A Flood of Blessings

 The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, our basement flooded.  Our two oldest boys (aged 21 and 17) woke at 6 am to ankle-covering water and began bailing, hoping to clean things up and get the fan going before anyone else discovered the mess.

Happily, it was clean water, not sewage!  Sometime after 1:30, when our oldest son had finished his homework and retired, an old hose broke on the basement washing machine.  It would have been a cheap and easy fix, but it caused a big mess.  It also brought obvious blessings and helped us to recognize many more, enhancing our gratitude this Thanksgiving.  We expect to see additional blessings from this experience as time goes on.

The owner of the restoration company is our neighbor, a grandma who has been wrestling with cancer.  Her daughter was diagnosed with cancer, too, within days of our neighbor's diagnosis.  This friend came to our house about the time her crew arrived -- telling us that she had prayed only the night before that they would get some work for their crew.  "I hate to wish anything bad on someone," she apologized, "but they needed the work."  Our home has had great attention, as attested by the noisy hum of dozens of fans and dehumidifiers, going day and night for more than a week.

Over the past seven years we have remodeled most of the house, but the only basement room to get much attention was the boys' bedroom, completed nine months ago.  We had intended to paint, re-carpet, and upgrade the kitchen and bathroom down there, but there were literally tons of storage and books in the basement that we would have to haul up and find places for.  I have lamented my procrastination many times, but now I am thankful that much has been rapidly hauled out -- including the ruined, ugly carpeting that we will likely replace with tile.  And, at least in this case, the procrastination saved us from doing the remodel twice!

We missed a family wedding that morning and, sadly, some things have been ruined.  A cardboard box containing preschool and grade-school artwork was not salvageable.  A library book will have to be replaced.  The two boys attended Church on Sunday in modified attire:  the younger (whose Sunday shoes have disappeared) wore Grandpa's cowboy boots with his suit; the older (whose classy, leather-soled shoes were completely water-logged) looked like a hipster, wearing a sweater over his shirt and tie -- to go with those upscale Chuck T's.  The extent of the damage to some musical instruments (there was an organ down there) and to the furniture has not yet been determined.  Happily, most of our on-the-floor storage was in plastic bins.

We have seen miracles, as a few notable items were spared.  There was a three-square-foot high-spot in the bedroom, next to the exterior wall -- which happened to be where my son's violin and guitar were stored.  The limited-edition print that was still in its cardboard roll had several inches of packing material in the end that touched the floor -- and the painting was completely dry.  On Saturday night (when they should have been in bed) the younger brother decided to assemble the foosball table, which had lain useless on the kitchen floor for months.  The boys played a game or two, leaving the floor cleared; the six-inch metal foot posts held the rest of the table well out of the way of the coming water.  On Monday evening, while in the basement doing a little straightening of furniture, I noticed that the beautiful, inlaid chess board/drawered table base which the younger son had recently crafted was on the floor; I happened to put the chess board in the cabinet under the television, about five inches off the floor -- and it remained undamaged.

There have been other blessings -- less tangible, perhaps, but no less evident.  As my husband and our younger boys hauled literally tons of food from our basement (the plastic buckets had the weight labeled right on them) and stacked them in the carport, they recognized that they work well together -- and they saw that we have made strides to be prepared for other crises:  it gave my husband confidence, he said, to actually see what we have gathered.   Not being afraid is a blessing!  So is the understanding that stuff is, after all, just stuff.

This experience has focused my thoughts about God's promised floods and about the sometimes-inconvenient blessing of abundant water.  We need these blessings, for without His floods, little would grow.  We live in a desert and we pray for water every year!

Are the hundreds of holes which were punched in the walls a blessing?  I believe so.  I need real work for my younger sons, and filling those holes is something they can do to contribute to the economy of our household.

Was the timing a blessing?  Probably so.  We had already made arrangements to attend the wedding and we had the Thanksgiving holiday to be here working or away to escape the noise.  And the Christmas break will allow time to do the work, if we choose.  What other time would we have selected for the inconvenience?  Like most things, if we could we would choose to procrastinate the trial indefinitely!  Statistically, people experience a water loss about every five years, so it appears we have put this problem off for quite a while.  Yes, even the timing was a blessing.

