I updated the books I read in 2014. In case you need a book recommendation. I need to start reviewing more books!
If you read something that you loved in 2014, comment below. What was your favorite?
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
No one notices the pianist until she makes a mistake
During one of the early weeks after I was called as the secretary in young women, I was listening to the young women sing our one verse, a cappella hymn. I'm sure it was a joyous noise for the Lord to listen to, if not the room at large (seriously - try and sing with young girls. Their voices make noises that older voices just can't. It's difficult at best.)
I had the best idea I've had in a long time. Or maybe it was the worst. Being in a new ward meant that we we singing sacrament hymns to the piano, because most of our organists lived in the section of the ward that didn't stay with us. It also meant that Nicole, the lady who was playing the piano, learned how to play the organ in two weeks. In our young women class, every now and then one of the girls would volunteer to play top hand, but they hadn't practiced, and with them doing everything in the meeting (conducting, praying, leading the music, starting the YW theme, etc.) I didn't think it was fair to ask a girl to play off the cuff, without having time to practice. Inspired by Nicole, I decided that I should pick a hymn each week and learn the top hand to play for the girls. I ran my idea past the young women president and she gave me approval.
I became the unoffical young women pianist (snort!)
So here I am, three months later. I've decided it's the silver lining for my calling. I can't tell you how nervous I get when I play. Most of the time, even if I have practiced playing both hands, I can't manage the stress of playing both hands while people are singing along. But I'm learning and improving so much. I don't think it's anything I've done to get better; I think it's just a blessing that I'm getting since I'm playing for the girls. But whatever the source of my improvement, I'll take it.
Years ago, my BFF Melanie gave me a book filled with simplified Christmas music. Each year since, I've tried to play O Holy Night, with varying degrees of success. This year was the first year I've been able to get through the whole song with two hands. It makes me so happy! I also practiced We Three Kings (a much easier song) and was able to get through it with two hands most of the time. And for church, I played Silent Night, Angels We Have Heard on High, and Joy to the World.
It makes me happy. I feel silly, putting myself forward each week as the pianist. Because really, no one at church really pays attention to the pianist unless they make a mistake - which I do frequently. I've convinced myself that the girls roll their eyes at my playing, which probably isn't true, but I think it every time I miss a note. But I keep playing because I want to learn. I want this little hobby that makes me happy.
I had the best idea I've had in a long time. Or maybe it was the worst. Being in a new ward meant that we we singing sacrament hymns to the piano, because most of our organists lived in the section of the ward that didn't stay with us. It also meant that Nicole, the lady who was playing the piano, learned how to play the organ in two weeks. In our young women class, every now and then one of the girls would volunteer to play top hand, but they hadn't practiced, and with them doing everything in the meeting (conducting, praying, leading the music, starting the YW theme, etc.) I didn't think it was fair to ask a girl to play off the cuff, without having time to practice. Inspired by Nicole, I decided that I should pick a hymn each week and learn the top hand to play for the girls. I ran my idea past the young women president and she gave me approval.
I became the unoffical young women pianist (snort!)
So here I am, three months later. I've decided it's the silver lining for my calling. I can't tell you how nervous I get when I play. Most of the time, even if I have practiced playing both hands, I can't manage the stress of playing both hands while people are singing along. But I'm learning and improving so much. I don't think it's anything I've done to get better; I think it's just a blessing that I'm getting since I'm playing for the girls. But whatever the source of my improvement, I'll take it.
Years ago, my BFF Melanie gave me a book filled with simplified Christmas music. Each year since, I've tried to play O Holy Night, with varying degrees of success. This year was the first year I've been able to get through the whole song with two hands. It makes me so happy! I also practiced We Three Kings (a much easier song) and was able to get through it with two hands most of the time. And for church, I played Silent Night, Angels We Have Heard on High, and Joy to the World.
It makes me happy. I feel silly, putting myself forward each week as the pianist. Because really, no one at church really pays attention to the pianist unless they make a mistake - which I do frequently. I've convinced myself that the girls roll their eyes at my playing, which probably isn't true, but I think it every time I miss a note. But I keep playing because I want to learn. I want this little hobby that makes me happy.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Christmas 2014
I love, love Christmas. This was a great year. A few things I want to remember:
Merry Christmas! I hope yours was lovely.
- Watching Elf (I love Buddy the Elf, he makes everyone feel special and has no guile or ill-will towards anyone. I wish I could be more like him.) while I made our traditional Christmas Eve dinner of french dip sandwiches, brown rice, and clam dip. Ben even said, "Great dinner, Mom," as he got up from the table. A true Christmas miracle.
