New Year's Eve

It’s New Year’s Eve and, with the exception of a wind storm raging outside, our house is very quiet. In the past it’s been kind of a happening place for the holiday. We’ve always had good food, lots of Martinellis to toast in the New Year, and while we waited for the hour to roll around, we would begin construction on one of our several “family” puzzles.

Those “family” presents actually had an inconspicuous beginning. Any parent knows that in order to have total harmony on Christmas morning, there needs to be an equal number of gifts under the tree for each child. Children always seem to be looking for solid evidence that you actually favor one or more of the siblings over another. There is, sometimes, even a child looking for confirmation that they are, in very fact, the favored one themselves. At any rate, if one has more gifts than any other, well, that’s just proof to all the rest that you are the horribly unfair parent who somehow loves them less.

Hard as you may try, however, sometimes the inevitable happens and for one reason or another, someone will end up with an extra gift. Hoping to avoid conflicts, I began buying “family presents”. If one person came up short, then we would pull from the family pile. Some of these presents amounted to puzzles, and so was born the tradition of putting together the New Year’s Eve puzzle.

We’ve tried hard over the years to think of family party ideas, but eventually we always end up gathering at some flat surface, putting puzzles together. Some of them have been rather monumental. For instance, there was the great John Deere puzzle of 2005, the year we all had a horrible 10 day flu! That one took a while, but even between barf sessions and while our heads were spinning with fever, we labored at it. When it was finished, we framed it and it still hangs on the kitchen wall. Good times!

Savannah is probably the grand puzzle master of the family. I’m not so great at it myself. I tend to take the pieces and, after half an hour of looking for something that fits, resort to forcing them together… figuring that if I mash them hard enough, they just might give up and conform to the right shape. At times I’m even tempted to pull out the scissors and snip the edges to make them work. Clearly, I lack a vision of the larger picture. Savannah and Kirk, however, aren’t half bad. They both possess a sort of supernatural patience for details that completely evades me.

Even given a full house, we rarely ever finish those huge 1,000 piece puzzles in one night, but eventually they always get done. Afterward, we leave them up, duly admiring our handiwork for several days before anyone will consider taking them down. Of course, after the first couple of days we also wished we’d purchased one of those roll up mats as well… but, that never happens.

This year, I bought the standard puzzles: a covered bridge and a snowy lake scene with a flock of geese. They were beautiful… only, Savannah isn’t here. Barry is on his mission, Clarke has been married and gone for years now, and Kamaron is on the stake youth committee, which means he’s in charge of the teen festivities and completely gone for the entire night.

Grrr… That leaves only the two of us to do the puzzle alone. What happened to our fun family night? Who gave my children the right to grow up!?! This whole empty nest thing officially stinks. Maybe I should wizen up and next year buy the 75 piece variety… they’re far more my speed. In the meantime, I’m hoping that the blue fairy will visit us in the night and figure out some way to make those impossible cardboard shapes fit together. Honestly, who thinks of these sadistic traditions?

Oh wait… o-O

It was me.

Flash Mob of four, if you please!

The other day, I was introduced to the concept of the "Flash Mob" by a group of 450 choir members who sang, spontaneously, in Kansas City. The song of choice was the Hallelujah chorus, which appears to be a pretty popular choice for the holiday season.

A day or two later, Savannah showed me the posting of another flash mob performing in a plain, old food court (Canada's Niagara chorus). Again, it was the Hallelujah chorus from the Messiah... and it was amazing!

Beautiful!

Stunning!

It was very fun to see. Anyway, I have a wonderful sound system and 3 cds in my truck: The Beatles, The Man from Snowy River, and The Messiah. The latter is my all time favorite composition; I listen to it year round.

Enter yet another Sunday. Like always, I was in church. Sacrament meeting was okay, Nursery was wonderful (especially having Savannah in there to enjoy the little kids with us). The meetings ended and we made our way out to the greater outdoors, chomping at the bit to escape to home (like always), only to be stopped in our tracks.

"I signed us up for tithing settlement at 12:40," Kirk announces.

A chorus of moans sounded from within the bowels of the earth. You would have thought that the crust had opened up and all the underland hosts were expressing their acute disappointment over "the fractious day"... but alas, as it turned out, it was only me... I was the only heathen in the group that would overtly complain about something like tithing settlement.

It's true. I don't like it. I don't like leaving my home at all... let alone waylaying my return for something like tithing settlement. Honestly, and we have to sign up for this annual liturgy? Why, might I ask, can we not just check a box next to it that also says "Full" or "Part" or "Non". Sometimes it all just feels a little sanctimonious.

The "Non" status is always an interesting one to me. Why would anyone go to tithing settlement to declare themselves to be in a "non" status. Ha ha. I can barely stand to go being in the full category, I can't imagine putting myself through that laboriously boring ritual, just to say that I didn't participate at all.

In fact, secretly, I had full intentions to skip it this year all together. I mean, if the scriptures say not to let your 'right hand know what the left hand doeth', then why do we have to go declare it to the bishop? There must be some hidden epic reasoning that I've missed in all of this.

Oh well, I survived it and eventually we were on the way home. Upon settling into the truck, I turned on "Snowy River", but Kamaron complained that he didn't think it was "Sunday music".

Yeah, whatever... (just because it's not Taylor Swift...)

Snowy River is epic and glorious... and it's totally Sunday worthy... however, not wanting to interrupt his moment of piety, I changed discs to "The Messiah".

We pulled onto the freeway and suddenly, onto the awesomeness of my awesome truck's even more awesome music system comes... "For unto us a child is born...".

I cranked up the volume as the violins sang through the cab, allowing the percussion, bass and brass to fully rumble through the floor boards. Then, simultaneously, we burst into song, just like those glorious flash mobs in the food court... only we, somehow, sounded even better.

WE had the Tabernacle choir and a full symphony to accompany us... and far less cacophony from the zillions of mall goers milling about besmirching the performance. The only offending noise at that volume was Kamaron complaining that it was too loud. However, his protests were soon abandoned because...

...we sounded GOOD! Awesome! Beautiful! Amazing! The heavens parted and smiled on us!

