HAVE HOPE

Hard days. We all have them. But I've learned, finally, that what I have , more often, are hard chunks. Sometimes they are divided by sunsets and sunrises, but sometimes they are on the other side of a Dove ice cream bar, or a stubbed toe, or a call from a friend.

Yesterday I let my head go down the rabbit hole, thinking about my Littles, the kids who belong to my kids. In real life, before this situation called global pandemic blurred my vision like a bad dream, I spent nearly every day, or at least some portion of it, in the presence of my grandkids. I recognize this as a blessing, even moreso now that it's out of reach. I crave their touch. I ache to feel the warmth of their skin, the energy of their arms around my neck. I even miss changing little Tessy's diaper, patting her soft little tummy, drawing her up to my chest, smashing her with a giggling embrace, then throwing her on the mountain of down pillows we piled up on top of the bed. I miss baking with them, and coloring and just sitting and talking, or playing guitars and ukuleles and kazoos. 

I think this current lump of sadness started the night before last, when Annie and the kids stopped over for a minute. We keep ourselves apart, but cannot resist the magnetic pull to at least be within six fet of each other now and then, if only to exchange a loaf of bread or batch of cookies. But it is a double edged sword, because being that close and not touching is almost harder than not seeing each other at all. Tessa was on the swing in our yard, and her two year old legs do not yet know how to pump. She called to someone to push her. It sounds overly dramatic, I know, but it nearly broke my heart. I started to move toward her. David and Annie both insisted I stop. Meanwhile two year old Tess and 62 year old Gummy just stared at each other, tears welling in our eyes.

So yesterday morning I woke up with an overwhelming sadness. I'm not prone to tears, thanks to medication, but they came anyway. I've lost enough people to know this is what death brings to us. I am grateful this is not death this is just a temporary separation... with an unknown end date. I sent a text to my kids:

Immediately John called on FaceTime and each of his kids, and their parents, just walked around with the phone talking to me.Thank you, Dear Lord, for smart phones! Annie and Sarah both sent pictures. All sent love, and I suspect little prayers. And the nap I took helped, so that when I woke up I was able to record my daily scripture and joke and send out to all of them.
Today, when we drove over to the kids houses to deliver our traditional Sour Cream Conference Cake, eleven-year-old Ruby handed me a letter.  The outside of it said, written in artistic lettering:

HAVE HOPE

And this was the letter she wrote me:

I hope you are able to read it, because it is so beautiful and so dear, and besides being well written, it is so representative of my Roo. Ruby has always been an old soul in a young body. One day the body and soul will be in sync with each other, but until then I am afraid she is destined to be strapped into a roller coaster of emotion. But when that synchronization happens, watch out world, she will be a force beyond compare. 

For my birthday last month, Ruby gave me a stack of envelopes, each one with a hand drawn title. They are amazing! I taped them to my locker, so I can see them every day. I have waited until I felt the exact need to open each one. Here's a picture of the set, and just so you can get a sense for what is in each one, there's also a sample:

Each envelope says: Open when you're...
(pick an emotion)

Here's a sample of one envelope.

Sometimes we confuse sad with mad,
and what we really want is to feel loved.

She laminated these little notes of encouragement.

Isn't she just so cute?

I'm not sure why Ruby included this picture of her dad,
my firstborn, dressed as a wiseman. Maybe she thought it would
make me feel happy. Or maybe she wanted to remind me that I have
already learned about dealing with feelings of frustration and
anger while raising him as a teenager.

Before this craziness, when days were chock full of  calendered events, so many that I had to have little reminders ding at me through my phone, and my gas tank emptied twice a week, and my guitar went in and out of its gig bag on a regular basis; when I sifted, without thinking, in and out of stores and houses and church pews... back in the old days, Ruby invited me to her "Lunch with someone special" at Knowlton Elementary School, where she is in 5th grade.

A little sashay in the school parking lot.

I stopped at Subway and got us sandwiches and chips and her favorite lemonade and we sat at those squatty little cafeteria tables just tall enough for first graders. I had brought enough treats for her to give away to friends. I love that being with Ruby is wholly comfortable for me. She makes me feel important, and she makes me feel at ease. It's one of her gifts. I just love her so much. Even now, as I type this at 2 in the morning, I feel warm love dripping from the corners of my eyes because I love her so much. And then my mind goes right on down that holy list of names belonging to my posterity, from sixteen-year-olds down to two, and I am a blubbering mess. I just miss them so much.

God granting we survive this, I inhale slowly, imagining the day we first get to embrace again. It seriously feels like I have eleven missionaries out at once, and I am going through withdrawals.

I write this tonight so that I might remember: How it felt to be kept apart. How it felt to be mature and responsible in spite of overpowering emotions. How love looks from far away. It is a test, for sure.

My heart is sifted through my sacred four; John, Sarah, Kate and Annie... then further down into eleven beautiful, gifted, loving, intelligent, striving, delightful souls I claim as my own. Thank you, Lord. With everything that is in me, thank you.

