Ever since I was a small girl, Sunday mornings meant a house filled with music. My mom turned on Music and the Spoken Word, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's weekly broadcast, early each Sunday, and I woke up to that music. I listened to it as I got dressed for church, and something stuck. Eventually, my mom took me to see that broadcast in person. It awoke in me a passion for beautiful spiritual music and a desire to share that passion with others.
As I grew up, I filled my Sunday mornings with sacred music. I filled my life with sacred music, singing it in choirs, congregations, and performing with various choral groups. It elevates the soul and rejuvenates the spirit. It became my safe haven during storms.
I sang all the way through college, but I suddenly stopped after coming home from my mission. There wasn't time in my "busy" schedule to sing in an organized group. I was working full time, going to school full time, and managing a hectic family life. However, after my divorce, I found a small choral group in Salt Lake City, UT, and started singing again. This tight-knit group often wrote their own arrangements, composed new music, and had been together for decades. I felt horribly underqualified to join them, but they were impressed by my mechanics, my dedication, and my love for music. I adored singing with that special group.
As I have moved back and forth over the last five years, I haven't been settled anywhere long enough or been healthy long enough to really participate actively in music. But I still listen, and I still sing.
This morning, as my mother did for decades, I turned on Music and the Spoken Word. The Choir sang some stirring arrangements of traditional hymns, and while I enjoyed it, I didn't have that feeling. After about 20 minutes, Lloyd Newell, the narrator, began talking about strength and faith. He said that we can choose how we use our emotional energy during life's storms. We can choose to be distraught, frustrated, angry, and give up, or we can choose to be strong, brave, and live with faith. We can choose to continue living in the midst of life's storms. Living, really living, during life's storms is a sign of strength. And it's a choice.
As I listened to his message, I realized that I do not always choose to be strong. Sometimes I want to shrink from my challenges and be "normal." I don't want to be the person who has been through SO MUCH and can be such a great example to others. (That's what my husband tells me.) I just want to be that girl listening to music on Sunday mornings. But his message helped me see that I am that girl. I can choose to accept that role and the challenges that make me better and stronger or I can choose to "kick against the pricks (Acts 9:5)," harming my own learning and growth.
Pricks always remind me of goatheads.
Pricks are thorny spurs that farmers during New Testament times used to keep their herds together. If an animal started to stray, the shepherd prodded him with the prick to remind him to stay with the other animals. Some animals didn't like this reminder, so they kicked. When they kicked, that prick would give them a jab, and it hurt.
Goatheads are thorny little spurs, and they're usually found in fields, abandoned lots, and other places children like to roam. They were all over my grandparents' yard and on the sidewalks. As kids, we hated shoes and would walk around barefoot. Inevitably, we would find a goathead with our little feet, and because we didn't have shoes, it rammed right through the skin and lodged itself deep into the souls of our feet. My Grandma, being a nurse, cleared off the kitchen table, set up her "operating room," and pulled those goatheads from our feet. She would then remind us that if we took the time to put on shoes before going outside to play, we wouldn't get these awful thorns in our feet. My little sister didn't listen after her first experience and got a goathead stuck in her foot that went in so deep, the thorn couldn't be pulled out on Grandma's operating kitchen table with tweezers or a sewing needle. Grandma told my sister that she would have to let it work its way out, a slow, painful process.
We are often like my sister and I were. When proverbial goatheads come our way in life, we forget to use the safeguards available to us to help us avoid the painful, festering thorns. We walk out barefoot and think that we can be strong on our own. And we get spurs that are so deep that we can't get them out alone.
After Lloyd Newell introduced me to the idea that strength is a choice, the choir sang one of my favorite songs - Brazzle Dazzle Day from Pete's Dragon. Watch it here. Pete faced a storm, but his dragon friend Elliott helped him see every day as a brazzle dazzle day - an opportunity to take on new challenges and find joy in everyday living. He then met others who helped him overcome the obstacles he faced, find a home, and enjoy the blessings of family.
Finding joy in each day gives us additional strength to weather the storm. We can use any and all resources available to help us weather the storm. They range from a trusted confidant to learning new skills to getting professional and or medical help. We can't be strong alone, and life isn't meant to be that way. If we reach out to others like Pete did, we'll have the resources necessary to endure difficult times and find joy so that every day is a brazzle dazzle day
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Saturday, July 22, 2017
Gawk Girl, Gawk Girl, What do You See?
I'm consistently surprised at the number of people who stop me in hallways or at dinners and say, "I read your blog. You've really been through the ringer." "Wow, you are such a strong person." "I had no idea you'd been through so much."