It was a wonderful moment.

*Sigh*

And then...

we were home...

where all the moments are always wonderful.

The Perfect Cure

Today I was out of sorts. I'm not sure why... it might've had something to do with being completely exhausted and having to wake up about 72 hours before I was ready, maybe.

I don't like feeling that way and I'm not sure what caused it. I mean "technically", I slept a decent number of hours and I had a sort of good breakfast, so it wasn't hunger. I woke up to a fresh blanket of snow all over the farm. Soooo pretty! It certainly wasn't landscape fatigue or anything like that.

During church, it was all I could do to sit still. Everything was irritating me! It was our Christmas service today and, face it, what's not to love about a Christmas service? Especially one that is mostly comprised of singing… fool proof, right.

Wrong.

Being grumpy and wanting to flee the program to hide out in the nursery was my first clue that I was out of sorts. I forced myself to sit still. Then I leaned forward and massaged my temples, leaned further forward to check the clock, several times… massage the temples again… will self to sit, sort of, still. Finally, I rested my head on my husband's shoulder and took a nap. That would have helped... except for the fact that I can barely sleep at home, in my bed, and church was far too noisy to even consider it.

Sometimes I get really jealous of Kirk. He can sleep anywhere, anytime. If that weren’t bad enough, it’s somehow even sanctioned in church as being appropriate (minus the snoring) while those of us who can’t sleep have to torture ourselves by trying to sit still. I will never understand that. It’s horribly unfair to those of us who happen to be super light sleepers.

On the bright side, the baby in the pew in front of us, the one with those giant blue eyes and rosebud lips, was smiling at me and being utterly adorable. Bella, one of our nursery girls, was there two rows up and looking stunningly beautiful, like always. Tristan, one of our nursery boys, was coyly peeking over the back of the bench 2 pews ahead of that and smiling at me with very large eyes… as if shocked to notice that I was in the same world as he. Those were the highlights of the meeting.

FINALLY, church ended. I dashed out of the chapel (slightly before that point) to get ready. 10 out of our 12 children were there today and I needed to wash up before starting the snacks.

It was a good class. There were only 2 explosive snot bombs during the whole time!

I’m not sure why those only happen right in front of me, or on me. I don’t think Kirk has ever had to wipe up a snot bomb. Sometimes, I think he positions himself on the other side of the room from them on purpose. Other times, I’m just convinced that God loves him more than me.

Anyway, back to the glandular goo... little kids are so funny about this. They’ll sneeze out half a cup of snot all over the front of them and, depending if it’s a girl or a boy, will either freeze into statue mode, waiting for you to clean them up, or else just go merrily on their way, apparently not even noticing the slime sliding down their face and onto their clothes. Sleeves come in very handy for such children.

… which gives a whole new perspective to the old English song “Greensleeves”.

Ew.

Anyway, at this time of year, 2 snot bombs is a conservative amount, so I considered that part of the day a jubilant success.

Our lesson went pretty smoothly too. The children actually stopped running amok and sat still (relatively speaking) for close to FIVE minutes (WOW!). This was a miracle of colossal proportions. As soon as I pulled the first puppet from the bag (See 12/5/10 "I am not funny...") and gave it to its matching owner, they all became spellbound, waiting to see what would happen. That part was great… the look on their faces... wondering... as if to say: "Could it be possible that I might get a puppet too?" was priceless! It all went very smoothly... until they figured it out and all started grabbing the puppets, looking for their own. Even then, it was still okay. They were happy and that was the goal.

We also made “braclets” out of pipe cleaners and beads, so they could give their moms a Christmas present of their own making. Some of the kids were especially excited about that prospect… others of them just kept trying to eat the beads… “No babe, spit them out… don’t eat the beads, they’re not food… spit them out… spit them out… come on, spit-them-out-now…”.

It was only one child, clearly old enough to know better, but he likes putting everything into his mouth: Chalk, toys, balloons, clothing, other children, etc… He’s also the one who likes to take his cup of snacks and arrange them all over the table, push them around into different piles and put them back into his cup… then dump them all out and start the whole process over again. He usually gets some of them down the right orifice, but not before he’s duly played with them first. If he wasn’t so adorable, it might bother my OCD self some, but I pretty much just look the other way and let him play on.

Most of our children in nursery are of the utterly adorable type. It’s the perfect age and it’s impossible to be grumpy around so many cute kids. It really is the perfect job to have at church. So, I was happy during nursery today… extremely tired and occasionally a bit zombie-ish, but happy.

Then nursery ended.

Suddenly, almost everything was irritating me again! There was too large of a crowd in the hallways, someone decided to congregate right in front of the door, blocking our way, the drive home was too long… the snow was melting, the sun was too bright… the people around me were BREATHING! I couldn’t hear them, but I knew it was happening. The nerve!

There is only one known cure for such an attitude… NAP TIME.

After a little shut eye, and then forcing myself to wake up, the world was such a different place. The birds were singing, my lovely family was awake and around me. I looked around at our beautiful home, read a lovely magazine while eating a delicious supper. I admired the Christmas tree, beautifully decorated by my adorable children. I gazed thankfully on the presents under the tree, so grateful for my husband’s job, the land of peace where we live and the bounteous plenty we enjoy.

I knew, in that moment, that life was grand. There was just no other way to look at it!

It was the perfect cure.

Sometimes it's easier to be illegal...

Today, I went down to the Department of Revenue at our county seat and renewed my driver's license.

This was my third (3rd) attempt.

The first time I went was on my birthday (October 15), which was also the day it was due to expire. I took all the items that have been required in the past:
1. My old (valid) Driver's License.
2. A piece of mail showing that I live at the address on my D.L.
3. My Social Security Card, and...
4. 2 years worth of receipts for my paid county taxes.

It took a while to actually gather all this stuff, but I paid due diligence in doing so. The courthouse is a good drive away in another town and I don't particularly care to make that trip multiple times.

Once there, I was (finally) waited on by some lady who told me that I needed my birth certificate. When I moaned over that declaration, she smiled, said it was a new law and promptly gave me a 2 month extension, informing me that it would allow plenty of time to secure the necessary papers.

