how i became a writer

I spent the last hour searching through a black three-inch binder packed full of papers and essays I wrote during my four years of college education. I couldn't find the one I wanted; maybe I thought, years ago, that throwing it away would make me forget it happened. It doesn't matter, I haven't forgotten--in fact, I can still see the penned words, cursive and hard to decipher, scrawled across the heading of the first page.

* * * * *

After two semesters of manual drafting and art classes with Del Parson's brother (how unfortunate a life for those with a famous sibling), I quickly realized that I lacked the physical dexterity and attention to detail to excel in the exclusive 3-year Interior Design program at Ricks College. I changed my major to English Education--English because I loved to read, and Education because what else could I do with an English degree? Writing was part of that institutional package, and so by default, I spent the next three years of my life writing every single day.

One of my first classes was Brother Samuelson's English 314 Advanced Literary Research and Analysis. As the title suggests, we learned how to research and analyze literature, and as it turns out, there are different and specific ways to analyze literature--which we call criticisms. It was all very new to me; I had never even heard of these criticisms: deconstructionism, reader-response, and formalism, to name a few. My first assignment was to write a formalist critique on Phillip Levine's "The Poem of Chalk." I did some research on Phillip Levine and researched the background of some words, and then wrote everything I could think of in order to turn in a ten-page paper.

To be honest, I'm experiencing some confusion today (I need to find that paper!), because in a formalist critique, you separate the writing from the author and from past experiences in order to analyze the writing by itself--which is exactly what I'm pretty sure I did NOT do! But I think the assignment was supposed to be a formalist criticism, and I was very, very confused.

A few class periods later, my paper was returned displaying an 82% and this hard to read comment: "Your theories are forced, your logic weak."

Imagine a pin pricking a balloon. Whoosh.

Was I in the wrong major? I was just getting started and this meant (to me) that I was a horrible writer! I had no idea what I was supposed to do!

So in my spare time (by the way, I was taking 21 credits, 15 of those credits in English classes, and working 20 hours a week as a reading tutor), I began reading literary criticisms for "fun." I visited Brother Samuelson's office frequently to ask him questions and to allow him to not-so-formally criticize the rough drafts I had written. I wrote and rewrote and then started all over again.

I wonder now: was it the grade that was bothering me? Maybe. I was a straight-A student and I had a scholarship to maintain. I wanted to excel, yes, but I also wanted to grow as a person and as a writer.

Today, as I flip through the black binder that contains hundreds of the papers I have written, I skim through several of them, remembering the literature I read, the feelings I felt while writing. Some of the essays, with their short, choppy sentences, make me grimace. Some show great potential and growth. Just a few, those written near the end of my four-year progression, are actually pretty decent, showing real thought-process and reasoning.

The last paper I wrote for Brother Samuelson's English 314 class was a psychoanalytic criticism on Willa Cather's "Paul's Case." I kept that one; it is the very first one I see as I open the binder. It is also the one that was presented and published in the 2002 National Undergraduate Literature Conference.

crystal ball

I am glimpsing a little bit of my future tonight: 2 pre-teen boys and 3 pre-teen girls, 8 bags of popcorn, 5 sherbet floats,  Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban blaring, I just discovered, full blast. Add in the talking, the laughing, the silly noises. It's loud. 

It was a somewhat impromptu summer movie night with friends, something Madison suggested when she finally gave in to the peer pressure and started reading the Harry Potter series. She's read 3 of the books in the last week.

The little boys ate their popcorn and floats early, and then headed reluctantly upstairs. You see, the deal is that you have to read the books before you can watch the movies. That's a bummer. I promised them a movie night of their own with friends, soon. As I sat upstairs consoling them, talking about the friends they would invite over, and the movies they could watch, I felt a little bit of excitement about this thing called growing up. I am going to have a house full of kids and friends! 

It's kind of fun to sit here and listen to the stories that they tell, their personalities coming through. It's fun to see their confidence; they know that that their silly laughs, their crazy faces, their dance moves are cool. 

