Red Light, Green Light

(In honor of Mother's Day, and my daughter Michealah, who just left on her mission this week, I am reposting this lesson she taught me a couple years ago)

Anyone with kids and a minivan knows how torturous red lights can be. Generally speaking, if you are in your van during the hours of 8 am to 7 pm (sometimes later!) you are likely the "taxi driver" and likely late for something.

I have been known to pray for lights to change when particularly strapped for time. My children get into the action by chanting "green, green, green, green!" as we approach each intersection.

This is not to say that I speed, exactly. Although I have "pushed the limit" in the past, I try not to do so anymore. Still, I often wish I could drive with no pesky pauses!

My tendency to despise interruption has been tested repeatedly as a parent. Any mother knows that it is nearly impossible to do anything from reading to visiting the restroom without a little friend or helper appearing. Forget trying to paint something.

Recently, however, I have begun to appreciate the "red lights" in my life. Let me explain.

I first pondered this while nursing a baby. I am ashamed to say that in the beginning, I was frustrated at having to sit down and do nothing else but feed the baby. Some women are blessed to be able to read, etc. while nursing, but I am not physically capable of doing so. Let's just say that my situation requires two hands and total attention. At first I felt annoyed. However, I gradually learned to love and then to anticipate my alone time with each child. We shared quiet moments of gazing at one another. It was as if the whole world stopped spinning for just that sweet time. Of course, it never lasted long as the toddlers always found just the right contraband activity while mom was occupied. But I wouldn't trade that time. I learned the value of a "red light."

Generally speaking, moms are multi-taskers (I help with homework while cooking, I mediate fights while scrubbing toilets). However, when it comes to really meaningful stuff, I have to be focused.

So, last week my oldest daughter, a thoughtful, poetic girl, told me she needed a monologue for her advanced drama class audition. I threw out some ideas that I thought would fit her personality, she googled them. When she found one she liked, she asked me to come watch it with her. I was running around, making dinner, driving people here and there, putting out fires, as is my daily routine. I avoided watching it for a long time, but finally, with rag in hand, STOPPED and watched it (I didn't even sit down, but at least I stood still).

The one she chose was "Emily" from Our Town by Thornton Wilder. Those of you who are familiar are likely nodding just now. I had forgotten the full message, I just remembered that my daughter reminded me of Emily in some way. As I took the time to really watch it (a great performance by Penelope Ann Miller from 1989), I felt haunted. As if Emily could see right through me. A busy fake. But even more, I felt exposed to my beautiful daughter. She knows me better than anyone I think. One of her spiritual gifts is discernment. She can read people, people like me.

There I was, standing with dripping rag in hand, my eyes unwittingly filled with tears. I felt frozen as if I couldn't go back to where I had been before the "red light." I couldn't just "get back to work" because it suddenly seemed so hypocritical or even pointless.

Still, someone had to make dinner. Eleven people ain't gonna feed themselves every day. But I learned something. I realized that sometimes, gazing into each other's eyes really is important. Sometimes those pesky red lights are very, very special. Maybe one day, we'll come to realize that the "red light" moments in our life are actually the ONLY thing that really matters. It is during those pauses in our general pursuit that we find ourselves really "living," perhaps because when we pause, we are actually "loving."

About four years ago I had just had baby number eight. I was still in the newborn stage (baby was 4 weeks old) and I had no desire to go out anywhere much. My wonderful, spontaneous husband came home from work one day and announced that we were going camping. All of us. Even me and the newborn. Hmmm. Talk about a "red light." I couldn't imagine anything more time consuming, difficult and crazy with a baby. However, he had been to southern Utah with his work and wanted to share the beauty of that place with us. I really really really didn't want to go. Camping in tents, outside with a nursing newborn did not sound appealing. In any any way. He assured me that he would take care of all the food. This was the ONLY reason I agreed.

I watched as he single-handedly bought, prepared and packed all the gear and food. We loaded everyone up and headed south.

