3-21-22 FLEXIBLE RULES

A renowned therapist once spoke in a meeting I attended. Her talk was entitled "What Every Teenager Needs." There were just a small handful of things she submitted are necessary for every healthy teenager to survive, if not thrive. (These are after the basic human physical needs are met.)

One that I remember is that kids need purely unconditional acceptance from some adult in their lives. I was a mother of four teenagers at the time and had a sudden wave of misguided guilt wash over me, until she followed with the suggestion that such a person is rarely a parent, because parents, by nature of their position and calling, have to discipline, and discipline too often feels like rejection. Her opinion was that the person to fill that role is more often a grandparent or aunt or uncle, or some other adult friend. That was powerful advice. But this is not what I am focused on at the moment. 

One of the other factors the said was important in raising healthy teens was to have a small set of well defined rules. Then she followed that statement with this:

The rules need to have some measure of flexibility.

When you hear these words over the pulpit at church it seems almost like an oxymoron. We are used to hearing about exact obedience. This particular talk, given decades ago, was pivotal for me. I recall it often. It immediately affected my parenting. Now, in my stewardship as a mother, I am the only teenager left. (It's taking me a long time to mature.) I've learned to apply the eternal concepts underlying these rules to myself.

Timo in Saturday night's concert.

This past weekend was one of those intensely over scheduled times. So many things converged, and all of them were important. In one 48 hour period our Timo had two major performances, which required a couple hundred miles of driving and roughly five hours of performance. 

I had accepted a request to speak and sing at a Stake Women's Conference in a neighboring city, which had been postponed twice because of Covid and finally ended up on Saturday morning. Then our friends' son unexpectedly passed away and his funeral was scheduled for Saturday morning. So we lugged our sound equipment to Centerville Friday evening so it would be all set up Saturday morning. I was also asked to sing at the funeral Saturday morning. On top of that I had Relief Society Presidency meeting Friday morning, and a luncheon following the funeral that we were providing for the grieving family.

Grant Tingey 31 years old

We set up tables and decorated into the wee hours, I worked on my talk/musical performance, cooked, and joined a remarkable handful of devoted disciple women who not only planned, set up, cooked, served, cleaned up, put away tables and all other supplies then vacuumed and mopped until Saturday evening without sitting down for many hours. Then Dave and I finished the night by attending the second of Timo's performances at the Salt Lake Tabernacle, after which we hurried over to give a birthday gift to our grandson Walter. I record all this so I will remember how ridiculously busy my life was as a 64 year-old grandma Relief Society President, and also to explain why RULES NEED TO BE FLEXIBLE.

I committed, thirteen years ago, to write every day of Lent. This was a healthy exercise, and I have remained committed.  But when it was 1 am Friday and I had to be up and performing early Saturday morning and still needed to solidify my presentation, I actually let the thought rumble around in my head that I should do my Lent writing instead. I had to pause and do one of those deep dives, asking myself what the purpose of the rule was. Then I decided this was one of those times to break the rule.

I write during Lent in order to improve my writing skills, which develops my thinking and perception skills, which follow the promptings of my heart. And all of this follows my devotion to my Lord which underlies the writing at this particular season. And underlying all of that is my desire to understand my relationship with God and my fellow man. And underlying that is my belief that I am only here temporarily, that I am returning home at some point, and I want to be not only comfortable in the presence of divinity, but I want to be improved by my experience on earth. The rule basically was established to fulfill my desire to connect with my eternal home.When I stopped, took a breath, and analyzed the pressure I was feeling to not break the cycle of my daily Lent writing, I realized that it was, on this weekend, actually getting in the way of me achieving the greater goal. Testifying through word and song to 300 women seemed more important. Nurturing and ministering to  grieving friends seemed more important. Supporting our soon-to-graduate grandson in his magnificent talents seemed more important. So I broke the rule. There was no post for Friday, March 18. And the post for Sat March 19... well, that was one of the "spare's" I had written the week before Lent, specifically to have on hand for days like this.

