I'm finding lately that my favorite comfort food is music. It digests easily and is sometimes so yummy. When I tuck my guitar against my heart and feel the vibrations, it hits the same emotional spot that my mother's hands patting my back did, when I was a child. The same spot that a pile of hot mashed potatoes and melted butter can touch on a cold winter day.
Mom gave me my first guitar when I was 13, and though I didn't even play it for a year, I knew, on that Christmas morning when I found it under the tree, that it would be a life changer for me.
As we work through this strange and unknown process of grieving the loss of our mother, I've held my instrument more tenderly. Lovingly, even. It makes me feel connected to her. She knew the words to every song I wrote, and if you've been sitting near her at any of my concerts you've heard her singing along. As I write new songs, and prepare the set lists for my upcoming holiday performances, I have to push the thought out of my head that Mom won't be there to sing along this year. At least not to our human eyes. I hear her in my heart. Always.
I was notified earlier this year that I am to receive the 2012 Governor's Mansion Artist Award from Governor Herbert on November 28th at the Governor's Mansion. I am startled and deeply honored. The night before that, I'll be singing as they turn on the lights at the Festival of Trees. And then a few days later I'll be offering three Christmas Concerts at the Farmington Arts Center. Beyond that are numerous private performances for church groups and corporations. I love this time of year, musically, because I feel like Christmas offers me a perfectly appropriate setting to testify of my Lord. And music is my most comfortable means of witnessing.
So, Mom,in the words of the song Memoria..."I will keep you here." Right in the center of my heart, and I'll pray that the words and the tunes will not be choked out by my sorrow, but will rise, instead, in celebration of the joyful reunion of two people I love with all my being: my mother...and my Lord.
There is a puzzle on the table in the living room.A large one, with tiny pieces and impossible
color gradients that make it somewhat uninviting.And yet we drift in and out, sitting before
it, trying this piece then that, until we eventually get a match or walk away.
Or flop over on the couch.
The wooden floors of Gram’s house echo the goings on: a
cluster of great-grandchildren playing a game on the family room rug; the
clanging of dishes in the kitchen, George’s mandolin trembles in some
unidentifiable place.Ann Marie’s hands
roll in and out of the edges of a baby blanket, her fingers guiding her crochet
hook. There is a swirl of motion, gentle and uninhibited, so graceful and alive
that if you set a camera on slow, slow shutter speed you would have a sort of Spir-o-graph
picture of the people we love loving the people we love. We are spokes, swirling
around a hub, each of us going in and out from the center.And she is center.
Gram lies in her bed, her soft white hair like a halo on her
pillow, her eyes closed and her forehead smooth and calm.Her hands lie gentle on her midriff.We watch them rise and fall, rise and
fall.I sit beside her, my brothers and
sisters and children taking turns in the circle.No plan.We’ve never been that good at keeping plans.No shifts or schedules, yet she is never
alone.Never alone.
I slip my hand under hers and hold it in a sacred grip, her
slender fingers interlace with mine.I
trace the veins with my thumb.
In and out we go and come, until someone picks up a guitar
and starts to sing to Mom.Then, as if
the Pied Piper has pursed his lips against his pipe, we gather in her large, gracious
bedroom, and the other guitars make their way in, and the mandolin, too.And the voices and the songs.We cluster around her, comforting her with
our song… comforting each other…comforting ourselves. Then the comfort turns to
joy when the Johns play and we sing full voiced and our hands no longer tickle
our guitar strings but pull them full bore and passionately, like she would if
she had ever gotten past the two chords I tried to teach her when I was 16.
Too bad it’s not September, when the air has cooled enough
for the windows to be left open.What
songs our neighbors would hear!
Grandson John pulls the strings of his instrument and
begins…They say everything can be
replaced….We join in with harmony
at the chorus…I see my light come shining
from the west down to the east.Any day
now, any day now, I shall be released.
Like chicks around a hen, like petals on a flower, like the
waters of the Snake River swirl around an outcropping of rock and earth, we are
helpless to leave her and will stay here until she leaves us.Just a while.Just a small parting, small, but very, very deep.
Not far from here her mother will call and tell her to come,
and we know we must let her go.Until
then we will keep this vigil, we who cherish her, and sing her to the gate.
Somewhere in the lower file in my pile of memories.
