I Am Thankful For the Doctrine of Gratitude

So, not only am I writing this blog, but I was asked on Sunday to speak next Sunday on developing an attitude of gratitude. Can I just say, first off, that I really wish those words didn't rhyme? I worked on my talk today and had to make sure I didn't put them anywhere near each other- I HATE rhyming, unless I'm reciting poetry. Which I AM doing in my talk, so that's plenty. Anyhow. Having a thankful heart is one of my soapbox issues... and since, from my soapbox, I usually only reach... well... me... I'm excited to get to speak about this topic. It means a lot to me.

One thing I realized, while I was formulating my thoughts earlier, is that I am incredibly grateful that I've been taught all my life that gratitude is a commandment. I really think "commandment," with its modern connotations, is a terrible word for the expectations Heavenly Father set out for us. I much prefer guidelines... blueprints... advice. Or maybe just... "Plan of Happiness." Diligently following the commandment to be grateful has turned out to be single most instrumental piece of the puzzle of happiness in my life. Gratitude has successfully filled every hole that ever needed filling. And maybe it's turned me into an insufferable Pollyanna-type, but I can live with that. In fact, I can't live without that.

I found this verse in my research today, and I love it: "And he who receiveth all things with thankfulness shall be made glorious; and the things of this earth shall be added unto him, even an hundred fold, yea, more." (Doctrine and Covenants 78:19) 

I can definitely live with that.

I Am Thankful For Prayer

One of the first songs I ever learned in voice lessons when I was young was "Christopher Robin is Saying His Prayers." There was a line I didn't quite understand, back then: "Hush! hush! whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers." Teaching my children how to pray has given that silly little song new meaning. Christopher Robin is a representation of all children, and I imagine that when my children say their prayers at night, not even the angels would dare whisper over them. I imagine that Damien's earnest pleas that our new cat will be less scared tomorrow are taken as seriously as they are offered. I imagine that every night when Lyric gets to "in the name of Jesus Christ" and giggles with glee over the name, its owner laughs with her. I imagine that every time one of God's tiniest children speaks to Him, a hush falls in the Heavens, that their voices won't be drowned out.

Most importantly, I believe that every one of us is a child of that same Great Listener. And I believe that He leans as intently to hear me as He does my children. I am so thankful to be heard.

I Am Thankful For November... and sharing

Last year Thanksgiving came too early. I decided to write a gratitude post every day of the month leading up to it, and there weren't enough days! This year is one of those awesome years that only happens every so often, when Thanksgiving is as late as it can possibly be: November 28.

Growing up, I really disliked those years. In my family, it's a tradition to kick off Christmas the day after Thanksgiving. We put up the Christmas tree, we watched Christmas movies, we ate Christmas candy (and Thanksgiving leftovers), and settled in with the lights and sparkles to enjoy the Christmas season. The problem here? My birthday is November 29. Those years, I still enjoyed our family tradition, but always with a selfish little sense of being pushed to the side on a day to which I felt personally entitled.

How silly of me!

I wish that I had learned to share that day with the Christ-child. Knowing Him as I know Him now, I would have realized that He- the Giver of all- would have been perfectly happy to share it with me. This year, I'm thankful that I get to celebrate my birthday on the day after Thanksgiving. I can't wait that long to put up my Christmas tree- fortunately, I'm the mistress of my own household now so it'll probably go up tomorrow (muahahaha). But the day after Thanksgiving will still be filled with Christmas movies and candy and lights and sparkles, and maybe a birthday cake. And definitely the Spirit of Christ, the baby who gave all.

So that's it, folks: today I am thankful that I get to share my birthday with Christmas. And also, that I get to write so many gratitude posts this year. If ever you seek happiness, seek gratitude. Happiness always hides behind a thankful heart.

I'll Treasure the Things You Are

I've read a lot of wonderful blog entries lately- specifically, letters and counsel from loving parents to children who can't read yet, children who aren't here yet, children in general. As a result, I've spent a lot of time thinking about what words of wisdom I'd like to leave for my children- what I want them to remember. And I haven't been able to figure it out, until recently I was reminiscing and the answer came in a memory. Let's go back.

Once upon a time, I was in a play. This may shock those of you who know me best- I am a terrible, terrible actress. I just don't do it. I am a behind-the-scenes-or-the-piano kind of girl. Fortunately, I was a cute little six or seven-year-old child at the time, and I played a cute little six or seven-year-old pioneer girl, so it wasn't too much of a stretch. Even so... despite how awesome I thought I was in the moment... I've seen videos. I was cute, but I wasn't good. It's ok- my character, as did many young pioneers, died on the trek. Probably a blessing to Act II. I just am not and was not a thespian. What I WAS good at, however, was memorizing my lines. I totally rocked that business. So much so, in fact, that I still remember the vast majority of them. I especially remember my one solo lyric. It was part of a trio with my stage-sister and stage-stepmom. Honestly, it was mostly a duet between them, but I had one little winning, childlike interjection of my very own:

"I may not remember a thing you say, but I'll treasure the things you are.*" 

What a brilliant and accurate bit of wisdom. I know that my own mother sometimes agonizes over certain moments, certain choices in her childrearing career. Occasionally, she'll recollect things that happened that she felt may have been particularly regretful moments... and the thing is- 98% of the time, I don't have a clue what she's talking about. As I've grown up a little and gotten over angsty teenage resentment and unjust grudges against my parents, and learned to forgive the Moments and dwell instead on the character of Mom, this little solo lyric of mine took on real meaning. My mom is one of the most committed givers I have ever known. She is a woman of great faith. She is a brilliant speaker, who teaches with the Spirit. She is intelligent and wise- qualities that don't always go hand-in-hand. I could go on. 