I want my kids and grands to understand that tradition and rules, if they do not serve the eternal goals in our lives, do not have to always be the end-all. That is not to say they are not important, if they are well thought-out and guided by the Holy Spirit when they are established. But if the rules themselves always took precedence, then, frankly we would not exist. Eve would never have had the courage to eat that proverbial apple. Martin Luther would not have nailed his 95 Theses on the door of St Anne's Church. Gahndi wouldn't have opposed that salt tax. Rosa Parks would not have sat on that bus. 

Of course not writing a few creative paragraphs doesn't really fit in the same category, but freezing our minds to follow rules blindly is risky business. In my thinking, if all we needed were hard-fast rules then why would God even give us the Holy Spirit? 

All in all, I am a believer in limited rules, with underlying truth giving them foundation. They simplify our lives. It is just easier to establish in my mind and heart that I am going to be honest, then I don't have to keep having to re-decide every time an opportunity to be a little dishonest comes up. But if it takes breaking a lesser rule to keep a greater rule, you'd better believe I'm gonna consider it with intelligence and prayer both being driving forces. 

The take away? Limit your rules. Make the reason for them clear. But also make them flexible. Even the Master of All Rules gave us Jesus.

3-19-22 OUT OF THE MANGER

My daughter Sarah lost her Mary. The Mary that kneels beside Jesus in her little Christmas Nativity set. She's been missing a few years now. I suspect we may find it in the toy room after the kids are grown and flown, or stuck deep between the back cushion of the couch, though frankly I already checked there. 

Because Sarah lost her Mary, I keep a watchful eye for replacements. 

“Would you mind,” Sarah asked, when I told her I’d look for a Mary: “Would you mind keeping an eye out for Jesus, too? The one I have is stuck to the manger, and I’d like one that can be added on Christmas Eve.” (I always love a challenge that requires me to search for charming old stuff rather that deal with what I already have.)

This morning a nativity set showed up on an online marketplace, so I clicked on it. It appears to be a perfectly sound set, well-appointed with colorful old Italian painted figures, a vintage creche and lots of animals. I pinched my fingers, touched them to my phone, and expanded the photo. Jesus was missing, and so was Mary.

I'll betcha I could buy this set, put it out on my front table, or set it up for a church lesson, and it might take a minute for anyone to notice the pivotal figures were missing. The rest is just so charming, and it looks so familiar we hardly look closely anymore.

Of course I won't do that. I am, after all, specifically on the lookout for Mary. And a Jesus who will be moved. We need a Jesus who does not stay in the manger.

Things are getting pretty serious around here. Between the unprovoked Russian attacks Ukraine, the pandemic, natural disasters and the grand canyon that politically divides otherwise civilized people, we sure could use the Jesus who does not rest passively in a manger . We need the one who grew and learned and taught and healed and listened and wept - not the infant "I'm hungry" cry, but the one who whispered "Oh, Jerusalem" through his tears. We need the one who understands us completely, the one who asked his father to take away the big hurt, and who mourned with Mary and Martha when Lazarus died, even though he knew he would raise him.

I suspect he still weeps. 

Though I am looking for an infant Jesus with a separate manger, what I personally need is the wise Jesus, wiser than his years, who confounded the priests and the rabbi’s. I need him to inform my heart and my mouth for the sake of my struggling kids.

I need the passionate Jesus, who stood his holy ground and ousted the moneychangers in the temple. I need his gumption to first know what is holy, and to defend it without apology.

I need the loyal Jesus, who performed his first noted miracle because his Mom asked him to. Not that loyalty was the driving force behind changing the water to wine, but that it was the impetus for even considering it.

I want the tolerant Jesus. His whole human existence had to have been an exercise in tolerance and patience! Peter alone would have done me in! And Thomas, who doubted. And these were his friends. Those who would seek to destroy him…seriously, who would be able to so readily forgive in the moment itself? This Jesus allows me to be flawed and still be loved. I need this Jesus.

I need the Jesus who left the manger.

