What Kids Say

I was trying to put the girls down for a nap, and Jake kept interrupting me.

"Can I put dirt in this Cinderella cup?"

I wasn't sure the girls would want their princess cups used for one of Jake's mud-making adventures, so I helped him find an old juice container instead.

Minutes later I heard the door again, and Jake came into the girls' room. (The girls really appreciated these interruptions. I did not.)

"Mom, do you know where some ribbon is?"

"No."

Not long after I heard the door again, and both girls sat up in bed. Jake appeared in the doorway, and I cut him off before he spoke.

"Can you please leave me alone for a few minutes? I'll be out in a little while." He left, and I felt a little bad. I should have just listened to him and answered whatever question he had. It wouldn't have taken too long, I thought. 

So when he reappeared in the doorway a minute later I bit my tongue. And he showed me this bouquet he had made for me.

It is tender being the obvious object of your child's deepest affections. He left the room, and I sat thinking about the things kids say.

Sometimes I feel grumpy that no one thanks me for cleaning the bathrooms, doing the laundry, mopping the floor, doing the dishes, or making an endless parade of good, healthy meals. Sometimes I get tired of hearing, "Why are we having that for dinner?" or "I need heeeeelp!"

But when Jake makes me such a sweet bouquet he is really saying-

• Thank you for not coming unglued when I hammer on the kitchen table. 
• Thank you for not losing it when my friends and I track mud all over your freshly-cleaned floor.
• Thank you for not complaining when our basement looks like a Lego-covered minefield.
• Thank you for letting me spill dried barley all over the kitchen floor when I play "excavator".
• Thank you for letting me tear the living room apart day after day when I make blanket forts.

When Abby comes in with a huge smile and a handful of dandelions that she announces she is going to put in my "love-note box", she is really saying-

• Thank you for taking me to story time and helping me find fun books to read.
• Thank you for walking with me to the park and pushing me on the swings.
• Thank you for not complaining when I accidentally smear mud on the doors, walls, and counters.
• Thank you for praying with me when I am scared at night.
• Thank you for letting me splash water all over the bathroom every time I take a tub.

When I come home and Grace grins and shrieks, "Mommy!", she is really saying-

• Thank you for taking care of me at night.
• Thank you for picking me up when I cry.
• Thank you for helping me pet the neighbor's dog.
• Thank you for helping me with my dolls.
• Thank you for playing with me.

Sometimes I wish my kids would thank me more. Really, my kids say "thank you" and "I love you" all the time. I just have to notice how they say it. 

For Vanya

I have a very sweet husband. A month or two ago he noticed a new local restaurant that touted southern soul food. Having spent years listening to me comment about the food I ate on my mission, he decided that for the 15-year anniversary of the day I arrived in my mission we would all go eat at Papa O's. So Monday night I ate hush puppies, collard greens, pulled pork, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, baked beans, coleslaw, grits, and cornbread for dinner. And I was transported back to the precious time I spent in the Virginia Richmond Mission--a time when I was led by the Spirit, discovered sacred truths about my Savior Jesus Christ and His Atonement, and loved the people I met so much I thought my heart would burst. I have spent the last few days lost in my memories. And I have wept tears of sheer gratitude for the opportunity I had to serve and the beautiful experiences I still treasure.

In the beginning of my mission I served in Smithfield, Virginia--a quaint little town with people I adored.

My heart has turned to Vanya, a wonderful girl I know from Wales who will arrive in the Missionary Training Center this week for a few weeks of Slovakian language training before heading out to the Czech Slovak Mission in March. What would I tell Vanya (or any other prospective missionary)?

First, I would say that the decision to serve a mission is one of the best you can ever make. No, missions aren't for everyone. But if you serve a mission you will benefit from it the rest of your life. I can think of no better preparation for motherhood or life in general. Fifteen years later I still think of my mission often. And I have always been so deeply grateful I got to serve.

I would tell her that missions are hard, hard work--harder than anyone can really comprehend before they go. But I would give her the advice my mission president gave me: "Get addicted to the Spirit." As you dive into the work and throw yourself into the scriptures you will develop a sweet relationship with the Spirit. You will see miracles, have beautiful experiences, and feel a deep peace, happiness, and joy that is unmatched in life.

I would tell her to love the people. The richness of a mission (and life) is in the depth of the love you feel. So love the people you teach, the local church members, the other missionaries, and the people you meet every day. The more you feel the Spirit, the more you will love them. That love will mean deep disappointment with some people's choices. But in missions and life the best choice is always to love people anyway.

Finally, I would tell her that the best convert she will gain on her mission will be herself. Some missionaries teach and baptize many; some teach and baptize few. But if you are changed throughout your mission--if you come to know your Savior, learn to lean on His Spirit, feel your infinite worth as a child of God, discover the power of the scriptures, and see God's power operating in your life--you will come home a forever better person. And as the years pass you will look back and realize that as much as you loved the people and experiences you had, you are eternally grateful for the deeply personal ways that you were changed. It is a sweet, sweet discovery.