What I've realized is that I need to focus less on saying all the right things, and more on doing the right things. I can tell my kids how to behave and who they should strive to be until I'm blue in the face, but what they'll remember is who I am. And they'll learn who I am by watching what I do... even, and maybe especially, when I don't realize they're doing it. So here are some things I commit to showing, not just telling, my children:

1. I will be a wise steward over our family's finances. Needs come first. Wants come when we can afford them, and "affording" will never involve "I'll pay for it later."

2. I will respect my body. I will beautify it modestly, as I would a Temple, and maintain it as I would my home (ok, better, hopefully).

3. I will continually increase my education throughout my life, for the rest of my life. Spiritual education, academic education, social education. I firmly trust that "whatever principle of intelligence we attain unto in this life, it will rise with us in the resurrection.**" Personally, I'd like to be well-armed with this life's arsenal of information in the next life so I can start learning the even cooler stuff ASAP.

4. I will be kind to those around me and seek out the good in my fellow man. Life is so much happier when I look for reasons to love, and recognize that as my weaknesses are consistently forgiven, so should I forgive the weaknesses of others. I will audibly build up my fellow man. Heaven knows my strengths could use some extra encouragement so I have something to lean on in moments of weakness.

5. I will treat my marriage as a precious and beloved gift. I will speak to my spouse with kindness, compassion and respect. I will show my children that an equal and eternal partnership is not only a reasonable possibility, but a joy to be sought and worked for. 

6. I will fail. The only thing I've ever done perfectly was standardized testing in elementary school, and judging from the large chunk of my resume consumed by low-paid menial labor, that didn't get me far. When I fail, I will admit it. When I fail with my children, I will apologize and make amends, despite my pride. 

7. I will allow my children to see the healing power of the Atonement in my life. I will never ever allow my children to believe that I believe that I am perfect. I need Jesus to cover my sins and weaknesses, and I won't try to hide that undeniable fact.

My kids are watching, whether I like it or not. It's time I step up and accept that my responsibility is far heavier than simply telling them how to behave. Hypocrisy has got to be one of the greatest enemies of leadership, so it's time I re-evaluate to make sure I'm living as I want them to live. "The prophet Brigham Young said: 'We should never permit ourselves to do anything that we are not willing to see our children do. We should set them an example that we wish them to imitate.'***" 

I would give my children everything, if it were within my means to do so. Security, wealth, education, love, happiness. I hope to say someday that I helped set them on the path to those things, though they will ultimately have to earn them on their own. There are so many things I can't do for them. What I can do is give them a Me they will treasure, because someday they may not remember a thing I say. They'll always remember who I am.

*"The Lesson That I Love Best," by Sally DeFord

**Doctrine and Covenants 130:18

***"Be An Example of the Believers," Mary N Cook, LDS General Conference Oct. 2010

Feel Free To Call Them Beautiful

If there is anything virtuous, lovely,

or of good report or praiseworthy, 

we seek after these things.

The home in which I grew up has a lovely neighbourhood view of Pike's Peak. I remember looking at that mountain and loving its beauty: in the winter (and fall, and spring, and sometimes summer) with its peak capped with snow; in the fall, laden with the orange and yellow and red of native leaves; during a thunderstorm- backlit by huge streaks of lightning. I remember the awe it inspired, and I remember wondering why it needed to be there. Sometime in my young adult life I came to the conclusion that it didn't "need" to be there. The words of the verse ring true to me: 

"When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur and hear the brook and feel the gentle breeze: Then sings my soul, My Savior, God, to Thee; How great Thou art!" 

The beauty of the Lord's natural creations is a testament to me of His love. He didn't NEED mountains in order to save me. He didn't NEED the forests and flowers and fields and beaches to save me. He didn't NEED the world to be a beautiful one in order for the power of His atoning sacrifice to be sufficient. But He created Beauty, perhaps, because He knew that I would need it. There was a time, up in a different, secluded house, in a national forest in the mountains in which I lived, when the stars in a clear sky were the only reminder I had that maybe He was still near me. Beauty has given me hope when there was no other hope and hints of joy in situations of misery.  

I value beauty. And yes, I value beauty in people. I believe that human beings are God's greatest creations, and I believe that He intended us to find each other beautiful. I find beauty in freckles, and muscles, and hair colors and styles, and eyes that smile, and symmetry and asymmetry. I find beauty in graceful movement and athletic prowess and tasteful, flattering clothing, and charming clumsiness, and the human form and figure. And I find value in the recognition of beautiful people. I love to watch people and find the outward things that make them beautiful to me.