I don't write to tell people I've been through the ringer. As a matter of fact, none of my own personal hell is contained in this blog. I'm saving that for the novel. That's what publishers really like. I write to tell my story. I write so that others understand the human experience is no respecter of persons. I write so that some person in some place will eventually understand that there is beauty in struggle, joy in pain, and that dawn always comes.
My younger sister and her two little boys have been in town for two weeks. The boys attended swim lessons, and because I was still recuperating from surgery, I got to do my favorite job - be an auntie. We colored, did modeling clay, made playdough, frosted sugar cookies, made home made ice cream, watched movies and ate popcorn, and made cute little wooden boats. Emily and I chatted during swim lessons, she helped me do things I couldn't do around my house and bought take out for dinner. I can't remember the last time I had takeout before then. It was marvelous.
One morning before swimming lessons, I had to run an errand. I haven't had an appetite since surgery, so I have a policy to eat something if it sounds good, even if I have to buy it. I was driving down the street, and a lettuce wrapped sandwich sounded delightful, so I pulled into the parking lot, jumped out of my car, and headed towards the sandwich shop. As I walked toward the door, I noticed two young girls, both decked out in Fresno State gear, enjoying their lunch. I thought to myself, they must be students. Maybe they're grabbing lunch in between classes or summer jobs.
Just as I noticed them, the girl sitting closest to me scanned me head to toe with a look of total disgust. She didn't glance and look away, which I can handle pretty well. I disgusted her. Granted, my body is still pretty swollen from surgery, so wearing real clothes is hard, but I had on a dress, sandals, my hair was done, my body clean, and a kind smile plastered on my face. I gathered more intestinal fortitude than I should have and just walked in the store.
I am not a skinny girl. I never have been, and I never will be. My father is 6'2", his mother is about 5'8", and I'm Swedish and German. We are just big people. I also have been extremely ill for 10 months, so excuse me if I'm not beach ready. I also think that ruining my long term health to fit into a a swimsuit that makes me look naked is counterproductive to my self worth, so I refuse to do that.
Did this young girl know that? No. Would she have cared had I told her? Probably not.
Should I have stopped and asked her what it was about me that caused her to gawk like some crazed teenager? Some say yes, and some say no.
The debate about privilege, body shaming, equality, body love, mental health awareness, and bullying in our country is at an apex. Each lobbying group thinks their constituency needs more - more legislation, more awareness, more special treatment, more money to get what they "need" to help others realize what's good and right and true.
I disagree. What we need are parents. Real parents. Parents who teach their children that people come in all sizes, shapes, colors, and that they are all just people. People are not inherently bad. They may make bad choices, and then we can decide whether or not it is wise to continue to associate with those people, but all people inherently want to please others. They want love, acceptance, kindness, charity, and belonging.
As a child, I lived in a very small town in northern Utah. In my congregation at church there was one African American family. As a matter of fact, they were an interracial family - The Coltranes. My father's assignment at church was to visit them on a monthly basis, share a gospel-centered message, and help them with any problems they may have had. Their daughter, Lacey, was my age, and we soon became fast friends. She was smart, funny, and she loved Jonathan Taylor Thomas, New Kids on the Block, and Boyz II Men. She didn't have to share a room, which was awesome, so we would get together and hang out, talk about the boys at school, and laugh at how they had no clue we liked them.
But when we got to school, things were different. Lacey didn't want me to hang out with here, and I didn't know why. She was so cool. Little did I know, she was protecting me. She had it really rough. I was on student council, and she was the only black girl at a small town school in Utah. Do the math.
It never occurred to me until we moved to Fresno that Lacey must have been hazed relentlessly. The idea of civil rights was still new in the 1980's and early 1990's, and many kids' parents taught them to be very conscious of color.
I grew up in a family where people were people, and they came in all colors, shapes, sizes and backgrounds. My dad served a mission in Washington DC, Maryland, and Virginia, so he had seen it all, met people of every ethnicity and race, and my mom's dad was a very successfully cattle rancher, so all his workers were either Basque or Latino, and they were family. My grandmother started cooking for them as soon as the kids left for school and delivered their meals to the ranch every day. To me, color and background made us unique, but they enriched our lives, opened new doors, and expanded our possibilities.
When I get disparaging looks, when someone invites me to their latest and greatest weight loss MLM program, or when a doctor tells me that the only reason I'm sick is because I need to lose sixty pounds, I have no problem telling that person that I don't stand for stereotypes. I have no need for judgmental thinking in my life.
This means that I'm not always in with the in crowd. My worldview doesn't always jive with mainstream Mormon CULTURE (not the doctrine of the DDS Church), and I'm just fine living that way. The only person I need to please is my Savior Jesus Christ, and my Father in Heaven. President Dieter F. Uchtdorf gave wise counsel in April 2014.