And I also need the Jesus who parted the waters of the Nile and the River Jordan-  Who caused rain to cover the earth yet saved just enough to start the whole thing over – Who knew there were people across the ocean who needed him – Who saw darkness fall over the earth he had created, then restored the light. I need that Jesus too, the one before the manger.

We get the beautiful, peaceful, all-is-calm all-is-bright feeling at Christmas, which is hope. And we need hope. But hope is just a baby, laid in a manger, and my maturing heart and mind both need Jesus to grow up, like they need me to grow up. 

It takes more than just a passing glance at proverbial Nativities. It takes a bit of serious trust coupled with courage to step out. For some it takes the willingness to throw tradition, like a boomerang, way, way far away, trusting if it was made correctly, it will find its way back home. For others, if their heart tells them so, it means walking the same path they have always walked, with a scythe in hand to clear weeds out of the way. I think I'm a path walker, and my hands are blistered with scythe overuse. 

If my life were laid out simply on a table top, I believe you would be able to see the colorful people who enrich and enfold me. But I hope no one will ever be able to look at it and say; "Jesus is missing."

3-17-22 HOW RBG & I ARE JUST ALIKE

The best thing about getting older and not having a job that requires you to be somewhere in the morning is the sleeping-in. I waited decades for this, and it does not disappoint! Sometimes I think back to all those years of waking up for hungry crying babies, or early school schedules (not made for our family at all!) or jobs I've had, I get all giddy when I realize I don't have to do that anymore. I thought when my kids were on the brink of leaving home that my heart would break into pieces and I would not know how to put them back together. And indeed, it was taxing on my mother-heart. But the rest of me really loved not having to get up so early! Oh, how I love my bed! Well, at least in the morning. It is cozy at night, but I have the darnedest time falling and staying asleep before 2 am. Which leads me to something Dave told us last night.

Two days ago was the birthday of Supreme Court Justice, Ruth Bader Ginsberg. She would have been 89 on March 15, 2022. David currently presides over a national conference of trial court judges for the American Bar Association. The particular group of judges who serve in the leadership of this large organization is really dynamic. They are diverse, and brilliant, and cohesive. Dave is an anomaly among them as a white male LDS judge, and he fits right in because of the broad mindedness and general accepting and kind nature of these people. I am guessing there may be a dozen to 15 of them who serve as leaders of state trial court judges throughout the US. They meet a few times a year. Not being one who knows all that much about their  objectives, I can't give you dependable info about their united accomplishments or purpose (Dave would have to do that, and he's currently in court), I'll just say, since I've known this group a few years now, I like them a lot. I sometimes travel with Dave to national ABA conventions, and this group held their annual meeting here in SLC last year, so I got to spend a bit of time with them.

So, anyway, these judges met virtually Tuesday night for their annual celebration of Ruth Bader Ginsburg's Birthday. Dave said this year they had one of her law clerks join them and talk a bit about the late Justice from an intimate and personal standpoint, giving them a glimpse of what she was like in the day to day. Dave and I have seen the movies depicting her dynamic life, but this up-close-and-personal viewpoint was something a little more real. This little tidbit from her clerk totally warmed my heart.

She said Justice Ginsberg, if she could, would sleep in till 11 am. Her court schedule did not always allow for that, but if she could, that's what she would do. Her clerk followed that with a pause, saying that more often than not the emails she got from Justice Ginsberg would be sent at 2 am.

You know that feeling when you realize someone else you admire has the same "flaw" as you? Yup, that was my feeling! I felt it all the way up till 2 am, when I finished my writing and made my way to bed. 

(By the way, two of my sisters and I were texting till 3 am, from our beds. It's genetic.)

Here's to all the good stuff RBG left us, including these great thoughts:

Not everything you read on the internet
is the exact gospel truth.
(Including stuff I write. This is third hand info.)

3-16-22 iPHONE REMINDERS

I have ADD. It took multiple decades for me to find this out. It really would have helped my sense of self to know this about myself when I was younger. But at least I know it now.

