deep thoughts by jenny

Please raise your hand if you feel or have ever felt imperfection guilt. 

I started pondering, and even kind of sort of researching strengths and weaknesses last fall. I started in the scriptures: Moses was worried that he couldn't speak well enough, so God gave him Aaron. Ether (a prophet in the Book of Mormon) was given the gift of speech, but he was worried that he wouldn't be able to communicate as well with his writing. God told him:

And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.

That started me on another line of thought: did God mean that the things that were weak would made strong (we would change), or that our weaknesses could become our strengths (we would embrace)?

For example, I know that I'm a pretty serious person. I'm not giddy and I sort enjoy taking the other side of the argument, if you know what I mean. Like Moses, I'm slow of speech. People kind of like people who are giddy and witty and fun-loving, people who are quick with words. I was trying to figure out if I needed to try and be more fun, or if I should embrace my serious nature and call it a strength? 

Like I said, this has been something I've been thinking about for a while.

From there I began to study and research confidence (remember that blog post?). I read talks, I wrote about my ideas, and I turned to outside research. I read Malcom Gladwell's David and Goliath, Brene Brown's I Thought it was Just Me, But it Isn't, and right now I'm reading her book The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You Are Supposed to and Embrace Who You Are. 

Hmmmm. Perhaps we should say that you can tell a lot about a person by the titles of the books they are reading. The thought that I have been pondering this week is:

How can we accept our imperfections while still striving for Christ-like perfection?

And this is what I have come up with, and I'm sorry it's coming off as a sermon (that's something I have been learning about in my class, so maybe someday I'll rewrite my ideas in a less sermony way. I wanted to write my thoughts down, though, and I'd love a discussion.).

Being a perfectionist usually means that we are doing things for someone else's approval. We spend more money than we have because we want approval, or perhaps we feel like we have to emphasize our frugality to get approval. Perhaps we worry about what others think of our home, or how we raise our children, or how we spend our time. I could make a list: the clothes we wear, the shows we watch, the books we read, the food we eat, the car we drive, how many activities we have our children in, etc. etc. etc. When we are worried about what other people think, we become anxious, unhappy, stressed. All of these are adjectives that do not describe our vision of perfection. So in many ways, it might feel like the things we do actually push us further away from being the person we want to be. 

Guilty as charged. 

In Samuel, we read "But the Lord said unto Samuel, look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; ...For the Lord seeth not as a man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh upon the heart." 

And I don't know the secret of stop to imperfection guilt, but I think I know the answer to my question. God loves us just how we are right now, but he also knows our potential, which is why we can, and should, strive for Christ-like perfection, meaning: we can't stand still and progress at the same time. BUT, if we can stop focusing and worrying about what everyone else thinks and instead focus on God's love, we can accept who we are while still wanting to be better. I don't think there is imperfection guilt there, just desire to be better. That place--where we accept who we are but strive to be better--I think that is the secret to confidence. 

For me, striving for Christ-like perfection would include being a better friend. It might be sitting down with my children and reading a book to them. It probably means doing things for others more often. It might include taking a walk by myself and focusing on the sounds I hear. More quiet moments, less busyness, more doing things that I actually enjoy doing. More music, more reading, more writing, more hiking, more playing. It would probably mean no facebook (More thoughts on that, but this isn't the place. Basically, I would delete my account right now, but I also would like to know when everyone is going to the park).  

I don't know how to do that, but I think it has to be a conscious thought process. I don't know, maybe when a person does it long enough it will be like reading the silent e at the end of words--something that comes naturally and without thinking.

So my question is: how do you accept your imperfections while still striving for Christ-like perfection? 

coincidence?

I was debating over whether I should write something I already knew about (easier) or something I would need to do a little bit of research (harder), but every time I really focused my thoughts on my next assignment, I felt very strongly that I needed to write a story about my great-grandparents. I have heard a few unique stories about them, but I really don't know very much--and I didn't know that I was going to get very much more information than what I already knew--but I finally called my mom and asked her to tell me every single thing that she knew about her grandmother and grandfather. She reminded me that she had previously emailed me a letter that my great-grandmother, Edith Raven, had written. 