(Coronavirus deaths to date: 64,787)

LOVE LETTERS

In four decades of living with Dave Connors I can only recall two times when I heard him passionately and forcefully raise his voice. Once was as a coach on the ball field, defending one of his teenage softball players. The other was in the cafeteria of the Junior High, defending his son. I had arrived late for parent/teacher conference and when I entered the room I thought I heard my husband’s voice, but it didn’t register because it was so out of character for him to be at that pitch and that volume. I must have a husband-homing device, because it didn’t look like anyone else noticed it, except the teacher, of course. I found David in a heated discussion with our son John’s English teacher. I don’t even recall his name, but he had a particularly elementary attitude about the importance of spelling in creative writing. What started out as an amenable interchange turned into a little philosophical brawl, the teacher defending the value of correct spelling, and David defending the importance of safely expressing creative thought without the hovering stick of an editor restraining the writer. I slipped over to their table and listened, proud of what I heard my husband saying. “If you insist that this talented thinker worry about being punished for misspelling, he will train himself to use safe words rather than accurate ones. We are not willing to let you do that. He is a gifted writer, and a true thinker, and we will not let you squelch that creative brilliance over something like spelling.” It’s not that we don’t appreciate the value of correct spelling in a finished piece, but when one is in the process of creating, spelling must not play a role. The editor gets to come play after the creator is done. I don’t recall how the whole thing resolved itself. I do know, however, that this boy ended up being a lover of words, and a fine wordsmith. He has the heart of a poet, with a large diverse play list perpetually spinning in his brain, and he’s one of the most creatively gifted humans I know.

Everyone has a story.

The thing about creative people, at least the ones I’ve encountered, is that in the process of owning that piece of genius bestowed on them at birth, they tend to grow a little off center, like unpruned trees that have a split trunk where one side takes over and throws things off balance. John appears pretty balanced, at least on the outside. Not that he doesn’t have his quirks, like the rest of us. He has exceptional social skills, and unlike many introverted creatives, he has real interest in other people and how they think and work. He has this way of leaning into you in a conversation, especially if you are new to him. Like a magnet, he draws people’s gifts out, as if they were little shreds of metal shavings. He is able to see their gifts, and appreciate them. So, it is no surprise that he has made a career of assembling talents and making something of the collection. His latest venture seems the perfect marriage of his talents. He has gathered together the raw materials of human communication: Letters - and wrapped them in their finest most creative dress: Art. 

Larger than life.

For months I have watched, from my distant maternal perch, this boy-turned-man rotate on the axis of the English alphabet. All through the winter and spring I made weekly stops at thrift stores, purchasing 100 pounds of books at a time, buying them by weight from the Goodwill store, and storing them on our back porch in stacks and stacks of boxes. Each time we stopped at John and Ashley’s house there was some new creation in process: a scene from Alice in Wonderland sculpted from pages of the book; a large literary arch of books reinforced with metal rebar; wood carved letter blocks. Their home was a wonderland of creative process always in the works. Kudos to Ashley for understanding the messiness of creativity. Blessings on their children for getting to swirl in that space.

John in the rainbow library.

This week we took our family to the finished product, the culmination of this creative assemblage: LOVE LETTERS. At the Gateway Mall, where Coldwater Creek and The Gap used to be, the space has been transformed into an artful intimate look at our relationship with letters. He and his friend, renowned letter artist Becca Clason, have orchestrated a symphony of letter artists from around the world, shining a spotlight on each of their particular talents, and at the same time introducing we plain old humans to the magic that is around us every day. I am reminded how magical it is for us, in this juncture of time, to have access to beauty without hardly trying. The Love Letters Museum is an aesthetically moving reminder that we are blessed with 26 pieces of raw material with which we create unlimited things of beauty, or pain, or tragedy, or grace. Like the collection of our limited number of music notes creates unlimited magic in all its forms, so do Letters. We use them daily, on paper and audibly, stringing them together in our own way, with our own distinct patterns. I came out of LOVE LETTERS with a quiet reverence for them, for the role they play in my personal life, grateful for the tool they are in my relationships. 

Gracie learns to stamp her name.

I am reminded that we are all wordsmiths, and understanding that makes me a more conscientious steward over the tools of my trade. Even more, I am moved by the brilliance and beauty of a world of artists I had not known before, whose work stirs me. I am in awe of their gifts, as they work with the holy trinity of a visual artist: the heart, the mind and the hands. Its apparent they mold their letters with love.

Click HERE to see more about Love Letters Museum: An interactive art exhibit encouraging guests of all ages to use letters, words and art to tell their story. It's only in SLC until mid-September.

My favorite people on
giant letter blocks that move.

Goofy kiddos

You can visit wonderful exotic places and never leave your couch.

Write a letter to someone you love and they will mail it for you

John and his buddy Sophie, a partner in creative crime!

Ruby slides down the pages of Alice in Wonderland.

There is a magical art gallery where artists
were invited to paint from one of their favorite
children's books. You can open some of the paintings
and peek into a tiny spaces, one of them a
replica of the room you're in.
(or, as Anna has done here, you can enter that space!)

Tiny kids in a tiny room.

In the end, there is a large paper shredder
inviting us to let go of our mistakes

Calvin makes his own button,

My brother, George,
constructs with letters.

this wonderful exhibit lets you
walk through words, literally.

Before we can construct some things,
we must first deconstruct the norm.

Watch how this changes as you walk past it.

Thank you, Uncle John.