Easter Hope

The last time Easter fell on April 20th was 2003. That date is stuck in my brain because it was the year Dallin was born.  His birth, on March 23, 2003, was difficult, and as Easter approached, he was still struggling every day.  We were waiting for the benchmarks of enough caloric intake, lower bilirubin levels and blood counts that could sustain his body without further transfusion.

I looked at the calendar, at Easter day, April 20th, and in my heart I hoped that my baby would be home by then.  It kind of became my little secret wish. I didn't dare say it out loud, but in my prayers I pleaded, "Home for Easter. Home for Easter."

Although he was getting stronger, Dallin did not make it home by Easter.  He drank from a bottle for the first time that day. We were elated! It was improvement, but not enough.

I've thought about that hope many times since, and although he didn't come home that day, the hope of Easter, hope in the Savior, is ultimately what brought me peace.  Hope in His life and His resurrection; hope in His gospel and His priesthood; hope in covenants made in the temple; hope that no matter the outcome for my baby in this life, he would be mine throughout eternity because of the One who came to save.

By the following Easter, my miracle boy was not only home, but healing: growing, learning, crawling around to find plastic eggs and putting the basket on his head. My busy, darling one-year-old was such a gift to me. He is still a gift. His scary beginning will always be monumental; a time that taught me much about hope in the the Lord and, forever after, shaped my faith.

For that, I am grateful.

heaven

As I folded the laundry, Lea tip-toed in to show me she could walk "en pointe" (a term my ballet-loving girl learned from a Fancy Nancy book). 

She said, "You used to do this when you were three or four, too"
"I did?  How do you know? You weren't born yet."
"Where was I?"
"Still in heaven, waiting to be born, with Heavenly Father and Jesus."
"Oh yeah.  I like them. And they love me.  We played games there. Matching... and Candyland. And, there are grown up games, too. You would like it."


I'm not sure she can really remember heaven, but I'm glad she knows she is loved by her Heavenly parents. In church, when she climbs on my lap during the sacrament, I whisper in her ear, "The bread and water remind us that Jesus loves Lea." I hope it sticks in her brain for always. Knowing who you are makes all the difference.

Listening

We pulled up to the curb to wait, like we do every day, for the elementary schoolers. The little girls were both asleep in their car seats as Davis wormed his way from the back seat, up to the front, and climbed onto my lap. He snuggled in and I asked him about his day at school. He told me about the cutting project he did at school; about waving to his speech teacher, but not going to her class today; about the story his teacher read and the game he played. He talked and talked, which isn't typical for my boy. Or, maybe it just isn't typical because he is in the middle of our family, smashed between two very talkative sisters. For these minutes, he had my full attention. I listened with my ears and my heart and I remembered how much I adore him. Mid sentence he said, "I want a kiss and a hug!"

I obliged.

"I love you Davis,"

"Yeah. Daddy loves me, too."

I'm glad he knows, and I'm trying to show it more often. I want to create more of these perfect moments.

Paint and a Heart Made Light

One year, when I was a teenager, my dad set out to paint the house. Actually, I'm not sure if he intended to paint the whole house, but one wall lead to another, and soon our house that had been completely white-walled, was not.

He's kind of a perfectionist, that dad of mine, so the painting looked flawless.  I'm sure he knew that someday I, too, would have a house, so he wanted to prevent bad paint jobs (or maybe just prevent his having to come in and fix my bad paint jobs), so he told me to come learn how to paint a wall.  I actually liked the idea, so I was eager to learn. When I entered the room, he told me to sit on the {drop cloth covered} couch and watch.  He showed me how to roll the right amount of paint onto the roller; how to avoid drips; how to roll in a 'W' on the wall, then back over it again, until it was completely covered.  He talked about taping and edges. He told me a lot. And, he said, I could try it someday...on my own house.

As chance would have it, I have ended up having a couple houses and a few paint jobs over the years.  But, I married another paint-perfectionist (he painted houses during college), so I've not actually done much painting at all.  A few weeks ago, when our Relief Society offered up painting services to a local charity, I signed up with glee.  Finally, those decade-old tips about painting in a 'W' would finally come in handy.

On a cold Thursday night, a handful of women and I pulled into the dark parking lot, but were greeted by the sunny smiles of two women who were charity personified.  They were delighted to have some help and generous with their kind words. After a few instructions and a quick run to Lowes, we were ready to get at it.  We laughed and chatted as we worked.  A few hours later, we finished.  The walls were lovely.  My face and hair were speckled. My heart was full.

I have had very little time over the last several months to think about service beyond my usual circle: my baby, my children, my husband.  And yet, serving others is such balm to the soul.  It heals, rejuvenates, lightens.  On that night, in that place, helping people who really needed and appreciated my small offering, I was lifted in a way that cannot be found in retail therapy or 'me' time.