One of the best things in my daily ADD life is that I can set reminder alerts on my iPhone. Its even better than a personal secretary, because I carry it around in my pocket and it doesn't have to come find me. Since it's currently 11:58  pm and I have yet to write something creative today, I thought, for memory's sake, I would review the various alerts I had put in my phone today.

9 am - read your scriptures reminder (I get this every morning. And sad to say, I regularly ignore it because someone has called and needs something, I know, it's sad. Still, I don't feel evil.)

9:30 am - take your antibiotic (gotta beat this bone infection)

10:00 am leave for Heart & Soul gig

10:30 Heart & Soul gig. (Sing for rehab facility in Centerville. I do this 3-4 times a month, all different places)

11:40 mail packages to Mary H. and Kelly DeH. insured and certified with signature

12:00 Go to Farmington High and pick up Tessa from pre-school

12:15 Put Tess in her leotard and drive her to ballet in Kaysville

12:30 Tess Ballet in Studio A

Tessy running to my car after ballet.

1:15 Pick up Tess (we usually follow this with a trip through the Wendy's drive through for a keychain frosty and French fries, and sometimes a hamburger with absolutely nothing on it. She likes to crawl in the front seat while we sit in the parking lot. It makes her feel big to sit in the front seat. When the weather is better we go to the park, but it's still cold, and it's still pandemic in-the-car-eating)

2:30 take antibiotic (yeah I need alerts for this stuff)

3:00 remind Annie (who also has ADD) that I have Tess and she won't need to pick her up from preschool. Also, rehearse song for Saturday's funeral.

4:00 CHECK TO DO LIST: 

This was yesterday's to do list,
but some of it has bled over into today,
I have to write these things down so my brain 
does not have to worry about holding them.

7:00 Take Walt birthday shopping and pick up primroses. (Then drop off Walt, take primroses to church and water them. Then check inventory of plates cups and utensils for luncheon).

9:00 take antibiotic (again)  Call Tasha and tell her you got flowers. Take pork to Libby. Report inventory to Marcy

10:00 put pintos on to soak overnight

10:35 write agenda for Presidency meeting. Send out reminder

11:00 do your Lent writing (but I ended up not getting home till 10:30, which put the pintos on to soak at 11, and texting Marcy until 11:30.) So here it is,  1:27 am, and I am going  post this and to try to go to bed. (did I or did I not take that third antibiotic today???)

Night.

These are the happy primroses for the funeral luncheon centerpieces.

This is the tenth funeral in our ward (congregation) in one year.
We try to nurture the family by providing a luncheon after the funeral services.

3-15-22 PERSEVERANCE

I have this sister. Well. I actually have four of them, but this is about one of them. She’s the oldest of the “three little girls” who became three large lovely ladies. Ann Marie is 18 months older than I am, and Libby is 15 months younger. Tonight is about Ann Marie, though when you talk about any one of the 5 sisters, you’re basically including the other four, and our two brothers as well.

This here is a tale of perseverance. 

I can already tell I’m gonna need to reign in the horses and keep this as simple as possible, cuz the stories of our lives read like a novel rather than a series of essays, one story being essential in the telling of the one that follows. And part of the beauty, in fact most of it, lies in the details. But I am not writing Ann Marie’s life history, I’m just trying to get us all up to snuff on the essentials that led to tonight’s excitement.

Let’s start in London. 

Here we are, the three little girls walking through the Mews in London, almost exactly five years ago. Libby, Dave, our daughter Kate and I had flown to London to hang out with the missionaries, Elder and Sister Mullen for a week or so. That trip is another full book of adventures. (I suspect if I looked in this very blog back to 2017 I'd be able to read about them, cuz Lent writing happens no matter where I am.) Oh, and Sister Mullen is my sister Ann Marie. Michael is Elder Mullen. The Mullens were one of those power couples in the England London Mission. They had a tidy little flat near the Hyde Park LDS Chapel. When the four of us descended upon that space, Ann Marie and Mike pushed the loveseat over against the wall and blew up air mattresses and we basically took over the place, laughing through the nights, prancing about town during the days. ( I am currently forcing myself to pull back from all the memories creeping up right now.) It was on that trip that AM and Mike let the idea of moving to Utah from CA enter the level of conscious thought.