I don't need to go into any more detail, but let me just say that that experience has proven to be the single most memorable/successful family trip we've ever had. For years afterwords it was all the little children talked about. They loved it, they adored it. They drew pictures of us in the "desert" and shared it with teachers, friends, strangers. When asked about favorite destinations, they never say "Disneyland, New York, Washington D. C., Mexico" (the other places we've been), instead they always answer, "camping in the desert!"

As I pondered this lesson this week, I was reminded that so often in the gospel there are ironies. When we "lose" ourself, we "find" ourself, the "greatest" is the "least," etc. I have realized that often what I perceive to be "red lights" are actually "green lights."

Instead of waiting impatiently for the lights in my life to turn ("We got the loan!,""I graduated!,""I've lost 20 pounds!"), I have realized that I am missing it. I am missing all the beauty and joy of life, tapping my foot, engine revving in the fast lane.

I resolve this week to do some gazing. I want to ponder. I want to appreciate. I want to enjoy. I want to savor. I want to stop, sit, listen. I am grateful once again to my priceless children who teach me everyday to be a better person.

As I have been driving this week, whenever I come to a red light, it is an opportunity. I turn, I look at them, we smile, we giggle, we sing, I tickle toes. I tell stories. I ask questions. I listen. I love. I live.

Our Town
written by Thornton Wilder

Emily: Oh, Mama, look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I'm dead. You're a grandmother, Mama! Wally's dead, too. His appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it - don't you remember? But, just for a moment now we're all together. Mama, just for a moment we're happy. Let's really look at one another!...I can't. I can't go on. It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another. I didn't realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back -- up the hill -- to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look. Good-bye , Good-bye world. Good-bye, Grover's Corners....Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking....and Mama's sunflowers. And food... And new ironed dresses and hot baths....and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every, every minute?

38 ¶ Now it came to pass, as they went, that he entered into a certain village: and a certain woman named Martha received him into her house.

39 And she had a sister called Mary, which also sat at Jesus’ feet, and heard his word.

40 But Martha was cumbered about much serving, and came to him, and said, Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone? bid her therefore that she help me.

41 And Jesus answered and said unto her, Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things:

42 But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.

ST LUKE

CHAPTER 10

Happy Mother's Day!

The Hydrogen Peroxide Principle

We have a unique moniker for hydrogen peroxide in our home.  Around here we call it, "brown juice." If you're familiar, you know that hydrogen peroxide is neither "brown" nor is it "juice" (definitely don't drink it please).  So, you may be wondering how it came to be called such.

I suppose it had something to do with the fact that we once had 7 children under the age of 8.  Because of this, I became so adept at "translating" English into "Barneyese" (that is to say, "something else that young children will more likely comprehend") that I would change words spontaneously sometimes without even realizing it.  Once while reading the Narnia books to the children, I realized I was changing every other word because it was either too sophisticated or too British and they wouldn't understand the usage.  It was years before I realized that I was "dumbing" them down.  Consequently, my children got sort of the "street" version of Narnia, LOTR, and the Little House series (to name a few).  I got so natural at it, that I should have worked on the New Translation of the KJV Bible.  I'm sure they could have used my finely honed skilz.  Now I realize how valuable it is to read the actual words to children, as they glean so much in context.  But that's another post.

So, around here we have "brown juice." It's simple really: Hydrogen Peroxide usually comes in an unmistakeable brown jug, and it is a liquid.  Hence, to a four year old, it makes sense to call it "brown juice." And even though most of the children are quite a bit older now, no one ever takes the trouble to say "H-Y-D-R-O-G-E-N  P-E-R-O-X-I-D-E." Why would they when it's so much simpler to say, "brown juice?" Dumbed down. Sad.

I've created other linguistic road blocks for them as well.  For example, the sideboard or lowboy in the foyer is merely the "big brown thing in the front hall."  This travesty is certainly not my sweet mother's fault.  She has a flair for language. When I was a child, I remember her taking Greek and Hebrew classes at night at a local college in Maryland.  (My siblings are quite good too.  My sister Sara holds a master's degree in Russian linguistics and now writes texts books and teaches at BYU-I).  Mother was always careful to call things by their right and proper names, giving credit also to the etymology of each word by carefully emphasizing correct pronunciation.  The foyer was always the "FOY-ay" for instance.  We sometimes had dinner "BOO-fay" (buffet) style.  On Mexican night, we enjoyed, "fa- HEE-tas" (fajitas).  She never accidentally slipped into "American," even when saying things really fast.  Yep, she's a blue blood.  A lingua purist.  