- Laughing with Shane's dad and grandma on Christmas Eve as we visited in her kitchen. I didn't ever think we would have Christmases like that again. I'm so grateful.This picture is priceless.
- Visiting the mall, just because, on Christmas Eve day. I love to be out in the hustle and bustle, especially when I know I'm only there for fun, not for necessity. We found a shirt for Shane to wear on Christmas (because he likes to wash his clothes before he wears them, so he rarely has a Christmas shirt.) We attempted to cash in on some sub-$2 gas at Costco, but the line was insane.
- Watching Shane play with his toy: a Keurig 2.0 coffee maker that his friend gave him for Christmas.
- Had a Coke (or two or three) for the first time since Halloween.
- Ben's excitement when he saw his Christmas presents. He jumped for joy on more than one present. He didn't sleep at all Christmas Eve, and tried to get up at 1, 3:30, and 4:45, before succeeding at 6am. Yawn.
- Observing Thomas. He understands Christmas now. But he still gets excited, and is a good kid about not letting on about the gig. He got one of his big presents early - like October early, so it I kept wondering if he was sad, or felt disappointed. But he rallied and had a great Christmas. I still remember Christmas when I was in 8th grade - I got a brown leather jacket that I can still smell, and some green stretchy pants and a big sweatshirt - but what I wanted was a Nintendo so I could play Mario Brothers like my friend Amber. I still remember how sad I was but trying to not let on. Christmas is hard when you grow up.
- Eating breakfast with Shane's mom and stepdad.
- Driving to my mom's in a beautiful snowstorm.
- Having a nice, teary, one-sided conversation with my dad in the quiet of his backyard. The snow was falling so softly on the trees. He would have loved the way they looked. I could feel him right there. I'm glad he had some time on Christmas, and that I found a quiet place to feel him.
- Driving home in the second worst Christmas Day storm we have ever weathered.
- Taking silly bow pictures with my sisters. I love them!
- Admiring the beautiful Nativity set my mom gave us.
- Thinking about the fact that next Christmas, it could all be so very, very different. My mom is having a pretty serious and complex back surgery in January, and things might have to change. I feel so lucky to have spent all my Christmases (except for one!) in my mom's home, with my family. I love them all so much.
- Sitting with most of the boy crowd in the living room during dinner at my mom's. All my boys, Amy's sons and husband, and my oldest nephew Zack, and my great nephews all chatted together over the traditional ham, potatoes, green bean casserole, Brussels spouts casserole, and homemade rolls.
- Embarrassing Thomas with an inappropriate conversation with half of the family. It's so fun to embarrass teenagers. Just mention their parent's having sex and they lose all composure.I love it. And my older sister is really good at it.
- Being zen about it all. I didn't let anything get to me (or I tried really, really hard.) I didn't even rush everyone out the door the way I usually do. Or fussed about what was going on in the kitchen. It's true that the cat throwing up noises that Ben made (nonstop!) in the car almost put me over the edge, as did the hustle and bustle before dinner, but I did it. Oooommmm.
- Wearing the running skirt, Deathly Hallows necklace, and slippers Shane bought me all morning. I've asked for slippers for years and years and he finally bought me some. The running skirt I had him buy in September when they were on sale, and the Deathly Hallows pendant was a wild card that I threw at him at the last minute after I realized how much I was envying Amy's. (Every time I think of it I think Amy's story about library patron who saw hers. Amy, you should put the quote in the comments so I can get it right!)
- Perfecting the Christmas morning pull-apart rolls, which have been slightly undercooked for years and years until I realized that you have to put them in the pantry, instead of the fridge, overnight. Thanks, Pinterest!
Merry Christmas! I hope yours was lovely.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: book review and thoughts about death
Two summers ago, I went to my friend Sheila's funeral and burial. Since Sheila had been cremated, there was no casket. Instead, most of her ashes were concealed in an urn that was placed inside the burial vault while the mourners looked on.
It was sort of shocking to me to watch her urn being put in the ground in front of me. In my experience, the burial of the remains was always performed behind the scenes, after the dedicatory prayer, and out of the sight of loved ones. I thought a lot about this event, and the more I thought about it, the more I appreciated it. Sheila's young daughters, who would certainly come to visit in the future, would know exactly what was underneath the beautiful headstone that marked Sheila's remains. They weren't preserved to look "natural" or "lifelike." They were simply non-scary, non-threatening ashes, remains of a lovely life cut too short. They would never wonder if she still looked the same as when the casket lid was shut (as I often do when I visit my dad's grave site.)