Ugh!

I came home, put my SS card in my desk for safe keeping and immediately began frantically searching all through the file cabinet and then the fire safe for my birth certificate. Where was that !@#$%*! birth certificate. I know I had it at one point. We had just gone to Mexico 4 years ago and I had to have it for that... surely it was somewhere... only where?!?

Unfortunately, they were no where to be found.

Next, I called the state of California and got a recording stating that the number was no longer in service.

Oh, California - why does that not surprise me?

I then called roughly 972 other phone numbers before finally getting a surprising cheerful recording at the Los Angeles County department of vital records. After pushing several buttons, listening to recordings for each and waiting on hold for an exorbitant amount of time, another recording came on, informing me that all I needed to do was to come on into the office with a stealthy list of items I could use as proof of identification and, for $20, they would be happy to provide an official copy of my birth certificate.

This would be lovely... if the office wasn't 1,621.92 miles further than I felt I could drive that day.

I called yet a few more numbers and found from another recording that if I printed out several forms (to be found at a mystical site SOMEWHERE on line), filled them ALL out, THEN went to a notary public where I present all the identification possible, that I could also secure (for the bargain price of $20) a valid birth certificate mailed directly to my home.

Lucky me! I was beginning to consider how easy it would be for someone to do just that... someone who wasn't me. Clearly, it is sometimes easier to be illegal.

Calmly hanging up the phone (slamming it onto the receiver), I began randomly muttering angry oaths. Making that many pointless phone calls for that many hours in one day can do that to a person. Those stupid recordings won't even argue back when you fling insults at them and call them names.

The nerve!

There was only one honorable thing left to do... I put it out of my mind and decided that I would think about it "tomorrow".

****

7 weeks later, as I began to cool off over the whole affair... AND as the extension deadline began to draw inconveniently near, I decided there was no longer time to apply on line. Once again, I would just have to search the house.

I started with the afore mentioned file cabinet and went through EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF PAPER in the entire unit. Nothing. Several loooonnnnng hours later, after hauling off the 30 gallon bag of TRASH resulting from that effort, I confirmed that we had stored far too many needless papers in the file cabinet and, furthermore, unfortunately, my birth certificate was truly NOT among them.

I then searched my desk. Nothing.

I checked through every page of several years of journals hoping that, just maybe, I'd put it in one of them for safe keeping... nope, nothing.

I was starting to get desperate, and so began bribing Kamaron to help. "If you can find my birth certificate, you can take two hours off your school work."

Being a few hours behind schedule, he agreed and commenced searching through junk drawers, dresser drawers and folder after folder of miscellaneous "stuff" on the library shelves.

Nothing.

Slumping defeatedly into a chair, I realized that the only thing tearing the house apart from top to bottom had produced was a big mess.

Clearly this was going to require more help than what was presently available, so... lacking any other resources, I decided to pray. Not 2 minutes later, Kamaron had the bright idea to check one last, obscure place.

Sure enough! There it was, hiding under a pile of old check registers.

Of course! Where else would it be? Why, oh why didn't I think of that in the beginning?

I duly collected that wondrous document and headed back off to the Licensing office.

After waiting in line again... forever... I finally made it to the counter and was waited on by "Wade".

Wade just ran for county commissioner and won! (I even voted for him). Wade has been waiting on me for years and years as I've registered cars, paid taxes, renewed past licenses and taken children in for their permits.

Wade knows me!

"Aren't you missing something?" he asks as I pour my pile of documents out onto the desk.

"I think that would be quite impossible," I answer.

"Well," he informs me, "you're missing your social security card (oh yeah, safe in my desk...). Furthermore, your birth certificate has a name different from your driver's license. You'll need to also provide either the form that shows your name change, or your marriage license."

"Seriously?!?" I ask with all the incredulity that I can manage.

Wade just laughs: "Yes."

"But you KNOW me!"

"Sorry, it's the law."

I then resort to shameless bribery. "You know, Wade... I VOTED for YOU! Can't you just let this slide? You gave me my last driver's license; why isn't that good enough now? Surely, you can make an exception?"

You would have thought I was a federal examiner trying to trick him into compliance. Wade wouldn't budge. Finally, I gave up and left.

****

Today, the final day of my extension, I thought I would try again. I gathered up my birth certificate, Social Security card, old driver's license, car insurance policy, 2 years of paid county tax receipts, marriage license, a current piece of mail with my name and (matching) address on it, and then for good measure, to cover all possible bases, I included a lock of hair from 1961... before my last name was Woods, just in case the laws were now requiring DNA proof.

After the drive, yet another lengthy wait in line, and the bargain price of $20... I GOT MY DRIVER'S LICENSE RENEWED!!!

Seriously, sometimes I think it's just easier to be illegal.

Nothing to say... seriously nothing.

I would like to blog... only, I have nothing to say.

It's almost Christmas time and I'm having a hard time. I almost always have difficulty at this time of year, but being unwilling to actually discuss it much anymore, I guess I just really don't have much to say... except:

I really don't like bullies, especially not men bullies and especially not from church. I wish that they would all get sent to a big, giant "Bully Island", with lots of parasitic insects(!) where they can all live together by themselves and have fun figuring out who is going to be the most aggressive and self centered among themselves.

It's a good thing I'm not God. Other than banishing bullies, I really don't think I want the job anyway.

I do like warm south breezes in the wintertime. And cool north breezes during summer. And all parts of Spring and Fall.

I love the waving green grasses that ripple up the hillside in the wind.

I love, love, love hay harvest!

I love big, giant, rolling thunderstorms. Period.

I love a good blizzard.

I like being practically invisible.

I like misty, rainy days... that remind me of so many good times in Oregon.

I love reading a really great book.

I love writing them even better.

I love having a rabid imagination. With this imagination, I love to play "If I had a Billion Bucks" (which used to be Million, but that just doesn't go so far anymore). There's only one person in the world that I've ever had a really great time playing this game with. It requires a rabid imagination to do so, and let's face it... not very many people have them.