OK, now skip ahead. AM and Michael did indeed move to Utah. In fact, they live just up the street. There are now four sisters within shouting distance of each other. We are attempting to overtake our church congregation!

After AM and Mike moved to Farmington they began serving a second mission. They were Senior Missionary Coordinators for 16 stakes. It was, from my viewpoint, and frankly anyone's viewpoint, it was an extremely taxing mission, demanding on time and emotions. I'll keep my personal opinions to myself about whether or not this particular calling should instead be a full-time job that carries long term consistency. Anyway, the Mullens had a burning desire to serve another mission in England. They serve as temple ordinance workers here in Utah, but their good friends serve as London Temple President and Matron and they both had it in their hearts to get the Mullens over there while they were serving. Then the pandemic hit. Stupid pandemic.

Long story not-so-long, they submitted their papers. Then stuff happened besides the pandemic. And now that I am reviewing it, I am realizing most of it came to light because they had to go through certain protocol in order to submit their mission papers. Michael had his own set of factors that put flags on their application.

Then Ann Marie got debilitating pain in her leg. I'll bet she didn't sleep for six months. They decided to do spinal surgery for a pinched nerve which they discovered was causing the immense pain. But before the surgery the foot on her leg started flopping. She ended up with a thing called foot drop, or drop foot. It robbed her of her daily walks, and interrupted her frenetic life of service. The surgery was successful in healing her leg, but the foot is still unresponsive. She walks with a cane and a brace but does not let it slow her down. She is the most smiley person I know.

So then Ann Marie got breast cancer. She underwent surgery, and radiation, and lives in a fluffy cloud of denial if her body wants to rest and recover. She can't stand to miss anything!

AM rings the bell at the end
of her cancer treatment.

All of us celebrate right there in the office.
Our good friend Dr Rob Harris was her Radiation Oncologist
That string of Dollar Store dolls represents the 5 sisters.

Just to give you a little idea, Ann Marie bakes 16 loaves of home made bread every single Saturday. A few of them are used for the Holy Sacrament in our services on Sunday. Then she gives the rest away. There's a whole route of people who anticipate the Mullenmobile pulling up on Saturday evening with fresh warm bread and a jar of home made raspberry jam or honey butter. Every time I take the sacrament I think of my sister, cuz her bread is so substantial, and so yummy, and I think it's the absolute perfect representation of our perfect Savior. AM is a former Relief Society President, former Young Women's President, former Primary Chorister. Michael is a former Bishop and Stake President. They are the real deal when it comes to dedicated service.

Anyway, through all this spine surgery and aneurysms and cancer AM and Mike submitted a request to serve a mission THREE TIMES. And each time they were turned down, for health reasons. So she went to physical therapy... faithfully. They prayed. They served. They prayed and served some more, and did all the medical stuff they could do to make their bodies cooperate with their hearts. And...

GUESS WHAT?

It worked! Perseverance worked! 

Tonight we gathered at their house because she got an email this morning telling them they had received a call to serve a mission. They had submitted requests for three temples: London, Los Angeles and Nauvoo. We three little/big girls sat together with our sister Sherry and our sister Sue on Skype, along with both of our brothers, the Mullen kids and grandkids, and a couple friends/family in CA. All those other people joined virtually, from Boston to LA.

Thinking back on a couple hours ago when we watched her read aloud their call to serve as ambassadors for Christ, I am a jumble of emotions, recalling all she has gone through these last few years. All that has been required of her body and spirit. All that Michael has yearned for and been patient in enduring. It really is a pivotal day here, a magical moment when just a couple hours ago my sister and her husband, like kids on Christmas morning, opened up their mission call.

ENGLAND LONDON TEMPLE MISSION May 2022-May 2023.

We're gonna miss her like crazy! We're gonna miss him! And you can be sure we're gonna make a trip across the pond!