Also, I'm taking notes. Perhaps in the future we will just have boys OR girls over. Already, at the ages of 8-11--they are being too silly together. I see a little bit of trouble in my future. 

I am waiting impatiently for our house to be built; they haven't even started yet, which is a little discouraging. I am assigning items to rooms and closets. I am planning future movie nights with friends in the future media room. Now that will be fun! 

But tonight, I'm content to watch Harry Potter with my children in the comfort of our living room--this one was released 10 years ago, in 2004--and I know that the next 10 will pass just as quickly. 

lost and found

Augustus Douglas Goss, my frugal grandfather, grew up during the Great Depression. His large family lived in cars and traveled from city to city looking for work. Sometimes they picked fruit and cotton, other times a farmer would let them milk cows for a day—whatever work they could find in order to survive. Often, they just went hungry. Grandpa would tell me stories about going to the market with his mother, where she would ask him if he wanted beans or flour mixed with water for dinner that week—there was not enough money to buy both. He said that eventually he was unable to swallow the water-flour mixture. It made him throw up. 

Over the years, I began to embrace these stories about my migrant-working heritage. I researched the Great Depression; I examined in great depth the Dust Bowl. I began to understand how a nation coming out of the First World War would encourage farmers to take out bank loans to buy expensive tractors so that they could plow fields, planning to grow crops to sell overseas, only to find that their crops were no longer needed—not that it mattered, because the rain would not come and the crops would not grow, leaving only dust. But there were still tractor loans to pay, mortgages on homes, families to raise. I would study Dorothea Lange pictures and imagine Grandpa Goss and his family traveling across the southwestern states in an old truck, their few possessions tied down in the back, perhaps stopping at night to camp on the roadside.

Last year I began documenting my life stories, always aware that my narrative included the people who came before me.  One afternoon in early May, I quietly shut my bedroom door, crawled under my covers and silently mourned the recent loss of a pregnancy. As the sobbing stilled, I questioned the purpose of the miscarriage, mentally shaking my fist at God. “Why?” I asked, “Are you there?” I wanted to write it out; the pen and paper became a balm for the ache, but there was more to write. I called my mother and asked her to tell me everything she knew about her father’s family.  She sent me a manila envelope with a collection of 30 papers including a eulogy, church records, photocopies of newspaper articles and pictures, and a letter that my great-grandmother had written explaining why she joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. A few pieces of paper do not adequately cover 80 years of life, but that is all I had.

* * * * *

William McNeill Goss’s first wife died, leaving him with two children, and on December 27, 1926, Reverend C.L. Sansing married William, age 40, to his second wife, Eva Edith Raven, age 20, in her family’s home on 106 W. 34^th Street in Austin, Texas.

Eva grew up in a religious home in Bertram, Texas. Her father, a carpenter, was on the local Baptist Sunday School board, and her mother was a Sunday school teacher. She writes,

One night after we had got home from the [revival] meeting, I was lying awake and I realized I had the need of a Savior.  I prayed to God that I might be saved.  The following night we attended the meeting again.  At the close of service I went forward and accepted Christ as my Savior and joined the Baptist Church and was baptized the following Sunday evening.  But it was a mystery to me why I joined the Baptist Church.  One day I went to my mother and asked her why was she a Baptist.  And she asked me why was I Baptist.  I told her I was a Baptist because her and father reared us children up in the Baptist Church.  I suppose I could see no other reason why.

Eva’s new husband, William, was a Baptist minister, and he made a decent living in the 1920’s around the Austin, Texas area. Known for his inspiring sermons, he was invited to travel town to town in 1930 with a gospel group as a Baptist revival speaker. After preaching a sermon in Del Rio, Texas, a man came to compliment William on his sermon and to inquire about the Baptist faith. His last question was, “By what authority do you speak in the Lord’s name?” William explained that he had been trained as a minister in the Baptist seminaries. The man probably nodded before asking, “But where did the seminaries get that authority?” William must have hesitated for just a moment as he admitted to the stranger that he did not know the answer, but encouraged the man to return on Sunday to hear his next sermon, which he promised would be on the topic of authority.