I love little children... which makes my nursery calling at church pretty dang cool. Last night I had a dream that I had a baby... a little girl. I loved her and she loved me. Very sweet.

I don't like 'possums. They're ugly and obnoxious and eat my chickens. Same goes for raccoons... but at least baby raccoons are irresistibly cute!

I love food! Especially donuts and cake and fruit breads and pizza and Chinese noodles and rice and veggie meat and sauces and beans and... half the menu at Olive Garden! YUM!

I don't like diets. Enough said.

I don't usually like exercising either, though I've done it for most of my life.

I LOVE my pajamas! They are so pretty with their satin and lace. They are so comfortable and stretchy as well and wish I could live in them 24/7.

I don't like parasitic insects... (unless applied to Bully Islands) but butterflies and caterpillars are pretty darn cool.

I love love stories, especially the happy kind. It the story can make me laugh until my sides hurt, then that's even better.

So, today, while it is winter and free of all insects, I will eat a boring breakfast to stay on my diet, after which I will (reluctantly) change out of my pajamas, watch a love story while exercising on my treadmill. I will imagine that I'm eating a really great donut, while ignoring the possum outside. I will be thankful for my nursery calling which allows me to remain invisible at church, and I will read the book I am working on, especially that part about the thunderstorm. I will enjoy the south breeze that we have today.

I will also be thankful that I am not God... as may the bullies of the earth.

In the end, I think I might even be happy that I have a hard time at this time of year, because it reminds me to remember my "happy place"... and my happy place is truly and stupendously AMAZING.

I think I'll go there know... which means... I have seriously nothing more to say.... except:

No bullies allowed.

I am not funny... but I just might be OCD.

I am not funny. I wish I were, but I'm not. I really, really admire funny people though.

My daughter is funny... really funny. In fact, when I read her blogs, I'm usually holding my sides and gasping for air while I hoot and holler in hysterical laughter. I've heard some people say this is a sin... but honestly, it feels SO good that I have a hard time believing it.

I am not funny... AND, furthermore, I'm TERRIBLE at telling jokes. My brother, Barry is great at it. He can take the stupidest joke in the universe and make it hysterically funny, without even trying. Why is that? I think he was born funny. I wasn't... I was only born.

When I tell a joke, I either forget the punch line altogether or else (on those few occasions when I can actually remember it) I start laughing so hard before I get there, that it takes all the fun out of it for everyone... except me. My friends will look at me, blink... blink again... and if they're feeling particularly charitable, give a mild courtesy laugh.

That said, I laugh easily and my other friends, the funny ones, tell me that I'm gratifying to have around when they happen to be engaging in joke time. I frequently burst out in laughter as soon as I figure out that there is going to be a punch line... not that I've necessarily figured out what it is. Just the thought that something funny is coming starts up the laughter. By the time they actually get to the punch line, I'm rolling on the floor, unable to breathe from my supercilious fits of anticipated mirth.

Anyway...

I may not be funny, but I'm beginning to think I might be seriously OCD... or, as the saying goes: "CDO, in alphabetical order... the way that it SHOULD be".

While I don't do humor naturally... OCD is another story. Here's just one of about a gazillion examples:

This week, I decided to get "organized" and actually "prepare" a lesson for nursery. I spent hours getting ready... um... or... days.

I decided that we should have a "Christmas lesson" where we talk about how Jesus lived in heaven before he was born, that we all lived in heaven with him before we were born. I could use a puppet to demonstrate the old "glove over the hand" object lesson, teaching how our bodies house our spirits. I knew their attention spans would be short, so I thought it might make it a little more interesting if I did iron-on transfers of the children's faces onto their own little puppets. It would be such an awesome object lesson as their little cherubic fingers were covered by the "mortality" of their individual hand puppets.

We have TWELVE (12) children in our nursery.

Of course, this required not only creating a pattern, cutting out and sewing TWELVE child sized puppets, but trying to "friend" all those children's parents on facebook, and then getting permission from each parent to use their pictures, then searching through scads of albums for said 12 children, finding the best photo of each, dragging it into a photo shop program, cropping, editing, saving and transferring the individual faces onto iron on transfer paper, eventually adorning the front of each puppet. Did I mention that we have 12 children in nursery...

Enter, the end of the week and me, shaking my head, wondering how I let this project get SO out of hand. However, it wasn't the only one.

Another idea I had to make our class a little more organized was to make a "fishing game". My own children LOVED this game when they were toddlers. It consisted of a bowl and several painted cardboard fish with paper clips on their noses. A dowel and a long string with a magnet at the end made up the fishing pole. Each and every night from their babyhood on, for years and years, my children played the fishing game. Each fish had a song "attached" to it. We would sing several fun songs, have prayer and put them to bed in a very happy way.

Back to nursery.

After searching the internet, I found several pictures of some very cool fish. Back in the old days I had to paint them, but now, thanks to the wonder of computers, I was able to print out Speckled Gouramis, Fancy Gold fish, beautiful Fighting Betas and even a Great White shark. I was so proud of myself! I knew that a couple of the boys in our nursery would especially love the shark.

I spent hours trying to remember every fun song that we used to sing with the kids (I got 34 out 60... which I thought was particularly exceptional for my vanishing brain cells). I then printed the fish out on card stock, did a mirror image printing, so they would be the same on each side, painstakingly cut out each and every fish with cramped tiny scissors, so as to include every detail, then glued them all together, bought magnets, fixed them onto the noses, made the pole and packed them all away (into neat and tidy baggies, of course... just to keep them organized) for nursery.

After I finished with the fish, I printed out pictures to every song I could think of, horses, ducks, birds, happy faces, frowny faces, school buses, etc, with craft stix attached to the bottoms for each child to hold.

I had such grand visions of the great time we would have, all sitting around in a circle - of perfect symmetry, of course - their rapt attention glued to every detail of my diligent preparations as we harmoniously engaged in our suddenly organized singing time.

Ha ha ha! WHAT was I thinking! It happened something like this:

"I have a new game," I announced.

The children stopped running wild for about 3 nano-seconds.