I'm thinking about the fact that this week is also Match Week for our friends graduating from medical schools. I remember when our Sarah matched, and the nerves and excitement of finding out where they would spend the next four years. I think of this as Match Day for AM and Mike, too. It's a match made in Heaven, don't you think?

3-14-22 I TRUST HIM

I spent the afternoon Saturday in the dentist chair on an emergency visit. The dental implant he had drilled into my bone six weeks ago was failing. I could feel it wiggling, like a baby tooth giving way to the inevitability of growing up. That metal stump that was intended to hold a man-made tooth had been deeply drilled into the bone on the edge of my upper pallet. I started noticing its presence more and more, until either my conscience or my angels said, “You’d better have the doctor look at that.”

The technician xrayed it and asked how I was handling the pain.

I don’t have pain, I replied.

Then the dentist came in and asked the same thing. Again, I told him I had no pain.

He explained that the implant had indeed failed. There was severe infection in the bone, which made the other teeth on that side of my mouth unstable as well. So, he set about removing the implant, scraping the bone, inserting a bone graft and stitching up the roof of my mouth. (He had previously only had one implant fail. I guess I was assigned to bring his percentages to the averages)

The missing pain quickly made an appearance.

You’d have to know my history with oral surgery to understand the recipe for the particular anxiety that accompanied the pain. It involves a tooth in the roof of my mouth, an attempt by an oral surgeon to dig a canal to that tooth for braces to pull it upside down and over where it belonged. This was when I was 16 years old. The story includes failed anesthesia, drug abuse (by the doctor, not me), a lost license, new surgery, fainting the only time in my life, and subsequent oral surgeries. I’ve had four babies, three without anesthesia, pancreatitis, Guillain Barre Syndrome and other strange maladies that involve serious pain, but oral surgery brings out a very old anxiety that makes all of these feel relatively minor.

I like my dentist, Dr Allen. I feel like he’s a normal kind of guy who understands normal people, but he’s also pretty experienced, having spent much of his career as a dentist in the Army, where he dealt with all sorts of conditions of the mouth. He has tv screens on the wall and the ceiling in each room, given to distract and entertain his patients. I’m grateful for those.

So, I was slying there (sitting and lying) watching The Great British Baking Show on the ceiling as they started shooting anesthesia into the roof of my mouth. My thighs and butt muscles tightened as I squeezed my hands together. As this repeated, I felt that old recipe rising within. It starts in the chest and radiates up and down. My feet start jiggling, I can feel my elbows tighten up, and I intensify my focus on whatever is before me, conscious that I am trying to distract myself. I watch Paul lift a forkful of patisserie into his mouth up there on the tv screen, but it seems to go in slow motion and his words rise and fall in pulsating mumbles that resemble the variable pitches of a drill. I can feel the fear bubbling up, like I am losing my years and becoming a child again. The fear itself frightens me. Instinctively, I say a silent prayer. And then I feel Dr Allen’s belly against by head. He’s stabilizing himself against me, and he is intensely focused. His bright light shines in my face so I can no longer see the baking show. When the curved needle and sutures appear, I close my eyes. I can feel it all. But I tell myself that there is no pain. There is no pain. There is only discomfort. Discomfort is different from pain. The pressure is disturbing. I can’t seem to control the rising fear. And then I find the words:

“I trust him.”

I repeated the words in my head. “I trust him. I trust him.” The more I said it, the more my anxiety subsided. It was remarkably effective. 

I have tried, in the past, other pain strategies: pretend it doesn’t hurt, pinch your thumb and try to make yourself notice that pain instead, use Lamaze breath patterns (that’s how I had my babies), embrace the pain. They all have varying degrees of effectiveness. But for some reason, this weekend, I found my ability to trust, while it did not take away the pain, made the pain purposeful and strangely bearable. 

I’ve been thinking about it all weekend. There I was, a teenage kid in an old lady body, and this guy is drilling and yanking and scraping and stitching my flesh and bone. Shouldn’t something like that make anyone nervous? I don’t think it matters how mature someone is, that kind of stuff is disturbing. So first, I gave myself permission to feel uncomfortable. Then my next thought, while I was trying to calm myself in the dental chair, was how grateful I am to live in a time and place where there is anesthesia, and antibiotics, and sterile work environments, and people who are trained in these procedures and not just Barbers trying to keep their chairs occupied. 