The shock became sort of comforting as I thought about it. The obviousness of the events took wonder about a dead body below the ground out of the equation. No dead body preserved with chemicals in a cement vault in a metallic casket, all for the mourner's comfort and the cemetery's landscaping convenience, paid for at a premium price, with the feeling that anything less than the best makes you cheap. (Sidenote: I was called "cheap" in conversation just this week about this topic. The exact words were "you are too cheap to be embalmed." Um, okay. I guess I am. Because yes, I not only don't like the thought of my dead body being filled with chemicals, I also don't like my loved ones paying a large sum for it. I'll own that, but not in the way it was said.)
Now, I'm not really 100% sold on cremation. But I also don't oppose it in quite the way I did when I was younger. The culture I live in seems to believe in the traditional funeral establishment. But I don't count myself as one of the believers. Sheila's funeral was simply another step in my own (morbid) journey of how I've come to think about my own death (a long, long time in the future, thankyouverymuch.) I decided years ago to not be embalmed. I've also decided to have a green burial (more on this later in the post.) I don't judge others for their desires for their own burial, but those are my current plans for that future event.
Which brings me to the book I've been reading: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes & other lessons from the Crematory, by Caitlin Doughty. It is possibly one of the best autobiographical memoirs I have ever read. Told in first person, Caitlin tells of how she became obsessed and morbidly afraid of death as a child, which led to her first job in a funeral home, pushing the big red button on the crematorium for people from all walks of life. She also has a blog and a website, www.orderofthegooddeath.com
I cannot say enough good things about this book. Caitlin talks very openly about our society's lack of death rituals, especially as most people become increasingly less involved in religion. Most of us are afraid of dead bodies, convinced that they will give us diseases, that we don't have any rights to the deceased's body after death, that we cannot transport them on our own or keep them longer than a few moments after they have passed from life to death. Our society likes to have death be behind closed doors. We are are secluded from death because it reminds us that we will die, and we don't like to be reminded.
I loved this book. I loved how she tackled the societal beliefs and norms that we have about death. Reading about the lack of regard many people have for their dead made me sad that I didn't participate in more of my own father's burial. I wish I hadn't let fear keep me from helping to dress him. I know I am a daughter, and that it would be weird to dress my father. But I wish I had. Even just his outer clothing. What I dislike about my lack of involvement is that it came from fear. Fear of my dad's scary dead body. I know that my sister participated in the dressing of one of her close relatives, and that she felt a great amount of peace from it. I regret not doing something similar for my dad. I won't let that fear impede me in the future.
If I thought I had strong beliefs about what I wanted to happen to my own body after death before reading it, they are even stronger now. Even though it sounds weird and new-agey, I think a home funeral would be very special to have or attend for a loved one. When I die, I don't want my family to be afraid of my body. (Nor do want them to keep it in the back bedroom as it waits for resurrection.) I want some sort of middle ground type of event to mark my passing. This passage perfectly describes my feelings for my body:
I know, I know. It's morbid. But it's inevitable, and I don't want to pretend my own death (or the death of my loved ones, as much as I don't want it) won't happen (in a really, really long time.) I don't want to pretend I will always be young. I want to embrace the process of life, that leads, you know, to aging and eventual decomposition. It will happen whether I fear it or not. It feels brave. It feels empowered.
Check out Caitlyn's website. Read her book. It's disturbing, but I think we need to be a little disturbed. I think we need reminders of our mortality. We need to make decisions about our own deaths.
It was sort of shocking to me to watch her urn being put in the ground in front of me. In my experience, the burial of the remains was always performed behind the scenes, after the dedicatory prayer, and out of the sight of loved ones. I thought a lot about this event, and the more I thought about it, the more I appreciated it. Sheila's young daughters, who would certainly come to visit in the future, would know exactly what was underneath the beautiful headstone that marked Sheila's remains. They weren't preserved to look "natural" or "lifelike." They were simply non-scary, non-threatening ashes, remains of a lovely life cut too short. They would never wonder if she still looked the same as when the casket lid was shut (as I often do when I visit my dad's grave site.)
The shock became sort of comforting as I thought about it. The obviousness of the events took wonder about a dead body below the ground out of the equation. No dead body preserved with chemicals in a cement vault in a metallic casket, all for the mourner's comfort and the cemetery's landscaping convenience, paid for at a premium price, with the feeling that anything less than the best makes you cheap. (Sidenote: I was called "cheap" in conversation just this week about this topic. The exact words were "you are too cheap to be embalmed." Um, okay. I guess I am. Because yes, I not only don't like the thought of my dead body being filled with chemicals, I also don't like my loved ones paying a large sum for it. I'll own that, but not in the way it was said.)