Gratitude is real, not hypothetical.  Like our lives.

This Thanksgiving, I thank God for a real life, with real problems -- and for real opportunities to see His blessings in my life.


All photos courtesy of sxc.hu, with credit to JoofyTheJi.

Planning Parenthood

Last week, my teenaged daughter returned from a babysitting job with some very determined ideas about parenthood.  Through observing the activities of a young child, she had decided that she does not want a television in her house!

It sounds crazy, no?  This teenager loves to read and enjoys being outside, and she wanted to share quality time with the little boy -- but he had no attention for anything other than dubious programming on television.

Later that evening, as she sat with a vintage reader from her childhood, she commented that she wants her children's lives to be like children had 60 years ago.  "They got dressed up for parties and even wore dresses to play in!  They were kind to each other.  And look -- they worked together!"

Whether or not our future looks like the world of the past, the world we create for our children is their reality.

Interestingly enough, she presently had opportunity to look through photos of herself as a child -- and she saw them with new appreciation.  The world of play dresses, parties, and siblings had all but vanished by the time I was a little girl, but Rose saw and remembered that life had been that way for her.  I like to sew and had provided inexpensive but feminine clothing -- and she had loving siblings who worked and played with her in a variety of situations.  Because her own life has parallels with her dream, she has a frame of reference for ways she can create similar experiences for her future children.

Even with its ups and downs, life has been beautiful for her.  For a mother, that is a dream-come-true.

Just This Once?

About twenty years ago, before any of my children were old enough to attend school, I attended a homeschooling convention.  I learned many things there that applied to good parenting, which strengthened my determination to become an engaged mother.  One thing I heard has returned to haunt me, whether I am homeschooling or not -- mostly because I keep having to relearn it!

In speaking to new homeschooling parents, the presenter began by instructing us to make time and then protect it.  "People will expect that, since you are at home, you are available.  You have to think of this time as seriously as you would a full-time job," she said.  "They will say, 'You can do it; it's only once a month,' or 'It's just once a week,' and pretty soon, your time is gone.  Once a, once a, once a...!  And your time is gone!"

Mothering, especially when she has taken on the education of her children, requires a woman's full attention.  I have recently been reminded of how quickly doing a little errand here or there, or chatting on the telephone or shopping online erodes my time with my children.

None of us can do everything, but we can do what we need to to have peace.  I have to consciously schedule in what is most important and let the rest fall into place or drop away.  And that means guarding so the exception to my rule doesn't become the rule!


Photo courtesy of sxc.hu.

Shared Success

A few years ago, a successful neighbor described his thoughts on an article in a prominent national newspaper, which highlighted marital struggles that often happen to successful couples after their children get old enough to leave home.  My neighbor described a scenario, wherein the Wife, who had previously remained at home to manage her household and mother her children, considers that she is now "free" to "take her turn" at work.  The problem is that her boardroom Husband is now financially capable and free to travel and enjoy the benefits of success, but his dutiful Wife is now someone else's employee and is unavailable to him.  This creates the ideal setup for Another Woman -- who wants money advantages and travel opportunities -- to pick up an established Husband.  This scenario has left in its wake an army of hardworking, embittered, late-comer Wives in the workforce; women who, ironically enough, had looked forward to the change in dynamic in the first place.

"What the article didn't mention," my neighbor continued excitedly, "is the dirty secret that having a homemaker wife to raise a family is the factor that gets men into the boardroom in the first place!"  He explained that a man's success in business is a team effort, one that generally requires the motivation and stability of full-time wife to achieve.  The whole scenario would not happen, he believed, if a woman recognized that her husband's arrival at the boardroom, and the attendant freedom to travel and to have money was also the wife's own success, earned through her years of full-time, voluntary work for the family's benefit -- and a woman should feel free to choose to stay unencumbered and enjoy success with him.

