Friends, I had to have my portrait taken for display. I cut my hair two times and practiced my smile while snapping selfies over the course of weeks. In the end, the photographer just used the first shot because I began to progressively twitch, blink, and smirk with each successive snap. When he said to smile presidentially, my face collapsed like a hot air balloon without a flame. He let me see my photos and magically altered the one you see. I am not this bright and shiny, ever. Brian Twede is the photographer and he is my friend, a desirable trait for a someone who has editorial power over your image. It has been 24 years since I had a portrait taken of just myself. Brian told me not to wait another quarter of a century to sit for my next portrait.
I made some new friends this week, three women I did not know before, but felt inspired to choose to serve with me at church. I spent time with each of them, one by one, talking about important things like families, dreams, and testimony and felt my heart warm. I’m not surprised that I love them. I’m surprised how quickly it happened.
I worried and prayed for a sister-in-law.
I enjoyed a date night with Richard for our anniversary, which included two restaurants and lots of roses. Then, lucky us, we had another evening together later in the week, each of us dressed in Scout uniforms, matchy-matchy. I thought I was through with my uniform, but I am delighted at some good memories that came when I put it back on.
I watched Timothy play in an ultimate Frisbee tournament and helped him with Prom preparations. I had a lot of time with Tim this week, and I am so grateful for that.
I disabled the family computer last week, which was mainly being used to watch YouTube videos. When the kids were little, there were times I would chant, “I’m a big bad mama and I’m not afraid of you,” (I know, I am ridiculous) aloud or in my mind when I had to do the hard things that young parents have to do: enforce bedtime, deny requests for sugar, insist on car seats, clean up messes, and react in a positive way to tantrums. Not even that mental chant helped boost my morale over the computer drama. The reality is, a teen tantrum is much more painful to endure than one from a three-year-old.
Richard came home with the best pictures of a Scout campout in Diamond Fork. He brought his smokeless fire pit and Chip brought his guitar, and the boys and leaders sang around the campfire and roasted marshmallows and biscuits as it got dark. Mark came home from the camp, hugged me, and asked what he could eat. Balance is restored.
The upcoming break from Scouting has made for some interesting conversations. A few weeks ago at church, someone overheard that Richard would be out of a job at the end of the year. She immediately thought of his employment, not his Scoutmaster work, and her husband pulled us aside to commiserate.
We have observed that Scouting in our church is winding down, and there is less enthusiasm and participation. Richard has tried to figure out which boys want to pursue the Eagle rank and guide them to the right classes and activities so they can do it. In our unit, most boys and parents are not interested in rank advancement. This makes it hard to know if it’s “worth it” to go camping each month, but Richard and the other leaders continue to take them into the wild. It’s a good thing for the boys, the Deacons quorum, and the neighborhood. Scouting bridges a potential gap in our neighborhood between those who go to church and those who don’t. In fact, I don’t think the boys perceive a gap, as they are just friends having fun together. That is a very good thing.
I wandered into some mean girls’ territory today at the library. As I leaned down to get a book off the shelf, I felt a small rubber band wiz by, and perhaps another. Finally a girl spoke up, “Stop it. That’s Mark’s mom.” I had been kind to this girl before, but wasn’t sure she would claim to know me. In a staggering act of courage against her peers, I saw my small kindness come back to me, only it had grown. It had taken a new form, and it was better than my simple favor. It had become this girl’s bravery and consolation, and it put a quick end to the mischief. I gave her my best smile and moved on, not so defeated as I felt before.
I heard lots of great music this weekend from my family: a trombone quartet at a State music festival, a piano solo by Richard at church, and a concert at the Cathedral of the Madeleine with our niece in the choir. And my father in law commented on our family picture wall all afternoon. That was a sweet melody, too.
We have seen seven winters and springs in Utah. This spring, however, we have tulips everywhere, so many that I wondered if someone planted extra bulbs while our backs were turned. The array of colors is surprising and stunning. Most are tulips we did not know we had. They bloom in places I cleaned out in the flower beds last summer. They bloom in places I have ignored. In glorious display, they proclaim to me that some of the best developments in life happen after an intense season. They show me that latent divine understanding can bloom after drinking steadily from living water through the storms. What a sight!
I am posting this piece again on this Holy Week, because it captures the meekness, agony, and triumph we commemorate at Easter. If you want to know more about the composition, the second video is an interview with the composer who set out to write a piece using common liturgical phrases with simplicity and power, enough to “knock people’s socks off.” He wrote it by candlelight in a cabin on an island. “There is no electricity or anything in that piece.”
You don’t have to know the words to feel the power of this piece, so listen in a solitary place and feel what the music has to share with you.
