So once upon a time I was given a handout that described the roles of children in a family. They were something like “The Hero”, “the Angel”, “The Clown”, I don’t remember the rest, there might have been a fireman and a newspaper carrier? I can’t remember if was for the typical family or for the dysfunctional family, of which I came from, spelled with a capitol D.
That list came to mind recently when I was thinking about my kids, there are five still here with us, the sixth one watches over us from heaven. Any one of them doesn't seem to fit into just one of the categories, or if they do, it isn't long before they have traded with anther sibling. I was thinking about them on an unusually good day, a couple of them had made their beds, one emptied the dish drainer without being asked, another had said something complimentary about what another was wearing, one of those rare days I was wasn’t scratching them out of the will, again. So I made up my own categories for them (no handout yet, though). I call them Keepers.
The oldest seems to be the Keeper of Childhood. Like Peter Pan, she never wanted to grow up. If I ever talked about going away to college or having a family of her own one day, she would want to stop talking about that. She has a great capacity to play and an innate understanding of what children consider just and fair. I watch her with her own kids and see that though the boundaries are clear and non negotiable, inside there is plenty of tenderness and fun and space, and each individual is rejoiced over for their individuality. She brings out the child in all of us.
Child two is the Keeper of Potential. She sees the potential in any situation and gets better everyday at helping others see their own potential. We love to have her around because she manages to find our potential, even if it takes a lot of searching. It is an exhilarating experience to brainstorm with her, optimism distills as the dews from heaven.
Child three is the Keeper of Peace. Though he would never sacrifice his integrity in an effort to keep the peace, he seldom starts trouble, but looks for peaceful resolutions and pops in if we are leaning towards being offended, even if we really, really want to be offended. I can’t remember the last time he seemed ruffled.
Child four is the Keeper of Tradition. She loves movies about small towns, where everyone grew up together, knows each other, then loves and sacrifices for each other in spite of it all. Her siblings are her best friends, and she is as fierce with their imperfections as she is with any threat to them.
Child five is the Keeper of Wonder. Her room is filled from top to bottom with all of the things she finds wonder in, old hubcaps, new seedlings, a tool box, Nancy Drew books, Wall-E stuffies and anything manufactured that is less than 1/2” around.
They take turns being The Hero, they are all Angels at the most difficult of times, and the later they are for bed the bigger Clowns they are. They are, most definitely, keepers.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Water
Years ago we bought a big lot with a little tiny house on it. It’s only source of water was a well. At first we were thrilled, feeling all self reliant, loving the thought of long showers and rainbird sprinklers that would make that lovely ch-ch-ch sound I could listen to all afternoon long in the middle of a hot summer day. I must admit I used to really worry about drinking water that came straight out of the ground, even though it passed all the tests when we took samples into a local lab. I would lie there in bed at night and imagine that we all became medical mysteries due to strange chemical agents in our water. Maybe one of my kids would grow an eleventh finger, or another would have super powers they would use to terrify the others into doing their Saturday chores. Wait, that would have meant the chores actually got done, which would have been totally awesome.
Anyway, one morning I got up and set an appointment with someone who could come out and talk to me about putting a filter on the water from our well. This gentleman and I sat at the counter in my kitchen where I announced that I wanted to filter every ounce of the water that came into my house and I wanted the highest level of filtration possible. He said, “Actually, you don’t”.
What? Here was a chance for him to make some bucks and for me to quit picturing my children with extra ears! He explained that the purer the water, the more aggressive the water would be. It turns out that water, filled with the usual minerals, is content to just sit in pipes and do nothing. He said that if we filtered out all of the impurities from the water, no matter what those pipes were made out of, the pure water would work away at the material and eventually the pipes would break down and leak. I thanked him half heartedly and went to Costco and bought a water filtering pitcher that I used for two weeks.
I have thought about that principle a lot though, about how the purer the water is the less content it is to just sit there. I have noticed that in some of my favorite people. I seems like the more pure their hearts are, the more active they are in doing good. They just get in there and break down those barriers, washing over the lives of folks with kindness. Not water like a tsunami, but quiet and constant, refreshing in that life giving way that water can be. Okay, enough with the water analogies, but now I wish it were warm enough outside to go turn on the sprinklers.
Anyway, one morning I got up and set an appointment with someone who could come out and talk to me about putting a filter on the water from our well. This gentleman and I sat at the counter in my kitchen where I announced that I wanted to filter every ounce of the water that came into my house and I wanted the highest level of filtration possible. He said, “Actually, you don’t”.