I imagine William studying his Bible and praying all through the week, but he could not find an answer, and on that promised Sunday he stood up at the pulpit and publicly resigned his ecclesiastical position because he did not know by what authority he preached in the Lord’s name. Eva writes, “My husband told me that the Baptist church could not be the right church of God, as God’s church was not a church of confusion, and he and I both prayed that God would direct us and lead us in the right way.”

I wonder how Eva felt. Did they discuss his resignation throughout that week? Did she support his decision, or did she beg him to continue preaching in order to feed their growing family? There must have been tears, sobs in fact, as William and Eva counted their change; surely they knew that there was a shortage of work and little money to be made throughout the country when they made the decision to end a stable career.

It is quite easy for me to imagine how I might respond; first, disbelief, shock, and discussion as we assign dollars to obligations. Time passes, dollars dwindle, hope falters. Eva surely grieved for what was lost, and William most likely felt guilty failure when he was unable to provide for his wife and children the basic necessities of life. I know all of this, these feelings, the movement of thoughts,

because my husband, Joseph, along with over 30 attorneys at Roetzel and Andress, lost his job in Cleveland, Ohio on February 18, 2009 during the worst recession since the Great Depression. We, too, lost our home, and moved our family of five across the country in search of employment. Ironically, we ended up in Dallas, Texas—not far from where Eva and William’s story began—and we hoped to make our own work by opening a law practice. We watched our diminishing savings account until we finally plundered through our retirement money and hoped that we could survive a few more months. Joseph would come home each day, tired and frustrated, to send out more resumes, to listen to his wife cry about the things they had left behind.

So ended William’s stable career, and in its place a life of uncertainty and instability. They moved to College Station, Texas on December 28, 1930, where William would walk many miles each day in search of work. His family would continue to grow as more children were born into their impoverished home: William, Edith Josephine, Rosalee, Augustus, Nehemiah, Eva, John, and Fae.

Again, I think about Eva, large and uncomfortably pregnant much of their early years of marriage, and I remember. We moved to Garland, Texas in January 2010. I would see newborn babies and want to hold them; I would stare at the round bellies of pregnant women, and envy the movement they felt from within. Unlike Eva’s generation, we had easy access to birth control, and therefore perhaps more pressure to be “responsible” about getting pregnant. How could I justify bringing another child into the world when it felt like we could barely provide for the three we already had? I am sure that similar thoughts passed through Eva’s head as she watched her children play and felt her belly grow. But oh! I wanted a baby! I prayed to my Heavenly Father and asked him for faith. In my lowest moments, I graciously bargained with Him: I will accept another spirit and give him a good home, just promise me that You will provide my family with the things that we need! And I wonder—I know—that Eva did the same. She must have prayed to God for courage and faith, promising to do His will in exchange for—not even comfort—but basic survival needs.

Did their trials shake their faith, or only increase it? Did they, like us, pray more than they ever had before; did they do all they could to grow in favor of the Lord? Did they in weak moments feel like they had been betrayed for making the leap of faith into the unknown as they searched for truth?

           

In April 1931, two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Elder Ariel N. Benson and Elder Clarence R. Bennion, walked through William and Eva’s neighborhood, distributing papers on the Mormon Church. Eva asked about their authority to preach, and the young men explained that their authority came from God, and then invited them to come to learn more at a meeting they were holding 16 miles away.

           

At this time, William was employed, working twelve hours a day applying creosote tar on telephone poles. The tar worked as a wood preservative, and we now know it is a carcinogen. The job was smelly and messy, and it burned and stained William’s skin, but it was work. William was interested in learning more about the Mormon Church, so he told his family that after he finished work that day, he would walk the sixteen miles to talk to the Mormon missionaries, and then walk the sixteen miles back home.

           

William did not reach the town until 10:30 p.m. that night, and he asked a stranger on the street where he could find the Mormon missionaries. He was directed to where the missionaries were staying, and I imagine him knocking on their door, and then asking these two tired young men his questions. Arrangements were made for two other missionaries, Elder Porter M. Gooch and Elder George W. Gasser, to come to the Goss home to teach this Baptist minister and his family.