I have appreciated my husband's willingness to work hard to provide for our family; his expressions of gratitude and support for me personally as his companion at work in our home have encouraged me and helped me to see value in my ministry.  Hearing our neighbor's perceptions did not change my labor, but it helped me to see my contribution to our family's economy with fresh eyes -- and it reminds me to rejoice in each of my husband's triumphs as our successes; to see his opportunities as blessings for us both.


All photos courtesy of sxc.hu.

Consecrated Marriage

I knew when I married him that my husband was a man who loved Jesus Christ and was willing to serve Him.  That is what I was looking for, after all.  Because he was committed to keeping all of God's commandments, I knew I could trust my husband and support him.

From the start, my husband has been given opportunities to serve in time-consuming callings of responsibility.  We had two preschoolers when he was called to serve as the second counselor to our new bishop.  This meant at least fourteen hours away from home on Sundays, in addition to at least two weeknights out each week, monthly camp-outs and a week-long scouting adventure each year.  His work was nearly an hour away; he owned a fledgling company which required a lot of his attention and brought in money sparingly and sporadically.  He was also taking evening classes to complete a degree, which took whatever spare time he had.  With a miscarriage immediately followed by children twelve months apart, this was not an easy time for me and I confess that, despite his loving efforts, I sometimes felt abandoned.  I know it was difficult for him, too.

I received a flash of revelation one year, as I listened to General Conference.  This came during the Statistical Report, not a usual time for great epiphanies!  As the thousands of wards, branches, districts, stakes, and temples were enumerated, I started to recognize that each of these had four or five families who were impacted the way mine was -- and every few years, people changed callings, so (theoretically) everyone took turns!  I realized that, even though my husband had never sought opportunities to lead in our church community, he -- and I -- had volunteered years before, when we deliberately chose to lead Christ-directed, consecrated lives; if God wouldn't want him, I realized, I wouldn't either.  I had chosen him because he wanted to follow God, and I could not blame God for calling on him -- or on me to willingly offer Him the most precious thing I had or hoped to have:  time with my husband.

This helped alter my attitude to one of genuine rejoicing in each phase of my husband's ministry.  Since that dawning, eighteen years ago, I can honestly say that I have had opportunities to try again and demonstrate that I have truly changed.  I know that my attitudes, whatever my words might be, will profoundly influence each of my children, whether they are sons or daughters; I cannot fake honest appreciation for the blessings of my husband's opportunies to serve.  There have been inconveniences, for sure (nobody plans their suicide with the bishop's dinner schedule in mind), but the blessings of marriage to a godly man far outweigh any possible downsides.

All photos courtesy of sxc.hu.

Metamorphosis Into Mother

I recently met a young mother, in the last weeks of pregnancy with her third child.  It had been an act of faith to invite this baby; the difficult emotional challenges she had faced with her first two had caused her to question her decision to marry and stay home with her previous children.  She had worried that these difficulties had been caused by marrying too young, or by otherwise being unprepared for motherhood; her marriage had suffered as she had struggled.  She happily reported that she was eagerly anticipating the birth of her third child and wished that she had experienced similarly joyful emotions with the births of her two older sons.

The details of this woman's story may be unique, but the experience is common to many.  The pain experienced as we make the transition into motherhood cannot fully be explained away by hormones, since women who adopt experience many of the same challenges.  I have observed women who returned to work shortly after giving birth express disgust with the "wimpiness" of their sisters or neighbors who have chosen to remain at home with children; when it became "financially wise" to stay home with their own children, they were unprepared for the struggles inherent in the experience.   I have seen women from many walks of life seek a variety of ways to escape the pain that they do not understand or try to explain away with blame for others, their choices, or for the teachings of parents or religious leaders -- and I have seen the miracle of transformation in the lives of those who have chosen to faithfully embrace this opportunity to develop their unique, feminine gifts to become mothers in the most true and beautiful sense of the word.

Before she ever bore children, Adam identified Eve with a title that expressed her Motherhood.  This fact, along with observation of numerous women through the decades of my life, indicates to me that motherhood is not automatically equated with maternity, though the loving nurturing of children may be the most common route to achieve it.