What? Here was a chance for him to make some bucks and for me to quit picturing my children with extra ears! He explained that the purer the water, the more aggressive the water would be. It turns out that water, filled with the usual minerals, is content to just sit in pipes and do nothing. He said that if we filtered out all of the impurities from the water, no matter what those pipes were made out of, the pure water would work away at the material and eventually the pipes would break down and leak. I thanked him half heartedly and went to Costco and bought a water filtering pitcher that I used for two weeks.
I have thought about that principle a lot though, about how the purer the water is the less content it is to just sit there. I have noticed that in some of my favorite people. I seems like the more pure their hearts are, the more active they are in doing good. They just get in there and break down those barriers, washing over the lives of folks with kindness. Not water like a tsunami, but quiet and constant, refreshing in that life giving way that water can be. Okay, enough with the water analogies, but now I wish it were warm enough outside to go turn on the sprinklers.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Wings
I am a fair weather friend. Should I admit that out loud? In my own defense, I speak strictly with regards to the actual weather. I will only walk outside with the girls in my neighborhood from April thru November, after that, you will find me in the deep dark recesses of the basement, plodding along at 3.7 miles per hour for exactly 2.0 miles, no more, often less if I can think of any reason at all. It is mind-numbingly boring but at least I don’t shiver the whole rest of the day.
It is a shame I am such a wimp, because these girls I walk with are anything but boring. We discuss everything, from politics to the dismal reality that we can only sneeze if our tanks are empty. My favorite thing about these girls is that they never say anything about anyone who is not there that they wouldn’t say if they were there. Classy. However, there is one group for which we have no such boundaries: our children. This is where we let out our frustrations so that we can better keep up the façade of a calm demeanor in their presence.
One morning, toward the end of May last year, one of the moms was sharing how thrilled she would be when school got out so she could quit being “the Home Work Bully.” She said, “ Sometimes I think I should just go get one of those barbed wire tattoos right here on my upper arm, that way, maybe when I flex my arm to make a fist, it will frighten them sufficiently that I won’t actually have to say “Get Back To Work” for the 100th time.” One of the other girls piped up with, “Oh, yes, a tattoo! I want to go get wings tattooed on my upper arms. It is not like these ham hocks I have goin here are going to get smaller, and this way as my upper arm keeps expanding, my wings will get bigger too.” That was too much, we had to stop walking so we could cross our legs 'till we quit laughing.
It is a shame I am such a wimp, because these girls I walk with are anything but boring. We discuss everything, from politics to the dismal reality that we can only sneeze if our tanks are empty. My favorite thing about these girls is that they never say anything about anyone who is not there that they wouldn’t say if they were there. Classy. However, there is one group for which we have no such boundaries: our children. This is where we let out our frustrations so that we can better keep up the façade of a calm demeanor in their presence.
One morning, toward the end of May last year, one of the moms was sharing how thrilled she would be when school got out so she could quit being “the Home Work Bully.” She said, “ Sometimes I think I should just go get one of those barbed wire tattoos right here on my upper arm, that way, maybe when I flex my arm to make a fist, it will frighten them sufficiently that I won’t actually have to say “Get Back To Work” for the 100th time.” One of the other girls piped up with, “Oh, yes, a tattoo! I want to go get wings tattooed on my upper arms. It is not like these ham hocks I have goin here are going to get smaller, and this way as my upper arm keeps expanding, my wings will get bigger too.” That was too much, we had to stop walking so we could cross our legs 'till we quit laughing.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Be The Cloud
My son, serving amongst the Spanish speaking people in Phoenix, Arizona for the last two years, wrote this to me in his next-to-last letter home, “I just did what I was supposed to do, there's no possible way I could have convinced any of these people to support the church or to join it. It all belongs to the Savior.”
It reminded me of the briefest moment I had with my oldest daughter when she was five. We had stopped at a light and I heard her from the back seat say, “look, a rainbow”. The sky was mostly sunny, just bursts of large white fluffy clouds here and there, so I didn’t pay attention, but she was relentless, what children do best, and I finally made an effort to see where she was pointing. Sure enough, there was a rainbow. Not a huge one, just a bit of one reflecting off single cloud. That was all she needed, she just added her imagination to fill in the rest. All she needed was that cloud to be in the right place at the right time and one of the most magical phenomenon of childhood was hers.
So my son now understands what I call the “Cloud Principle”. On our own we can’t create a rainbow, but if we are in the right place at the right time, we can reflect the most magical thing of all-God’s love. I don't think there is any criteria for what kind of cloud we need to be, small, large, grumpy, fluffy, in my case pear shaped with a bit of chocolate on my chin. We just need to rise to the occasion and be the cloud.