Now, I'm not really 100% sold on cremation. But I also don't oppose it in quite the way I did when I was younger. The culture I live in seems to believe in the traditional funeral establishment. But I don't count myself as one of the believers. Sheila's funeral was simply another step in my own (morbid) journey of how I've come to think about my own death (a long, long time in the future, thankyouverymuch.) I decided years ago to not be embalmed. I've also decided to have a green burial (more on this later in the post.) I don't judge others for their desires for their own burial, but those are my current plans for that future event.
Which brings me to the book I've been reading: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes & other lessons from the Crematory, by Caitlin Doughty. It is possibly one of the best autobiographical memoirs I have ever read. Told in first person, Caitlin tells of how she became obsessed and morbidly afraid of death as a child, which led to her first job in a funeral home, pushing the big red button on the crematorium for people from all walks of life. She also has a blog and a website, www.orderofthegooddeath.com
I cannot say enough good things about this book. Caitlin talks very openly about our society's lack of death rituals, especially as most people become increasingly less involved in religion. Most of us are afraid of dead bodies, convinced that they will give us diseases, that we don't have any rights to the deceased's body after death, that we cannot transport them on our own or keep them longer than a few moments after they have passed from life to death. Our society likes to have death be behind closed doors. We are are secluded from death because it reminds us that we will die, and we don't like to be reminded.
I loved this book. I loved how she tackled the societal beliefs and norms that we have about death. Reading about the lack of regard many people have for their dead made me sad that I didn't participate in more of my own father's burial. I wish I hadn't let fear keep me from helping to dress him. I know I am a daughter, and that it would be weird to dress my father. But I wish I had. Even just his outer clothing. What I dislike about my lack of involvement is that it came from fear. Fear of my dad's scary dead body. I know that my sister participated in the dressing of one of her close relatives, and that she felt a great amount of peace from it. I regret not doing something similar for my dad. I won't let that fear impede me in the future.
If I thought I had strong beliefs about what I wanted to happen to my own body after death before reading it, they are even stronger now. Even though it sounds weird and new-agey, I think a home funeral would be very special to have or attend for a loved one. When I die, I don't want my family to be afraid of my body. (Nor do want them to keep it in the back bedroom as it waits for resurrection.) I want some sort of middle ground type of event to mark my passing. This passage perfectly describes my feelings for my body:
The way to break the cycle and avoid embalming, the casket, the heavy vault, is something called green, or natural, burial. It is only available in certain cemeteries, but its popularity is growing as society continues to demand it....The body goes straight into the ground, in a simple biodegradable shroud, with a rock to mark the location. It zips merrily through decomposition, shooting its atoms back into the universe to create new life. Not only is natural burial by far the most ecologically sound way to perish, it doubles down on the fear of fragmentation and loss of control. Making the choice to be naturally buried says "Not only am I aware that I'm a helpless, fragmented mass of organic matter, I celebrate it. Vive la decay!"And another good sentence or two:
I understood I had been given my atoms, the ones that made up my heart and toenails and kidneys and brain, on a kind of universal loan program. The time would come when I would have to give the atoms back, and I didn't want to attempt to hold on to them through the chemical preservation of my future corpse.
I know, I know. It's morbid. But it's inevitable, and I don't want to pretend my own death (or the death of my loved ones, as much as I don't want it) won't happen (in a really, really long time.) I don't want to pretend I will always be young. I want to embrace the process of life, that leads, you know, to aging and eventual decomposition. It will happen whether I fear it or not. It feels brave. It feels empowered.
Check out Caitlyn's website. Read her book. It's disturbing, but I think we need to be a little disturbed. I think we need reminders of our mortality. We need to make decisions about our own deaths.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Gratitude, Day 3
In August, a Bikram yoga studio opened up really close to me. It was a dream come true for me; I love Bikram, but I couldn't mange the 15+ mile drive to the closest studio, or the drop-in rate very regularly. Having a place to practice that is only 4 miles away made me super happy. I've been going weekly ever since, with the exception of the times when my kids are out of school.
Being able to practice regularly has opened my eyes a lot to this style of yoga. I found out that as much as I love the class, I equally hate and despise parts of it. My feet ache in almost every posture. I hate how wobbly and inflexible I am on my left side. I dread going into Standing Bow Pulling, Standing Head to Knee, and Standing Separate Leg to Knee poses. This dread is only surpassed by my ultimate hatred for Camel Pose, which simultaneously makes me want to weep, and run from the hot room, screaming.
But mostly I love it. I love learning little tricks to making the poses easier. I love how I'm overcoming some of my balance issues, and how I'm getting more flexible.