We had collected enough empty pop bottles along the side of Old Clairton Road to redeem them for a quarter each.A whole quarter! You could buy a lot for a quarter in those days.For some reason I opted, on that particular day, for a long slender cellophane bag of Rain-Blo Bubble Gum; big round colorful balls, dripping with sugary, syrupy yumminess. And for some reason I opted, as well, to stuff the whole bag of balls into my mouth in one fell swoop. My lips pursed over my rotting teeth and I sort of rotated my jaw in a careful chewing motion, trying to inhale and swallow as I worked the sugar rush into a massive wad of yum. I remember thinking this was almost too much goodness to bear at one time.
And so it was.
And so it is.
Three days.
Three days in June.
June is chock full of wonderfulness. We are trained to feel the pleasures of June from our youth, the anticipation of summer, the end of school…the staying up late, the sleeping in. The chlorine waft of the swimming pool mixed with grilled chicken and freshly mowed grass. June is a muscle soothing rhythmic massage after a marathon of May. It brought me my Annie on its very first day, and my brother in law and nieces and others. Joyful June.But there are three days that wad together so deliciously that the heart can hardly contain the sweetness and it sort of drips out the figurative corners of the mouth and I have to slurp and slurp to keep it with me.
June 24 gave me THIS:
A girl to take my boy’s heart.She cherishes it and keeps it beating properly.This is a meaningful thing to a mother who loves her son and must let him go.At the same time she also took our hearts and keeps them close.Ashley Parker was born to Marsha and Jared Parker, who graciously allowed her to change her last name to Connors about a dozen years and three children ago.
This year June 24th also gave us THIS:
Joseph David Petersen, delivered with grace and dignity by my firstborn daughter, Sarah Connors, who took the last name Petersen about a dozen years ago as well.Isn’t he divine?
June 25 gave me THIS:
My love of loves, the joy of my heart, the most trustworthy and devoted man in human existence.I realize what a rare thing it is to be able to say I have loved this man since I was 18 years old…I still love him…and I anticipate loving him until there is an end to loving (which I don’t believe is in God’s plan). I knelt across the altar from David in the Washing DC Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints thirty five years ago yesterday; his hand clasped in mine.I looked straight into his eyes…straight through the pooling water…and gave him my heart and mind and strength and weakness and body and soul and future and past and all that was and is and will be.And he took it willingly.I adore him.I am grateful to have pushed through doubtful blips which are common to all marriages, because on this end of it there is deep and calm and joyful peace in knowing this man is at my side forever.
June 26 gave me THIS:
The one on the left. I have loved her from the day she was born, fifteen months after I was born. She is my confidant, my advisor, my partner in creative crime. She is my fall-back and my push forward.She will speak truth when I need it, and remain silent when I don’t.She is devotion personified. She is the greatest of human gifts. We share a mother, a darn grand set of siblings, a passel of kids who think of her as their other mother. She is the other corner in the sacred triangle between her house, Gardner’s house and ours. She is completely unaware of how central she is in so many lives and I love that God let me be her sister.
I check the calendar on my iphone. Tomorrow has plenty of responsibilities and joys in it. The days will move on and little baby Joe will grow and bring all sorts of stories and delights to look back upon.And we will, God willing, grow old as the memories move down in the stack of goodness accrued in our lives.But today…this day in late June when I am chewing as fast as I can the sweetness of it all…I pause to swallow slowly and savor the flavor of love.
In the wooden cupboard next to my bathroom sink sits a small
collection of perfumeries, carefully selected out of sentimental affection.There is Chanel #5.David’s mother wore that on our wedding day. I remember, after Dave’s dad passed away, cleaning
off his bedroom dresser.Mom Connors had
died suddenly and tragically in a car accident over a decade before.There on his tall dresser was a dusty pile of
change, an old watch, and a bottle of Chanel #5.
My own mother, when she had dried her tears, straightened her
shoulders and moved forward after my dad left, bought herself a bottle of Norrell
perfume. I remember lying on her big comfy
bed watching her dress for her long work day.She had such a great sense of style, all the way down to her bra. I’d watch
her lightly spritz her perfume behind her ears, under her arms, with one final
spray on her fleshy forearm.She ended by
rubbing her two inner arms together.I lay
on her bed watching her, inhaling the subtle sweetness.
There are other women in my life who have particular scents.
Nothing overpowering. The kind of scent you unconsciously recognize
when you hug someone.If I were to lose my
sight I am grateful to know those aromas.
Today I stood at my bathroom sink and one by one added scents
to various places on my skin, remembering these women I adore, thanking our Maker
for putting them in my life. Beginning with good plain soap, in honor of those who don't care for fragrances.I know, you think it would smell just awful,
like you’d just walked through the fragrance aisle at Kaufmann’s.But it is surprisingly good, like that room
in the massive greenhouse where all the flowers are in bloom.
