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.

 ---------------

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

Breaking the Silence

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting

the soul that rises with us, our life's star

hath had elsewhere its setting

and cometh from afar

I've been absent, I know. I posted to comfort myself the day of the Newtown tragedy, and I've kind of dropped off since then. It's been hard to stay positive, wrapped up in social media, so I had to unwrap myself for a little while, but now I need to write another post. You may wonder, once you realize the topic of this post, how it fits into my "positive living" theme, but hopefully once I've rambled long enough, I'll bring some clarity.

Damien was a surprise. I was on birth control, Kyle and I weren't married yet, he was in the Delayed Enlistment Program waiting to ship out to Air Force Basic Training at any time, and we had both just BARELY let down our guards enough to realize we were deeply in love with each other. We were in no position to be having babies, but there he was. So we had him. Due to the circumstances and timing, we WERE able to get married before he was born, but Kyle was NOT able to be home for the birth. But everything fell into place, and I believe firmly that Damien saved us. He prompted us both to be better, and made us grow up a little.

When he was less than a year old, we decided we'd like to have another. We wanted our kids close together, and Kyle was in an extended training period so we thought that would be a great time to have another baby- no danger of deployments or TDYs that could make him miss out on the birth of another child. After many months, we realized that our plan was not in the stars. We decided that maybe we'd just have the one child and be happy as a little family of three. After we moved to Georgia, we were at church one Sunday and I took Damien out into the hallway because he was being loud. There were a few children playing in the foyer, and as I watched them a gigantic freight-train of a prompting hit me: a spirit was waiting, right that minute, to come join our family. Within a month, we found out I was pregnant with Lyric.

Kyle wanted to stick with two kids. But as you see, we just don't get to choose. When Lyric was born, Kyle held her in the hospital and the baby-train hit HIM in the heart, and told him we had another child waiting. Thankfully, he waited at least until my epidural wore off to tell me that we were going to do this again. Last November, we decided it was time to try for Baby Wilson #3. Fast-forward to this Christmas, 13 months later, and obviously (unless I'm missing something) we still only have two children.

This past Thursday, I tested positive.
Saturday, I began the process of miscarriage.

I'm ok. I'm sick, and crampy, and physically pretty miserable. But I'm ok. I've had a hard time expressing to the few people who know about this just how I'm feeling, so I'm going to try to express is here. I'm doing alright, and this is why:

I believe that we existed as spirit children of God before we were assigned physical bodies and came to inhabit them. To receive our bodies was one of the primary purposes of mortal existence, and it was promised to every spirit who chose to follow God's plan in that Spirit world. I believe that every single one of God's spirit children will draw mortal breath. And therefore, I believe that the spirit that was assigned to the body I would have carried will be granted mortal life when it's the right time. If that spirit was meant to be my child, it will be my child. My baby is alive, waiting for its turn at life. Heavenly Father has seen to it that I got the right children at the right times despite my attempts at choosing my own schedule, and I firmly believe that He will continue to do so.

I'm disappointed, of course. I yearn for my third child. I know my family of four is meant to be five. But I also know that I have a loving and compassionate Father in Heaven who is watching out for me. He can help me find the lessons and strength I can draw from this very brief experience, and He will also ensure that the right little spirit comes to me at the right time. I wonder if that spirit is waiting as impatiently to come here as I am for it to arrive? Whenever it makes the journey, I'll be ready. I've never been in charge- that's been made very clear to me. And maybe it's to help me learn patience. Maybe it's to help me learn humility. Maybe it's to help better equip me to mourn with those who mourn, or give comfort to those who stand in need. Whatever I can learn from this, I know that it will help me be the mommy that my impatient little spirit baby will need when it comes.

I don't want my friends and family to worry about me, or to mourn for me- I am content and I will be healthy in time. I feel strongly that I'm meant to be open about my trials- not just this one, but many that I've chosen or experienced. I want all you wonderful friends to know that I have a beautiful life, and I am very happy, though I am so imperfect. I am alive through Christ, who strengthens me. When He atoned for my sins, He also atoned for my sorrows and sicknesses and weaknesses, and I never stand alone. You never stand alone.

I Believe

(This post was written in desperation to find peace, following the news of the Sandy Hook massacre.)

I believe that The Lord is mindful of every child.

I believe that children who die before the age of accountability are granted Celestial glory.

I believe that people who die after the age of accountability without knowledge of Christ and our Heavenly Father's plan will have an equal opportunity to hear the Gospel and accept the healing power of the Atonement to cleanse their minds and hearts, and enter into our Father's Kingdom.

I believe that families can be together forever, and that The Lord will mend every wound of every kind, and we will live in peace and joy.