"Ooh! Look at the fish! Now, here's how we play the game. I'll choose someone who is sitting quietly to..."

That's pretty much as far as I got before they ALL began grabbing the fish and claiming each of their favorites, shoving them into my face as I fell back on the floor, and clamoring: "MINE! MINE! MINE!"

We did manage a few songs (while I subtly collected whatever precious fish I could retrieve, trying to rethink another approach for next week before secretly shoving them back into their baggies, hiding them from view. I would indulge in re-organizing them later... after all, I had worked HARD on those fish.

While the kids appeared to be fully appreciative my artistic efforts, the main plan at containing them long enough for music time wasn't exactly going according to planned tactical strategy.

We did manage about 3 songs before they all began running amok in circles again, gleefully skipping to my singular solos (Kirk wasn't there today to at least make it our regular duet). I have to admit... I missed Kirk today.

In the end, all was not lost. I learned a valuable tip... Now I know, regardless of my OCD nature, when we do the puppets, I have a 30 second window before I've lost them. Despite my preconceived visions of heavenly perfection... it will go something like this:

"Okay, children, everyone sit down for our Christmas lesson. (Start the mental stop watch, while holding up a picture of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus in the manger). This was Jesus. He was born and so were you. Here are your puppets. Merry Christmas! The end."

Ha ha ha. I may not be funny, but I'm SO OCD... that's gotta count for something.

Next week... maybe I'll just leave the fish, safe at home. :o)

Prophets, journals and blogs

I joined the church in 1974, at the ripe old age of 16. Harold B. Lee had just died and Spencer Kimball became the new prophet.

Kimball was quite a small man, I think 5'4" and plagued with such ills as throat cancer and heart problems. Due to the cancer, he'd had part of his vocal chords removed and, consequently, had a very gravelly voice. Despite his small frame, he also had a huge plan.

His regular motto was "Lengthen your stride". He would frequently be chastened by his doctors to slow down his pace, but he would always respond back: "If you knew what I knew, you would lengthen your stride as well."

He wasn't a particularly chummy prophet, that would have been Howard Hunter. Pres. Kimball was somewhat strict and stern. He didn't mince words. When he spoke, you understood exactly what it was that he wanted you to do. He had his calling and election, and when he spoke, you just pretty much wanted to listen, to find out what God wanted you to do.

Some of the things I remember from his talks were that "the dullest pencil is sharper than the sharpest memory." He always encouraged us to write down our goals, otherwise we were far more likely to forget them. He was big on setting goals. He was big on food storage and keeping gardens. He was the reason I planted my first garden some 35 years ago and the reason I've continued to plant one most years since. He suggested that we would need to know how to support our families from our gardens one day.

President Kimball was also big on cleaning up our properties. It irked him to drive down the highways and see barns in disrepair, sheds falling down and houses that needed paint. "Clean it up or tear it down!" was something he would frequently advise.

He also encouraged the women of the church to become "scriptorians". A lot of women listened, myself included, and began diligently studying all the books of the scriptures. When he encouraged the women of the church to become proficient in the arts, to become painters, writers, and musicians, a lot of women suddenly began moving into those fields. It was almost like he gave the women permission to go for their dreams, to stretch their wings and fly!

One of the many lessons that hit home for me were his oft repeated pleas to the members of the church to keep a daily journal. He told the story of walking into his library and how, lining the top shelf all around the walls, were his journals, one for every year of most of his life. In appealing to the church to keep a daily journal, he made the declaration that "perhaps, one day, the very angels of heaven will quote from it."

That last little tidbit always amused me. I never really expected it to be so out of my own journals, but it was a cool thought. While I may not be customarily traditional, I've always been obedient. When the prophet said to do something, then I did it, no questions asked. Journals were one of those things.

Over the years, I've reaped huge benefits from that activity. Other than the two times they kept me out of jail due to mistaken identities, they've helped me work out a myriad of situations. They've helped me to win petty arguments in my marriage or to remind people of important things they'd forgotten from the past, myself included. They've held just about every major answer to prayer I've ever received, every major struggle I've endured and the details of many, many joyous experiences. When I've felt friendless, my journal was always there. When there was no one to share a particular excitement with, I recorded it, often with pictures, for my posterity to read... some day.

Because of journals, I really don't have much need for a blog. In fact, I often ask myself why I even bother. It's kind of a time sink and it will surely never make any sort of long term difference to anyone. I don't know... perhaps one day, I will print them out and put them into my journal. :o) There, in that book, they would at least not fade into complete oblivion over time. There, I could leaf back through the pages and remember that I had a burning witness, one of my first, that Spencer Kimball was a true prophet.

It happened while I was a youth missionary. We had the dauntingly scary task of going by twos through neighborhoods and into an apartment complex, knocking on doors and testifying to anyone who would listen to us. When Carol and I got to one certain door, a girl answered. Her boyfriend was in the background, calling to her to send us away, but she wanted to hear our message.

I began to tell her about prophets in our day and out of my mouth popped the words "I know that Spencer W. Kimball is a true prophet of God". Ha ha. It was like listening to someone else speak! The Spirit was SO strong and she and I both had tears in our eyes from the experience. I had believed we had a prophet on earth before that day, but from that moment on, I knew it.

So, there is a story not recorded in any of my journals (the journal talk didn't come until a couple of years later). Maybe it makes this blog worthwhile. Probably not... but who knows? :o)

Joy

It's late, and I should be in bed, but tonight I was thinking about joy.

Joy vs. Cynicism. They really are at opposite ends of the spectrum.

One is the sum total of focusing on the good things around us, the good that has happened in our lives and the sweet pleasure that we feel for our blessings. We all have them, either great or small; each of our lives have many, many blessings, those moments or people or experiences that make our very souls thrill for the happiness they hold!

The other is the sum total of focusing on the bad, the rotten things that happen to us, the rotten things that people do to us, the bad luck that seems to take over at times and grind our very hearts into the ground. We all experience it to some extent, it happens to all, irregardless of rich or poor, beautiful or plain, large or small, either to a greater or smaller degree. We’re not alone; we experience it in a universal way.

