3-25-18 ASK

Today's Sabbath share comes from my file of stories for Primary talks. Each of our kids, when they were small, shared this story in church talks which, in our house, their mom usually wrote. This was one of my favorites, and I had them tell it mostly because we wanted them to learn that part of their strength is found in asking for help. 

A small boy was given the task of removing a large stone from his front yard.  He set to work, struggling to get under the great weight of it.  Soon his energy was spent, and he came into the house distraught.  “I can’t do it,” he whimpered.  His father responded; “Did you use all your strength?”  The boy returned to the stone and with his eyebrows curled he pushed with all his might.  Still, the stone would not move.  His father stood in the doorway, watching his son struggle.  “I can’t do it, Dad.  I just can’t do it.”  “Did you use ALL your strength, son?” he asked again.  Trying one last time, the boy fell in a heap at the side of the stone.  His father walked over and knelt beside his boy.  “Son.  Did you use ALL your strength?”  Frustrated, the child cried, “I did!  You know I did.  It’s just too big for me. I did use all my strength and there is no more!”  The wise father took his boy’s tear stained face in his big calloused hands and whispered, “No son.  You did not use all your strength.  You have not asked me to help you.”

3-24-18 WORDS

Wednesday mornings, for the last few years, have been reserved for sewing class at Margaret's house. It became a sacred time, and I rarely let anything get in the way of it. And then Margaret went to that big sewing room in the sky  and I suddenly had an extra five hours a week. I could have done some household tasks, or decided to clean out my closets, or something like that. But instead my friend Carla and I decided that we would replace stitching fabric with stitching words together and make Wednesday mornings a time to focus on improving our writing skills. Carla is one of the best songwriters I know, and the is fabulous at critiquing. We "get " each other's writing styles. So that's what we do now, even though it's still hard for us to not have our Margaret time.

This Wednesday morning we decided to begin working through the songwriting exercise workbook written by our friend Pat Pattison, who teaches at the Berklee College of Music in Boston. The exercise includes three timed writings; one ten minute exercise, one five minute, and one 90 second. We begin each challenge with an object, or a word, which is basically a jumping off place. We incorporate all of our senses, trying to use imagery with smell, taste, sound, touch, motion, time and sight. Then we share our writing with each other, and move to the next. In the middle of our five minute exercise I heard the creaking of the garage door, and the tapping of little feet. Annie and her three littles had stopped by for a visit. We hushed the kids gently, asking them to hold quiet for just a few more minutes. It's tough to maintain your focus on the imagination when the reality of the loves of your life are standing right in front of you.  A few minutes later my friend Mary dropped in, calling out as she walked in the door; It's Mary! The lilt in her voice would have told me it was Mary even if she had not said her name, I've known and loved her for so long. "I saw all the cars in the driveway and thought I'd join the party." Mary is the kind of sister-friend who understands when I'm in the middle of writing, will visit with Annie while I'm working, and wave goodbye, knowing we will connect later.

Six-year-old Calvin and four-year-old Beth both asked what we were doing, so Carla explained the process. Armed with blank paper and pens, both kiddos joined us for our 90 second exercise, kneeling at the large coffee table as Carla and I wrote in our notebooks on the couch. I set the timer for a minute and a half, and Carla gave us the word. 

The word:

Lilly pad

When the timer sounds the end of 90 seconds, all pens go down.

I didn't get my writing done, because Beth kept asking me how to draw different letters. But here's what Calvin came up with:

Calvin's first creative writing exercise.

Let me translate for you:

Calvin: name

Lilly pads are a sight to see. 

The green against the blue water is beautiful.

Though he is only a Kindergartner, Calvin had a sense that what he wrote was beautiful. He could feel it. And  he was right, it was an accurate and fresh and lovely 90 second exercise, especially for one so young. Carla bestowed sweet, sincere compliments on him. (It is always especially sweet when our grandparents friends think well of us.) 

Calvin has been able to express his creativity for a few years now with his artistic talents. His mom has seen to that. He can draw, and color, and tape and paste and paint. But it was a joy for us to watch him discover this new thing; the ability to draw with words. Words are new tools to him. Exciting and versatile, and his ability to lasso them and bring them into submission is a new found talent. It is just so sweet to watch it unfold.

As Carla and I collected our things and closed up shop for the day, Calvin came and sat beside us. 

"So, Gummy, you do this every week? This writing thing?"

"Yes, Calvin, we do."

"OK, I'll see you next Wednesday."

That's my boy.

Calvin

Here's another great Calvin creation: 

WHY CAN'T LIFE HANDLE ITSELF?