           

William and Eva thoroughly investigated the Mormon religion. Eva writes,

We had been deceived into believing that the Baptist Church was a church erected of God until God in his mercy let us understand that the Baptist Church could not be erected of God.  For in the Book of Doctrine and Covenant Section 132:8 reads “Behold mine house is a house of order, and not a house of confusion.”  Therefore, pondering over the claims of the Mormon and of the Book of Mormon and also the teachings of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints as to if it was in reality the works of God and how to know to my understanding if it was divine origin.  I was taken very sick with chills and fever and as I had been troubled for the past two years various times knowing the course of chills and fever that it had always been necessary to take something to stop them.  My husband had gone to town after medicine for me to take, but the chill was so severe and me being home just with our three little children it looked as if I just could not stand it. 

So I turned over in my bed and began to pray to God to heal me.  While in that attitude I was moved upon by the Power of God and he wanted to heal me.  I was healed without the aid of medicine could I accept that as enough to accept the Book of Mormon and the word of the church as divine origin.  I answered with all of my heart that I would and I _________ and arose out of my bed and my oldest child said, “Mother, do you feel better?”  I said “Yes, dear.  God has healed me.” My children were so glad to see me.

When my husband came in I was rejoicing and told him of my experience that I would not have anymore chills and fever and that I knew that the Mormons were right.  Thanks be to God I did not have anymore chills or fever since.

My husband told me he had been pondering over those things and that he didn’t want to make anymore mistakes getting tied up with something that God hadn’t set up, went out to pray to God to hear and that God moved upon him and told him could he accept that miracle of Joseph Smith as a sure prophet and that he translated the Book of Mormon by the Power of God.

Eva and William were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints on October 15, 1931.

           

Eva and William moved many places, including San Antonio, Hempstead, Del Rio, Aransas Pass, Hagerman, and Bryan, Texas, which is where my grandfather, Augustus Douglas, was born, the fourth of their eight children together. Grandpa tells a story from his early childhood, about cold mornings when his mother, Eva, would get up to send the older children to school and William to work, and then she would get back in bed with Augustus to stay warm, as there was no heat in their one-room home. They stayed in bed together until they heard the hen cackle outside—this was the sign that the hen had laid an egg, and then Eva would get up to collect that egg, which she and Grandpa would share for breakfast. 

           

William and his family spent their years migrating in two old cars across Texas, New Mexico, and finally Arizona, breaking down periodically, always looking for work, always hoping that they would be able to feed their family that day. Eventually, their car would break down near Pomerene, Arizona, a predominantly Mormon community in 1950. Eldon Barney, a dairy farmer in the area who was a member of their church, offered them a small shack to live in and work on his dairy farm. That is where my grandfather would complete high school, waking early in the morning to feed and milk the cows. I remember visiting his home in Phoenix, Arizona, where we ate oatmeal for breakfast. Grandma stuck his hot bowl in the fridge and explained that he wouldn’t eat it hot—he had gotten used to eating it cold, with evaporated milk, after completing his chores on the farm. It was in Benson, Arizona that Augustus would meet my grandmother, Roberta Cates, at a graduation party. She was invited into the Goss’ humble two-room home and offered a seat on the only stool they owned.

* * * * *

As I finished piecing together the material I had been given, I read, once again, the letter that Eva wrote, pausing on the names of the missionaries who were sent to teach them the gospel, and stopping when I came to the name “George W. Gasser.” I sent my best friend, whose maiden name is Gasser, a message asking if she had a relative named George Gasser. Yes, she had an Uncle George. Did he serve a mission in Texas in the early 1930’s, and did his middle name start with a “W?” She conferred with her family, and then called me a few minutes later. Yes, her grandfather had a brother named George Walter Gasser, and he served in the LDS Southwest mission in 1930—Texas was probably included in that mission. Together we laughed, and I cried, not knowing quite how to vocalize the tightness in my throat.