Like the transformative metamorphosis which creates a butterfly, Motherhood requires effort and it is not always comfortable.  We would naturally expect discomfort for the caterpillar in its cocoon; becoming all that motherhood requires is an even greater change.  We are best able to become as we understand, accept, and embrace all that such a metamorphosis requires, without reeling as if we are undergoing cruel and unusual punishment.



All photos courtesy of sxc.hu.

Math Over Mother?

This spring, our two younger daughters participated in a seminar in science and math, geared to girls.  Before we left for our hour-long drive to the host college, my husband gently warned them to watch for even subtle messages discouraging them from motherhood, in favor of a technology-based career.  We set out, fresh and enthusiastic; they were hopeful that the classes they had selected would be all they had anticipated.  I also spent the day in town, doing handwork and reading in a quiet place. 

When we met after their activity, the girls seemed eager to escape the campus.  Even before the car door closed, the first thing they wanted to talk about was the overt, anti-motherhood message.  "I was shocked," the older one blurted out, "I had expected that they would at least mask it a little!  But the very first thing they did was have us all listen to some lady tell us that her job is the most fulfilling part of her life and that her husband and children just have to understand that they are her second priority!"

The fact that the keynote speaker was not very eloquent had not enhanced her agenda with my daughters, who saw her address as too cliche to be taken seriously.  But there were likely many who still believe the lie that girls are routinely denied access to education and jobs in math and science -- and who want to believe that they will find greater satisfaction in the work-force than may be found in creating a home.  The reality is that there are many opportunities for girls who have even moderate interest in these fields, but that the most noble and fulfilling of all professions for a woman is that of a wife and mother. 

Don't misunderstand:  this is not an attack on education in general or math in particular.   We encourage our daughters (as well as our sons) to pursue their educational interests:  in addition to the educational accomplishments of our very bright sons, our oldest daughter is starting her third year of college as a math major and our second girl has been very successful in the biological sciences in high school.  Each child -- whether son or daughter -- needs to consider the impact of his decisions on his future family and choose carefully; our oldest daughter decided to go into math in an effort to bless the lives of her future children and our oldest son has abandoned his youthful dreams of a military career (or as a cowboy, riding the range,) because of the negative impact it would likely have on his future family.

Come to think of it, what is the value of math, anyway?  Contrary to the silly or thoughtless answers we sometimes give our children ("You have to do this so you'll know how to help your children when they have questions with their homework!"), math is a shorthand that helps strip away the extraneous details of our problems to exercise the logical, problem-solving part of our brains. 

In addition to the practical needs we each have for arithmetic, measuring, and estimation; math skills help us think clearly, to wade through deceit and come to decisions based on absolutes (or at least solutions effectively based on the Givens).  We all need the skills math can hone, whether our current issue is political, social, or physical -- perhaps especially mothers.  Math and motherhood should not be an "either/or" proposition:  it's not, if we put our families first.

Build a Little Birdhouse in Our Yard

With the help of his Dad, our young son constructed an aviary in the backyard.  This took a lot of research and preparation -- and several trips to the hardware store!  Yesterday evening, he raided the nest of our resident magpies, bringing down four young birds.

Frankly, despite all the advance preparation, I did not expect that he would actually be able to do it.  I made the hardware trips to be supportive, thinking (hoping?) something would go awry; I am not a pet person, for I believe animals are much more satisfied and successful when they are allowed to care for themselves.  These birds smell awful and they are always hungry.  He loves them.

Whether these helpless creatures live or not, this has already been a revolutionary experience for our son.  He is learning compassion, as he must nurture these nestlings:  they will die if he doesn't.  His sleeping patterns (and location) have been willingly changed; his thoughts go out to what (and when) they will next eat and whether they are warm enough; his awareness of sanitation has been dramatically altered!  He is learning to recognize their nonverbal communication patterns and experiencing the empathy motherhood entails, the more remarkable because his Autistic tendencies make such awareness a challenge in interpersonal situations.

I was moved this morning by one of his concerns:  magpies are clever creatures and can learn to respond to particular behaviors and verbal cues; they can even learn to mimic sounds.  He wondered what he ought to say to these babies when he comes to feed them, so they will learn to trust and expect good things from him -- and it needs to be something appropriate for them to learn to say.  Such concerns echo the worries of a conscientious mother for the development of her children beyond their physical needs.