Just do it!
I don't write to tell people I've been through the ringer. As a matter of fact, none of my own personal hell is contained in this blog. I'm saving that for the novel. That's what publishers really like. I write to tell my story. I write so that others understand the human experience is no respecter of persons. I write so that some person in some place will eventually understand that there is beauty in struggle, joy in pain, and that dawn always comes.
My younger sister and her two little boys have been in town for two weeks. The boys attended swim lessons, and because I was still recuperating from surgery, I got to do my favorite job - be an auntie. We colored, did modeling clay, made playdough, frosted sugar cookies, made home made ice cream, watched movies and ate popcorn, and made cute little wooden boats. Emily and I chatted during swim lessons, she helped me do things I couldn't do around my house and bought take out for dinner. I can't remember the last time I had takeout before then. It was marvelous.
One morning before swimming lessons, I had to run an errand. I haven't had an appetite since surgery, so I have a policy to eat something if it sounds good, even if I have to buy it. I was driving down the street, and a lettuce wrapped sandwich sounded delightful, so I pulled into the parking lot, jumped out of my car, and headed towards the sandwich shop. As I walked toward the door, I noticed two young girls, both decked out in Fresno State gear, enjoying their lunch. I thought to myself, they must be students. Maybe they're grabbing lunch in between classes or summer jobs.
Just as I noticed them, the girl sitting closest to me scanned me head to toe with a look of total disgust. She didn't glance and look away, which I can handle pretty well. I disgusted her. Granted, my body is still pretty swollen from surgery, so wearing real clothes is hard, but I had on a dress, sandals, my hair was done, my body clean, and a kind smile plastered on my face. I gathered more intestinal fortitude than I should have and just walked in the store.
I am not a skinny girl. I never have been, and I never will be. My father is 6'2", his mother is about 5'8", and I'm Swedish and German. We are just big people. I also have been extremely ill for 10 months, so excuse me if I'm not beach ready. I also think that ruining my long term health to fit into a a swimsuit that makes me look naked is counterproductive to my self worth, so I refuse to do that.
Did this young girl know that? No. Would she have cared had I told her? Probably not.
Should I have stopped and asked her what it was about me that caused her to gawk like some crazed teenager? Some say yes, and some say no.
The debate about privilege, body shaming, equality, body love, mental health awareness, and bullying in our country is at an apex. Each lobbying group thinks their constituency needs more - more legislation, more awareness, more special treatment, more money to get what they "need" to help others realize what's good and right and true.
I disagree. What we need are parents. Real parents. Parents who teach their children that people come in all sizes, shapes, colors, and that they are all just people. People are not inherently bad. They may make bad choices, and then we can decide whether or not it is wise to continue to associate with those people, but all people inherently want to please others. They want love, acceptance, kindness, charity, and belonging.
As a child, I lived in a very small town in northern Utah. In my congregation at church there was one African American family. As a matter of fact, they were an interracial family - The Coltranes. My father's assignment at church was to visit them on a monthly basis, share a gospel-centered message, and help them with any problems they may have had. Their daughter, Lacey, was my age, and we soon became fast friends. She was smart, funny, and she loved Jonathan Taylor Thomas, New Kids on the Block, and Boyz II Men. She didn't have to share a room, which was awesome, so we would get together and hang out, talk about the boys at school, and laugh at how they had no clue we liked them.
But when we got to school, things were different. Lacey didn't want me to hang out with here, and I didn't know why. She was so cool. Little did I know, she was protecting me. She had it really rough. I was on student council, and she was the only black girl at a small town school in Utah. Do the math.
It never occurred to me until we moved to Fresno that Lacey must have been hazed relentlessly. The idea of civil rights was still new in the 1980's and early 1990's, and many kids' parents taught them to be very conscious of color.
I grew up in a family where people were people, and they came in all colors, shapes, sizes and backgrounds. My dad served a mission in Washington DC, Maryland, and Virginia, so he had seen it all, met people of every ethnicity and race, and my mom's dad was a very successfully cattle rancher, so all his workers were either Basque or Latino, and they were family. My grandmother started cooking for them as soon as the kids left for school and delivered their meals to the ranch every day. To me, color and background made us unique, but they enriched our lives, opened new doors, and expanded our possibilities.
When I get disparaging looks, when someone invites me to their latest and greatest weight loss MLM program, or when a doctor tells me that the only reason I'm sick is because I need to lose sixty pounds, I have no problem telling that person that I don't stand for stereotypes. I have no need for judgmental thinking in my life.