So I typed the name Edith Raven into my email search bar and found that my mother had actually sent me the letter twice--once in 2007, and again in 2013. I started reading Edith's story, and came across the name "George W. Gasser," and I had to read it again--my friend's maiden name is Gasser. I texted her, "Do you have a relative named George Gasser?" Yes. Did he serve an LDS mission in Texas in 1931?  Did his middle name start with a "W."? She texted her dad and then called me. 

Yes! She had a Great-Uncle George Walter Gasser who served in the Southwest LDS mission, which probably included Texas in the 1930's. 

My mind and heart have been going crazy for the last 3 hours. You see, my Great-Grandparents, Edith and William, had 8 children. Augustus Goss is one of them--he is my grandpa. Augustus and Roberta had 9 children, 7 of them living, and one of them is my mother, Connie. 

I don't know very much of Edith and William's story. I don't know who baptized them into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, perhaps George W. Gasser. But without this man, my grandfather, and therefore my mother, would not have been part of the LDS faith. And then my mom wouldn't have met my father at BYU, and I would never have been born. I would have never met Joe! I wouldn't have these four beautiful children! 

I told my kids about Edith and William over dinner, and then I told them the story about our friend's Great-Uncle George. And I don't know, but perhaps Kristy and I were watching her uncle and my grandparents, knowing that 80 years later, we would be friends--again, only because of two young missionaries and a family searching for the truth. 

Yes, I think that I will write Edith and William's story. 

(I don't have a picture of Edith and William. This is their son, Augustus, my grandfather, and my grandmother, Roberta)

33

Every 6 years my birthday falls on a Sunday, and I kind of hate it. Sundays are poor birthday days, anyway, because we believe in keeping the sabbath day holy, so that means any celebrating like going out to dinner or having a party or going swimming or anything--we do it on a day not a birthday, and even though that's fun, it's just not the same as on your birthday. But when my birthday is on a Sunday, that means it's also Mother's Day. My sixteenth birthday was a Mother's Day birthday, and I was asked to give a talk that day! I also share a birthday with my mother, which I actually love. She would always say something about me being her favorite birthday present, and she never seemed to mind sharing her day with me. We would have two cakes; angel food for breakfast (hers), and a devil's food cake after dinner. It was a fun tradition.

I digress. I was dreading this Mother's Day birthday even more than usual because my big baby reveal plans were erased three weeks ago, and I knew that today would be another reminder. 

I don't want this post to drag on, but I do want to remember all of the ingredients that made it one of the best birthdays I have ever had.

I had girl time, family time, me time, Joe time, and friend time--and I fit it all in in basically 2 days. I have this ongoing argument about which of these I need--it's a delicate balancing act, because I need all of them, at times, and I'm afraid of choosing the wrong one. Having the opportunity to get all of this good quality time in is probably what made the weekend so wonderful.

Friday night a few of us got together at a friend's house to watch Saving Mr. Banks. It was a good movie, and the company made it even better. Saturday morning Joe made us crepes for breakfast, and then we went on a family hike--one of my favorite family activities. Then we came home and took a nap, and then I went shopping and used my birthday money to buy some clothes--for me!! I got home and soon after, Joe and I went out for Mexican food. THEN (it just keeps getting better) a friend texted me and said she had made a cake, so we collected our children and we got to spend time with good friends while we ate this delicious cake. Doesn't it look good?!

Grant decided to get sick, and he walked into our room about 2:00 a.m. this morning, crying. I rubbed his wet head while he explained he had thrown up all over his bed. Joe whispered "happy birthday" to me and told me to stay in bed while he took care of it. Heart throb, right there. Funny thing is that his saying that made me want to get out of bed to help, so he showered Grant while I stripped the bed and started the laundry.

Joe made me a feta and spinach omelet for breakfast and then cleaned everything up while I got ready for church. The kids were anxious to open presents, and I got almost everything I boldly suggested (I wanted new nightstands and Joe suggested we wait for the new house, which is smart. He's such a smart guy!). 

Logan drew this on the ipad for me. 

And here's a shot of the gifts I received. Can you guess who gave what? Also, they told me they are trying to make me fat. 

Joe made me steak and potatoes for dinner--yum! He said it's the first time he's ever made steak, which should give some good insight into what kind of people we are! (He tweeted it and someone asked him if we were communist, lol.) I knew that after all the cheesecake and berry cake that I did not need or want cake today, so I told the family yesterday that I would happily sacrifice dessert on my birthday. The kids wouldn't stand for that, so they bought root beer and vanilla ice cream, and tonight they sang me happy birthday over root beer floats. We kept them very small, half-cup floats, but the kids didn't mind because that means they can have more sugar for FHE tomorrow. Hooray! 