If I am especially fragrant today it is only
because I am especially grateful.
My brother John came for
Thanksgiving one year, back when Gram was still cooking Thanksgiving dinner and
we were all helpers.It was one of the
rare years when we were all there, all seven kids with their various familial
flocks.John drove down from Boise and
brought with him his new wife, LaNae.We
all tried to be good and kind, knowing she might feel a little awkward because
we all had a natural feeling of devotion to his first wife who was the mother
of his kids.It was a typical
Thanksgiving gathering; lots of people and lots of plans and lots of hiccups in
those plans.Our mother is a strong
woman, very much a leader of the pack kind of gal, and so we should not be
surprised that she raised a few strong willed children:Lots of chiefs; not enough injuns, if you
know what I mean.I cut my spuds THIS
way to boil them.My sister cuts them
THAT way.One likes the napkins folded
under the forks, another likes them in a complicated flower type fold sitting
in the middle of the plate.Against the
clanging of utensils and the thumping of cupboard doors comes scattered
conversation:
“Don’t you think we need a little
more salt in that gravy?”
and
“Do you really want that much
brown sugar in those yams?”
Nothing earth shattering.We all get along fine and it works out in the
end. There's plenty of laughter. Dinner is always yummy and the
dishes always get done and we sing the night away after it’s all over.
But we are tired.
That night John, finally alone
with his wife, asked her what she thought of his family.
She responded:
“It’s like being around six of
you!”
(I, for one, was flattered.)
She’s not his wife any more.
Here’s to the people who share my
mother: Sherry, Sue, John, George, Ann Marie and Libby!
So we haven’t figured out how to
keep a normal schedule.
So we sit with seats between us
in theaters cuz we’re all a little claustrophobic (people think we don’t like
each other).
So, when we finally all get in
the car and go to the store, it’s closed.
So we trip over each others’ dogs
and junk in the hallway
And we wait…and wait…and wait….
We also fold our arms together to
pray, regardless of our faith
And we hug and kiss each other
with perfect ease
And we think of each other when
random things appear
And we call each other random
names like Limpy and Oose and Sharawn and Gorgeous Handsome
And we adore our mother
And accept our past
And cherish our present
And hope for our future.
Every once in a while… when I am
very tired and yet feel compelled to say my personal prayer before allowing
myself to sleep… a very old, very familiar string of words flows through my
brain.I can almost hear my little girl
voice pronouncing them:
It flows out exactly in that
order.I’m not sure why, because it’s
not chronological, and I don’t even recall calling Mom “mommy”, and definitely
not calling Dad “daddy”. So it must be very old, like the vintage books I paid
big money for on my bookshelf just cuz they hit me back there, in that tiny
little sacred spot behind my sternum.
I let that prayer rise to the top
of my brain these days, that exact prayer, because we all need the blessing.
And I need to return to that child in me.
And I need to give that thanks;
not so much because God needs to hear it; I suppose He knows exactly what we
need and how I feel.I say it because I
need to own it and shoot it upward in the right direction. Up there where we
all came from, and where we’re all gonna end up again.
I can see it now, all of us lined
up in the great theatre in Heaven, smiling over at each other, one empty golden
seat between each of us.
On my sofa table at Easter time
is a cluster of tokens to remind me and my family what it is we embrace in our
hearts.
There is a small leather bag of
ancient coins, 30 of them, spilled out onto the black tabletop.
There is a large sharp nail.
A small molded copy of the Michelangelo’s Pieta’
that David brought home from his mission in Italy.
And a crown of thorns.
All these surround a
framed picture of the Risen Lord by Carl Bloch. The whole scene speaks of
triumph over trial.
*****
One Sunday not too long ago,
after teaching a Sunday lesson on the benefit of trials, one of my darling
Beehive girls, age 13, came up to me and hugged me, thanking me for the
lesson.Then she stood back and took my
hands. Her eyes were teary, and she spoke softly…
“Cori, I pray for trials.I know they will make me stronger so I pray
for them.”
I squeezed her hands, then threw
my arms around her neck and whispered in her ear…
“Oh Honey, don’t pray too hard!”