What I don't love are societally-imposed definitions and boundaries on what physical qualities we're "supposed" to find beautiful. I don't love that we're so encouraged to be "more beautiful than" or "beautiful like." I strive to show those around me (especially my children) that beauty doesn't need to be comparative. A comparison of two people should register as apples to walruses. An apple will never be a beautiful walrus, and people should be beautiful because they ARE, not because they have smaller feet than Jennifer Aniston. I teach these ideas to my children, and I will continue to do so because I think it is important.

I've read a lot of highly popular blog posts recently about the need to recognize qualities other than physical beauty in children, especially in little girls. While I agree that it's vitally important to seek out and build up those invisible traits, I also feel the extent to which compliments on a child's appearance are sometimes demonized ignores an important gift that we are given as human beings. Physical attraction (not even in a romantic or sexual sense) is an important aspect of human interaction. I want every child to feel confident in his or her appearance, and empowered to recognize the beauty of others- in every different way in which it may manifest. There's no need to reduce the value of beauty, only a need to broaden its definition. So if you look at my children and you happen to think they are beautiful, please feel free to tell them. And trust me to teach them what that really means.

The Thing About Poison

Here is an up-front disclaimer: This post is about pornography. It is directed specifically at women whose spouses have used or are currently involved with pornographic material, and it is written from an LDS-specific perspective that all pornography is detrimental to homes and societies, and morally unacceptable. There are other situations I could write about (people currently addicted to porn, men whose wives use porn, people who aren't married, etc) and there are many people, including some of my readers, who vehemently disagree with my fundamental beliefs regarding porn. I understand that we may not agree; all I ask is that comments remain respectful and considerate, or blank. On with the show.

I want to address some of what I consider to be current culture's greatest logical fallacies and outright lies, told to women who seek advice, devastated by their husbands' pornography use. The reason I feel the need to express my thoughts on this subject is that I hear the constant and deafening cry for celebration of diversity, and yet on this subject I see women who are struggling, tragically and brutally beaten into submission (most often by other women) and servitude to social norms with many of the following statements:

*"All men look at porn. If you find one who says he doesn't, he's a liar."

*"If you accommodate him more, he'll only do it when you're not around."

*"Maybe you should try watching it with him! You could learn a lot!"

*"It doesn't matter where he gets his appetite, as long as he comes home for dinner!"

*"I would never presume to tell my husband what he can and can't do- I'm not his mother."

*"I think you should question, deep down, why you're so uncomfortable with it. It probably means you're just insecure."

Have you heard them? I have. Far too many times. Aimed sometimes at people I love, sometimes at strangers, sometimes at people of whom I am less than fond. We are not allowed to be Not-Ok with porn. Each and every time these statements tear down a human being, I watch them crumble and I cringe. I want to catch their broken souls up as they fall to the ground and shake them and look them in the eye and SCREAM, "Don't believe this! Don't take it in! You don't have to accept this! Listen to me!!

And since I can't force anyone to listen, here are some rebuttals I'd like to make, if I could:

*Every man does not use pornography. Period. Whether a person who would say this to you believes porn is good or bad, it is a dismissive and subjugating view of mankind. There are men who believe, of their own accord, that pornography has no place in their lives and stick to that conviction wholeheartedly. This position also implies that because "they all do it," it's something we just have to accept. Well, doesn't that just take us back 100 years.

*Never let anyone tell you that if you were more available, he wouldn't have to turn to pornography to fill his needs. Not only is this psychologically unsound (pornography addiction has been found to be less about sex and more about filling some other emotional void), it places responsibility for his actions on your shoulders. Pornography use is a choice. He has the power to choose another alternative to express the emotions that lead him to it.

*Watching pornography with your husband as an attempt to reduce his pornography use is like taking up smoking in an effort to help him quit. Nobody wins. One of the most incredible promises a partnership can make is to give 100% of their sexual experiences to each other. To learn together, with no outside input.

*Don't excuse treatment that hurts you. Just don't do it. You have a right to be treated like a daughter of God. Like a person of infinite worth. He has the power to control his appetite, and you can empower him to do so.

*You're not his mother, you are his wife. He is your husband. You are the person to whom he committed himself and his fidelity. No other woman or man need be involved in your sexual relationship, and you are not unreasonable to expect that. You are not telling him what he can and cannot do by inviting him to reconsider his use of pornography: you are reminding him of his divine potential, his power over the natural man inside him, and his strength to overcome temptation. And you make an equal commitment in return.

*If you knew there was poison in your food, would you be comfortable eating it? If you knew there was a serial killer in your home, would you feel secure? There are things in this world about which it is rational to be uncomfortable and insecure. So go ahead, question deep down why you're not comfortable with porn. Is it insecurity? GOOD. Pornography is the most insidious poison. Don't ever let feelings of deep discomfort, a desire to protect yourself and your home, make you believe there is something wrong with you. Don't let anyone tell you you are wrong not to go invite the serial killer in your basement up to share a bowl of poisoned stew.