And my celebration weekend is not even over! Joe told me last week that he is going to work from home tomorrow, which just makes me giddy. I won't see him very much during the day, but he'll come downstairs to eat lunch with me, and maybe we can eat dinner a little earlier tomorrow (we usually eat around 6:30-7:00 p.m.). I love knowing that he's just a room away.

Operation birthday #33: success! 

new things

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit this, but I used to be just a little obsessed with Friends. One of my favorite episodes was the one with the New Year's Resolutions, and Ross decides that his resolution is to do something new every day. (What is your favorite episode?)

Anyway, my new thing for today is to blog on the ipad. It turns out it's not that hard, I just had to find the cord for the keyboard that I never use.

The reason I decided to do this new and very exciting thing is that my cracked phone got a little bit wet, and whenever that happens it doesn't work, which means that I can't take pictures, and I wanted to include a picture today. And as it turns out, that was really, really, easy! 

My mom and I share the same May 11 birthday, which happens to be on Mother's Day this year, and apparently my birthday/Mother's Day weekend has officially started! Yesterday I received these delicious cheesecakes in the mail, along with six chocolate covered strawberries (that have already been eaten). A 400 calorie serving is 3/4 of one of these little cakes, and I decided to sample one during Ammon's nap time today. Yum!

The other thing I am celebrating today is that I made it to the post office again!! That's twice in the first half of the year, which is a pretty large feat for me. Of course, the packages I sent won't arrive in time for Mother's Day (and for Mom's birthday), but they said they should get to both places on Monday, and that's close! We still have Saint Patricks Day birthday cards that the kids made but were never sent......

I'm sure I will have something more thoughtful to write later, but I have been thinking about the mothers in my life. My wonderful grandmother, who taught my mom what a mom should be like, and then my mom taught me that same love. My other grandma who raised a pretty amazing father, and of course my own mother, who is always there for me even when she's thousands of miles away. Sometimes, when my kids get up in the middle of the night, or when they are driving me crazy, I think about her patience with us, and I know I can be a little better. I am grateful for teachers and leaders and aunts who helped to shape me, and as a mother, I am even more grateful for all of the good influence that these women have on my children. They need to feel that love and support, especially as they are getting older and will have to deal with the insecurities of teenager-hood, and as they face the world. 

I am, of course, also grateful for the opportunity to be a mother. It is a holy calling, and it is slowly chiseling me and pushing me towards the person I hope to be someday. I am more generous and selfless than I was before; I have more understanding and empathy. I am working on putting life (and my smart phone) aside, and putting my children first. Ammon will sometimes say, "pay attention to me," and I know that my kids don't really care what I look like or how educated I am, they just want my love and attention. They don't need my lectures and disapproval, they need my words of affirmation and approval. And perhaps more than anything, I need to listen. 

how we spent our rainy day

Ammon has been wanting a big boy bed (instead of the crib turned toddler bed), and today has been a dark, rainy day, so we decided to just do it. For the first time in over 10 years--there is not a crib set up in our home. Crazy! Sad!

He's not really in a bed, though, because when we move (more on that in a minute) we plan on Logan having his own room with a double bed, and Grant and Ammon will get the bunk beds. So for the next 5 months, Ammon will be sleeping on a cot. He doesn't care, in fact, he's thrilled. He's already unmade and made his bed a dozen times, and he rushed through lunch so that he could sleep on it during nap time.

As it turns out, the cot is longer than his crib, which means we needed to do some rearranging. Logan and Grant are going to be surprised, and perhaps sad, when they get home today because:

I took out their cubed shelving and everything that was on it. There are beds and dressers. That's it!

While I was at it, I decided to start packing. So far I've got 6 boxes packed for the new house, and just as many large garbage bags ready to go to the thrift store.

I'm ready to move!!

This is what our house will look like.

We finally got to choose the colors and materials, and it wasn't that hard to decide.... except for the brick. I hope it looks good when it all goes up! The only thing not on here is the paint color, which will be a light tan/gray that I've only seen on the lady's tiny phone screen. The red block represents our red door--yay for a little color pop. And now I'm looking at the picture and wondering if the tile we chose is too dark. 