Megan is a pretty dynamic girl,
full of faith, and goodness, and confidence. She’s the kind of girl who, when
the score is tied and there are only seconds left on the clock will call out,
“Put me in, Coach!” Her confidence is based on truth, so she is often
successful. Still, there comes to most of us some trial some time that throws us off kilter and shakes us to the core. I pray she will be strong when that happens. Until it does, though, I say lay low when the wagon of woes comes rolling around.
*****
When my eldest, John, married
Ashley in the Salt Lake Temple, they were blessed to be sealed as an eternal
family by an apostle, Elder Neal A. Maxwell.Twenty one years earlier Elder Maxwell had joined our prophet, Spencer W
Kimball, in the priesthood circle that blessed Ashley when she was a baby.After elder Maxwell married John and Ash, he
spoke to them a while.We were all
invited to listen in.He paused for a
moment, then indicated that he felt a particular desire to bestow upon them an
Apostolic Blessing.It was a sacred and
private thing, and I will not share the details, except to say that he told
them that they would be able to withstand the trials that would come to them.
I remember sitting there, my face
streaked with tears till there was absolutely no make up left for the family
pictures.The words echoed in my head,
and I felt a stinging foreboding, wondering what was going to happen to them
that would compel an apostle to bless them to be able to sustain themselves
through difficulties.All I could focus
on was that there would be difficulties.Now, over ten years later, I wonder to myself why in the world I would
fixate on the difficulties instead of the magnificent blessing of being able to
withstand. Truly, everyone’s going to struggle.
No getting out of it.
*****
Ain’t nobody doesn’t got a
trouble.
*****
For three years I served in the
Davis County Jail as a spiritual advisor and as Relief Society president for
two of those. Many of the women there were clean and sober for the first time
in a long time, and they seemed to want the Lord in their lives.So when we went in every Sunday and Wednesday
to teach them and share our testimonies, we found them anxious to get their
lives straightened out.(Most of them at
least.Some of them just wanted out of
their cells and a church service was their only escape.) Corinthians 10:13 was
our most quoted scripture.I must have
repeated it at least once a week for three years.
The inmates, their knees tucked
under their chairs, their orange uniforms making the circle of us look like a giant
pumpkin, leaned into our circle of sisterhood and prayed for the strength to believe
in that scripture; prayed to believe that they could escape the temptation to
use drugs…to misuse relationships…to return to old familiar habits and people. Their thorny paths were precipitous and frightening
and at that moment they wanted to believe in their hearts enough to resist temptation
when it came upon them, as it surely would once they were released.
*****
When I think of trials, I think
of that thorny crown.That ironic crown,
that the oppressors thought would be a mockery, but in actuality was a true
token.Jesus Christ is triumphant
because of his painful sacrifice, which, coupled with his foreordained
authority and worthy life, made him the only means by which we can return Home.
A golden bejeweled crown would have been an actual mockery. He is crowned with
his suffering.And in some way, I think
all of us will be as well.
I’ve had an idea for many years
now that one day we will all be sitting around in heaven, at various times, in various
circumstances…and we will say to each other in casual conversation; “So how did
YOU die?”That’s when the really tragic
demises will get their true shine, and those of us who just pass away in our
sleep from old age will sort of shrug our shoulders and say, “oh well, nothing
too exciting.”
“But…” some of us will say…”Check
out the scars on my head!”We will wear the
healed wounds of our life’s struggles like badges. Suffering endured. In the end
we are all triumphant, some just get there more gracefully than others.
My Crown of Thorns, with its
three-inch-long spikes, reminds me not only of the divine suffering of my Lord;
it reminds me that my own personal suffering…and that of the people I love…is
designed to lead me back to Him.The
thorns in my life may be painfully uncomfortable; but they will not do me in.
Whether or not I acknowledge His power to save me; He saves me still.
A blessed Easter to everyone. Thank you for following me in my Lenten offering this year. Cori
Parker had a late night play date
with his friend the other night.He’s
not a late night boy, so when Gumpa and I went over to babysit I wondered what
condition he might be in when he came home two hours after his normal bed time. He
bounded in the front door and threw himself on the ottoman in the family room,
where Gumpa and I sat on the couch with Sophie snuggled next to us.
“How was it Bud?” we asked him.
“Good.Did you ever see TinTin?”
We had not.But we asked him if he liked seeing it.
“Yes, but the middle was
scary.”He said it in a resigned sort of
way, like he knew he was gonna have to deal with these feelings all night now,
and it worried him.I asked if the
ending was ok, and he said yes, so we agreed that if he started thinking too
much about the scary middle he should jump to the ending in his mind.
