress.
This time was the beginning of a focused effort to acquire toys for our little girl. I didn’t know then that toys are something you only need to buy for a few years. Once you’ve got a good collection, they seem to multiply magically in the closets and bins.
One day I drove Paige to the mall in Cedar Park to visit the toy store. Paige picked out a pink doll-sized stroller, a perfect size for her to push. She was so excited about it that I let her push the stroller through the mall. She began to move ahead of me and I was left to follow her. I watched her bob ahead of me with her cute short haircut, hot pink sandals, and handmade pink dress. Because I was a few steps behind her, I saw the smiles from shoppers as they noticed this little woman walking so confidently with her stroller.
I can still remember the rattly-scraping sound that the wheels made on the floors and sidewalks. I will never forget the print of her pink dress nor the love she granted to each of her dolls that rode in the stroller.
I don’t know why certain memories stay with me while others are lost. Perhaps this memory of Paige pushing her stroller stays because her little form, pushing forward on her own, became a glimpse of what I would experience again and again, observing her become more independent. I couldn’t have appreciated at the time that this scene was the first of many, where I would watch our children move beyond our reach to become who they are.
Just as I watched the smiles of strangers that day, I’ve seen the delight that my children’s reaching has pulled from observers. I’ve been blessed with friends who have loved our children and doted on them and shown support for their dance, baseball, and piano feats. The feeling I have at these moments when my children perform or move to the next phase is full, sometimes painful, and expansive. My heart races to catch up as my children move ahead with strengths I couldn’t imagine for them.
It’s when I give them the freedom to move out of my reach that I’ve had better perspective of what they can become. But, oh, the ache that comes with my smile!
Milestones at our house mean that you get your picture taken at the front door. We had some big days last week. A 19th birthday, the first days of school, and a piano recital.
Our power was interrupted all day on the last day of summer break. We braced ourselves for the “hardship,” and loaded our cooler with food so we didn’t have to open the refrigerator and we turned off the computers. We cooled off the house in the early morning hours. Then the power went off, and along with it, our internet, phones, and our appliances for 7-8 hours.
We got so much done!
Daniel, Mark and I finished assembling my new bed. I sat down and worked on an important project for four hours, uninterrupted by phone calls, social media notifications, and squabbling over the computer. I couldn’t do laundry or cook, so we ate a simple lunch. Daniel cleaned out his room and we had several conversations. I repeat: we had several conversations. The weather stayed cool, so we were never too warm, and this was important.
Mark read books through the afternoon. I could hear him singing to himself from the hammock outside my window and from his bedroom down the hall. There was no hum from the refrigerator and air conditioner to block out his voice. So I sat, with my boys, my project, and the quiet. This time in our dim house wasn’t a hardship! It was a gift as our summer break came to an end. It was a reminder of how much we miss when we are too connected to our screens. Seven hours of living life unplugged left me feeling happy and connected to my family. What an easy remedy for feeling stressed out, stretched, and disconnected: put down the phone, turn off the screens, gather, work, and talk.
We are busy. Our family is enjoying the last hours of summer vacation from school. I don’t want to give up this blog, but I struggle to find the time to write. Here is something I wrote last spring.
Changing Sheets
The afternoon sun is my only companion as I step into each of my children’s bedrooms to collect their sheets. Their absence from home persuades me to linger in their rooms to reconnect with them. Today the warm sun sets their kingdoms in a glow.
I begin in the cave, fifteen-year-old Daniel’s basement room, which always has its curtains drawn. I pull them open and the sunlight illuminates the corners. I pause to admire a machine he’s designed and created. There are candy and snack wrappers strewn on the otherwise unused desk. It’s clear that his rug and bed are his places of study. I notice that he’s reading Les Miserables. I pause at his mirror where old medals hang from one side, drawing my eye downward to his shelves, once occupied by collections, now occupied by more food wrappers and clothing he’s outgrown. The cluttered corners of his room are evidence of a young man in transition; childhood toys are no longer a pastime, but a few remain in sight. I smile to see that I can still count on him to hang up his church shirt. I sweep a few wrappers in the trash and slip the white shirt from its hanger into the hamper. I’m thankful for this young man in my home.
Twelve-year-old Timothy’s room, unlike Daniel’s room, is bright and warm from the sunlight coming through his blinds, which he never closes. Here, his treasures are also in ready view and they are unique. A Halloween wig and beard are displayed, a remnant of the work he and I go through every year to make just the right costume. He doesn’t have cluttered corners. His shelves display small toys earned at school and baseball trophies. After changing his sheets, I pause to admire the Lego Star Wars Clone Troopers arranged on the window sill in formation. Timothy’s methodical placement of toys is evidence of the gift of precision that he shows in most activities in his life. His Lego figures posed in silly scenes remind me of his humor, too. I tell myself that next time I need to correct him, I should use more humor. He’ll respond to that.
Eight-year-old Mark’s bedside shelf is piled high with books; books he’s inhaled, re-read, and will read again. Among the Harry Potter and Creature from My Closet books is a 1000-page Archie comic book. His bedding is a mess because the dog likes to nest in it. I’ve allowed it because Mark needs the dog’s company. This room, too, displays important treasures: postcards from a special Sunday school teacher’s travels, space ships, robots, and stuffed animals. This room houses my most affectionate child. Thoughts of him playing with his toys in this room wrings my heart. I’ve learned that little boy days are so brief. I step over a rumpled rug and smooth his suit, hung hastily in his closet and move to the next room.
Objects aren’t the only clues to a person’s activities. As I walk into eighteen-year-old Paige’s room, my busy thoughts are hushed in this somewhat cluttered place of intense study. Her quiet ways seem to have embedded themselves into the mood of the room. She is religious: her scriptures at her bedside and her art choices on the wall show me what she chooses to look at. She is busy. Her school papers are accumulating on a shelf. Some stacks are months old. She displays beautiful things: paintings, photographs of friends, and favorite books. I take a minute and sit on her bed before I change her sheets. I notice her closet, arranged by color, and her palette and paints on her desk. I try not to think about the short time she has left at home, but the days march forward in a relentless rhythm of lasts: last Christmas, last youth activity, last everything. Tears crowd me as I realize that we won’t hear her step in the hall and her hands on the piano in the autumn. The upcoming change makes the air feel tight in moments like this when I am alone. I sigh, brush away my tears, and hope that I cherished our time together enough. Then I get back to work.
In the afternoon sun, I do a small service and change sheets and discover my family. My children probably won’t remember that I changed their sheets, but I hope they will remember that I knew about their lives and loved them. This is one of the ways that I accomplish this. Someone once wrote that a homemaker makes something great out of that which is small. Changing sheets is no exception.