When bad things happen, it's often easy to lose sight of the big picture, to get cynical and discouraged. Sometimes, it is far too easy to let go of my hope and abandon myself, even if momentarily, to the negativity of cynicism. I don't like it. It makes me feel miserable, and so, eventually, I pull myself up by the bootstraps and start anew on a quest to count my blessings.

There is something cleansing to the soul in honestly acknowledging our blessings. If all good things come from God, then looking for the blessings in our life will naturally draw our focus back onto him.

Like Israel in the wilderness, rather than groveling in my complaints, I can't look to that symbol on the staff... and I can raise my sights back to my Messiah and remember his love and mercy. Those two things alone can be enough to lift my spirits.

In his mercy, I've raised four of the most beautiful and amazing children I could have ever hoped for. In his mercy, I have a knowledge that explains the complexities of what life is all about, the purpose to my daily breaths, the struggle and suffering... I understand that it strengthens me and ultimately teaches me lessons that stretch beyond this earth and I've come to know him.

Through his mercy, I know that there is a life beyond this life. That, alone, is amazing to me. As I get old and start to ache and wrinkle and deal with disease, I know that I will be whole again... not in this life, but it will happen. In his mercy, I have healthy food on my table, fresh food in the fridge, and my pantries are full. I live in a peaceful place not torn by war. I have running water, hot and cold, and flushing toilets... with toilet paper!

And THAT is a blessing!

There is much, much more... and so, while I may have to occasionally deal with very, very, very unpleasant people, sometimes masquerading under false pretenses or drowning in rude bullying arrogance, and while I may sometimes have to deal with misfortune or the bitterness of unmet expectations, dreams and desires, I can remind myself that the way I see it will always be a choice. Like Betsy, who saw the hand of God even in their infestation of lice, which kept the brutal Nazi guards away from the inner sanctum of their quarters, I can do my best to see the good in all that is around me.

Somehow, it doesn't matter how old the earth is, or how dinosaurs and Clovis man fit into the picture. I don't know all things, but there are many things of which I am sure. God is real. He answers my prayers. He provides miracles when I seek them in his will. He is so kind and gentle and merciful with me. He is a loving God. For that, I am thankful.

In the end, I am not a prisoner in a concentration camp, and while it can feel akin to that sometimes during tax season, I have to remember that I have a home to pay taxes on. I am free. I've known supernal love. I can raise my eyes to focus on the good all around me. I am alive. I can enjoy the open fellowship of my children, my grandchildren, my pets and my friends. I can feel the wind on my face, enjoy a lovely harvest moon, count the stars in the sky and blow kisses to Sophie.

I don't know when the second coming will be, but I know that it will happen in the world some day. It will probably happen sooner than that for me.

All told... life is good.

And that is joy.

Be gone, cynicism!

Welcome, Joy. Welcome back to my heart! I am blessed. God is great and merciful. He answers my prayers and loves us all. Life is good...

… as long as we keep our focus on all that is good.

Babies

Today, I'm writing in my blog solely because Savannah said she needs blogs to read. Otherwise, I would be attempting to tackle my infernal mile long list of things that really need to be done much more desperately.

However, first... I shall blog.

My topic for the day is "Babies".

When I was 15, I thought that if I didn't have a baby by the time I was 16, I was going to, quite literally, die from my unmet desires. I wanted a baby SO badly that I eventually even took up "babysitting" just to appease motherly pains... AND make a little bit of money to justify the activity to the rest of the world as actually being a job.

As a first job, I babysat "Danielle", who was, perhaps, the ugliest red-haired child I've ever seen in my life! Danielle would be around 34 years old by now and is probably a stunningly beautiful and successful woman... but back then (though I LOVE red hair) she was the ugliest baby I think I've ever seen.

When I was nearly 25 (yes, I DID survive my unmet desires that long!), I FINALLY got married and tried with all my might to have my own adorable baby. After a year without success, I went to a doctor (dragging along my poor husband to do the same). The result: We were told that we would probably never have any children. In fact, we were told that we had a 1 (one!) in 5 MILLION chance of EVER having a child.

1 out of 5,000,000... thank goodness there was still a chance! That was all I could think... at least there WAS still a chance. As fate, providence, luck or good fortune... or a miracle... would have it, after about 3 years, Clarke was born! He was the most amazing thing that had ever happened in all my life. My every thought, desire and purpose revolved around his little 9 lb self! He was my miracle baby! He was the center of my entire universe! He was the most incredible, adorable and perfect little baby I had ever, ever, ever seen in my 27 years of earthly existence. I wanted to give him everything that I could, be everything that I could for him and love him as much as my immortal soul could manage.

Yeah...

Three months later, I was seized upon with a case of the flu that just wouldn't seem to clear up. At first (after I discovered it was actually the Egyptian virus... you know, the one that turns you into a mummy), I was actually disappointed. I wanted to give much more solitary time to my firstborn. I was worried that he wouldn't get the attention he deserved.

Ha ha ha ha.

Had I only known all those months, that it was Savannah who was coming, I would have been jumping for joy! When they placed that sweet, little girl in my arms, the LOVE was incredible. There we were, just the two of us in a hospital bed in the middle of the night, surrounded in an aura of love! I could feel the love permeating from her little 8 lb self, like a tangible, incredible aura of warmth. It was enough to make the entire world around us disappear! I knew she was someone so special who somehow loved me almost as much as I loved her. Somehow I didn't worry about giving her the attention that she "deserved". I would come to find out that she would be quite adept at managing to get a fair share of it on her own.

After a 4 year baby drought, Barry was finally born. I had always wanted to grow up and marry a farmer, live on a farm and raise my dozen or so children in that wonderful environment. While fate didn't deliver a farmer husband, it was kind enough to deliver to me a farmer son. When he was two years old, Barry announced that he wanted a tractor for Christmas. I went out and spent way over my gift budget to buy him a Little Tykes peddling tractor and trailer. It was adorable! On Christmas eve, I snuck it under the tree and on Christmas morning I rushed downstairs to see his face when he saw it. His response made me laugh out loud. Admidst enormous disappointment, he cried out: "No, Mommy! I wanted a REAL tractor!" :o)

Yep, that's my boy!