“Hey Bud, let’s go get in your
PJ’s, K?”
“Well, I have to go potty”, he
replied.I said OK, go ahead, and he
hesitated.
“Gummy, there’s a window in the
bathroom.”
“Does that worry you?”
I cannot adequately
describe his soft blue eyes, his pursed eyebrows, the way he speaks with those
crystalline pools and does not need to use words.
“Yes. Will you come with me?”
So I accompanied little Park to
the bathroom and leaned against the counter while he sat on the throne.He wrapped his little fist around the bar below the
window and plopped his head onto his forearm, moaning.
“What’s wrong, Park?”
“I wish…I wish…”he kept trying to get the words out right.
“I wish I was fourteen.Maybe not fourteen, maybe just a
teenager.Maybe not a teenager, I wish I
was just grown up.”His tone was not
wistful, like he had dreams he wanted to accomplish.It was more weary, like he was anxious for
the inevitable to finally get here.
“Why’s that, Buddy?”I scooted over closer to him so I could look
him in the eye.
But he didn’t look up.
“I wish I was grown up so I
wouldn’t have to be scared any more.”
When you’re a mom, and feel a
stewardship to your children, that stewardship bleeds over to their children,
and also to the neighbor’s children, come to think of it.That trigger that made itself known when I
first entered the nurturer phase of my life presented itself and I grabbed hold
of it.I instantly shot a prayer to
heaven, not dissimilar in trajectory to the tubes at the drive-thru at the
bank.Give me an adequate answer
Lord…and quick.
“Well, Park, you’ll get your turn
soon enough. But right now you are one lucky boy because you have a Mommy and a
Daddy whose number one job is to protect you, and not only that, you have a
Gummy and a Gump and Papa and Mushy, and all the other grown ups who love
you.We all promise to protect you. Just
let us do that and you relax until you are grown up, K?”
Gumpa lay in Parker’s bed with
him, reading until they both fell fast asleep.I tucked Sophie in bed and sat on the couch, pondering.
Words, repeated from the mouth of
our boy, silently rose to heaven. Recent birthdays and recent
brushes with fate made me shiver, feeling like I was stuck in the middle of the
movie, swirling in the scary part.My own mortality, and that of the
people I cherish most, came to view like a shadow in the bathroom window.My mother is 89 years old this year.I am the younger of my siblings.My husband is six years older than I am.I am no longer in control of so much of my life.
I question if I ever was in control, or if I have been living in a state of denial.
Those vulnerable emotions I try to scoot away came swirling around my head;
those emotions you don’t let a five year old boy see when he’s scared.I never want to tell him that being grown up
doesn’t take away that fear.He’ll
figure that out on his own. And I am quite sure that my own fears, if they were
presented side by side with anyone or anything trying to harm our children,
would be cast aside in favor of protection at any cost.Still, they are present, these childlike
fears in a grown up mind, as I sit under my own scary window.
*******
Blessed week that it is, and
blessed Lenten sacrifice that makes me think more deeply about the blessed
week… I felt my thoughts being led, like a lamb to water, to images of my
savior in deep red robes, returning to claim His flock. I could almost hear Him
say, “I promise to protect you.Don’t be
afraid.I will fight your enemies and
bring you home. Just let me do that, K?”
I could hear my mother’s voice
from some long ago moment, quoting in her most comforting poetic voice: “Be
still, and know that I am God.” Trust Him.
I suppose I do, because if there
was ever a child who had a Parent who was trustworthy, it is I.And, sacred truth be known…it is also you.
When I was ill, years ago now, and wondered if the illness
that had come upon me was going to take my life, it seemed all clocks clicked
into half time.Even my brain moved in
slow motion.When all those vials of
blood had been drawn, and those electrical currents pressed through my arms and
down my legs; when the scans had been passed over my head and torso, and fluid
tapped from my spine like a maple tree in spring; when they finally determined
I had Guillain Barre Syndrome, then I lay still in my bed to allow the good Lord’s
miraculous creation to heal itself. Long, long hours spent there in my bed,
shivering with heat, burning and freezing at once, my flesh crawling with what
felt like little electric worms.There
was no release from the electricity gone wild under my skin, caused by nerve
endings stripped of their myelin sheath coatings, like clusters of electrical
wire that had had wire strippers drawn down the length of them. Those
electrical wires, known as nerves, fired against each other, over and over.