Finally, if you are struggling with this monster in your life, please know that your Heavenly Father loves you. He sees your pain. He counts your tears. You are not alone. Don't believe those lies of the adversary. Don't take them in. It is ok to not be ok with pornography. And it can get better. 

If you are in need of inspiration or support because of a loved one's pornography use, please visit  http://overcomingpornography.org. It is full of truly enlightened information and help.

Father's Day

I'm so glad when Daddy comes home- glad as I can be! 

Clap my hands, and shout for joy, and climb up on his knee; 

put my arms around his neck, hug him tight like this; 

pat his cheeks, then give him what? A great big KISS!

It's a classic. Tomorrow my Primary kids will sing that song in Sacrament meeting, because what would Father's Day be without Sunbeams blowing Great Big Kisses from the stand and giggling? But I hate dragging all the kids up on the stand for one 14-second song and then sending them back to their pews, so I needed to pick another one. I went through all the "Daddy" songs in the Children's Songbook and wasn't impressed- I knew my mom had a couple of great Father's Day pieces... but not for Primary kids. I searched Jackman and everything in my (very limited) personal music library. Finally I had to go back to the Children's Songbook to decide which additional piece I disliked least. Leafing through, I stopped on a song entitled "Grandmother" and read through the words and decided that was the one. Replacing the title with "Father," of course. Here are the lyrics:

You give me a kiss,
You give me a hug,
You smile when you see me too!
I wish every child in the whole wide world had a [Father] just like you.

You read me a book,
You sing me a song,
You whisper you love me too!
I wish every child in the whole wide world had a [Father] just like you.

I'll try to be good,
I'll do as I should,
I'll whisper I love you too!
I wish every child in the whole wide world had a [Father] just like you.

This world needs good dads. Desperately. So many torn families- so many youth without positive male influences in their lives- so many children who so desperately want and need their fathers to wake up and be men. It makes me so grateful for the good dads that ARE out there. Dads like mine. Dads like Kyle.

I am a bit of a daddy's girl. Ok... I am a LOT of a daddy's girl. As a child, I thought my dad was the greatest person in the world. As an adult, well, I haven't changed my mind. I was also a fairly over-sensitive child, and my beloved daddy was a fairly scatterbrained person. I remember once I had failed to check to make sure I had tights for church on Saturday, and thus discovered I was tightless on Sunday. In summertime, or a state other than Colorado, this might have been ok, but in this situation, it was not ok. My dad had to go buy me tights before church. He dutifully went without saying anything that would increase my already intense guilt about being the cause of my dad breaking the Sabbath and returned... with footless tights, accidentally. And my mom and sister teased him. And my heart broke. It was my fault- he had to break the Sabbath AND he had to be mercilessly mocked for it!

Of course, what I didn't realize was that he took teasing just fine. I had to grow up a little bit to realize that. It was all in good fun, and I don't think his eternal salvation was threatened by buying his little girl tights on Sunday. But I think that experience- that fierce desire to defend my dad- my overwhelming guilt at having caused him pain- and the fact that I still remember the feeling today- are evidence of a crucial role my dad has played in my life, all my life. I love him so much, with adoration he earned by being amazing, that I can't bear to hurt him with my choices. This made a difference he doesn't even realize, later on.

It was a life-saving inspiration. It's something that happened that I'm not even sure if anyone but he and I know about, til now. My dad was not the disciplinarian in our home. Maybe it was because of his very long work hours and church obligations, maybe it was my eagerness to please him, but I recall being chastened by my father maybe twice, as a child. I'm positive that's why this particular incident resonated so intensely:

Years ago, when I moved back in to my parents' home in an effort to get clean, I lacked guidance in how to do it. No state rehab program would take me without a guaranteed source of exorbitant amounts of money and I knew nobody who had been on and then off drugs for reference. So my method of detox was to hide in my parents' basement. If I had cravings I couldn't manage, I would find someone online who would share or trade. If I couldn't find that, I would drink. The whole process was agonizing. One Saturday night I spent in company with a large bottle of rum. By morning, the rum was gone and I was... well, pretty far gone too. My family was at church, and I thought I was alone, but I heard someone coming downstairs. To my surprise, it was my dad. And he came down and launched into a tearful, pleading lecture about alcoholism. I sat in stony silence, so angry at whichever of my siblings had tattled on me (that was how I assumed he knew- maybe that's true, maybe not. If it's true, and that sibling happens to read this... thank you for tattling.) and so annoyed that I, an adult, was being lectured by my father. And then he went back to church.

I got in the shower. And the reality of what had just happened punched me in the gut like an iron fist. My dad left church to come home and say what needed to be said and infuriate me. He had to know that would be the effect, considering the person I was at that time. He could have waited until after church, instead of interrupting his meetings. But he came when he needed to come, not knowing that I had another bottle and no reason not to drown in it, and said the hard things I needed to hear. I sat on the floor in the shower and sobbed through the pain of hurting my dad. Of disappointing him, of worrying him. I think I spent two hours in that shower. It was very cold by the time I got out. And then I got the other bottle of rum and poured it down the drain. I didn't quit drinking then, but I quit drinking alone. And I started to realize that someone I admired and adored still loved me enough to risk making me hate him.