3-23-18 RHYTHM

This boy has rhythm. He came that way. I suspect he may have even been part of  the heavenly team that was assigned to set the earth on its axis and start it spinning, never missing a beat in its rotation.

A while back, like his whole lifetime ago, Timothy made me a grandmother. Now he is in eighth grade and his voice is deep and he is full of all sorts of teenage magic!

Last week I rose early and drove to Salt Lake City to see him perform in the percussion section of the South Jordan Youth Symphony at Abravanel Hall. It is a gracious gift that the Utah Symphony Orchestra affords young musicians throughout the Wasatch Front, to play in their lovely facility.

When I pulled up to Abravanel Hall, the place was surrounded by a bumble-bee-like strand of school busses. Young musicians, instruments in hand, streamed out of those busses like little black ants. Later, as I sat inside that sparkling gilded hall, with its crystal chandeliers and polished wood walls, seated beside Timo's parents, I thought of what a great thing it was for these kids, thousands of them, to not only be able to perform in such an acoustically and aesthetically lovely setting, but to be able to actually hear other youth orchestras do their thing. When you're playing your instrument in a big band, it is nearly impossible to hear the whole effect of the group. The seats of Abravanel Hall were filled with other young students from other symphonies, waiting their turn to play, and in the process listening to other groups. It really is a grand opportunity, rare and grand, and I applaud the Utah Symphony and Abravenel Hall for hosting them.

Timothy and his parents

Timo is a percussionist in his orchestra. And he's really great at it. He has impeccable rhythm, may even have perfect pitch, and is able to translate written music beautifully. But to me his most remarkable musical gift lies in the pieces he creates. He's a really great performer. He's an even greater composer.

I wish I could show in this format of written words the magic of his music. He was blessed to be born in the digital age, where he can, with the touch of a finger, create french horns playing against fluid violins against a perfectly tuned timpani. Besides writing serious music, he hits my giggle button with his filmed escapades on his YouTube channel, Random Gathering of Goats, which has a newly emerging series of episodes called The Extremely Obvious Spy.

Last month we attended a regional

Reflections awards ceremony where he received a medal for an orchestral piece he composed. Pages on pages of score, created one instrument at a time, recorded on his dad's garage band app on his computer. Mozart would have been blown away to be able to hear his pieces so instantly! Apparently last week Timo received another medal at the state reflections contest.
Last week, after I attended his Symphony Hall performance, I drove to Herriman to watch Timo's little brother and sister while his mom chaperoned the rest of the day in SLC. I noticed his two large Reflections medals hanging on the drawer pulls of his bedroom dresser. Right there next to his Star Wars posters and picture of Phinneas and Ferb. In a flash I imagined years down the road, taking my old bones to some stage in some town on this spinning earth to see Mo Petersen perform, or to see him conduct, or to watch a movie with a Mo Petersen score. (I picked the name Mo Petersen. I think it sounds sort of iconic. Don't hold him to it.) But watch, you just watch! One day you too will hear something divine, and you may or may not ask yourself who created such beauty. Attached to it will be a name: some human being who corralled musical notes that came from musical instruments and choreographed them together in a pleasing way. And at some point, in some place, the name attached to it will be Timothy Petersen.

Mark my words.

Timothy, before he was famous,
with his oldest and truest fan, Gram.

3-22-18 TUNE-PLAY-REPEAT

Thursdays are fabulous and exhausting days for me. Fabulous in that I get to teach roughly forty people how to play guitar. Exhausting in that I have to prepare to teach roughly forty people how to play guitar. And because I build the curriculum around their abilities and desires, and they range in age between eleven and seventy years old, it's a challenge to choose music that all of them know, let alone want to learn. That's the drawback of group lessons. The advantage is that there is an energy and camaraderie that comes in that setting. Plus, group lessons make it more affordable. 

So my Thursdays are full of fabulous people, and I could write about each individual in all my classes, or abut the dynamics in each one. But it's Thursday night, and besides the fact that my fingertips, which are currently tapping away at my computer, are a little weary from playing guitar all day, my head is craving some down time. I don't get a ton of down head time during Lent. 

Anyway, what I am getting at here is that I adore people; especially people willing to try their hands at something new. And I am graced with he gift of being able to see talent grow, and lives be changed now and then. My own life is changed because of my relationship with my instruments of wood and steel, which I embrace almost daily, their pulses vibrating against my chest. My guitars are true and faithful friends. They don't always do  everything I ask, but they will always give me the old familiar tunes that comfort me when I need it.