I feel blessed…and I am not kidding about this…I feel blessed
to have experienced that.And equally
blessed that only the nerve endings in my feet remain exposed.The other insulating sheaths have grown back
now.But in the middle of the whole
experience there was a milky murky place where my brain tried to process what
was going on.I remember lying in bed,
quaking, my feet feeling like electric ice.I remember my family bought me a CD player with headphones and some dear
friends had brought me a recording of Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing Consider the Lilies.I played it over and over, feeling the peace
of the Lord through that lovely music. Hearing it now makes me weep because it
takes me back to that emotional place.
One afternoon, early on, my mother came over.She was still walking then, but not all too
well, and she made her way to my house and back to our bedroom where I lay paralyzed.She sat on the edge of my bed, without a
word, and gently lifted my frozen feet into her hands.Quietly she sat there, just holding my feet,
wrapping them in the warmth of her hands until I fell off to sleep, willing what little energy she had to
push its way into my weary body.She
didn’t rub them, didn’t have to keep pounding-in her devotion.She simply held them in her warmth,
ministering with her presence. No electric heating pad could do what her hands
did.
*****
Today was Maundy Thursday; a sacred day of remembrance: The
day we remember the breaking of bread and blessing of wine; the day when the
Master washed the servants’ feet; when betrayal was prophesied, when there was
no more concealing identities.After the
sun set, and the table was cleared from supper, the Savior and a few servants
went to the garden to pray.With what
little detail we have, I 've pictures conjured in my brain, drawn there from a
lifetime of stories.I see Him a stone’s
throw from his friends, bent over a rock, under the low lying branches of
cypress or olive trees.I see his
unpierced fists clenched, his fingers interwoven, his arms drawn up to his
chest, his lips whispering.Someone must
have heard those words, else how would we know them: “Father, remove this cup
from me… nevertheless….” So much pain on one set of shoulders, so perfectly unfamiliar
with sin.
My friend Jay Hess helped me understand a little better the
process of enduring pain; at least a little of what that kind of pain might be
like.
Jay was a prisoner of War during the Vietnam War.He was imprisoned for over 5 years, Stripped
and tortured and starved. Demeaned and abused.This went on and on for Jay.He
is an amazing man, Jay Hess.Jay told once
about one of the tortures he chose to endure.I say he chose to endure it because he could have given up secure information
and been treated with less hostility. Instead he took the pain.His oppressors tied his elbows behind his
back with rope, then as they interrogated him they wove a stick in the rope and
began to twist it, tightening the rope, until his shoulders popped out of their
sockets.He fainted, and was revived,
repeatedly.Jay says they left him
there, with his dislocated shoulders strung back behind his neck.Forced to stand, his head flopped down onto
his chest.He recalls becoming conscious
of his circumstance and noticing the pores on his chest had opened in wide
wells, and that a clear liquid, faintly tinted pink, oozed from the wells.That’s what his body did in response to his
agony.
When I think of Jesus Christ bleeding from every pore, I picture
Jay Hess.
It tears at my heart, truly, to think of it.
Pain is a lonely place.Solitary and sapping.
*****
Way back in the starting place, before the earth was formed,
I imagine the spirits Jehovah and Michael laughing in their heaven place;
building young spirit boy forts and playing war, like little boys will.I realize I am thinking as a human here, and
I just speculate (lest you think I know these kind of things for real).I imagine the brotherhood, and the
friendship, because I am blessed to know that kind of relationship with my
siblings.I imagine the toil and
creative task that was undertaken when they created this beautiful place we
call earth.And I imagine Jehovah
watching with great hope as Michael received his body there in the Garden of
Eden, taking the new name of Adam upon himself: Adam, the keeper of the Garden.I imagine the discussions that likely
continued in that Garden, and outside of the Garden.I imagine the shared sorrow, and the express
joy. I imagine the sweet reunion when old Father Adam finally ascended to his
heaven place once again.
And, I can see Michael there on the brink of heaven, his
toes curled over the edge as Jehovah took his own little body of flesh on that
sacred night in Bethlehem.
They were companions and friends, beloved and devoted.
So on that dark night in the season of Passover, when the
sun had descended and the chain of events were set in motion, I am comforted in
my imaginings by the appearance of an angel there in the Garden, that place of
crushing. I imagine there was little he could, or would, do to take away the
pain, because the pain had to be born in a solitary way. What I see is a pair
of able hands, warm and comforting, touching and blessing and praying, like my
mother’s hands there on the side of my bed. Ministering with his presence.
Michael; familiar with Gardens.