Of course, Vanya is a bright, talented girl who is probably a much better prepared missionary than I was, and she probably doesn't need my advice. But this week as I have been summoning up memories and basking in their warm glow, I have thought of the people I loved and the things I learned. And I couldn't help but share.

I love you, Vanya! You will be an awesome missionary!

Grateful

It sneaks up on me and I never quite know when it will hit. Someone says something or does something. I see something, hear something, or feel something. Suddenly I can do nothing but quietly weep with overwhelming gratitude. I had cancer and I am still alive. I am with my precious family. Hopefully I can still grow old with Cameron. Hopefully I can still raise our children. Hopefully we can still have more children one day.

I have never felt like I have had words to adequately express how traumatic it was to be diagnosed with cancer while I was pregnant. Words don't describe the agony of wondering if you will live long enough for your unborn baby to remember you or the anguish of picturing your sweet little toddler at your funeral.

But on the other side of such surpassing sorrow is soul-deep joy and gratitude.

At Thanksgiving we all pause to reflect on what we're grateful for. This year, as in every year since my cancer, I am just so grateful I am alive.

Our Favorite Thanksgiving Tradition

I confess to being a bit of a holiday worrier. I worry that Fourth of July celebrations are too much about fireworks and hot dogs and not enough about remembering the sacrifices of so many and the freedoms we enjoy. I worry that Easter and Christmas celebrations are often more about the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, materialism and chocolate than about Jesus. And I worry that Thanksgiving celebrations are too much about gluttony, football, and Black Friday shopping.

These were my thoughts last year when I remembered a scripture story from Joshua 4. The Lord was about to deliver Jericho to the Israelites. But first He instructed them to gather up 12 stones from the Jordan River (which He had just parted for them to cross over, just as He had the Red Sea in Moses' time). He then gave this instruction:

"That this may be a sign among you, that when your children ask their fathers in time to come, saying, What mean ye by these stones? Then ye shall answer them, That the waters of Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord; when it passed over Jordan, the waters of Jordan were cut off: and these stones shall be for a memorial unto the children of Israel for ever."


God wanted the Israelites to remember and teach their children the mighty miracles He had performed for them. Today, we want our children to remember the mighty miracles and blessings God has given to our forebears and to us.

So for a week or two around Thanksgiving we pass this bowl of 12 stones around the table at each meal. Each person removes a stone and says one thing they're grateful for, and we keep going till the bowl is empty. For us, it is a joyful tradition of remembering what God gave the Israelites, the Pilgrims, and us. We have so much to be thankful for.

Thank You

Last week we attended a family dinner for Cameron's grandpa's 90th birthday. It would be hard to describe in a blog post how much Grandpa has meant to me through the years. He lost his eyesight to macular degeneration almost 20 years ago, but he still plays the organ, performs regularly for Toastmasters, works at the temple, and gets around just fine with his seeing-eye dog, Hudson. When I lost my eye I looked to him more than once for perspective and encouragement as I grieved my own loss of sight and found peace in my new normal. He still inspires me to believe that if I one day have less sight than I do now, life will still be OK.

Grandpa, Grandma, and Hudson

After his birthday dinner everyone sat around the table asking him to retell favorite stories from his life. This time I found the most comfort from the time when he was six years old, got in a neighborhood fight, knocked a kid unconscious with a 2x4, and ended up in juvenile court. Ahh, I thought, if someone as wonderful as Grandpa had such a rough start, there's hope even for my kids (who thankfully haven't knocked anyone unconscious or gone to juvenile court).

Then I thought about how much everyone in our family adores Grandpa and loves his stories and needs to  hear about his life and be uplifted by his example. I thought about how much we all need each other in life--the stories, encouragement, and experiences people share can lift us and lighten our paths. We need each other.

And then I thought about how much I have needed and appreciated through the years the readers of this blog. Each one of your lives has touched mine in some way, and I am grateful for the richness of people's experiences and examples that I can learn from. Thank you.

Sweeter

Sometimes I wonder if one of my kids will feel a need to write their memoirs of what it was like being raised by a mother with only one eye. Some days I step on them, stumble over them, or just don’t realize they’re there on my blind side. When they play doctor, they usually pretend one of them has cancer. My kids have watched as I have taken my prosthetic eye out to show to neighborhood boys or kids at church who are interested. Other times I have worn an eye patch, and people in public have commented or asked questions. My kids have listened quietly or added their own thoughts—like the time four-year-old Jake followed a curious girl around the library explaining that I had lost my eye to cancer but I was just grateful to be alive, and he was grateful, too. Tender and sweet.

Then recently I went to my ocularist to have my prosthetic eye cleaned, and my kids came with me. Apparently watching my eye be removed and later put back in was an experience that necessitated some emotional sorting. On our drive home Abby said, “Mommy, I keep both of my eye balls in my eye spots.”

“Yes, dear, you do.”

What are my experiences like for my children? I don’t know. But I hope that along the way I can teach them to be compassionate and accepting of those who seem different. I hope I can teach them that life is precious and can change in an instant. I hope I can show them that I may only have one eye, but I am grateful to my core that I am alive to laugh with them, play with them, and love them. In that way, life with one eye is sweeter than life with two ever was.