Tonight one of my students brought this sweet gift to class. His name is Danny, and he owned my heart even before he made this treasure. He is one of those dream students who is able to pay attention, will respond to my requests, and he smiles all the while. Besides, he's super cute, and has an angel singing voice, which goes really well with a side of guitar. 

Danny chose this quote, then made me this sweet wooden sign in Junior High shop class. 

Life is like a guitar:
Tune - Play - Repeat

I really like this quote Danny found. I tell my students on the first day of class, when I teach them how to tune their instruments, that no matter how well they do everything else I teach them, if their instrument is out of tune, it just isn't going to sound right. It's true about guitars. It's true about humans. I pray for all of them to tune themselves. Especially the young ones. Life is so much playing and repeating. Tuning first is sort of important, wouldn't you think?

I feel pretty blessed to be able to teach guitar. By this time of year I question whether or not I really want to teach. I can make more money gigging, and it would probably be wiser for me to spend my time writing and refining my own music. And I could sure use the time for other non-musical things that are pressing. But by 9 p.m. Thursday nights, even though I'm worn out,  I am always glad I do this, because I am spiritually fed by the people I spend the day teaching. People like Vickie, who is a grandmother and forcing her manicured fingertips to press into the neck of a guitar for the first time in her life. Like Anna, whose little eleven-year-old hands barely fit around the neck of her guitar, but she does it anyway. People like the women who gather in a circle around me on Thursday mornings, who rearrange their crazy busy days to fit learning a new instrument into their already full lives. And beautiful young souls turning into our leaders of tomorrow, like Danny.

Thanks, dear boy.

Tune. Play. Repeat.

3-21-18 UNDERSTATEMENT

I have this friend, Leslie, who lives just up the street from me. She is the personification of understatement. She is beautiful to behold. I mean, God graced her with physical loveliness, and she's been a good steward over it. But she never appears to think of herself as beautiful. She is mother to five dynamic kids, who are adults now, and stepmother to that many more.
My friend Leslie's seen a heap of trouble in her lifetime, though you'd never guess it by looking at her in a grocery line. Without betraying the story that only she is entitled to share, I will tell you that she knows the dark places that come to families who deal with substance abuse, the heartache of love lost, and the sorrow of watching loved ones suffer in physical, spiritual and emotional ways. I've known Leslie through all of this... at least much of it... and there is a calmness she emits that belies the impact within her. A while back, when I served as Young Women's president in our church congregation, I felt deeply compelled to ask for her to serve with me, thinking it was the girls that needed her influence. But I realize now it was pretty much me who needed her. 
Les lives part time in Texas and part time in Utah, since she married Gary. It's a long and fairly complicated love story, Les and Gary, and I won't take you there but to say that I love and cherish both of them, whether they are stuck down there in Texas or back here in Utah where they belong! (tongue in cheek humor here. Leslie fell in love with a Texan. You know Texans.)

Leslie is a comma where I am an exclamation mark! She has learned to see life in threads of hope, trusting that the Lord is in charge in the end. I tend to take it in noisy chunks with solid beginnings and endings, often with a bit too much drama. So it is a great comfort for me to have such a close friendship with Leslie.

Because Leslie is understated, she is safe. Emotionally safe, for me. At girls camp one year there were not enough beds in the place we were staying. The Young Women were in sleeping bags on the floor, but my poor old chunk of flesh does not do well on hard floors. So Les suggested we share one of the beds. If you know me, this is not something I'm super excited about; sharing a bed, unless I'm sharing it with one of my daughters, grandkids or Dave Connors. But it surprised me how calm it felt to know that this understated friend was beside me. I pondered it that night, laying in bed with someone other than my family (this is getting to sound a little strange but stay with me here). I got to thinking about how beautiful it was that Leslie made me feel safe. I judge myself harshly, and feel self-conscious quite often. I remember lying there and thanking the Lord for this good woman, whose heart accepted me wholly, without judgment, and who anticipated nothing. I thought it strange that the word "anticipate" would come up in that prayer, but it seemed to fit. Leslie has learned to not anticipate the outcome. Life has thrown her for so many loops her lifeline might resemble a Slinky. But she rolls along, remaining true to herself and her God, letting others make their own decisions and not owning their decisions as if they were her own. She lives the Serenity prayer, and trusts that those she loves are entitled to do the same without her prodding. She really is quite remarkable.

Which is why she is the personification of understatement to me. She cannot see that she is remarkable. Though,she is.

Leslie and the latest of her dozens of grands

3-20-18 MY ADDICTION

If you want to know the mysterious in-depth, true and unadulterated reality of who I am, you'll probably be disappointed, because you likely already know everything about me. I'm not good at keeping secrets about myself, except the ones you really don't want to know about. :-/ (This kind of self-revelation is the result of having to write personal essays every single day for 46 days straight -- ten years in a row. Do the math.)