So, I'm somewhat of a disappointment I guess. Because I'm all about understanding.  I just really really want people to understand.  I often simplify. or use object lessons.  or pictures.  or sign language.  You won't come away with the French pronunciation, but by golly you will NOT mistake the lowboy for the sideboard.  

Enter Brown Juice.  The other day (or rather the other WEEK because it took so long) I was painting/staining my kitchen cupboards.  They used to be a lovely, warm, golden oak color.  But I craved more light in our kitchen, so I painted them "Quilter's White," then glazed them (ever so slightly), with a dark brown stain.

The prep and painting alone took several coats and several days.  When I was finally ready to apply the stain, I was excited!  I couldn't wait to see the final result after so much hard work!  I did not anticipate, however, the affect it would have on my hands.  Of course I completely ignored the warning to wear gloves while using the stain (as any self respecting DIY housewife would).  I assumed I could seamlessly jump from staining cupboards to making dinner, to driving the carpool and back to the cupboards as my time would permit.  Hmmm. How wrong that was.

By the end of my first staining session, my hands were completely covered with dark brown sludge.  every crevice of my skin had been infiltrated.  My fingernails resembled the hands of an Orc.  I looked positively ghoulish.  Needing to dash out and drive someone somewhere, I hurriedly bounded up the stairs to wash my hands.  I washed and washed, with soap too, mind you.  Futile.  Getting more desperate, I spied the familiar brown container of hydrogen peroxide on the counter (we use it for all little scrapes).  

I grabbed the bottle and generously poured the "juice" all over my hands, hoping for a miracle.  What happened was unexpected and unwelcome at that moment.  Instead of the cleansing I anticipated, I received instead, a deeper healing.

Unbeknownst to me, all of the work on the cupboards (the scrubbing, the sanding, deglossing, filling holes, taping, painting, etc.) had put my hands through some trauma.  They were now rough, a little chapped, with small abrasions all over my skin, not to mention my unkempt cuticles.  As I applied the brown juice to my stained hands, hoping to merely cleanse, I was surprised to experience instead, a baptism of fire!

My previously imperceivable skin flaws, hidden under layers of stain, suddenly became painfully apparent!  Some of the stain came off, but not much.  I would learn that it would take me several days and several showers to undo the mistake of just not putting gloves on in the first place.  But more importantly, the cleaning agent I had employed (the Brown Juice) gave me more than I had bargained for.  I was eventually cleaned, yes.  But more poignantly, I was healed.

Perhaps you can guess my metaphor here.  So often in life, whenever I attempt to get closer to my Savior, I spend more time in the scriptures, more time in the temple, more time fasting, praying, pondering, more time repenting.  As I generously apply the Atonement in these moments, I eagerly anticipate the cleansing power to wash over me and help me feel hopeful and clean again.

Many times, I find, however, that true repentance takes a little time.  It is a process as we go from mere recognition of our mistakes, to the deeper understanding needed to have a true change of heart or to rectify wrongs in our lives.  It may come more slowly than we would wish, but it will come.  And the cleansing is no less a miracle for the time it takes to carefully change.

And then there is the unexpected bonus of coming to realize even MORE of our flaws.  It is inevitable as we come closer to our Savior, as we strive to become more like Him, or to serve Him more, that we will begin to see, or perceive, more imperfections is ourselves.  This is not a cruel joke or a punishment, though at times you will feel the BURN!

Rather, this is the most beautiful part of the process.  It isn't a threat, it's a promise.  The Lord instructs us that as we begin to draw nearer to Him, we will naturally come to understand  how we might change to become even more and more like Him.  This is how he teaches us, how He cleanses us, how He heals us: line upon line, precept upon precept.  We needn't go any faster than we can, no faster than we have strength.  Just line upon line, here a little and there a little, until we are totally cleansed and totally healed through his infinite Grace.