I also love the owner and the tone that she sets for the studio. The Salt Lake studio I had practiced at was really intimidating. Everyone was so granola-y, with their Subarus in the parking lot and fancy yoga mats and towels and row upon row of perfect pose practitioners. I didn't feel welcome there; being there brought out my competitive side, and I didn't like that. Who tries to compete in yoga, after all. Ronda, the owner of the studio here, is really kind and real. It filters down from her to make it a very nice place.
One of the poses I've really been practicing at is Standing Separate Leg Stretching Pose. Basically, you are standing with your feet 3-4 feet apart. You grab your heels from the outside and pull, lengthening the backs of the legs as well as down the torso. The object is to touch the top of your head to the towel. I've touched my forehead in class one time before this week, but I didn't really do it the right way; my stance was too wide, and I wasn't lengthening from the right places.
But on Friday, I did it. I was really close on the first time through the pose. Since every pose is done twice, I thought I might be able to do it the second time around, and I was right. The stars aligned, and for a brief moment right before the pose ended, my forehead touched the towel.
The rest of the class felt like floating. I didn't mind any of the other poses I usually hate. I didn't want to run screaming out of the heat into the cool reception room. And while I don't know that I could do it every time, that time, I succeeded in a small thing. A small thing that really means nothing in the large context of my life, but it made me happy.
I've been thinking about my post about the envy I felt this spring during my first time back to Bikram. It was so unfair of me to be so envious. I made a realization of sorts during class on Friday. There was a group of girls who were having their first class. I watched them here and there and listened to the instructor help them with the poses. I wasn't really comparing myself to them (although I felt bad for one girl, who had worn some mascara and eyeliner and it ended up melting all over; nothing is safe from the sweat during hot yoga), but I recognized their inexperience and wondered how they would react to the class.
After the class, they were all in the locker room while I was getting dressed. They were talking and laughing about the class, enjoying the bewilderment of doing something new. And then they started talking about running, and how they were going to run 13 miles the next day for their long run (they were training for the Arizona Marathon in February.) Envy set in. Envy I haven't felt before in that studio, but that I brought to myself when I realized that even though it was their first class in Bikram, and that they probably didn't love it, they would be running a lot farther than I am running these days, and I imagined that they were all a lot faster than me, and I instantly felt crappy about myself. Despite my happy moment of touching my forehead to the towel. I started comparing myself to them, and it took my happy place away.
Why do I do that to myself?
I realize set myself up to want things and abilities that I haven't earned. I want to be the best writer, the best blogger, the best runner, the best yogi, the best photographer, the best reader, the best mom, the best cook, the best everything. Not because I want to be better than others, but I just don't want to be less than them. Is that the same thing? I don't know. I think that being competitive is part of my nature, but that it doesn't really serve me well. It sets me up for feeling things like envy that isn't really fair to either me or the other person.
So how am I to be grateful in this? I guess I want to stop putting myself down. I want to stop setting myself up to be the person that I pity. I want just be glad I touched the towel and not berate myself for not being able to run 13 miles the next day. I want to be grateful for what I can do, even if it isn't the best. Even if it's just one pose, for one day. I want to stop doing the mental and emotional mathematics of who is better or worse or equal to me.
Knowing that I can try to learn to be that person, gives me something to be grateful for.
Being able to practice regularly has opened my eyes a lot to this style of yoga. I found out that as much as I love the class, I equally hate and despise parts of it. My feet ache in almost every posture. I hate how wobbly and inflexible I am on my left side. I dread going into Standing Bow Pulling, Standing Head to Knee, and Standing Separate Leg to Knee poses. This dread is only surpassed by my ultimate hatred for Camel Pose, which simultaneously makes me want to weep, and run from the hot room, screaming.
But mostly I love it. I love learning little tricks to making the poses easier. I love how I'm overcoming some of my balance issues, and how I'm getting more flexible.
I also love the owner and the tone that she sets for the studio. The Salt Lake studio I had practiced at was really intimidating. Everyone was so granola-y, with their Subarus in the parking lot and fancy yoga mats and towels and row upon row of perfect pose practitioners. I didn't feel welcome there; being there brought out my competitive side, and I didn't like that. Who tries to compete in yoga, after all. Ronda, the owner of the studio here, is really kind and real. It filters down from her to make it a very nice place.
One of the poses I've really been practicing at is Standing Separate Leg Stretching Pose. Basically, you are standing with your feet 3-4 feet apart. You grab your heels from the outside and pull, lengthening the backs of the legs as well as down the torso. The object is to touch the top of your head to the towel. I've touched my forehead in class one time before this week, but I didn't really do it the right way; my stance was too wide, and I wasn't lengthening from the right places.