All my life I have been a member of this Mormon Church. I have come to rely upon the teachings of my childhood in times of hardship and disappointment—even when I yell at God in despair. Not once have I really, really considered how I got here. An entire family hungry, moving, sacrificing because they wanted truth. All of that poverty and hardship was a conscious choice—and in a way, they did it for me.

If I could send a fortune-telling memo back to William and Eva, I wouldn’t need to reassure them that everything would be ok, that they would make it and eventually settle down; they did just fine on their own. But I might tell them that because of their sacrifice and faith, Augustus would raise seven living children in their church, one of them my mother. I would explain that I am working diligently to raise a fifth generation of righteous children in the church they joined. If I could talk to William and Eva, we might laugh at the not-really-a-coincidence fact that their missionary was related to my best friend, and we wouldn’t have found each other without him, and them. If I could talk to William and Eva, I would tell them thank-you.

And in that moment of appreciation, I knew that my God had not abandoned me. I knew that He was with Eva and William as they migrated across the country, and that He had been with me through our loss of a job, a home, an unwanted move, and now the sudden disappointment of a baby not born.

Through all of these things, He was with us,  shaping and molding, giving us the opportunity to grow into our full potential.

Joseph’s law practice is growing; my worries no longer include paying the bills and providing for our children. We recently committed to building a house, and each Sunday afternoon we drive by to check its progress. Our marriage, our family, isn’t perfect, but there is a sense of security. Life is good. 

William and Eva lived the rest of their lives near Pomerene, Arizona. Eventually, Eva was placed in a mental institution in Phoenix, Arizona, though I do not know if it was because of mental illness or diabetes left untreated. She died on June 20, 1967, and William died, his family claims of a broken heart, just a few weeks later on July 02, 1967.
 

On his deathbed, William McNeill Goss gathered his children around him and shared his last worldly wisdom. He explained that though he had not been able to provide for them the many riches of this world, he had been able to provide one thing for his family: he had found the true church with the proper authority from God.

           

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.

unexpecting

Joe took a pre-midnight Walmart run on Saturday, March 15 to buy the test. You're supposed to wait until the morning, when you are the most dehydrated, to take it, but I couldn't wait. I peed on the cottony strip that night, maybe two minutes after he walked through the door, and then I tried to keep a straight face as I handed him the plastic stick.

Right away we started speculating. Boy or girl? We got serious about buying a house, even signing a contract to build a few weeks later. My breasts got a little fuller, my waist a little thicker. I was waiting to feel more nauseous, more sensitive to smell. I looked forward to the smooth skin, the thicker hair, that each pregnancy had gifted me. Most of all, I counted down the weeks, eagerly anticipating the day I would first feel my child moving inside of my being. I looked forward to having our families visit us for the holidays--the baby was due the week before Thanksgiving, and surely, they would come.

I googled fun ways to declare my pregnancy on facebook, all of them cliche and worn out; I planned a Mother's Day card announcement for our families. We have always waited to spread the news of a new baby. I told myself "just in case," but really, I savor the secret, and then enjoy surprising everyone when I'm already 12 or 13 weeks along.

9 weeks and 1 day (but who's counting?), I noticed blood when I relieved myself that morning. I visited the bathroom frequently after that, hoping, praying, that it was nothing. I felt some cramping, but that was not abnormal for me--I attributed it to my swelling uterus. Finally, I called the doctor; they asked me to come in.

She checked the bleeding, and then did a vaginal ultrasound. It didn't last very long, maybe 30 seconds, and I knew right away that something was wrong. "This doesn't look normal," she said. She tried to be optimistic, but I knew what was coming. There was an egg sac but no fetus. I let them poke my arm with needles, knowing what the blood tests would confirm. I was losing the baby--or more correctly, I was losing the egg sac.

My HCG levels were high, over 12,000--proof that I was pregnant. My progesterone, though, was only 4.6--proof that all evidence of a pregnancy was flowing out of my body.

