Words: Good for Naming Stuff and Doing Things

83a384d8dbc5651bf8d5bf1e467eafc1Depending on your occupation, you hear anywhere between 30,000 – 100,000 words in a day.  On typical day at work, I’ll hear somewhere near 80,000. Some of those 80,000 words are phonetically fascinating like ‘acquiesce’ and ‘clatterfart’ (go ahead and snicker, it’s a word), ‘laceration’, ‘nefarious’, ‘paradisaical’, ‘rascality’…

And some just are intensely interesting in their definition like:

wun·der·kind n. from German wunder kind):  a little person of remarkable ability who achieves astounding success at an early age.

bel·gard n. from Italian bel guardo: a kind or loving look.

e·the·re·al  adj.  extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world.

Other times, I hear words that are not so interesting like ‘engineering’ or ‘electrical’.  I don’t have a general bias against ‘e’ words, it’s just that I find these two especially exasperating.

Nevertheless, my job is to hear those as well as words that start with the other 25 letters.  Actually, the university pays me to listen to words, figure out what they mean and then find a way to say the same thing in a different language.

There’s a difference between hearing and listening.  Hearing is the ability to perceive sound.  We detect vibrations in the air then convert those vibrations into electrical activity which is sent to your brain via your nerves and voila!  You hear the toilet running.  It’s a physical phenomenon.

Listening is a mental phenomenon.  You can be unable to hear sound but still be a listener.  It’s a process of deriving meaning from what you hear and see.  Listening is an involved, empathetic effort to understand.  An illocutionary force.

This is the kind of stuff I studied in college.  Some of what I know about listening and language is useless (i.e. illocutionary force).  An illocutionary force or act refers to the type of function a speaker intends to accomplish in the course of producing an utterance.  It took me four years to learn that all of that means:  When someone says “I can’t carry a tune” it doesn’t mean she cannot physically lift and move a tune.  She really means “I will not be in the ward choir because I sing like an injured cat.”

Other stuff I’ve learned about language is useful like:

Words are good for naming stuff.  The Barenaked Ladies wrote a song about uvulas (those little fleshy punching bags that hang down in the back of our throats), philtrums and frenulums.  It’s called There’s a Word for That.  You’ll thank me for the reference next time you need to remember the name for the small fold of tissue that connects your tongue to the bottom of your mouth.

Humans, in one language or another, have named everything of which we can conceive.  Like cacti and couches.  Sovereignty and melancholy.  Googling, Pinning, snowshoeing and sneezing.  We’ve even designated words to name the things we just can’t quite recall.  Lethologica (or tip-of-the-tongue phenomena) is an individual’s inability to articulate his or her thoughts by temporarily forgetting words, phrases or names in conversation.

Kormorebi is a Japanese word for the sunlight that filters through the leaves of trees.

L’esprit de l’escalier (French for “stairway wit”) is a clever comeback that comes to mind after it’s too late to be useful.  Like when you’re in the shower.  Or weeding.  The closest phrase in English is “Doh!  I totally should’ve been like…”  Germans use the word “treppenwitz” to express the same idea.

In Russia, they have a word for that person who asks a lot of questions – a Pochemuchka.

And ‘sombremesa’ is the Spanish word for the time spent talking to the person or people with whom you just shared a meal.

We can invent words – very useful for when your sister is talking about something you don’t know how to label.  Reece, “I tried to wake up Emma but I couldn’t understand her.  She was talking blibberish.”

We can even use language to talk about language.  It’s called metalinguistics. That’s especially useful for writing blog posts about language.

But mostly we use words to make stuff happen – to communicate our intentions, to make people laugh, to instruct, to entertain, to hurt, to make better, to connect, to comfort.  You know how ‘sometimes someone says something really small and it just fits right into this empty place in your heart’?  That happens because words have power.

If you listened to John Keating in Dead Poets Society, you know that “no matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.”  Absolutely words have the power to do that.  On August 28, 1963, Martin Luther King Jr. stood in front of the Lincoln Memorial and changed the course of civil history with his words “I have a dream…”  And at bedtime one night in August 2006, Sadie’s tiny 2 1/2 year old voice changed me with her words “Mom…you’re my best.”