After another 4 year drought and too many continuous infertility treatments to count, Kamaron was born. He was my smallest baby, 7 lbs 15 oz. Similarly to Savannah, he oozed with cuddliness and love. He was wonderful and content and so snuggly. Just to hear my voice in the middle of the night was enough to calm him. He has always been my most content child - at least so far.

I loved being a mother. Nothing else in my life has come close to the ultimate love and joy I've felt for each of those babies! I put all I had into being the best mom that I could be for them, always trying to give them whatever I could manage, whatever I would have wanted as a child myself from a perfectly loving mother.

It wasn't enough... I suppose it never is, but it was all I could do. I was happiest just loving them and seeing their happiness in return.

It never really changes. Your greatest happiness still comes from the times when you can make them supremely happy. You wish that you could "fix" their every little discomfort or take away anything that will cause them heartache, disappointment or pain... but you can't, and it's not meant to be any other way. They would never be able to grow and learn the eternal qualities they need to learn to make it back to God otherwise.

Still, when they are babies, you can do it all. Yeah, you're really tired... all the time... but you are the center of their universe. You can pretty much fix anything and everything that they need.

I used to go through a mantra of questions whenever they fussed: "Hot? Cold? Hungry? Wet? Tired? Sick? Bored?" etc... until I landed on what the problem was... and I'd fix it. Then we'd sit in the rocking chair and I would hold them and love them, sing to them , read to them or make up stories to tell them. I would feed them, cuddle them and kiss them all over their cherubic little faces and necks. Their needs were, by comparison to today, so easy to meet.

Most of all, besides loving to love them, I think I loved being the center of their adoring universe. It was so lovely to be the center of someone's universe.

And so, today, I just kind of miss my babies. It's one of those times in the collective cosmos of your life that you know will never be repeated. Never again will you be able to curl up in a chair with such a beautiful gift from God and have absolutely nothing more worthy to do than to shower all of your love on them as you nurture them and let them grow.

It's a wonderful life. I'm really glad I got to be a mom. It was the greatest gift of all.

I am a farmer

I am a farmer.

Just check the past two censuses and it will tell you that my official "profession" is "farmer".

Yesterday, I planted 3,000 maple trees.

I own 75 acres of land, free and clear of any mortgage, containing some of the most beautiful maple trees I've ever seen in my life. While my husband's name is technically also on the deed to my farm, he promised me many years ago that if I would just marry him, he would buy me a farm... therefore...

I own a farm.

It took 13 years of marriage to get here, but 16 years after that... I'm still here. A lot of things have come and gone in that time. Most of my children have grown up and left me. Several animals have been born and died, many things have come and gone, but when I look out the window, my farm is always there. Hay harvest always comes during the summer, and by the end of the year, the corn and beans have been harvested as well. It all brings peace to my soul.

On this property, I have "farmed" a lot of different things... chickens, fresh milk, farm fresh eggs, purebred Jersey milk cows, horses, ducks, lots of cats, lots and lots of hay, and even corn and soybeans (I haven't actually sold any soybeans, cats or corn, but the rest of the items listed above have turned a legitimate profit). Trees seemed a natural addition to the list… especially considering the stunningly, beautiful maple trees in my front yard. Growing more of them seems like a pretty great idea.

So... yesterday, between babysitting, grocery shopping, cleaning the kitchen, and the rest of “life”... I planted 3,000 little maple trees! It was only in seed form, but it was still a lot of work!

This quest began October 1st, collecting the seeds, picking them up from all over the yard (…if you don't think that sounds like hard work, just try bending over and picking something up 3,000 times). I then inspected and "de-winged" them, finally making a selection of several thousand. I didn't really know how to grow a maple tree from seed, so I thought a few trials were in order.

By the evening of October 1st, the seed experiments began. I soaked them, cracked them, froze them, pried them open to inspect their innards, and even de-hulled a score of them altogether. Last, but not least, I researched them to death. Ultimately, they were all duly soaked in groups of 20, in filtered water, "Thrive" water, Shultz plant food, Miracle grow and even Noni juice. I would have used beer (a guaranteed plant stimulant), had I not been too mousy to go out and buy it. Eventually, I put them between wet, chemical free paper towels, inside of baggies and let them sit, undisturbed. In the past, this has been a sure-fire way to successfully sprout pretty much anything.

Several disruptions, a family crisis, a trip to California and two birthdays later, at the end of said month, I opened up all the baggies to inspect the "goods". Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing and nothing... bag after bag after bag it appeared that the only thing I’d managed to coax into growth was a small amount of mold.

In the end, after all those failures, I decided Mother Nature knew best. I blackened my fingers putting all of those 3,000 seeds into their little growing pots, arranging them in the most advantageous way that I could, and at the end of the day, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was a lot of work, but it was done.

Time and nature will need to do the rest. I’ve sown my crop and like all good farmers, will need to patiently wait to see the fruits of harvest.

I am a farmer… at least that’s what the census says.

Germs in the nursery... and other scary stories!

Ah... ah... ah... CHOO!

A toddler, somewhere between the age of 18 months and 3 years, has just released a giant spray of virus laden, oober-goobered snot all over me, herself and the table holding our illustrious snack items.

I reach for the kleenex to wipe her nose, then grab some hand sanitizer in an attempt to de-germ myself, while throwing away all the snacks that have just been duly contaminated.

Welcome to the church nursery.

There are rules about not sending children into the nursery with contagious diseases, but the fact is, it's hard to know for sure whether the kids are contagious, and I understand the desperation that young mothers feel in wanting just one or two hours in a week of adult time.

Ergo, contagion happens pretty much every week.

I used to be rather germ-o-phobic. I don't know anyone who especially enjoys getting sick, but I especially hated it... and went to great lengths to avoid those especially germ-fest traditions, like indiscriminately shaking hands with about 473 people... and then eating little pieces of white bread from a tray which has been passed through the hands of roughly 9,694 people... without ever being washed.