This no longer seems overwhelming to me.  It now feels like the gift that it is.  This Christmas season, I am so grateful for my Savior, Jesus Christ; for His infinite and eternal atoning sacrifice for me.  And I appreciate the WAY that He teaches, cleanses and heals me.  It is always the perfect way, the perfect timing, and exactly the right language needed for me to understand, completely.

Next time you accidentally pour brown juice all over an unseen wound and get slapped in the face with a mighty burn, you can think of the hydrogen peroxide principle and be glad you did.

Merry Christmas, 2012!

• "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."

Ether 12:27

• "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."
  

  
  

  Isaiah 1: 18

Fears and Faith

This week I am feeling totally inadequate and unequal to the task of successfully mothering even one child, let alone nine.

Each child has many needs daily: physical, emotional and spiritual. And, with so many, all different ages, it never ends. Early morning, all day, afternoon, evenings, late nights, middle of the night, weekends, holidays...just name a time and I'm usually awake PARENTING or at least plotting or solving problems in my tortured head.

Right now, I'm just feeling...exhausted. How can I manage all of it? There's the busy-ness, yes, the soccer games, the plays, dance class, piano, scouts, orchestra, and on and on. But then there's the more important stuff like, are they having meaningful scripture study each day, do they truly feel valued, do they know where to turn when struggling with personal weaknesses, do they understand that service and gratititude and hard work solves the majority of their problems? Will they feel loved even if they don't agree with their parents politically or religiously? How would I handle that kind of situation?

So much is unknown. Sometimes I feel fear creeping in. It takes all my courage to wrangle my over protective, "helicopter" parent instincts. Luckily, with so many, it's literally impossible for me to be everywhere at once, so the children do have large amounts of time without me hovering. But I am always "hovering" in my heart! Worrying and praying, fasting and scheming, doing all I can from every angle to help them survive, thrive and become confident, happy, well adjusted, KIND, compassionate, faithful, loving and skilled adults.

Last night I walked into the local high school at 9:15 pm, yet another thing I needed to do before bed. I wondered what I was doing there at that time of night. Do these community choir people really need me? Am I ripping off my family even more by investing some time outside of my home? Familiar pangs of guilt set in.

I noticed some people in the lobby, chasing a fussy toddler out of the musical production going on in the auditorium. Another woman was on a cell phone engaged in an animated conversation. I walked down the hall to the choir room where I was going to run a sectional rehearsal for the men. SO many people in just one little corner of the universe. There are so many of us all over the world. We each have so many needs daily! How can our Heavenly Father possibly know us all and love us all? How can He get to every game, be there for every spiritual crisis? I suddenly understood and loved Him in His role as a parent. I loved Him infinitely, in just that one moment. Then, as I entered the room, the whole choir was on their feet, rehearsing an Easter song. It was if they sang it to me, for me. Tears sprang to my eyes. Maybe the community choir doesn't need me, maybe I just need them. I knew that this message was sent to me from a loving Father above. And He sent it in the usual way, through sacred music. I still don't have all the answers to every concern I have as a parent, but I do know that "fear departs when faith endures."

Behold the wounds in Jesus' hands,

The marks upon His side,
Then ponder who He meant to save
When on the cross He died.
We cannot see the love of God
Which saves us from the fall,
Yet know that Christ from wood and nails
Built mansions for us all.

Behold the outstretched hands of Christ
Our God, who came to save,
Whose love and grace redeems ours souls
And lifts us from the grave.
Though bruised and battered as we stray
His guiding hands caress,
He washes and anoints with oil
Then in His arms we rest.

Behold the wounds in Jesus' hands,
Look to your Lord and live
He yearns to bless you with His love
And all your sins forgive.
Oh empty is the heart of man
When it is filled with sin.
Come open wide your broken heart
And let your Savior in.

Behold His wounded hands and feet!
Come touch and see and feel
The wounds and marks that you may know
His love for you is real.
Then as you fall to worship Him
and wash His feet in tears
Your Savior takes you in His arms
And quiets all your fears.

Your Savior takes you in His arms
And quiets all your fears.