My transparent nature came to light this past week when I received three gifts that were exactly the same, but with unique deliveries. 

First, you need to know this: I like Slurpees. I think this is kind of funny, because Dave and I both worked at 7-11 when we were first married. Most often I'd work the 11 pm to 7 am shift. As employees we were entitled to all the withered over-cooked hot dogs we wanted, and all the free Slurpees we wanted. I don't remember taking advantage of that opportunity, even when it was 4 am I was dead tired. But now, decades later, something was triggered and I have become, how do I put this, dedicated to the consumption of frozen icees, of the Coke variety. If the Coke is out, I'll go Slurpeeless.

Anyway, like every other weakness and strength in my life, it's pretty obvious. There are spare Slurpees in my freezer, for Sundays when I don't shop. There are empty Slurpee cups in my car, because refills are cheaper. And there's a little plastic frequent buyer card on my key chain so I get every seventh one free. This has replaced the gym card that I never used.

Yeah, I know.

Anyway, for my birthday last week my sister Ann Marie and her husband Mike gave me a nice stash of dough that will repeatedly fill those cups in my car.

And  then my friend Suz gave me this:

To: The Slurpee Addict
From: Your Enabler

Also, for my birthday, my son John made this awesome thing for me:

John does magical things with graphic art, in his spare time, as if he had spare time.

He created this sweet piece of art based on one of my album covers. He draws layer upon layer on his computer. Isn't it sweet?  Here's the original cover, which uses an old family photo of two of my sisters and a bunch of other kids with Santa Clause, before I was even born.

Before John printed his creation, his wife Ashley suggested they stuff the album sleeve with Slurpee cash. And then she quipped, "Maybe we should rename the album."

And so, with John's propensity to engage in all things clever, he spent additional hours  removing, recreating, and re-layering. This is the result:

Isn't it awesome?

I keep thinking one day this phase of Slurpee addiction will pass, the way garage sales did for me.

Someday. 

Maybe.

Yup, that's your's truly in a Slurpee costume
in John's family room, courtesy of their
awesome neighbor, Tatiana. 

(I have no shame)

3-19-18 WALTER

"Hey Gummy! You have some crackers!"

"That's right, Walter. You want me to open them?"

"Why you have crackers?" he asked, sounding a little confused, in a charming sort of way.

"I thought you might like them." I said.

OK, he said as he held them up to me. "I like your hat."

It took me a minute, after he held the package of Keebler crackers up two inches from my eyeballs, to realize that he thought the little white haired elf on the package looked like me.

Every elfish old woman needs a Walter in her life. Walter is a giggle-maker. Just like his father before him. He is a giggle maker and a heart melter and a kiss giver. He will be playing with his cars or his Transformer Rescue Bots, humming some little ditty he hears swirling in his creative head, and out of the blue he will stop and say, "Gummy?"

"Yes, Walter?"

"I love you."

He will repeat this about every half hour, or maybe every seven minutes.

It's like he cannot contain the love and it pops out, like those first kernels that explode in our hot air popcorn popper. Pretty soon there is a bowl full of fluffy pure aromatic love in my lap and I scoop him up and smother him with kisses and snuggle love, which he frankly does not very much care for.

Walter is exactly the kind of kid you would spend a lot of money buying gifts for, just for the pleasure of experiencing his response. You have never seen a more joyful little soul receiving a gift. He scrunches his shoulders up to his ears and hops up and down, squealing. He pumps his arms down to the ground as he jumps. Seriously, if you're having a bad day, go buy something at the dollar store and give it to Walter.

Tonight we got a good dose of Walter Wonder because today is his birthday. Four candles.

Happy Birthday, Buddy.

Any many, many more!

3-18-18 LISTEN LESS- LISTEN MORE

Being a liberated woman in a traditional Christian church is not easy. I am trying to figure out why. In my mind, true Christian women would embrace and support each other in their divine personal callings. Instead, we try to level the playing field, I suppose, by expecting sameness. In my experience that sameness almost always involves interpretation of the woman's divine role as nurturer.

I do believe that the feminine in all of us, male and female, is manifest in our desire and ability to nurture. That's a good thing. A holy thing. And there are many ways to nurture. We nurture at home, in our neighborhoods and churches, and in our workplaces. We even nurture on the subway, or the grocery store. It's a pretty great instinct.But some people expect that the way they nurture is the way everyone should nurture.We tend to feel confirmed in the way we do things when other people do it the same way.