The world needs dads who play with their children. Dads who talk to their children. Dads who read to their children. Dads who give their children time- which is what most children want more than anything. The world also needs dads who will do the hard things. Who will say things that make their children furious, but need to be said. Who will refuse to enable and refuse to support bad choices. If every child in the whole wide world had a dad like my dad, oh what a world this would be.

My dad was and is a monumental influence in my life, but of course he isn't the only dad who affects my everyday existence.

When I found out I was pregnant, Kyle and I weren't married. He'd only just realized he loved me, and we were very young in our relationship. He was in the Delayed Enlistment Program for the Air Force, set to go away to train as soon as he was called. We were both unsure whether we even wanted children, let alone together. I had no idea how he would react to the information that we had created a baby (especially knowing that I would choose to keep the baby, regardless of his reaction, even if that meant the end of us) and honestly, he could have gone either way. I was terrified. I thought he would probably have a panic attack, not know how to react, not know how he felt about it, and I would have to leave and wait for him to come around or be done with me. The conversation went as follows:

H: "I'm pregnant."
K: "What? How."
H: "Well, when a man loves a woman..."
K: "No I know that. Well ****. Ok. Well, you don't want to get rid of it, right?"
H: "No."
K: "Well I guess we're having a baby then. We should probably start working on getting married."

And from that moment, he wanted a baby. With me. Because there was a baby coming, and he was responsible for it, and therefore he would choose to want and love that baby. Six months later, he was called up to leave for Basic Training. We (newlyweds of 11 days) went to the hotel he was ordered to, the evening before his swearing-in in Denver, and I booked a room there so we could spend as much time together as possible before he left. He had been assigned a separate room and another recruit with whom to share it, but the desk clerk looked at my gigantor belly and said "You're checked in, as far as I'm concerned that means you're here- go sleep in your wife's room." He woke up very early the next morning to get ready to join his group at the shuttle to MEPS, and before he left the room he kissed Damien through my belly and cried (don't tell Hulk I told he cries) over the unborn child who, six months prior, before he knew he existed, he wasn't sure he wanted. That's a daddy.

Kyle is not a perfect father. There's no such thing, on this Earth. But he tries. He tries ever so hard. Even when it hurts. I've watched him make changes to his life and standards. I've watched him dig deep into his past and recognize influences that were harmful to him, and resolve to vehemently protect our children from those things. I've watched him make choices he didn't want to make for the sake of our kids' happiness and comfort. I've watched him apologize to Damien when he's made mistakes. If every child in the whole wide world had a dad like Kyle, oh what a world this would be.

I am blessed to have had these fathers in my life. When I choose songs for my Primary kids to sing, I have an obnoxious need to select pieces with which I personally identify. I know I can teach better when I believe in what I'm teaching. That's why when I read the words of "Grandmother" (Grandmothers are awesome, sorry for stealing your song!!) it had to be the one. I love children, mine and otherwise. I want every child to feel happy and loved and valued and safe. If I could make one wish, it would be that every child who lacks a positive paternal influence in his or her life, for whatever reason, could have one just like either one of the most important daddies in my life.

Here's one more pic, just for the sake of awesome. :)

It's Memorial Day Weekend

Every year around Memorial Day I hear it: the guilt trip. The righteous indignation from those who feel this "holiday" should be celebrated in a certain way. People who feel by "celebrating" at all, we are dishonoring the memories of those who gave the ultimate sacrifice in defense of our nation's interests. Every year, I wonder how those who were stolen from us on the battlefield would want us to spend a weekend dedicated to remembering them. What should we be doing to honor their memories- to make Memorial Day a day of remembrance instead of just an extra day off? This year, I found the perspective I've sought from an unexpected source. I went searching for information on my husband's grandfather to share with our son, and right there I found my answer.

Damien's middle name is shared by his great-grandpa, whom he has never met. Actually, Kyle has never met him either. That's because Army Master Sgt. Glenn E. Nicholson was killed in action in Vietnam on 5 May, 1968. You can read his story, with memories from his widow and children (his daughter, Jackie, is my mother-in-law) here

The following is an excerpt from the article that I found particularly meaningful:

Dear Mother, All Flowers Remind Me Of You

My mama never liked cut flowers best.

Most of you know that my mom's a composer, and a pretty darn amazing one at that. What many of you don't know is that she loves flowers. The home in which I grew up is situated between fairly large front and back yards. When we moved in, most of the property was covered in tons and tons of river-rock, Colorado heavy clay, a bit of grass, and weed-trees. Poplars are quite lovely for shade, but when it comes to raking in the fall or trying to keep them from coming up through your lawn, they tend to outlive their welcome within about... oh... their entire lifespans.