It reminded me of the briefest moment I had with my oldest daughter when she was five. We had stopped at a light and I heard her from the back seat say, “look, a rainbow”. The sky was mostly sunny, just bursts of large white fluffy clouds here and there, so I didn’t pay attention, but she was relentless, what children do best, and I finally made an effort to see where she was pointing. Sure enough, there was a rainbow. Not a huge one, just a bit of one reflecting off single cloud. That was all she needed, she just added her imagination to fill in the rest. All she needed was that cloud to be in the right place at the right time and one of the most magical phenomenon of childhood was hers.
So my son now understands what I call the “Cloud Principle”. On our own we can’t create a rainbow, but if we are in the right place at the right time, we can reflect the most magical thing of all-God’s love. I don't think there is any criteria for what kind of cloud we need to be, small, large, grumpy, fluffy, in my case pear shaped with a bit of chocolate on my chin. We just need to rise to the occasion and be the cloud.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Melba
When I grow up, I want to be just like Melba. Melba lives all by herself down the street from us in a little brick rambler, where the leaves are always carefully raked away. And for a visual here, there is not much more to her than the rake she goes after that yard with. She is one-good-wind-would-blow-her-away thin, very soft spoken, and when she smiles, which is almost always, her wrinkles, which have wrinkles, all move gently upwards in a gracious sweeping gesture that just makes you just want to hug her...gently.
And she is always there. Not at her home, I mean if there is a ward party, she is there. If there is a Relief Society event, she is there. Of course she is at church every week, but not just for the first hour, she’s there for all three hours. If there is a family event, and she has one of those huge Mormon family things going on, she is there. Her job in our ward is to publish the Ward Newsletter. So she is everywhere, collecting all of the good stuff. Births are announced with wonder, deaths are encased with sincere and eloquent mourning. Every new calling in the ward, right down to the latest Beehive President, is heralded with the same celebration as upcoming nuptials. She can be seen late at night through the window of her study, diligently typing to meet her deadline.
If there are volunteers needed, yep, you guessed it, there she is. Canning, there. DI, there. A sign up clip board went around recently asking for volunteers to clean the Salt Lake Temple, but cleaning didn’t begin until 10 pm and would go until midnight or later. I was so impressed with myself for signing up until Melba called and asked if she could ride with me. Just like the Energizer Bunny with a grey wig, she keeps on going and going and going.
Yep, I want to be just like that when I grow up. I think my kids will gladly rake my yard for me if I it were possible that I could be half that cheerful someday. I just tell them if I get to be too much to handle, they can just roll me out on the front porch and let me swear at the cars as they go by.
When I grow up, I want to be just like Melba. Melba lives all by herself down the street from us in a little brick rambler, where the leaves are always carefully raked away. And for a visual here, there is not much more to her than the rake she goes after that yard with. She is one-good-wind-would-blow-her-away thin, very soft spoken, and when she smiles, which is almost always, her wrinkles, which have wrinkles, all move gently upwards in a gracious sweeping gesture that just makes you just want to hug her...gently.
And she is always there. Not at her home, I mean if there is a ward party, she is there. If there is a Relief Society event, she is there. Of course she is at church every week, but not just for the first hour, she’s there for all three hours. If there is a family event, and she has one of those huge Mormon family things going on, she is there. Her job in our ward is to publish the Ward Newsletter. So she is everywhere, collecting all of the good stuff. Births are announced with wonder, deaths are encased with sincere and eloquent mourning. Every new calling in the ward, right down to the latest Beehive President, is heralded with the same celebration as upcoming nuptials. She can be seen late at night through the window of her study, diligently typing to meet her deadline.
If there are volunteers needed, yep, you guessed it, there she is. Canning, there. DI, there. A sign up clip board went around recently asking for volunteers to clean the Salt Lake Temple, but cleaning didn’t begin until 10 pm and would go until midnight or later. I was so impressed with myself for signing up until Melba called and asked if she could ride with me. Just like the Energizer Bunny with a grey wig, she keeps on going and going and going.
Yep, I want to be just like that when I grow up. I think my kids will gladly rake my yard for me if I it were possible that I could be half that cheerful someday. I just tell them if I get to be too much to handle, they can just roll me out on the front porch and let me swear at the cars as they go by.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Intersections
One of my favorite moments when we lived in Tokyo, was when we decided that for Christmas we would take our Christmas card photo smack dab in the center of the busiest intersection in the world, where an average of 1,500 humans cross at every light change. We took the train on over late one evening in November, dragging along a friend who could do the camera work. We waited anxiously on the corner and when the lights changed we all plowed through the crowd, with the determination of salmon swimming up stream, until we finally made it to the middle of the chaos. The flash went off repeatedly as we took as many shots as we could before the light changed. It felt both invigorating and surprisingly comfortable to be in the center of all the coming and going.