Just as sacred as that natural nurturing instinct is the presence of a living entity, divinely appointed to assist keepers-of-faith with their daily decision making. By expecting sameness, we discredit the power of the Holy Ghost, who is that divinely appointed entity.

Right here, right now, I would like to tell my children and grandchildren...cut it out! Not that you generally have a problem following the Holy Ghost. From what I can tell you are all (and how amazing is it that a person can say this?) followers of the general direction of the finger of the Lord. But because you exercise your faith within an imperfect social unit called a church, you will be given less-than-holy advice from other imperfect humans. I remind you that, while people may be entitled to the Holy Ghost in their own lives, they are not entitled to know what the Holy Ghost tells you. Even I, your mother and grandmother, do not have the right to know what the Holy Ghost tells you. While the Spirit of the Lord will not direct you to live contrary to the Word of the Lord, manifest in scripture, he can guide you in its unique manifestation in your own life. 

My advice is to LISTEN LESS to the promptings of your neighbors and some people who profess to have authority over you; and LISTEN MORE to those divine whisperings that are heard in quiet moments from the back of your head and confirmed in the heartbeat deep within your chest. 

Today's sabbath quote is from a modern-day apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, M. Russell Ballard.
This quote holds a position of prominence on my kitchen fridge. It is directed to women, and to men who interface with women (so, basically, all of us):

"One sister may be inspired to continue her education and attend medical school, allowing her to have significant impact on her patients and to advance medical research. For another sister, inspiration may lead her to forego a scholarship to a prestigious institution and instead begin a family much earlier than has become common in this generation, allowing her to make a significant and eternal impact on her children now.

“Is it possible for two similarly faithful women to receive such different responses to the same basic questions? 

"Absolutely! What’s right for one woman may not be right for another. That’s why it is so important that we should not question each other’s choices or the inspiration behind them."

Amen!

3-17-18 MY AUNT BECKY finale

Mom and Sherry

My oldest sister, Sherry, reminds me that the mother she knew was not the mother I knew. She does not mean this in absolutes. It's true, though. She got a mom who was very young; in her late teens. And she was not only young, but her husband was off fighting battles across the sea, and her own mother was Heaven-bound. Mom and Sherry were really learning life together.

Mom's little curly haired girl was her everything. That's kind of a heavy to lay on a kid. But it's what happened to a lot of people during WWII. Young brides had babies who had no fathers. War complicates things.

I, on the other hand, was kid number 6, followed closely by kid number 7. I just sort of fell into formation. It was a rare and treasured moment if I got time alone with my mom. Nonetheless, I felt loved and cherished.

Today, in the climactic moments before we laid the body of my Aunt Becky in the ground, my cousins told brief and charming stories of their mom. Sweet little snippets of memory so we could tighten the stitches that bind her to our lives. My cousin Mary Lou stood at the pulpit and told us that she wanted to share a memory of the mom she knew that maybe the younger kids might not have known. Aunt Becky and Uncle Richard had two batches of kids. The first was a beautiful cluster of girls, four of them: DeAnn, Gail, Jane and Mary Lou. These were the ones we hung out with during our visits. I was one year younger than Mary Lou. Then, eight years later, the second batch started cooking. Michelle, Mark, David and Gina joined the clan. They all grew to be dear, close friends to us. 

The two Miskin batches combined

In her short talk at the funeral this afternoon, Mary Lou recalled a day when she was young, barely old enough to have vivid memories. She laid on the grass next to the ball field in Ucon Idaho, searching through the blades for four leaf clovers. Her attention was only diverted when her mother came up to bat. The mom she knew was a powerful hitter. A strong, well timed cut  snagged the ball and sent it flying, clear out over the heads of the outfielders. Mary Lou didn't remember what team Becky was playing on, either a church league or community team. But she did remember thinking her mom was super awesome, and so strong. When asked how she was able to swing so powerfully, Becky responded that she thought it was good strategy so she wouldn't have to run so fast.

Tonight I am remembering all of the women in my mother's family, down to the very youngest. Strong women, every one of them. Unique, every one of them. 

Beloved, every single one of them. 

The Parrish girls
Back: Edna, Ruby, Ruth, Mary
Front: Mae, Becky, Afton 

I remind my sisters, my cousins, our children, and their children, the same thing I remind myself: We come from solid stock. Quit the whining, straighten up our slumpy shoulders  and step up to the proverbial plate. Keep our eye on the ball, and when the pitch is good, swing for the fences!

It's in our DNA.

What became of Richard and Becky Miskin

This is how I imagine my mom felt last week.