My dad worked hard to provide a living for our family substantial enough to allow my mom to stay home with the kids. But they certainly weren't rich- not by a long shot. My mom taught piano lessons from her little spinet (yes people, Sally DeFord has owned the same little spinet, and only that little spinet, for as long as I can remember) for some extra cash, but I know they made a lot of sacrifices and wise financial choices to stay out of excess debt. One of the choices they made was to be a do-it-yourself family. Mom sewed clothes, dad finished the basement, and together as a family (with mom and dad bearing the real weight of the work) we transformed those big, rocky, weedy yards into a little, flowery piece of Heaven.

I remember going to the xeriscape garden with her and waiting... and waiting... and waiting... while she talked to gardeners there. I remember walking the iris garden at the library. I remember watching her scour her bulb and seed catalogs. I remember the homemade mini-greenhouse she and my dad concocted in the basement, where she started her seeds before planting time so they would be strong enough to weather the Colorado climate when it came time. I remember watching her cry at the window when a hailstorm or a Rodent of Unusual Size (aka deer) devastated her pretty flowers that she had so carefully brought to life. I remember her letting me plant some Hollyhocks, and teaching my baby brother how to plant and care for his snapdragons. I remember her joy at her first crocuses and hyacinths and daffodils and tulips of each Spring. And I remember her hard, hard work.

My mother's gardening taught me that when you work hard, you sometimes get flowers. And sometimes you work hard and a hailstorm comes along and strips off the buds before you even know you were ready to bloom. But also that there's always another Spring- always a chance to regrow, to blossom again; and that one unexpectedly late frost or bulb-ninja squirrel should never prevent us from working hard again for the next flowering season. She taught me that when we work together, we can accomplish vastly more than one of us alone. Mom taught me that a Hollyhock can't help where it's planted, but it can choose to bloom where the gardener places it anyway. She taught me that a master gardener considers the placement of each little seed: the gardener knows what the seed can become, and knows where it needs to start out to reach its potential. The gardener knows that different plants have different functions and, properly placed and nurtured, they can complement each other into glorious harmony. Mama taught me that sometimes a plant has to be cut back, or the withered blooms removed, or choking weeds whacked, in order for it to flourish.

I'm thinking you can see where I'm going here. Every year for Mother's Day, growing up, we kids would go out with our dad and find our Mum a potted chrysanthemum plant, which she would re-pot and carefully place somewhere in her gardens. I think she never liked cut flowers best for a few reasons- once they're cut, they die; once they're cut, you pretty much keep them to yourself; once they're cut, it's inevitable they'll eventually be thrown away. I think she liked gifts that could stay with her- gifts that kept on living and blooming, so she could share them. She still does that- uses her gifts to beautify the world around her.

She always has: flowers or otherwise.

Seven Years

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, 

which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. 

I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” 

Kyle and I met in person seven years ago today. We'd met on MySpace about a month before and exchanged frequent emails, had IM and phone conversations. He'd tried to get me to go out with him several times and I'd cancelled or stood him up out of nerves every time. I don't even know why- I'd certainly met much shadier characters with no qualms before. I'd love to say it was butterflies because I had a crush on him, but that wouldn't be true. I wasn't particularly interested in him. He was intelligent, polite, attractive and drug-free, but those weren't things that really resonated with me at that point.

When he asked me to be his girlfriend that evening after we watched Shrek 2 (so romantic a first date) I made a hasty, mercenary decision. I was trying to get clean, and he was the only guy I was talking to/seeing that would lead me in that direction. Logically, he was the best choice. At some point I can't define, love caught up to the logic that led to my accepting his request, but I am so grateful I followed my head rather than my heart, that one time.

I told him I loved him for the first time while on a morphine drip after a botched gallbladder removal. I don't think it counts because I wasn't lucid, but he claims otherwise. He didn't say it back though, just in case it really was just the pain meds talking. Kyle told me he loved me for the first time on February 13, just to make sure I knew he didn't do it out of Valentine's Day pressure. He'd never told a girl he loved her before.

When we were sealed in the Columbia, SC temple in 2010, I couldn't stop thinking about how close I came to passing him up. How many times I cancelled on him. I think I knew, before we met, that he would help me change my life if I let him in. And I wasn't sure I was ready to make the changes. I'm so incredibly grateful that I made that snap decision not to stand him up that last time. So grateful that I let my logic lead me even though my heart wasn't entirely on board.

If there's one thing I learned about marriage from my first, failed attempt, it was that love alone is not enough to make it work. Kyle has all the qualities that must accompany love into our eternal marriage. It took us both a lot of growing to get where we are now, and we have so much more growing to do, and we get to do it together. I couldn't have gotten luckier in an arbitrary choice.

DARE: You Might Be Doing It Wrong

April 28th, 2006: The day I put down the pipe for the last time.

How in the world did I ever come to pick it up in the first place? I was the kid who never said a swear word out loud until she was 18. I was the kid who never watched a PG-13 movie until she was 17. I was the kid who was saving her first kiss for her future husband at the altar. I was the kid who corrected her seminary teacher's obscure mistakes in scripture trivia. How did I make the galaxy-sized leap from innocent prude to meth addict? Some of my choices are honestly still baffling to me. I don't know why I took some of the turns I did. I don't know why I broke with my upbringing in such an extreme fashion. What I do know is that there were some major problems in my mind and in my education regarding substance abuse, and I want to express what I've learned so far. Maybe someone will read it and change their approach. Maybe it will keep one child from the destruction I brought down on my life.