Contrary to what the world says, giving is really receiving, after all.

on becoming

You know how when you blow up a balloon, then let the air out, then blow it up again, and let the air out again, and do this over again, the deflated balloon starts to look misshapen and saggy?  I used to hate that, as a kid. I'd wish that things could always just go back to the way they were at first. And, in the case of post-pregnancy abs, I still have that wish. But, in regards to the soul, I am so grateful for the stretching and the bulges, for they indicate increased capacity.

When Annie was a month old and the last of my in-house help was leaving me to do this new life of 5 kids on my own, I sat on my bed and wept.  There was no way I could do it.  I couldn't even think about all five of my babies at once, let alone care for them all.  I felt completely in over my head (and, the postpartum hormones weren't doing me any favors).  Luckily, I stumbled upon an essay online written by another mother of five whose words buoyed me up; her words promised me that I would grow into this new normal. I clung to that hope, that somehow, I would grow.

This weekend, I called a sitter for Annie (her first who isn't a grandma), and took the four other kids to the Elementary School family dance.  I knew it wouldn't be a happy place for the babe, so it was a relief to just have the four.  JUST four!  I couldn't believe my own thoughts as we walked in, and I felt light, as if this was going to be EASY because I had so few children in tow.  Ha!  Without even realizing it, my capacity had stretched.  My balloon grew!  As lumpy and misshapen as it surely is, it has stretched and made more space. 

I hope I haven't maxed out.  I'm still not capable of staying on top of the laundry or floors, or getting much more than the bare essentials done each day. The pile of books to read and sewing projects to finish and organizing tasks to tackle just keeps getting higher and higher. But, on most days, everyone gets fed and hugged; everyone is made to work and also played with. I am hopeful that as time goes on I will stretch a little further, do a little better, become more.

Today these words by Elder J. Christopher Lansing in the January Ensign ring true to my heart: "What we get during our life is inconsequential, but what we become in life makes all the difference."

As the ever insightful C.S. Lewis has said, "Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace."

With the Master as the carpenter, maybe, just maybe, a palace I will be...

 

grace

"Davis, why are you dragging the rug upstairs?"
"I need it to make my guy."
"You can't take the rug upstairs, sweetie. Put it back in the kitchen."
"Oh, man!"

This conversation happened this afternoon and I didn't really think much of it. Unfortunately, many conversations I have with my bitty boo are like this: vague, nonsensical (it seems), and dismissed. He is hard to understand. Even though I can decipher so many more words now than I could a year ago, it is still often hard to catch exactly what he means, his intent, his heart.

In so many ways, my boy is so very capable. He is sometimes frustratingly independent... helping himself to whatever he wants in the kitchen; finding the hidden remote and turning on a show; trying to clean up messes on his own (and making a bigger one in the process). But, when it comes to words, it is often a guessing game for me.

I know there is so much going on in that head of his. Every day he surprises me with something he says, revealing something he knows that I didn't know he knew, but that he is very much old enough to know. He is nearly 5, but I often forget what my other kids did at that age. It is easy to treat him like someone much younger.

Tonight, when I walked into his room to help with the bedtime routine, I saw his "guy. He really was working on something.  It is hard to tell in the picture below, but he had taken the bathroom towels and stuffed them in the shirt and pants. He had tucked the pants bottoms into his shoes and borrowed Daddy's gloves from the garage for hands. I'm not sure what plan he had for the kitchen rug when I intervened, but my boy had, in fact, been making a 'guy' and I had dismissed it as something I wasn't understanding. Again.

I'm kind of a slow learner. I have been taught this lesson with Davis before: to listen and pay attention and not dismiss his words as something unintelligible. I'm sure my boy gets frustrated with a mom who can't seem to understand what is going on in his active, intelligent mind.

I'm just as sure that my Father in Heaven gets frustrated with me, too, as He attempts to teach me the same lessons, over and over again; the lessons of patience, love, charity, humility. I have been given experiences that should have (and did, for a time, usually) produced these things in me, and yet, often I fail to remember those lessons, those virtues. I am too quick to anger, too unkind, too selfish. But, just like my sweet boy seems to always give me another day, another chance, to figure it out, my Father keeps sending me chances to finally learn these lessons of life.

And, that is grace.

Me and My Double Life

This morning, after scriptures, Kate turned to me and said, "It would be so weird to be like you and have two lives." Hmmm...did she think I was secretly a spy?  She continued, "Because, you know, you and dad lived in the olden times, when there wasn't anything and then you had to get used to now days where we have iPads and stuff."

Yeah...that is one way to make your mother feel old.


In other news: I am a lousy blogger as of late, but am loving the world of 'micro blogging' that is Instagram. If you want, you can catch me, and lots of baby pics, there. @adrimurdock