But on Friday, I did it. I was really close on the first time through the pose. Since every pose is done twice, I thought I might be able to do it the second time around, and I was right. The stars aligned, and for a brief moment right before the pose ended, my forehead touched the towel.
The rest of the class felt like floating. I didn't mind any of the other poses I usually hate. I didn't want to run screaming out of the heat into the cool reception room. And while I don't know that I could do it every time, that time, I succeeded in a small thing. A small thing that really means nothing in the large context of my life, but it made me happy.
I've been thinking about my post about the envy I felt this spring during my first time back to Bikram. It was so unfair of me to be so envious. I made a realization of sorts during class on Friday. There was a group of girls who were having their first class. I watched them here and there and listened to the instructor help them with the poses. I wasn't really comparing myself to them (although I felt bad for one girl, who had worn some mascara and eyeliner and it ended up melting all over; nothing is safe from the sweat during hot yoga), but I recognized their inexperience and wondered how they would react to the class.
After the class, they were all in the locker room while I was getting dressed. They were talking and laughing about the class, enjoying the bewilderment of doing something new. And then they started talking about running, and how they were going to run 13 miles the next day for their long run (they were training for the Arizona Marathon in February.) Envy set in. Envy I haven't felt before in that studio, but that I brought to myself when I realized that even though it was their first class in Bikram, and that they probably didn't love it, they would be running a lot farther than I am running these days, and I imagined that they were all a lot faster than me, and I instantly felt crappy about myself. Despite my happy moment of touching my forehead to the towel. I started comparing myself to them, and it took my happy place away.
Why do I do that to myself?
I realize set myself up to want things and abilities that I haven't earned. I want to be the best writer, the best blogger, the best runner, the best yogi, the best photographer, the best reader, the best mom, the best cook, the best everything. Not because I want to be better than others, but I just don't want to be less than them. Is that the same thing? I don't know. I think that being competitive is part of my nature, but that it doesn't really serve me well. It sets me up for feeling things like envy that isn't really fair to either me or the other person.
So how am I to be grateful in this? I guess I want to stop putting myself down. I want to stop setting myself up to be the person that I pity. I want just be glad I touched the towel and not berate myself for not being able to run 13 miles the next day. I want to be grateful for what I can do, even if it isn't the best. Even if it's just one pose, for one day. I want to stop doing the mental and emotional mathematics of who is better or worse or equal to me.
Knowing that I can try to learn to be that person, gives me something to be grateful for.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Gratitude, Day 2
Today was my youngest niece's wedding. It was a beautiful day, and I was so glad to be able to be there.
I didn't take any pictures. Well, that is a lie: I did take one selfie before the ceremony. But other than that, nada. When I was the photographer at the wedding this summer, I was annoyed at all the others taking pictures. I had also read a post about letting the photographer do his/her job by staying out of the way. So I kept my phone and camera in my lap and enjoyed the ceremony and dinner afterward, making mental pictures and trying to make memories.
(Side note: I was so nervous for the photographer during the ceremony. Gah! So many moments to try and capture. Moments that don't come again, that don't have a do-over. I'm sure she did a great job, but I was having some serious anxiety on her part.)
After the ceremony, I sat with my family and chatted. There wasn't any one moment that was significant. I simply enjoyed myself. I loved seeing all of my family together. Sure there were some tense moments. But there were others that made me laugh, like when we put together a group photo of my boys, Amy's boys, and our husbands with the bride and had them make the duck face. Or when everyone was teasing Shane about his hair (he's been growing it out all summer and it looks smoking hot. Everyone had an opinion about it.), and my two oldest nieces laughed about a long ago memory of Shane's hair that they love to tease him about.
My mom's wedding dress and photo were on display. I looked at what a beautiful woman she was, and still is. I liked looking at her hands in the picture: the same hands I've watched sew nightgowns and dresses for dances and costumes and quilts, make countless yummy dinners and desserts, and hold my little girl hands back before I was too cool to hold my mom's hand anymore. I love her. My grandma's cedar chest was there, too. Right before we left, my mom gave me a baby picture of me that she had found in the chest. My grandma had written "Becky Bue In Hospital" on the back. It made it feel like my grandma was right there (which I know she was.)
It was fun to talk with so many of my nieces and nephews. I don't see them as often as I'd like, but when I do, I feel so proud of who they are. They are moms, dads, students, basketball players, workers, artists, soccer players, video game aficionados, runners, readers, dancers, and more. So many talents and personalities.
I hugged my sisters. I love them. I don't want to know what life is like without them.