Since we moved back to Utah, we have learned to enter intersections in our cars with much greater care. Here we seem to see a higher amount of people who plow through, even if the light is looking a little “pink”. The pinker the light, the faster folks seem to be going.
I have been thinking of intersections lately. My husband occasionally prays for intersections, and, believe it or not, he isn’t just hoping we will live through the ones we enter in our car. He prays that we will have intersections with people, on the chance that we might be of some use. Intersections are one of his strengths. His instinctive kindness makes him a natural at navigating in and out when crossing the paths of others.
In the past I have been the kind of person who plows through intersections, viewing them as just a means to get to the safety of the curb. More and more as I age, however, I am becoming the kind of person who likes to hang out in the intersection. I am beginning to see that opportunities to intersect with other humans are both invigorating and surprisingly comfortable. As other travelers cross my path, I do look for ways to be useful, but more often than not, my life is filled with treasures brought by criss crossing of other travelers. In traveling a road that has chances for human intersections, the “pink” lights don’t mean hurry faster, they mean slow down, stay awhile, let’s talk.
One of my favorite moments when we lived in Tokyo, was when we decided that for Christmas we would take our Christmas card photo smack dab in the center of the busiest intersection in the world, where an average of 1,500 humans cross at every light change. We took the train on over late one evening in November, dragging along a friend who could do the camera work. We waited anxiously on the corner and when the lights changed we all plowed through the crowd, with the determination of salmon swimming up stream, until we finally made it to the middle of the chaos. The flash went off repeatedly as we took as many shots as we could before the light changed. It felt both invigorating and surprisingly comfortable to be in the center of all the coming and going.
Since we moved back to Utah, we have learned to enter intersections in our cars with much greater care. Here we seem to see a higher amount of people who plow through, even if the light is looking a little “pink”. The pinker the light, the faster folks seem to be going.
I have been thinking of intersections lately. My husband occasionally prays for intersections, and, believe it or not, he isn’t just hoping we will live through the ones we enter in our car. He prays that we will have intersections with people, on the chance that we might be of some use. Intersections are one of his strengths. His instinctive kindness makes him a natural at navigating in and out when crossing the paths of others.
In the past I have been the kind of person who plows through intersections, viewing them as just a means to get to the safety of the curb. More and more as I age, however, I am becoming the kind of person who likes to hang out in the intersection. I am beginning to see that opportunities to intersect with other humans are both invigorating and surprisingly comfortable. As other travelers cross my path, I do look for ways to be useful, but more often than not, my life is filled with treasures brought by criss crossing of other travelers. In traveling a road that has chances for human intersections, the “pink” lights don’t mean hurry faster, they mean slow down, stay awhile, let’s talk.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Place Your Bet
Last night on the news I watched as they pulled a woman from the rubble of the Haitian earthquake after being trapped in a collapsed building for 6 days. She was still alive. It took them three hours to dig her out, all the while anxiously hoping that there would be no further after shocks. As they slowly inched her stretcher out into fresh air and across the piles of debry, a reporter pushed his microphone into her face and asked, "Did you think you would live?" "Live?", she asked incredulously, then, with not quite enough time actually think the question, "What a stupid Question", though it would clearly sound in her voice, she answered, "Why Not?"
I thought back to an interview I saw once of a Jewish woman who had survived one of the death marches during World War 2. The Nazi's had gathered up all the young women in the area and forced them to travel, with no food or water, through the winter cold. This woman recalled that one evening as she and her friend sat huddled together for warmth, they had discussed the food they missed the most, and settled on strawberries and cream. Her friend shared her fears that they would not live to eat strawberries in the early summer. The woman being interviewd bet her that they would live and told her friend she would owe her strawberries and cream once they arrived. Her friend took that bet, betting they would never make it. As the interview proceeded, sadly it was revealed that her friend did not wake up one cold, snowy morning. I remember thinking at the time that what they believed would be the end of the story, did indeed become their story in the end.
Bet on living. Why not?
I thought back to an interview I saw once of a Jewish woman who had survived one of the death marches during World War 2. The Nazi's had gathered up all the young women in the area and forced them to travel, with no food or water, through the winter cold. This woman recalled that one evening as she and her friend sat huddled together for warmth, they had discussed the food they missed the most, and settled on strawberries and cream. Her friend shared her fears that they would not live to eat strawberries in the early summer. The woman being interviewd bet her that they would live and told her friend she would owe her strawberries and cream once they arrived. Her friend took that bet, betting they would never make it. As the interview proceeded, sadly it was revealed that her friend did not wake up one cold, snowy morning. I remember thinking at the time that what they believed would be the end of the story, did indeed become their story in the end.
Bet on living. Why not?
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