I thought of my friend Jay Hess who spent six years as a prisoner of war and told me his idea of Hell was an abscessed tooth with Vietnamese music blasting in the background. Knowing I had the very best medical advantages helped. But in the end, repeating these words “I trust him, I trust him,” brought me the most peace.

I would not be myself if I didn’t take this experience and own it in a deeper way. So, home from the dentist with antibiotics and some ice and a few pain pills, I lay on my pillow and ponder myself to sleep, imagining a grove of trees and an oil press with a pile of apostles asleep near the gate. I imagine the pain in my mouth going to His, only multiplied, and the anxiety pressing through every pore, and the great great fear of impending doom. Then, just before I fall into a restorative sleep, I imagine him repeating, repeating, repeating

“I trust Him, I trust Him, I trust Him.”

3-12-22 UNDER THE MASK

Masks.

We’ve worn them… and then we’ve worn them. The N95 variety that protects us from viral spores and protects everyone else from ours; these have become so commonplace we don’t even think about it. For the past two years, if we wanted to go out, we went out with masks, unless we had viewpoints that bucked against scientific data, in which case I made sure to stand at least six feet away from you.

My friend Nancy got braces just before the pandemic, and now they’re off and so are masks. Perfect timing, Nancy! I, on the other hand, am back on stage and gigging a few times a month and we are no longer required to mask up: all this just in time for me to lose a tooth. And not just any tooth, one right there in the front of my mouth.

It started when my dentist said I probably needed a root canal. So, yeah, I went in and they numbed it up and started drilling. And drilling. And drilling, until two hours later the dentist said

“I don’t think we are going to be able to complete this root canal. We’re going to have to pull the tooth and do an implant.” 

So, since we were already numbed up, I said go ahead and he yanked out that tooth and started drilling and drilling for another 2 hours until tears started squeezing out the corners of my eyes. It took two weeks for the pain to subside.

So here I am, with a toothless grin. They gave me a fake tooth to fill the space, but the base covers the roof of my mouth and dramatically alters the way I speak and sing. So I’ve been battling within to decide if I want to look bad or sound bad. I have to speak/sing at a fairly large conference next weekend and I’m trying to decide if I want to just tell them to take a good look ahead of time, try to adjust their human tendency to judge, and then just sing without the fake tooth. The problem is that “F’ and “S” and “T” come out funny sounding when a front tooth is missing. (First world problems, I know).

Anyway, it appears the base of my implant is failing and I’m headed back to the dentist in an hour. If that’s the case, they’ll have to do a bone graft, and then another implant, and it will be nine more months of this.

I didn’t think I had a big pride issue. I mean, I let myself be who I am, though like anyone else I hope to appear clean and have some measure of dignity. But I guess I have more pride than I thought.

Last December, at one of my Christmas concerts, conscious of the fact that I would be under unforgiving stage lights, I slathered on makeup, painted my lips and cheeks, and applied a set of magnetic fake eyelashes. They even looked pretty good, relatively speaking. But halfway through my concert one of them started un-attaching on the outside edge. I blinked my way through the song, and one more, until finally I confessed to the whole sold-out audience that I’d had it with these ridiculous fake eyelashes and ceremoniously plucked them off. The whole audience cheered. No pride.

In reality I think it’s not so much that I have no pride, but that I have a pretty strong need to be real. I recognize it takes a certain level of confidence to be wholly real. In the case of my on-stage eyelash removal, I felt the love and acceptance of my audience, and that empowered me to make myself comfortable at the risk of rejection. None of us wants rejection, it’s against human nature. So we hide ourselves, and live through all sorts of discomfort. This does not make us evil. It makes us human. And we must resist passing judgment against those who look meticulously put-together as much as we must resist judging pretty raw looking folk.