I love my family. I love being with them and being a part of them. I'm so grateful for the incredible people that they are. We get annoyed at each other and then we forgive. We aren't perfect. But they are mine and I wouldn't trade them for anything.
I didn't take any pictures. Well, that is a lie: I did take one selfie before the ceremony. But other than that, nada. When I was the photographer at the wedding this summer, I was annoyed at all the others taking pictures. I had also read a post about letting the photographer do his/her job by staying out of the way. So I kept my phone and camera in my lap and enjoyed the ceremony and dinner afterward, making mental pictures and trying to make memories.
(Side note: I was so nervous for the photographer during the ceremony. Gah! So many moments to try and capture. Moments that don't come again, that don't have a do-over. I'm sure she did a great job, but I was having some serious anxiety on her part.)
After the ceremony, I sat with my family and chatted. There wasn't any one moment that was significant. I simply enjoyed myself. I loved seeing all of my family together. Sure there were some tense moments. But there were others that made me laugh, like when we put together a group photo of my boys, Amy's boys, and our husbands with the bride and had them make the duck face. Or when everyone was teasing Shane about his hair (he's been growing it out all summer and it looks smoking hot. Everyone had an opinion about it.), and my two oldest nieces laughed about a long ago memory of Shane's hair that they love to tease him about.
My mom's wedding dress and photo were on display. I looked at what a beautiful woman she was, and still is. I liked looking at her hands in the picture: the same hands I've watched sew nightgowns and dresses for dances and costumes and quilts, make countless yummy dinners and desserts, and hold my little girl hands back before I was too cool to hold my mom's hand anymore. I love her. My grandma's cedar chest was there, too. Right before we left, my mom gave me a baby picture of me that she had found in the chest. My grandma had written "Becky Bue In Hospital" on the back. It made it feel like my grandma was right there (which I know she was.)
It was fun to talk with so many of my nieces and nephews. I don't see them as often as I'd like, but when I do, I feel so proud of who they are. They are moms, dads, students, basketball players, workers, artists, soccer players, video game aficionados, runners, readers, dancers, and more. So many talents and personalities.
I hugged my sisters. I love them. I don't want to know what life is like without them.
I love my family. I love being with them and being a part of them. I'm so grateful for the incredible people that they are. We get annoyed at each other and then we forgive. We aren't perfect. But they are mine and I wouldn't trade them for anything.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Gratitude, day 1
I have lived, very happily I might add, under the radar of big callings at church for 15 years. Sure, I've been a librarian, spent one year in primary, taught gospel doctrine (probably my favorite calling ever; it is so fun to get into nerdy gospel discussions!), and a few others. But I had never been in anything resembling a presidency. I had friends in high places, it seems.
But all of that came to a halt a few months ago. My ward split, and a complete stranger put my name in as secretary for the Young Women group. Gulp. I panicked hard when I was asked; how would I manage meetings, how would I manage the weekly activities, what would my family do while I was away, how would my husband react? I've lived for so long with a sure-fire, presidency-avoiding reason all my married life: my husband isn't a member, so how could I be expected to do all of that?
I found out how. After a long call with the complete stranger who was the YW president, I decided to give it a try. In the back of my mind, there were so many doubts about my own abilities. What would I know about young girls? How am I supposed to be an example to these girls, when I stopped going to my own young women class at 15, never setting foot in my laurel's class? I went so far off of the path for so many years, would I be a good person to influence the daughters of so many more (righteous, LDS, firm in the gospel, knowledgeable, etc..) people in my ward?
I feel like I am the back-door leader. The one who watches these amazing girls and their fierce personalities, and wonders which of them will stray. I wonder what I can say to them that no leader said to me, back when I still listened. How can I teach them that if or when they stray, they can come back? That they don't have to turn their hearts against God because of the things they have done? That He still loves them and doesn't want them to throw away their relationship with Him because of the paths they took, or the sins they committed, or the alcohol they drank. That they don't have to be angry with him that they don't fit the mold that people want them to fill; that they have a mold that He has given them and they can let Him help them to make it fit.
It sounds like the wrong approach. But it feels right, for me. I can't pretend to be anything other than me. I don't want to. I want them to know that sometimes, people have to step off the path to know what they really believe. I had to live my life for a few years without the Spirit to know that I wanted it. I'm not encouraging them to stray. I just think it's a possibility. I want every one of those girls in my ward to know that I would love them without judgement, no matter what or how or where their lives take them. They would know that if they got into trouble and needed a ride home, I would come and get them. That they could run into me in Target in 10 years and know I would be happy to see them, regardless of what path they were on. (Maybe this is the hope of every leader. What I'm really trying to say that I can imagine if my leaders had seen me at my worst, they would have just felt disappointed in me. I would have avoided them at all costs. I wouldn't want any of these girls to feel or do that.)