This means that I'm not always in with the in crowd. My worldview doesn't always jive with mainstream Mormon CULTURE (not the doctrine of the DDS Church), and I'm just fine living that way. The only person I need to please is my Savior Jesus Christ, and my Father in Heaven. President Dieter F. Uchtdorf gave wise counsel in April 2014.
"We simply have to stop judging others and replace judgmental thoughts and feelings with a heart full of love for God and His children. God is our Father. We are His children. We area all brothers and sisters. I don't know exactly how to articulate this point of not judging others with sufficient eloquence, passion,and persuasion to make it stick."Replace the unkind feelings with love. Service is the perfect way to deepen love for another person. If it is hard to get along with a neighbor, family, or friend, find a way to brighten their day, make it easier for them to complete their tasks, and do it regularly. It rids the soul of hate and instantly increases charity.
Just do it!
Sunday, July 16, 2017
Third Time's the Charm
The last three weeks have not been for the faint of heart. I mustered all my intestinal fortitude and decided that now is the time to put pen to paper, so to speak.
I am currently dealing with post-op infection number three. Infections one and two occurred simultaneously and kept me pretty busy. With no time to think about this final change, I laid in bed, slept, drank old people chocolate shakes (not as bad as some things I've forced down), and let ultra strength antibiotics ravage my body for a week and a half. Scott lived on leftovers, food from ward members, and the best freezer meals I've ever eaten.
For those who helped, thank you again.
This infection is different. Blessed with time to see my hair start to fall out, feel crazy, and experience loss and grief along with the terror of "what's next?" swirling through my head, the last thing I needed or wanted was time to lay in bed and feel like crap.
I went to my doctor's office/workplace Friday to confirm the recurrence of infection two, and our office manager's only question was, "Why aren't you back at work yet?" Instead of gorking her eyes out a la Three Stooges, I explained that I am still not well enough to come back and haven't been released by my surgeon.
As soon as I left the office, I beat myself up. That nasty voice in my head said, you should be back at work now. You're such a lightweight. Three weeks is plenty of time to be off. You're a failure. You're going to get fired because you can't come back to work in time. Get your act together.
By the time I got home from that appointment, I felt that I could never succeed at anything. I laid back down on my bed, and I saw a sign that sits on my dresser. The quote on the sign reads, "Always remember, you are braver than you know, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think, and loved more than you know (Jeffrey R. Holland)." As I stared at that wooden sign, a quiet, peaceful thought came to me. I remembered that regardless of what one person says, there is Someone else who knows perfectly who I am, where I've been, the heartaches I've felt, the battles I've fought at valiantly won, and the great successes that lie ahead of me. He is my Heavenly Father. He knows me and loves me infinitely and perfectly.
That calm reassurance reminded me that, however long and hard the road, I can and will succeed as long as I trust Heavenly Father to guide and direct my path.
I am currently dealing with post-op infection number three. Infections one and two occurred simultaneously and kept me pretty busy. With no time to think about this final change, I laid in bed, slept, drank old people chocolate shakes (not as bad as some things I've forced down), and let ultra strength antibiotics ravage my body for a week and a half. Scott lived on leftovers, food from ward members, and the best freezer meals I've ever eaten.
For those who helped, thank you again.
This infection is different. Blessed with time to see my hair start to fall out, feel crazy, and experience loss and grief along with the terror of "what's next?" swirling through my head, the last thing I needed or wanted was time to lay in bed and feel like crap.
I went to my doctor's office/workplace Friday to confirm the recurrence of infection two, and our office manager's only question was, "Why aren't you back at work yet?" Instead of gorking her eyes out a la Three Stooges, I explained that I am still not well enough to come back and haven't been released by my surgeon.
As soon as I left the office, I beat myself up. That nasty voice in my head said, you should be back at work now. You're such a lightweight. Three weeks is plenty of time to be off. You're a failure. You're going to get fired because you can't come back to work in time. Get your act together.
By the time I got home from that appointment, I felt that I could never succeed at anything. I laid back down on my bed, and I saw a sign that sits on my dresser. The quote on the sign reads, "Always remember, you are braver than you know, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think, and loved more than you know (Jeffrey R. Holland)." As I stared at that wooden sign, a quiet, peaceful thought came to me. I remembered that regardless of what one person says, there is Someone else who knows perfectly who I am, where I've been, the heartaches I've felt, the battles I've fought at valiantly won, and the great successes that lie ahead of me. He is my Heavenly Father. He knows me and loves me infinitely and perfectly.
That calm reassurance reminded me that, however long and hard the road, I can and will succeed as long as I trust Heavenly Father to guide and direct my path.
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