A lot of people have miscarriages. It's not uncommon. They usually describe it as a heavy period. No one tells you that it's painful. That you will have hours and waves of contracting to expel that little bit of bloody tissue out of your body. That you will feel it traveling out of you as you spend those hours in the bathroom crying, waiting. They told me to expect bleeding for the next 4-6 weeks. I will go back to the doctor, at least once, for another naked examination, and to be poked by more needles, to be told that I am back to "normal." No one tells you, though now it seems so obvious, that after the physical pain subsides, there is still emotional pain. The disappointment. The hormones!

Tuesday was the hardest day. The most painful, the most emotional. Every day has been a little bit better, but every day, there has been something to bring tears without notice. On Thursday, it was a too-long wait at the tire shop. On Friday, a call from the cardiologist, the words falling out of my mouth and into the phone, "I miscarried this week."

If I'm honest, this pregnancy always felt different. I was always afraid that something was wrong. If I'm honest, I can understand that this was part of Heavenly Father's plan for me. If I'm honest, I can see His wisdom, and I know that everything will work out just right. Sometimes, though, honesty still hurts.

Today a friend ran up to us at the park, eagerly announcing, "I'm pregnant." Everyone was congratulating her, but I had to separate myself while I silently grieved. I'm happy for her, I truly am. But what I so loudly remembered right then was that I am not pregnant anymore, and that I never got to share and celebrate my own exciting news.

A few months ago a friend sent me a small, hard-bound book with empty pages and a purple butterfly on its square cover. Today I decided that I would use it to keep a record of the blessings in my life.

Today, and yesterday, and surely tomorrow, I received and will continue to receive calls, messages, and texts from the few people that I have told, asking me how I'm doing. My family has received meals and anonymous goodies at our front door. For friends, I am thankful.

Tonight, my children requested a sibling sleepover. They covered the boys' room in blankets and pillows, and as I sit here and write, I can hear them talking, movement on the floor above me. They don't think I know about the flashlights they are hiding. For four thoughtful, beautiful children, I give thanks.

My husband called to tell me that he left his out-of-town work engagement early, and would be home several hours earlier than I anticipated. For his thoughtfulness, his love, and his dedication to our family: I am thankful.

As I sit here, I can hear the crickets calling outside. I hear the hum of the computer, the silence of my thoughts. As I turn my head and observe the rooms around me, I see proof of my family, evidence of the life we have created. This little wrinkle in my plan--it will become part of us, part of me, and I will be thankful.

The only picture I have with my tiny 9 week bump. 

No one would have noticed, probably, but me, on this Easter Sunday. 

Alteration

I have been reading/studying Eduardo Galeano's Book of Embraces. It's not my favorite, but the writing style is interesting, and I'm excited to practice it for my next assignment. Galeano says that he is "always devouring other people, their voices, their secrets, their stories, their colors. (He's) stealing their words." I feel like I need to go people watch, now. 

A Sample

His hair is getting long; it is time for a trim. It is easier to see the gray coming through when it is long like this, and as I look at it, I realize that we are reaching the halfway mark. I always knew that his hair would gray early, just as his father’s did. I used to tease him that he would look like a handsome Richard Gere, and I wasn’t wrong—their hair is quite similar. Then I look into the mirror. There is a dryness, lines around my eyes. I move my fingers, and notice loose skin enveloping my bones. We are aging together, and our children are aging with us. That is another story altogether.

She cannot find the bathroom in the middle of the night, and when Mom hears her shuffling, she leads her to the door, and waits. The minutes pass, and Mom asks if everything is ok. Grandma does not know how to flush the toilet. Later, I find Grandma crying. Of the few things that she can remember, she remembers independence, and she grieves its loss. My mother helps Grandma get dressed, and then gently braids the hair of the woman who raised her.

There is giggling coming from the bathroom. A rushing up and down the stairs. One boy, the middle child, enters the room, and displays his hair: brown spikes, obviously hair-sprayed into place. There is a smile, and an explanation that sister is playing stylist. A few minute later, the youngest gallops by. His hair is smothered down until it reaches his forehead, where it flips up like an ocean's wave. Finally, the oldest walks into sight, arms held out, ready to announce, his hair parted and smoothed completely to the side.