Fish Creek 2019
Angie in July
Summer is my season of sludge, my own wrestle in quicksand. It’s silly that summer ennui still surprises me. Childhood summers were very different.
I was a child who memorized the quality of every square of cement on our block through the wheels of roller skates. I could eat a whole 3-foot licorice rope while riding home on my bike after a day at the swimming pool with no regrets. I felt accomplished after reading several Nancy Drew mysteries in a day, curled up in my playhouse. I took time to taste nectar from honeysuckle blossoms in the evenings, and spent hours on the backyard swing. I danced on the front lawn. I recall the cool feel of mud pies, molded to satisfaction, and the buzzing of insects in a jar that I collected from the tall grass. I remember the slip of the slime on the river rocks beneath my feet as I waded beneath the bridge. I named my favorite trees in the neighborhood. I had a love for the shiny petals of buttercups and penny candy from the pharmacy. Strawberries grew outside my window, as did grape vines, and I know their scents and the feel of their leaves. I studied the faces in the rock of Y mountain so often that 40 years later, the memory of their features is clear. I sat in the park under ancient sycamores on Sunday evenings to hear a band play.
I think of these times with some longing, especially during the lonely week of scout camp while everyone is away. My “lonely week” is almost over, and my summer memories have kept me company.
I have this letter taped to the inside of my recipe cabinet.
Letter from Elder Daniel Ross, serving in Chile, July 2, 2019
When I was younger I was a pretty picky eater. Broccoli soup was the wrong color, texture, flavor, and I just couldn’t do it. My mom tried serving it with crackers, goldfish, I took small bites with big drinks, hot or cold, it didn’t matter. I was quite sure I wanted nothing to do with it and was firmly set in my ways. Patiently my parents explained that it can take as many as 12 tries to learn to eat a food and that I had to keep trying it. Over the course of several years I did, though I didn’t notice a change for a long time.
Another statistic (I heard this a few years ago, I don’t know how accurate it is now) is that the average person who joins the Church of Jesus Christ through full-time or member missionary efforts has had at least 7 distinct/separate experiences with missionaries. In the winters here in Chile (And everywhere else in the world, I imagine) the work slows down a lot. Very few people answer the door, and rejection is much more common. We’ve been working hard as a companionship to find ways to finish every contact well so that no matter how the person acts, we can walk away at the end and they will remember us as friendly and professional. Sometimes we harvest here, but a lot of the time we’re just planting seeds. We’re continuing in faith, hoping that some of the results come during our time here.
Does it work?
(A huge thanks to a nice sister in the ward that learned in a past lunch that I have fond memories of my mom’s soups and had her husband deliver some broccoli soup to us at 10:00 one night. My favorite meal this week.) -Elder Ross
Cousin time
Ship, turtle, dragon,
Tucson temple, crayon,
“A”, church, and a saguaro.
A simple, effective activity for Come Follow Me
Last week I prepared an activity using a map of Jerusalem with the final events of Christ’s life. We followed the numbers and looked up scriptures from the Old Testament that prophesied of these events or used language echoed by Gospel writers. “Did not our hearts burn by the way, and while he opened to us the scriptures?” (Luke 24:32) The Savior had to re-frame the events his disciples witnessed that last week so they could see him as the Christ. I don’t know what scriptures he shared with them, but perhaps Psalm 22 and Isaiah 53 were among them. Those two chapters rend my heart.
The scriptures we looked up last night according to the numbers on the map:
- Zechariah 9:9
- Leviticus 14:36
- (skipped)
- Isaiah 53:4, 6, 10-11
- Isaiah 53:7
- Psalm 22:6-8
- Psalm 22:16-18, Psalm 22:1, Psalm 31:5
- Isaiah 53:9
This was one of my favorite activities all year. Simple is still best, and with busy lives, it helps to have a very direct activity instead of a deep discussion sometimes.
Good Days
The definition of a good day expands when I am thankful, and it contracts when I am self-centered. By all measures, narrow and great, I have had some good days this week.
In Spring Lake, I taught a little art class and we made small tile mosaics. I spent time sitting on the porch with my mom and some of my sisters. I walked in the canyon with Richard three evenings this week.
I was a bit starstruck to meet two great historians and authors, Laurel Thatcher Ulrich and Kate Holbrook at a conference. And by “meet,” I mean there a was a conversation about our shirts as we waited for bathroom stalls. Later, “Thank you for your work,” was all I could think to say when I met the Pulitzer Prize winner, but I think that was just right.