1. I did not value myself. Bottom line, this was the number one problem. This was the foundation that gave all the other issues their power. I thought because I was overweight, I was not of worth. I thought because I made some mistakes, I was not of worth. I thought because I was different from my siblings, I was not of worth. I thought because I wasn't perfect, I was not of worth. When I took the first steps away from a worthy and productive lifestyle, I believed that I would not be welcomed back. Ever. Children and youth need to know from an early age that no matter what they do; no matter where they go; no matter if they stumble; their innate worth is infinite, and they can make the choice to return.

We must not allow our children to equate their personal worthiness with their individual value.

2. I was misled. It wasn't intentional. It was just the way the DARE program was formulated. I remember reading through my DARE book in fifth grade. The people who were using drugs in the stories were so SCARY. They always wore black and spikey collars and scowled and were mean and angry. They were bullies. They were icky rats who hung out in back alleys and only came out at night and handed out free drugs to unsuspecting, innocent kids. They were the personification of evil.

That's just not how it works. In reality, drug users were just like me. They were people I loved first, and joined in partying second.

I felt I lacked value. The friends I found in the drug community accepted and welcomed me. I felt like nobody loved me. They did. I felt ignored and neglected- my friends were concerned for my well-being and built me up. I've heard far too often that "anyone who truly cares for you would never lead you to illicit drug use." And what happens when that proves not to be true? Drug users are people with the capacity to love and welcome others just like anyone else. They don't share their drugs with new friends because they are evil black-shrouded back-alley rats who want to bring the world down one joint at a time- they do it because they are generous. They do it because they enjoy each other's company. They do it because it's something they have in common. Something that brings them together. They do it because they are misguided, not because they want to destroy each other. The drug community is the first community where I felt truly accepted. The first community in which I felt I was treated as an equal.

3. It didn't kill me. After DARE, the tactics used by my schools got more intense. Assemblies where they brought in drug dogs and showed us how easily we could get caught. Stories about kids who smoked ONE JOINT and died of heart attacks. Graphic images of car accidents where drivers were impaired by one substance or another. Fear tactics. And what happens when those stories prove to be avoidable? When they prove to be rare and extreme cases, exacerbated by other conditions? I moved out, to an apartment of my own. A place where drug dogs couldn't enter without my express permission or a court-order. Once, when cops came to my apartment to arrest my ex-husband (on non-drug-related charges), our coffee table was littered with paraphernalia. They walked right past it without flinching. The problem with basing education on fear is that the fear can be dispelled by truth... leaving nothing behind as a safety net. When someone I loved persuaded me that I wouldn't die of a heart attack from smoking pot, and I tried it and... didn't die of a heart attack... the fear dissipated. And that was the only barrier. Once it was down, everything was fair game.

I never got caught. I didn't die. When fear is used as an educational tool, one of the terrible things that sometimes occurs is that none of the "bad things" happen at all.

4. It was a lot of fun. Something I have been asked many times since I left that world behind is "It's not even all that fun, really, right?" Wrong. This is another one of those soundbites that well-meaning people like to toss out there in anti-drug rhetoric, and it's just not true. This next segment may make you uncomfortable, but it's important to know: Drugs are a lot of fun. Being high feels good. Ecstasy enhances the social experience and helps form stronger emotional bonds with people. It cements memories and makes you remember events past even better than they actually were. Smoking meth can give you so much energy and focus and curbs your appetite. Being high can make your non-reality kinder than your lucid reality.

If drugs weren't fun, people wouldn't fall into their trap NEARLY as often. Of course drugs are fun! If this soundbite is in your arsenal, delete it. It's just one more misconception that can be proven false. One more seemingly logical argument that, when exposed as a falsehood, helps ease people who were terrified away from dipping into drugs into the pool. This is a dangerous angle. It needs to go away.

5. I got hooked. Ultimately, I developed addictions. Physical dependency, emotional need. Yes, my ex-husband used drugs as a method of control. Sometimes I felt I had no choice but to smoke meth because of his threats. More often, I felt I had no choice because of addiction. I was sick ALL the time. I got mono (and lucky it wasn't something far worse) from pipe-sharing. I destroyed the enamel on ALL my teeth. I destroyed relationships with people I loved outside the drug community, I was utterly broke, I lost jobs, I hurt my liver, I cheated death too many times, I cheated people too many times. These are the real consequences of drug abuse. You're not likely to die the first time you smoke weed. Or the first time you take pills. Or the first time you use meth. Drugs may NEVER take your life, in the physical sense. But they may take your soul. They will probably take some of your potential. It may not happen quickly- it may take years. But at some point you'll wake up and realize that you're not independent anymore. You're a slave to your addiction and you can't break the chains by yourself. You realize that you can't "quit anytime" like you thought you could. All that fun and good feeling proves artificial and temporary. And it prohibits lasting and meaningful success and joy.