Lately, however, it just doesn't seem to matter so much. I've come to set my watch by that 48-72 hour time frame in which a virus merrily incubates in its host's system. It starts at 10:15 Sunday morning... and just like clockwork, generally hits by Tuesday afternoon... you know... the scratchy throat and that headache that starts at the nape of your neck and works it's way over the top of your head... into your eyeballs... up through your burning sinuses, around your entire body... eventually exiting back out through your bleary, red-streaked eyeballs, eventually settling in your earlobes.

Ugh...

Every Tuesday, I dutifully take 5,000 mg. of vitamin C and crawl into bed early, hoping to simply sleep it off.

Usually, it works.

This isn't my first time in the nursery, not by a long shot. In fact, I think I've had almost every calling a woman can hold in a regular ward... and some that you can't. For instance, I was the pianist in priesthood meeting one year. It was an act of mercy, really. Without a piano, the men sounded something like sacrificial bullocks being led to the slaughter. It was a frightening noise... one which inspired a primal urge to run for the exits... so, when they asked (begged) me to take just a few minutes to play for them, I happily agreed. Voila! A vast improvement! The whole ward, every class room within ear shot, was immensely grateful.

But, back to the nursery.

I've spent my own fair share of time in the nursery, chasing down my own naked children, reapplying their diaper, shirt and shorts, and trying to figure out a way to make them understand that streaking through the Mormon church just wasn't, generally, an accepted practice... at least, not on the Sabbath.

I was the nursery leader when my own children were babies... a situation of supremely cruel and unusual punishment. To any future bishops out there, NEVER call young mothers to the nursery. It is just utterly sadistic!

Now that I'm a "Nana", however, and my children are grown, I usually enjoy it... pretty much. I mean, where else in the church can you disappear from general church existence - into an environment where you get to wiggle all you want, play with toys, take your shoes and socks off at will, and spend 2 hours dispensing (and merrily eating) snacks?

I am the "snack lady"... and we buy our own snacks!

These are YUMMY snacks! Fruit snacks and mini pop tarts (a tiny, delectable frosted cracker-like invention). There are gummy life savers... (can I just say "YUM!") as well as the more traditional cheesy "whales", Nilla wafers and "gold fish"... which is a pretty funny concept. Ask a toddler if he wants to eat "Goldfish" and he will immediately look at you as though you've lost your mind. Show him the cheesy crackers and he's your friend for life!

Most people ask to be reimbursed for the nursery snacks, but not us. This way we can feel free to eat all we want, right along with the kids, and not feel the least bit guilty for "embezzlement" of church "property".

Snacks are a glorious part of the nursery calling, a time of joy and bonding when we absolutely stuff ourselves with tasty treats. However, snacks aren't the only highlight. We also play with toys... lots and lots of toys. Occasionally, we delve into the sticky adventures of once multi-colored play-doh that has been mushed all together until it's a single color of generally nauseating purple-gray. The kids don't care. All they want is to make cookies out of it and insist that you, their teacher, "eats" it with the greatest show of thanksgiving.

Always, we pull out balloons of varying colors, which we then blow up and gleefully kick around the room. At first, we filled these up with helium and long festive ribbons, just for a little bit of extra fun... however, it sort of had a little too much feeling of Carnival Hour... even for someone like myself... so I, repentantly, left the helium home after the first month. The children really didn't seem to mind either way.

At 11:30, we clean up the toys and I reach into my "bag of tricks" to see if I have any special treats... which, of course, I always do. The kids gather around, trying to snag as many of the delectable morsels as possible. Sometimes, I count them out, placing them into their hands: "One, two, three, four, five!", and other times, I stuff them into their pockets... this slows them down... just a hair... long enough for me to make sure that everyone has gotten their fair share.

About 25 minutes before church ends, we start into "flying time". The diaper-laden toddlers all RUN to the table, climb up, and Kirk takes their hands, swinging them high in the air, around the room (trying not to conk any stray kids in the head) and finally lets them "come in for a landing" on the top of the slide, after which they rush to the floor, jump up, and RUN back to the "runway", hoping to take off again, as quickly as they can manage to wiggle and/or push their way in front of the next child. This requires a great deal of concentration to make sure that everyone gets a fair and equal share of turns, proving that, to be a nursery leader, you must possess at least a few live brain cells... contrary to common assumption.

"Flying" is a time of great excitement in the nursery! In fact, we frequently have to remind the children to get off the tables during snack "hour" because it just isn't time to go flying yet. This is also a rare ritual of "healthy worship", being that it's the only appreciable exercise that Kirk gets each week...

Finally, for the last 15 minutes, we spread a quilt on the floor and every one sits down (in theory, anyway) for singing time. The songs are awesome of course... you have the standards: "Itsy-bitsy spider" and "Popcorn", "Old McDonald", "Happy and you know it", and then you have my own personal favs.

"5 little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and broke his head!
Momma called the doctor and the doctor said:
'No more monkeys jumping on the bed'."

and...

"3 little monkeys swinging from a tree,
teasing mister crocodile: 'Can't catch me!'
Along comes mister crocodile, quiet as can be...
SNAPS that monkey out of that tree!"

The children love to follow along with the hand movements, clapping their hands, slapping their legs, stomping their feet or shouting hurray, with a fist bump to the sky. Good times!

Finally, noon rolls around and the parents come to gather their small fry to take them home... where they scratch their heads in wonder as to why, when the rest of the family is famished after church, their toddler isn't hungry at all. :o)

Kirk gathers up the fan, I gather up my "bag of tricks" and we head home as well. Once there, I set my proverbial alarm for 48-72 hours, knowing that's it's inevitable. I'm going to get sick. It happens every week. 4 times a month, sometimes 5, a new virus finds it's way into the Kearney nursery, excitedly waiting to meet it's newest host... me.

I'm not complaining, really... it's far better than having to sit perfectly still (something I've never been good at) and pretend that it's comfortable to act like a grown up for a bun-numbing 3 solid hours.

So... until next week, when we meet again... just pass me the vitamin C and a giant handful of those cheesy crackers... and I'll climb into bed with a smile on my face.