An interesting fact about listening?  There is a limit.  People stop paying attention after so many words.  They don’t even realize they’re doing it.  There’s a word for that!  En·nui (an we) is a feeling of listlessness arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.  Tedium.

So make good use of your words!  Don’t walk around all day clatterfarting.  (ok, I don’t know if clatterfart can be used as a verb, but the shoe fits.)  Leaving a stream of dribbling nonsense terrifies me.  What trail are you leaving behind?

“Be still you when have nothing to say.  However, when genuine passion moves you, say what you’ve got to say, and say it hot.” -DH Lawrence.  Choose words that brim with substance. Make them simple but significant.

The average person speaks 16,000 words in a day.  Use tomorrow’s 15,987 words to change the world.  Say please.  Say thank you.  Be kind.  Speak with intention.  Don’t fill my or anyone else’s attention allocation with pointless, self-serving idiocy.

Be brave.  Use your words to mend a quarrel.  Seek out a friend.  Manifest your loyalty.  Forego a grudge.     Apologize.  Make a laugh.  Encourage.  Express your gratitude.  Protect.  Defend.  Comfort.  Heal. Words can do all of this and more.

So text it.  Tweet it.  Post it.  Say it.  Write it.  Sing it.  Sign it.  Whatever.  Do it right now.  Speak your love and then speak it again.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.  -Forrest Gump

2013 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,600 times in 2013. If it were a cable car, it would take about 43 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

The Talk

I always thought it would be a Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood moment.  You know, with all of my seasoned best-friend biddies rallying around one of our younglings.  Reminiscing, teaching, advising, piggy-backing off each other’s stories and laughing.  Always laughing.  Sometimes forgetting to breathe because of our laughing.

Well my dream was shattered.  That was not how “The Talk” happened.  It was just me and my youngling.  No old-friend biddies.  No gaudy, overstuffed journal with yellowing photos (ok, there were photos.  Lots of them.  Some of them humiliating.) This is how “The Talk” happened:

  • Me:  So…uh…Emma…you’re turning twelve.
  • Emma (sarcastically nodding):  Yes, Mom.  In March.
  • Me:  Yeah…in March.  So that means Young Women’s.
  • Em:  Yes Young Women’s.
  • Me:  Ok, cool.  So uh…that means girls’ camp.  Ok, well now that you’re older and [deep breath] in girls’ camp and all, there are things we need to talk about.

(Yes, I’m referring to a girls’ camp conversation as “The Talk”.  It holds a significance, even a reverence to both me and my Ya-Ya sisters hereafter known as Chongis.   Just as a side note, a “Chongi” is an adaptation of the Korean word for a boil – a gross thing.  But for reasons known to only a few, the true definition of a “Chongi” is a sister that destiny forgot to give me – a beautiful thing.  Girls’ camp is where the Chongis were born and where we came into full blown immaturity.)

  • Me:  Um..you’re gonna want to pack some grapes.   Probably 18.
  • Em:  Grapes.  Really.  What?

Me:  I mean, you can use the ones in the kitchen if you can get a leader to do the stuffing.  And you won’t need more than 18.  Sister Marcum, although she might deny involvement until the day she dies, fit 17 grapes in Aunt Ron’s mouth and that’s the record.  If you fit 18 in someone’s mouth – call me immediately!

And you will need a dead bloated cricket.  You might have to search for it and that’s ok.  Also, you may find one just floating there at the water pump.  That’s ok too.  If that’s the situation in which you find yourself, be courageous and do the right thing.  Scoop up that bug!  Take it directly to your leader’s pillow.  (Don’t go anywhere near mine.)  She’ll most likely think it is plastic and when she bends down to pick up the “gag” insect, it will puke up its dead bloated water stuff.  Sister Goodrich’s—I  mean—your leader’s chuckle will manifest into a blood-curdling scream.  This is all completely normal.