On this Maundy Thursday I offer my thanks for those who are
willing to suffer.And thanks, too, for
those whose presence, while it cannot take away the pain, can surely embolden
the heart.
A few years ago our neighbor Doug
Miller, aka Mr Outdoors Utah, succumbed to colon cancer.His daughter, subsequently, made a series of
commercials about getting your colonoscopy…cuz you never know.So I finally heard enough of her pleadings
and went ahead and scheduled one.The
doc my friend referred me to was unavailable, so I went with another one on my
insurance list.I guess you don’t really
need to meet with such a doc face to face.They just said come on in on this certain date at this certain time, and
oh, by the way, you need to drink this stuff and empty out the old plumbing
before you come.So I drank the dreadful
stuff last Tuesday (remember the blog entry when I had NOTHING to say? That was Tuesday) I went in early last Wednesday morning.Dave had jury selection for a trial, which he couldn't miss, so Lib drove me. Yay for sisters.
I met Dr. Pugh about three
minutes before they knocked me out. Besides the fact that I almost died on the
table from an allergic reaction, all went as planned.I guess.I really had no plan.I was at the
mercy of medicine, and it was not pretty.My blood pressure plummeted; I passed out, was covered with hives,
oxygen levels dropped, and I threw up multiple times.Throwing up after fasting for 40 hours is not
pleasant. Anyway…that’s probably more info than anyone needs in a blog.They filled my IV with stuff to combat the
reaction and the doc with the extremely ironic name came in while I was still
half out of it and told me that I needed to have more fiber in my diet.
So tonight my sister Ann Marie and brother John are visiting from out of state. We decided we would all make a trip to the gym together after Dave and I babysat our grand kids while their parents went to a movie.Since I’m pretty sure only family
reads this blog, besides Val, Susan and Fran (Hi girls!) I am sort of laying it
all out here before you.
See, last month I found this gym
close by that never has anyone in it.It’s a little place, full of equipment, and the sign on the door says
Private Fitness Club - open 24 hours. I had decided I needed to do some weight
training, since my neuro-pathetic legs don’t work very well for aerobics.I called and met the owner there.It was reasonably priced, has the stuff we
need, and its close to home.And to make
it even sweeter, we can go late at night when for sure no one else is there!
So Dave and his harem all signed
up.We go a few times a week; Dave,
Sherry, Libby and me.Sometimes Gram
comes in her wheel chair and watches us grunt and giggle. It must be a
ridiculous sight, the team of us moving down a long row of weight training
machines (some of us definitely more fit than others), working our various flappy muscle groups.I’m just glad I am the one behind my eyes! It makes me laugh to think of
it. It's sort of out of our comfort zone.First off, when you walk into the place it smells like a pizza
parlor.Don’t you think that’s
hilarious?A gym that makes your mouth
salivate?It’s situated right next door
to a Subway Sandwich shop and I think the exhaust pipe from the ovens feeds
right into the gym. The way things work in our family I am quite sure we are
all gaining weight on the fumes.
Anywho…tonight John and Ash got
home a little later than we thought and Dave was sawing logs on the couch at
their place after the end of his week-long jury trial.So my sisters and I texted back and forth and
decided to do the gym tomorrow.Besides,
Ann Marie was in the middle of making oatmeal cookies.
I drove down Summerwood road
toward home and my car just instinctively turned into Gram’s driveway. It was
almost midnight.I pushed the garage
door opener, lugged my unexercised body out of the car, and walked through the
aromatic scent of freshly baking oatmeal cookies that wafted out into the
garage. I flung the door open and declared:
Yesterday, after driving the 20 miles to Salt Lake City for business,
I gave myself permission to take an hour and visit one of my favorite old haunts,
a wonderful second hand store called Emily Jayne’s on the corner of 8th
and 8th.Jayne was working, arranging
her very cool collection of stuff for sale. She has such a knack for design, and even though
her inventory changes constantly, she keeps things looking like you absolutely MUST
have that vintage casserole dish in your cupboard!I worked my way around the store in my regular
browsing pattern.Back in the children’s
room I leaned over to move a stack of baseball bats when a very round, very yellow
eye peeked out from behind a lampshade.I
scooched the lamp to the side to reveal a marvelous fluff of cuddle.
“Hey!” I thought to myself, “I know what that is! It’s a Snowy Owl! That’s a female snowy owl!”I could tell by the flecks of black splashed atop
her fake fur feathers. And I knew those bright yellow eyes, encircling deep black
pools. This was a stuffed animal Snowy Owl staring out at me!