From specialists who intervene with at-risk children, I have heard of women who do not speak to their children, using the rationale that "they never speak to me!"  He laughed at the silliness of such a thing, asking, "Where are they supposed to learn to talk?"  He already recognizes how essential it is for him to be a good model for his little ones.

He hopes these birds will learn to recognize him as their parent and that, as adults, they will return to him.  I hope he will become a good parent -- now and later.

Practicing Motherhood

This past week, my youngest daughter brought up a problem that she faces at school with a classmate who wants a best friend -- which really means she wants to dominate my daughter's time and attention.  My daughter wishes to maintain friendships with other girls in the class, yet her efforts to be kind to this desperate friend have meant that she has been manipulated to cut off additional school relationships.  My daughter wondered aloud if she is obliged to continue showing kindness to the girl who often comes to the point of ridiculous rudeness in demanding her attention.

This is not a new problem; each of my daughters has faced a similar dilemma with friendships, and it usually starts by about fifth grade.  It is essential for my daughters to learn to handle such situations kindly but with direction and strength:  if a girl becomes accustomed to being prey to such manipulators in her girlhood relationships, she will be an easy target for controlling dating and marriage relationships later.  But how she learns to handle it goes even deeper.

Strength for my daughter means more than merely sticking up for herself; the experiences she is having now are real-life practice for motherhood -- with the potential for real development for her and for the people around her.  If my seventh-grader were a loving mother trying to teach her junior high-age daughter, what would she do?  Perhaps I should phrase it differently:  Because my seventh-grader is am emerging mother with real potential to nurture and help her classmates, what should she do?

There are many "effective parenthood" ways for my daughter to handle her challenge, and this article is not written to enumerate them.  After a discussion of several strategies, I am confident that my daughter will choose options that work for her situation -- and that this is valuable practice in motherhood.


This experience has served as a reminder that the way we view our roles helps us have greater access to the power we have been given to act for ourselves and to make positive changes in the world around us. 

"You Pick Your Battles"

At my twenty-year high school class reunion, I had a chance to visit with the father of one of my classmates.  This was a man I had admired from childhood.  In conversation, I asked him about his talented younger daughter.  When he told me briefly about her life, I congratulated him for the good things she has accomplished.  His face pained, he expressed that some of her choices were not what he had hoped for her.  He leaned closer and with great intensity he added, "But you pick your battles, Daunell.  You pick your battles."

This brief exchange has been one of the most significant events of that reunion weekend:  I know little enough about this man's parenting, but have often thought of his earnest face and how his remark has urged me to become a more deliberate mother.  Whatever he may have intended to communicate, his comment continues to remind me to "pick my battles" carefully.

Love comes first.  Foremost in such a discussion is love.  Many times when we talk of "picking our battles," we mean that we feel forced to choose between maintaining a relationship or abandoning our principles; we seldom consider ways that such "battles" may be an expression of our love. Often, the way we frame something changes the way it is received:  timing, tone of voice, and the wider context of a loving relationship can allow me to be direct without communicating that I am in "attack mode."
 

Advocate for, don't fight against. I don't really want to fight against my children.  When they were younger (and even now, as they grow up,) I have been willing to defend them -- to advocate for them.  Ideally, in our family relationships we can battle against error and evil together; this is a battle I willingly pick.  Because I know there is a God who has defined truth and goodness, my role as mother means that for life's battles I must personally learn and teach God's true principles to my children.  Who is right is less important than what is right.

Seek divine help.  We don't live hypothetically, so each mother needs personal inspiration to know how best to face each challenge.  The fact that something seems to work at one time or with a particular child is not proof positive that all similar situations should be handled the same way.  God knows us and our children and leads parents to know what to do in our real parenting challenges -- but we have to listen and obey.

Calm courage.  Wading into a worthwhile "battle" takes sustained courage.  When you know your position is God-directed/based on true principles, it is easier to remain calm and consistently defend right without becoming defensive.