A few nights ago, I gave four of them a ride home. It was completely normal, something I do for my sons and his friends all the time. But it felt so...special. I could give these amazing, giggly, girls a ride. I enjoyed it so much. It's funny to see how different teenage girls are from teenage boys.
The funny thing is that I knew this calling was coming for a while. I expected to get something in Young Women when I got my gospel doctrine calling. It's working out (I really hope I'm not jinxing myself by saying that!) It's true I am the old lady of the group (everyone else is in their late twenties, except for the president who is 30. Gah.) But I can be the old lady, I guess.
The amazing part in all of this, one of the parts that I'm most grateful for, has been the feeling of...insulation I've had. I can't describe it better than that. I'm able to go to the meetings and activities and feel just fine with what I'm able to do, on all fronts. If I go, I can go and not feel guilty. If I can't go, I can not go and not feel guilty. It's such a great feeling, and I'm scared to even admit I have it in case it goes away. But it lets me do what I need to do and not feel conflicted. I didn't know that feeling could exist; I never would have known to ask for it, nor would I have expected to feel it. It's a much-needed reminder that I'm getting help to be able to do what I need to do.
But all of that came to a halt a few months ago. My ward split, and a complete stranger put my name in as secretary for the Young Women group. Gulp. I panicked hard when I was asked; how would I manage meetings, how would I manage the weekly activities, what would my family do while I was away, how would my husband react? I've lived for so long with a sure-fire, presidency-avoiding reason all my married life: my husband isn't a member, so how could I be expected to do all of that?
I found out how. After a long call with the complete stranger who was the YW president, I decided to give it a try. In the back of my mind, there were so many doubts about my own abilities. What would I know about young girls? How am I supposed to be an example to these girls, when I stopped going to my own young women class at 15, never setting foot in my laurel's class? I went so far off of the path for so many years, would I be a good person to influence the daughters of so many more (righteous, LDS, firm in the gospel, knowledgeable, etc..) people in my ward?
I feel like I am the back-door leader. The one who watches these amazing girls and their fierce personalities, and wonders which of them will stray. I wonder what I can say to them that no leader said to me, back when I still listened. How can I teach them that if or when they stray, they can come back? That they don't have to turn their hearts against God because of the things they have done? That He still loves them and doesn't want them to throw away their relationship with Him because of the paths they took, or the sins they committed, or the alcohol they drank. That they don't have to be angry with him that they don't fit the mold that people want them to fill; that they have a mold that He has given them and they can let Him help them to make it fit.
It sounds like the wrong approach. But it feels right, for me. I can't pretend to be anything other than me. I don't want to. I want them to know that sometimes, people have to step off the path to know what they really believe. I had to live my life for a few years without the Spirit to know that I wanted it. I'm not encouraging them to stray. I just think it's a possibility. I want every one of those girls in my ward to know that I would love them without judgement, no matter what or how or where their lives take them. They would know that if they got into trouble and needed a ride home, I would come and get them. That they could run into me in Target in 10 years and know I would be happy to see them, regardless of what path they were on. (Maybe this is the hope of every leader. What I'm really trying to say that I can imagine if my leaders had seen me at my worst, they would have just felt disappointed in me. I would have avoided them at all costs. I wouldn't want any of these girls to feel or do that.)
A few nights ago, I gave four of them a ride home. It was completely normal, something I do for my sons and his friends all the time. But it felt so...special. I could give these amazing, giggly, girls a ride. I enjoyed it so much. It's funny to see how different teenage girls are from teenage boys.
The funny thing is that I knew this calling was coming for a while. I expected to get something in Young Women when I got my gospel doctrine calling. It's working out (I really hope I'm not jinxing myself by saying that!) It's true I am the old lady of the group (everyone else is in their late twenties, except for the president who is 30. Gah.) But I can be the old lady, I guess.
The amazing part in all of this, one of the parts that I'm most grateful for, has been the feeling of...insulation I've had. I can't describe it better than that. I'm able to go to the meetings and activities and feel just fine with what I'm able to do, on all fronts. If I go, I can go and not feel guilty. If I can't go, I can not go and not feel guilty. It's such a great feeling, and I'm scared to even admit I have it in case it goes away. But it lets me do what I need to do and not feel conflicted. I didn't know that feeling could exist; I never would have known to ask for it, nor would I have expected to feel it. It's a much-needed reminder that I'm getting help to be able to do what I need to do.
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