What do most of these activities have in common? They were opportunities for me to deal in vast things, such as relationships, possibilities, and nature. They were opportunities to learn from other people. For all the reading and scholarship that I love, there are levels of understanding to be gained only through hearing a person’s voice.
In and Out of Shadow
The relief map of our life right now shows new valleys, a consistent plateau, and several mountains. I move into different landscapes as I am needed and retreat to the backcountry when I must be silent and wait. In my solitude, I assume the role of observer and record keeper.
From a familiar point, I watch our daughter, taking steps on her own path, which is marked by shadow and speckled with obstacles. Frustrated by the turns and boulders, I wonder if she knows that she is still ascending.
A son careens forward on a path without looking one way or the other. Does he actually want to climb that trail? I am not sure he has paused enough to know.
Another son has a blind curve ahead, but has a lift in his steps. I predict the path beyond this curve will be good for him because of his optimism.
And the remaining son, well, I am still close enough to remind him to look at the vistas, and not worry about the details so much.
I am no sage on the hill, but I do know about blind corners, and have skinned my knees when racing too fast. I know the mire of worry from overthinking, and how to escape. I remember what it is like to move beyond easy marks of success, deferring talents and ideas. In such vulnerable times, growth feels a lot like defeat.
I squirm in the solitude in this life season and wonder if a record is worth keeping. I felt inspired to read A Midwife’s Tale this week and it validated my writing of everyday things more than I can say. Our walk continues, and my writing provides a relief map of where we have been.
Headlines of Consequence
Connection and progress happen in the undercurrents of the to do lists and during transit between appointments. The on stage, public displays are a pinnacle, not the mountain we have climbed. They don’t call attention to themselves, but tiny, daily actions are life. Today I elevate some of these menial and plain things and dress them up as headlines:
Late night conversation keeps parenting goals on track.
Work at home issues forth connection and order.
Meal preparation: a rock in the fortress of home, every day
She waited weeks for a convenient time to ask family to move furniture.
A child is struggling? Pray with him.
Camping gear is well traveled.
Mother makes another trip to the store for gear and marshmallows.
Reconciliation evident in non-verbal ways
He often works from home at night to balance high demands of employer and others.
To avoid criticizing someone, mother pulls weeds outside.
Foregoing personal hobbies and family time, Scoutmaster pushes on.
Despite past failures, additional attempts are planned for family spirituality.
Dead, maggot-filled animal buried early this morning in the backyard
Stranded motorist helped by a kind stranger
She kept paper for taking notes.
Entire family commits to watching together a movie only one person will enjoy.
They sat down together at the table.
They took the time they needed to make a plan.
He changed the station again and again without hearing frustration from the driver.
Strength to do dishes and laundry is a blessing.
After years of being too busy, mother helps organize son’s collections.
He remembered to text his mom to let her know where he was.
She smiled instead of criticized.
He practiced each day.
He let his brother stick an earbud in his ear to hear a funny song.
They kept praying together.
Our Teens
Here is how our teens look this week. One is a little sick, and another thanked me for not grounding him for the rest of his life. I thought he had been killed in a car accident for about 20 minutes. It turned out that there was no car accident, just a vague message and misunderstanding. I was so frantic to find him that I drove around town looking for emergency vehicles, expecting the worst. One son is taking care of pigeons for a couple of days for our neighbor and friend. One is off to Pioneer Trek this morning.
I asked Daniel this week, “What have you learned about obedience?” He wrote, “The last 1% in our obedience brings the majority of the blessings. We’ve seen the difference between good days and not so good days.”
I asked Timothy what he learned this week. “Don’t park illegally, ever.”
Mark taught us what he learned from studying in John. “Jesus prayed that our temptations wouldn’t be too much for us and that Heavenly Father would send help.”
I have a firm belief in the power of parents to bring down blessings on their children. These are good boys, and I see the enemy stalks them relentlessly. It feels like we are at war with outside influence. We pray, we teach, remind, use a timer, let them go, and we are here when they come back. This warrior mom has earned a purple heart this week. Two things have helped: reading the Book of Mormon in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, and watching a Hallmark Christmas DVD.
I love my sons. They are amazing. It’s a heavy time, nevertheless.
6 letters
Last week I made a goal to write six letters, not emails or texts, just old fashioned hand written letters. I wrote to an array of friends and family and it was a good exercise for my dusty pen and neglected stationery. Writing letters is like planting a seed, then moving away, since I can’t see my friends’ faces as they read. Instead, I imagine happy receptions and hopefully a jump within the heart. The best mail carriers place real mail on top of the bills and junk. They know before you do that today you are a winner, because somebody thought to write to you. That has to be one of the sweet things about carrying mail, being in on secrets of the heart.