Hold the line.  I remember my mother often saying that raising children is like containing cattle in a field, and that the fences are a comfort to both the cattle and the rancher.  She grew up on a ranch and had noticed cattle bumping up against electric wires -- occasionally shocking themselves on purpose -- then grazing contentedly after finding the boundaries remained strong.  We can expect that our children will likewise vigorously test the boundaries we have established and that they will later sometimes brush against them to see if they are still there.  Like a protective fence, it is a mother's job to hold up the bounds -- even when complaints against them are loud and manipulative.  The knowledge that a fence is a moving target is an enemy to peace, inviting perpetual, painful testing!

Nip it in the bud.  The most effective battle-picking happens when I take care of problems before they grow big and ugly.  This means starting when children are young and arresting issues before they have a chance to become problems: children may complain a little, but it is much less painful to discuss, establish, and enforce thoughtful rules governing television content, iPod use, sleeveless tops and dating than it is to spring it on an adult child that bringing his live-in lover home for Christmas is a violation of your family's policies. 

I realize that these principles do not guarantee freedom from ever having parental challenges, but I have seen them at work.  They give me power to act, rather than leave me feeling oppressed or acted upon as a parent.  Yes, I pick my battles -- and when I am thoughtful, it usually means we all win and I don't even have to fight.

Unexpected Traditions

My Grandma Jensen was a talented musician and a professional secretary; I doubt she thought of herself as "a knitter," and I don't imagine that, fifty years ago, she was trying to start a tradition when she made a small scarf for my father of variegated wool yarn.  The scarf was a small and simple thing:  just rows and rows of knit stitch.  Dad wore that scarf on his mission to France and for many years after, until the treasure eventually fell apart.  Twenty-five years ago, when my brother left to serve in Washington, D.C., Grandma was asked to make a similar scarf for him.  Now that my son is similarly serving a mission, I purchased some variegated wool and began work on a scarf for him.

The ladies at the store tried to redirect my attention to yarns that were less expensive and more bulky, warning (truly) that such a scarf as I described would be costly and “take forever” to complete; I can now see why Grandma’s scarves were (as I thought) somewhat narrow and short!  Though my amateurish knitting is imperfect and though I was unable to locate the primary color variety that I remember from my youth, my son’s scarf in shades of avocado and copper – and which works up looking suspiciously like camouflage – is part of Grandma’s larger, if inadvertent, tradition.  I was not the recipient of a handmade scarf; yet as I make time to work on one for my son, I become a part of her tradition of love and effort and have hope to connect my children to the qualities I've admired in her life.

Many of our most cherished traditions are like this.  Mothers plan and work to create what we think will be meaningful ways to mark the lives of our family members; but the seemingly insignificant, unexpected things often are the ones about which memories are made.  The Christmas my oldest children began to read, I had a few gifts wrapped for one and nothing ready for some others; I wanted to set out the gifts but avoid discontent, so I made up a simple code and let everyone wonder and hope each gift could be for him.  The next year I had prepared better and saw no need for a code, but the hopeful Code Crackers pleaded in favor of the “tradition.”  And so it continues:  when my children are assigned to write about Christmas Traditions, they always mention the fun of The Code.  

 (Incidentally, this was the way my husband got his wish that we open presents one at a time:  our inadvertent tradition has unexpectedly facilitated anticipation of and appreciation for each gift, rather than a greedy hoarding and unwrapping frenzy on Christmas morning.)

When our oldest child was eight, I had a conversation with an experienced mother and grandmother who provided comfort when she shared this principle with me.  Her eight children were fairly close in age and she knew first-hand the struggles I faced at the time.  She talked about her own high expectations, her health challenges, and about the times when she had felt like a grumpy failure as a mother; but she reminded me that people have selective memories.  She explained that as a parent, she was amazed to hear her adult children reminisce about their happy childhood – and the stories often began with, “Do you remember how we always used to…?” 

“What they remembered might have happened once or twice,” she said with a shrug, “but to them it was our family tradition.”  Looking at the neighbor with admiration, I realized this was probably because a tradition of real love undergirded everything, even the occasional unpleasantness.   

Which gave me hope.