OK, I'm actually having a hard time imagining it all, but I'm sure it will be wonderful and beautiful and.... OURS! 

Fragments

More stuff that I've been writing. I think I mentioned that my last assignment was kind of, well, random. They are not perfect essays (nor meant to be), but rather an exploration of mind, connections, and details. It ended up being sort of fun!

The first fragment I wrote was inspired by anagrams made from my name, and I had to tie them all together to write something that would explore some aspect of who I am.

The second was to choose a color a toddler would recognize, and then to use that color to explore a memory, and to see where I went from there.

And the last fragment that I am sharing (lucky you) is based off of a personal memory that I could "prove" with a photograph without first looking at the photograph. Then I was supposed to rewrite what I saw in the photograph without checking what I had already written. The third part of this response was to explore the difference between the two "memories." I might come back later and post the picture (thanks Mom for finding it for me), but I don't want it to influence the image that my words portray--if you make it all the way through, that is!

 Anagrams

(jog, fence, rent, green, not, note, cry, mercy, censor, meet, fret)

We walked to the park to meet some friends, other mothers with children. I was watching two little girls, plus my own little boy, and all three took turns riding in the stroller. The two girls started running, and I jogged behind them, trying not to fret about what I might look like to strangers—skinny jeans are not exactly exercise apparel. My short walkers then insisted on strolling down the stone fence, and I stood close by, just in case. As we passed by homes with square “For Rent” signs pinned into their yards, I noticed the green landscaping, the roof pitch, the color of brick, and I silently pondered over our future home, the one we are building, taking note of what I liked and didn’t like.

Finally, we reached the park and reunited with our friends. The children found a picnic table and ate their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while the women snuck slices out of a coconut chess pie. I stood the entire time, half in the shade, half in the sun, reaping the benefit of both springtime sensations. I feel happier today, which is a tender mercy, and I did not cry. Of course, they must have censored their words; instead, we discussed safe topics like Elizabeth Bennet and Mormon missionaries. I wouldn’t have minded the chance to explore the ache of disappointment, perhaps even welcomed it, but they did not bring up the topic of babies, pregnancy, or miscarriage, and I did not either.

The children started drifting away, so we gathered our belongings and made promises to meet again soon. It was just Ammon and I walking back, and our return was significantly swifter than our walk to the park. I did not turn my head to look at homes this time, but marched forward, intent on reaching my destination, stronger and more determined than I was before.

Green

I once asked Grandma Evie what her favorite color was, and she said green. She even painted their piano green! (I’ve only seen pictures of it.) She grew up on the same 120+ acres I did, and she explained that green reminded her of summer on the farm, which is kind of funny, because she has also told me on numerous occasions how happy she was when she left the farm and got to experience life in the city. I, too, did not love living on the farm—it was, in a way, embarrassing to me. That drafty old farmhouse, the tiny bedrooms, the stinky sheep bleating across the street. I couldn’t wait to leave home.

The ironic, and perhaps sad, thing is that I spent the first 12 or so years away from home celebrating the sidewalks, the tiny yards, and next-door neighbors. Then my kids got a little bit older and we went to visit the farm one summer. I saw them picking up chickens and feeding the sheep. I took them on hikes in the woods, showed them the spring and let them drink out of the Mason jar that has thirty years of lip imprints on its rim. I started to feel kind of…homesick.

We returned to our citified home in the suburbs of Dallas, a rental, and I started searching. You might be surprised, or not, to know that there aren’t very many colonial homes around here, and if you want a colonial with some acreage, well, you can forget about it. Not in our price range, anyway. So we decided to build a two-story brick home on one of the largest lots around--.25 acres, almost an hour away from my husband’s work, depending on traffic. And that is where I will raise my children, and hope that I can teach them to love nature, hard work, and humility.

Cleaning Up

They told me that morning that I couldn’t come out of my room until it was clean, so I decided to clean it. All of it. Still wearing my nightgown from the night before, I dumped out every drawer, threw every book from the bookcase, determined to surprise them with the thoroughness of my work. I spent hours, it seems, cleaning and organizing that room, until finally, I fell asleep on top of the greater mess I had created. My body rested haphazardly on top of clothes and stuffed animals. When I awoke, it was beginning to get dark, and I began to cry. I cried over the opportunities I had missed that day, and the daunting task at hand.