Yes, I do know about Snowy Owls.
Sophie chose the Snowy Owl for her second grade animal report.
I sat at her kitchen island one evening,
chatting with her and her mama, reviewing some of her homework assignments.
“I have to make something for the Animal Fair, Gummy.What do you think I should make?”
Questions like that ring little doorbells in my head; little
invitations to examine creative options.IDEAS R US, is my slogan.I rarely
have a problem coming up with ideas.Execution
is sometimes a little messy, but ideas are abundant and have always been so.
I asked Ash if I could take on the duty of Animal Fair Project
with my grand daughter.Ash was more
than happy to let me take these reigns, especially since grades were due and it
was the end of the semester for her as well, Fourth Grade teacher that she is.
Soph came over after school the next day.We rummaged through the pantry and the basement
and came up with the goods for a dandy Snowy Owl game.Gumps dug a cake round out of the basement for
me, and I hot glued one of Kate’s oriental pot sticker sauce bowls to the center
of it. Then Soph spray painted the whole
thing silver out on the lawn by the driveway.She then hand colored about 100 little square stickers, which we applied
to the perimeter of the game board.In the
center we glued raffia to make the nest look real. Sophie’s little 8 year old fingers rubbed and rolled
tiny pieces of Sculpee, which we baked into little bird eggs for the nest in the
middle of the board. Next we painted peanuts white, drawing little beaks on
their heads and bright yellow eyes straddling the beak. We glued the painted peanuts to pieces of cardboard
to be used as game pieces.
At 8:30, about when Sophie normally goes to bed, she called
her mama:
“We prolly have a couple more hours of work to do, is it ok
if I stay up to work with Gummy?”
Much to Ashley’s credit, she agreed. She knows the value of teaching moments, which
often coincide with bonding moments, and are unfortunately sometimes not convenient
or altogether comfortable.By 10 pm we
had enough done that I could drive her home. She scurried into the house, set the game on the
counter, and immediately asked her mom to play a round with us.We drew question cards, moved our peanut owls
round the circle, skipping ahead when we landed on a lemming, and moving back a
space when we hit a predatory silver fox. The game worked perfectly, much to our
delight!
The game is fun, that’s for sure…but the real joy was in the
making of it. Something absolutely priceless wraps itself around moments when two
creative minds are working together.I made
myself pause constantly, like I was rebooting my brain, so I would completely perceive
the sacredness of this time with my girl; watching her mind churn, her hands
paint, her fingers write and color.I feel
blessed beyond adequate expression to feel so comfortable with these children
who call me Gummy. I can be completely myself,
and I perceive they are completely themselves as well. I understand this as a gift.That I am able to devote time and attention is
a gift. I know that, and I thank the Lord
for it.
I watched Sophie gather up her little nest of eggs and pile them
into the little LancĂ´me make-up brushes box we converted to a Snowy Owl Game piece
container. I watched her arrange the game
and the cards and the box in a neat arrangement, sweep her hands over the lot of
it as if to bless it, and then step back from the counter to observe her creation.
Her eyes sparkled with a well deserved
sense of accomplishment.My eyes watered
with a grateful burst of love.
The next day I drove down to Knowlton Elementary School and made
my way back to the media center that was once called a library when my own kids
went there.The room was filled with tables
and display’s; animals familiar and unfamiliar, all colorful and vibrant and alive
through the imaginations of second graders. I found Sophie over next to Abby, who had a diorama
of a Cheetah.Sophie explained about her
owl. Things I already knew, because I had spent the night before typing questions
for her game.I can, even now, see her bright
little face explaining in her most dedicated mature manner how the snowy owl can
eat 1600 lemmings in one year; how they nest on the frozen tundra and lay 8-14 eggs
at a time; how the father and mother help care for the little ones.
Parker comments on Sophies display at the Animal Fair..
Yesterday I plunked down $16 for that stuffed owl. Sophie found it in a bag on the kitchen floor when
she came over to make cookies this afternoon.
“Oh, I guess I’d better give that to you now, hadn’t I?”
She held it up, arms length from her chest.
“It’s a female Gummy. See? She
has black flecks on her feathers!”
I know, Soph. I never
would have known this, except for you. I
might have never noticed those yellow eyes peering out at me in the store.
Instead, I am more informed.And I like, most of all, to think of my little girl lying in her bed tonight,
her arm curled around a new stuffed creature. And I like to think that somewhere in her little
heart she has tucked her Gummy under the large soft wing of that Snowy Owl.