I’m not loving having a missing tooth right in the front of my mouth. It keeps me from smiling. It definitely makes me pause before I throw my head back in a public belly laugh. And that sort of makes me sad. So, in a strange way, I am celebrating the wearing of masks. Ones made of fiber, and ones that go deeper. Sometimes they give us courage to go out in public when we are lacking a bit of confidence. Not everybody can ignore the desire to feel accepted. Frankly, wanting to be accepted is a bit of a sign of respect to the people around us. We just tend to carry it too far.

So here ya go, unmasked, unfiltered. and thankful.

Don't you think I look a little bit like Albert Einstein?

3-11-22 FIRST FRIDAYS

For Christmas we gave our daughter Annie a promissory note:

Annie and Jordon have three of our eleven grandkids: Calvin, Beth and Tessa. They live seven minutes away near downtown Farmington. Because they live close, and Annie and Jor both work full time, the kids are pretty comfortable at Gummy and Gumpa's house. One of our Christmas gifts to Annie was what we call First Friday, a sleepover at Gummy and Gumpa's house on the first Friday of every month.

Last Friday my sisters took us to a play and dinner for my birthday, so our First Friday was switched to the second Friday this month. Traditionally (We've only been doing this three months so far, so I use that term loosely) Walter comes over and has fun with us till its time for bed, then he goes home, cuz he only lives five minutes away. Tonight Walt decided to sleep over. 

Forty minutes ago, after they were had all brushed their teeth and were snuggled down on their various spots in our master bedroom, I read from a book I used to read to my own kids; Classics to Read Aloud to Your Children. It's a series of relatively short excerpts from Classic literature. Inevitably children will be captured by excellent story development and trapped by the assemblage of tasty words... all of which combine to make a piece of writing classic. Tonight I read the story of King Midas, retold by Nathaniel Hawthorne. By the time the king's daughter Marygold had been kissed and turned to solid gold, there was rhythmic breathing in our bedroom. All four kids and one old Gumpa were sound asleep. I tiptoed out to write this down before I doze off with visions of gold sparkling in my head.

The creative exercise I write about today is the making of home made pizza. With my Grands.

First, we discussed what yeast is and watched it fizz and foam in warm water before we added olive oil and salt and measured cups of flour. We stirred it and plunked it on my pastry mat. Then we practiced kneading. "Press down with the heels of your hands, push away, fold it back and turn. Repeat". 

We kneaded until is had a slight glisten and just the right smoothness. Then we let it rest and rise while the girls took a bubble bath and the boys disappeared to the basement. 

An hour later we returned to the kitchen and pinched pieces of dough off, pulling it gently at the edges to make thin personal size crusts. Each of us topped ours with whatever we chose. 

I still get such a kick out of how Annie's two little girls will opt for mushrooms and onions and meats and fresh basil. When we stopped at the store to get ingredients after I picked them up this afternoon, Tess sat in the shopping cart and pinched leaves off the basil plant, nibbling like a bunny rabbit as we zig-zagged the aisles.

Beth even created a little calzone.

Each pizza was a work of art, visually and culinarily (is that a word?)

After Pizza we watched the movie we had rented at the Red Box down at Maverick. The Paw Patrol Movie. (I fell asleep, with Tessa on my lap.) When the movie was finished I found this little pile on the coffee table. This stuff is allowed at Gummy and Gumpa's, these kids think, and darn it, I tend to agree.

Thinking back on the last few hours with these littles, I ache to have had my Sarah's kids here. I feel these kids growing something like five inches a month, and they will be driving next year, then won't even want to come to Gummy and Gumpa's. So I sit here inhaling until I hyperventilate.

These yummy pizzas we learned how to make tonight (it was a first for all of us, by the way) were a nice piece of creation. But really, the greatest things I created were the parents of these kids, who in turn created these treasures. Well, our spouses had some part in it. And our Heavenly Parents. But if you were to ask me what things I have created that are most valuable to me? No question, it's those little soft forms tucked under blankets sleeping on my bedroom floor.

Perfection.