_____________

I am four or five years old, and I am sprawled out on the floor, twisted in what looks like an odd and uncomfortable position. My arms are resting in opposite directions, my neck twisted back and to the side. I am wearing a large blue and white striped t-shirt, perhaps one that was passed down from my mother to be used as a nightgown. My brown hair is a curly, tangled mess. You cannot see the color of the carpet because it is absolutely covered in chaos. There is a purple jacket (oh how I loved that jacket; it was long and puffy, and I thought it made me look like a princess!), a blue backpack with red straps, a blue blanket and a tied quilt, and at least five stuffed animals, with something underneath them, but I can’t tell what. It is that bad! There are a few unidentifiable objects, and then two large cardboard boxes, one reads “PEARS,” the other “ORANGES; ” perhaps I was supposed to put the toys in them. 

____________

I have often wondered whether I remember this day because I remembered it, or because of a picture. By itself, the event is forgetful. A stranger looking at it would see a messy girl sleeping on the floor of a messy room. On its own, there is no background story. I have had to clean my room hundreds, perhaps thousands of times over the last 33 years. But on this one occasion, my mother decided to take a picture, and then she reminded me of this story year after year. I do remember the determination I had to clean the entire room, and that I believed that in order to do so, I should do it all at the same time. Actually, now that I think about it, my brother Ben must have been in there with me, because I remember his dismay when I decided to empty everything out. He complained that it would take longer my way than his. Today, when I look at this picture, I see, but do not remember, the stuffed animals around me, or the blue t-shirt I wore. I am grateful for this proof of innocent childhood and a messy room; I am grateful for the memory it provides. It foreshadows a lot about my personality as an adult: if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it all, and do it right.

how i spent my naptime

I know, totally lame. I'm turning the family blog into the things I write. I'm half way done with this class. We have a love-hate relationship. For example: I just had to write an essay made from anagrams made from my name. WHAT? But actually, I like how it turned out. This isn't it (in case you were wondering). I have no title, yet, for this one, but I think you should be able to figure out what it's about.

PS, Joe says you can't boldly tiptoe, but isn't that what happens in the summer? Summer is bold, and loud, and bright, and then all of a sudden it's August and you don't know where the summer went. It's going to happen in just a few months--you'll see! That is sneaky; that is tip-toeing. What do you think? 

Summer boldly tiptoes into August, and suddenly there is a sense of urgency to prepare for autumn. More trips to the pool, late nights around the campfire, a plethora of family activities (memories must be made!), and a rush to purchase school supplies that are going, going, gone. There are new clothes, the latest in fall fashion, carefully folded and daily admired, sitting on the top shelf of the closet, ready to be worn by children who are eager to reunite with their friends. I, too, watch the calendar, impatiently awaiting the return to a schedule, dreading the 5:30 a.m. alarm, dismayed—and at the same time pleased—that my children insist on getting taller, more independent. They are growing up.

Finally, school starts, and just like that, the days become a little cooler, and the darkness arrives a little earlier. I pull my jeans and sweaters out of storage while humming a thankful tune that boots are back in style, and I am transported to my childhood.

I grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania, where the transition into fall corresponds with the yellowing of the hay fields and the hum of tractors as they finalize their harvests. The hills brighten the horizon with a plethora of leaves the color of fire: red, yellow, and orange. The Amish buggies go clip-clopping by, more briskly than they did in summer; there is work to be done before the first frost arrives.  The air crispens with the aroma of something burnt, decaying leaves, and the whisper that winter is waiting.

In contrast, the old farmhouse is warm, and there is the smell of a gas heater, turned on for the first time in months, mixed with the smell of work: last-minute food preservation of tomatoes, corn, jams, and my very favorite: applesauce.

There are football games to watch, cross-country meets to run. And then, there are holidays! Holidays with their sugary treats and themed decorations. Halloween, with its opportunity to become someone, or something, else for an evening. Thanksgiving arrives much too quickly as we prepare for family who will travel across the country to share food, blessings, and gratitude. There will be leaf-crunching walks in the woods, four wheeler rides, and perhaps most exciting of all: the guns will come out, and clay pigeons will be shot. Finally, there is the promise of magic, when the season will change from vibrant woodsy colors to a white background of snow, naked maple trees, and evergreens in the distance.