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People need to know that they are worthwhile. They need to feel a sense of belonging. They need to know that they are loved despite their shortcomings. People need to be educated on reality: on the unglamorous, undramatized facts about the consequences of choosing substance abuse. They also need to know that they can turn things around- that there is somewhere safe to go when they go too far. We need to stop doing our children the disservice of basing what we teach them on fear. Knowledge is power. We need to be able to make educated and wise decisions. My experience, though it seems so extreme in contrast to what my life has become, is decidedly mild in the vast world of substance-dependent people. The change that led me to finally be able to clean up my act was the discovery that it WAS possible for me to be happier off drugs than on.

So what does this mean? How does this help? I don't know. I don't know how "Drug Abuse Resistance Education" is being approached in schools these days. I do know that if it's still as it was when I was a kid, it's sorely lacking in effective and honest information. I don't know how (or if!) parents are approaching the subject of substance abuse with their children. Maybe this information from the "been-there-done-that" side of the fence can help. I hope so.

I have a beautiful, blessed life. I have incredible children, a loving husband who treats me like the most valuable thing the world has ever known, relative financial security, my health- and the holes I filled with addictive substances seven years ago are full of love and life and laughter. I want that for the lost people I know are out there. I want them to experience the joy of productivity and responsibility. I want them to feel the strength and confidence of being able to handle heartache and insecurity without dulling it in hazardous ways.

Seven years ago tomorrow, I put down the pipe for the last time. If you read this, and you are where I was, I hope you too can find a day to put it down. I pray you can find someone in whom you can confide- someone who will love you and who knows that you are worthwhile. You deserve to start the process of eliminating destructive habits from your life to make room for joy. You're worth it.

Be Still, My Soul

Where can I turn for peace?

Where is my solace

When other sources cease to make me whole?

When with a wounded heart, anger, or malice,

I draw myself apart,

Searching my soul?

Where, when my aching grows,

Where, when I languish,

Where, in my need to know, where can I run?

Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish?*

 

The world's a scary place today. The absolute BIGNESS of the strife... it's almost paralyzing sometimes. Boston, Newtown, Benghazi, Baghdad, Pyongyang... and not only evil at the hands of man, but suffering at the hands of Nature- earthquakes, tsunamis, wildfires, floods, plagues, hurricanes. Week after week and month after month we're bombarded with tragic headlines, frantic tweets, dire predictions and mournful recaps. A sponge can only absorb so much fluid and I feel like I'm a sponge at capacity- it's overwhelming. It's incomprehensible. It's impossible to take it all in.

When I start to feel this way, my primary defense mechanism is to re-focus. Keep it simple. I put things in order in my life. I spend more time with my kids. I pray more, I listen better, I search out the heroes and the hope in the madness. It's not always easy to find them though, and throughout that personal turmoil I know my children sense the strain in me. My sweet, innocent children, for whom the worst fathomable thing in the world is... bedtime. Oh, that it could be ever so. 

Like many parents, I sing to my babies at bedtime. I want them to fall asleep happy and calm. I want them to dream of worlds full of rainbows and sunshine and puppies, so I try to send them off with simple songs of joy to their little slumberlands. But I know it doesn't always work- I know sometimes Damien can't be comforted about the agony of having to stop playing for sleep, and Lyric can't be convinced that the world isn't ending because the front wall of her crib has been converted to a toddler-bed safety rail. I know they're anxious about their little sections of the world. Heaven knows I'm anxious about mine at times.

Today in the car on the way home from the grocery store, I was singing songs with them as usual. We sang through "Once Upon a Dream," the alphabet, "How much is that Eeyore in the window (oh bother!)" and finally, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." This concert was interrupted by Damien: 

"Mom, sometimes after you put me in bed, the Holy Ghost sings Twinkle Twinkle to me so that I can fall asleep. He sings it in my heart. I think He stays invisible so He won't scare Lyric."

 

Such childish purity, to hear the Spirit singing in his heart. Such faith, to recognize it for what it is. Such love, to think of his sister, even when he's sad. I've got to work my way back towards that innocence. To show more selfless love to my fellow man. I've got to be prepared to allow that great Comforter to do His job. I must have faith in the Lord that He holds this world in His hands. That after all the pain and sorrow and sickness and tragedy, He will heal the hearts of men. I'm glad I have such an exceptional example in my little boy, so much nearer to God than I am. When the tempests of evil and Nature rage, I must allow the Holy Ghost to sing peace to my heart.

 

Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake

To guide the future as he has the past.

Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;

All now mysterious shall be bright at last.

Be still, my soul: The waves and winds still know

His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.

 

Be still, my soul: The hour is hast'ning on

When we shall be forever with the Lord,

When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,

Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.

Be still, my soul: When change and tears are past,

All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.**

*Where Can I Turn For Peace- LDS Hymnbook #129; Text: Emma Lou Thayne, b. 1924. (c) 1973 IRI; Music: Joleen G. Meredith, b. 1935. (c) 1973 

**Be Still, My Soul- LDS Hymnbook #124; Text: Katharina von Schlegel, b. 1697; trans. by Jane Borthwick, 1813-1897