And I’m going to give you something.  This might have saved us the soul-wrenching guilt of almost killing our (now a member of the Seventy) Stake President.  Knee pads and a helmet.  They’re for skateboarding.  But in a pinch, they’re suitable for red Radio Flyer wagon flying.  When you’re at the top of that gigantic hill with an adrenalin junkie [ahem – Chelsea] at the wheel and she somehow talks your giant Stake President into going for a ride—do not stand by idly and watch through pain-foreseeing, squinted eyes.  You should immediately cram his limb-like legs into the knee pads and grab the nearest ladder to place the helmet on his not-yet graying head.  You never know, they could gain topknot speed and suddenly hit the only rock in the road.  They could veer sharply to the left, overturn and soar, giant-legged, into a ditch on the horizon.  They could crash.  Hard.  I mean, it’s all a possibility.

And here’s a pamphlet for you to look through.  Some things change, but some things never change.  This booklet has the lyrics to every Disney song ever written and a few other essentials like all 12 verses detailing Princess Pat’s epic voyage.  Also, know and be prepared for the consequences of certain songs.  Yes, consequences.  You don’t want to be caught not knowing what happens after the words “Silence please!  Everybody freeze!  Duh duh da da ta da…”

I think it’s time you learned Chongi 2’s original piece:

♫ ♪♫ Javelina  ♫ ♪♫…(You should repeat when I point to you)

Let’s start again.

  • Me:  ♫ ♪♫ Javelina  ♫ ♪♫
  • Em:    …Mom…ugh…javelina
  • Me:  How we hate you!
  • Em:   howwehateyou
  • Me:  Basking in the sun
  • Em:    …basking in the sun
  • Me:  Scaring everyone!
  • Em:   Scaring everyone.
  • Me:  (intense, wide-eyed) Snorting at us!
  • Em:  (compliant) Snorting at us!
  • Me:  (Pavarotti impersonation) Giiiiiiivvviiiiinng First Years heart aaaaattaaacccksss… ♫ ♪♫  (pause for effect)  Javelinas!  Don’t you bite our…backs!
  •          Learn it.  Love it.
  • Em:  k.

As soon as you get to camp, take a minute to seek out the best ferns.  Yes, ferns.  I’m not always going to be around when you go looking for ferns, so you have to pay attention.  The best ferns will cover enough of your face so that you’re obviously trying to camouflage your person but not so much of your person that your Stake leaders cannot recognize who is crashing their attempt at a spiritual, end-of-the-day wrap-up meeting that you and your obnoxious giggly friends got yourselves kicked out of in the first place.  The ferns must leave enough of your face visible so that, through the cabin windows, they can see your lips shushing them.  They will not have an ounce of patience left.  And their hair will be all messy and in their faces.  And their makeup will be cried off.  Lucky for you, the Stake Young Women’s President will break.  Her laugh will inevitably infect her counselor and she too will laugh.  Those two laughs will multiply exponentially until all the bone-tired women with messy hair are laughing and crying and laughing and crying.  What I’m going to tell you next, you must never forget.  The very second you see them stand to get out of their chairs – you RUN!  Run as fast as you can—in the dark, holding ferns in front of your faces and clutching your guts from laughing too hard—because they will come after you.

Also, you should put the ferns on their pillows.  Because…  Actually, why you should put ferns on their pillows is still beyond me.

The one thing you must absolutely remember to bring is your journal.  How else are you going to record the official grape stuffing count?  Or the color of the beach towel you’ll wear in the infamous “Pretty Woman” skit?  Or the way you feel when you see President Hamula and Sister Bawden dressed in white, standing in floodlights and whisper in your ear, “Welcome home.  I love you.”  The only way is to write it down.  Write everything down.

And the very last thing you have to do—no matter what—is thank those women.  It doesn’t matter if your thank you comes in the form of a brand new radio flyer that you build yourself (and probably not well) to replace the once-flying flyer.  Or crashing Sister Goodrich’s family home evening with your very best rendition of “Friends” even though you can’t get the words out because of the gigantic love lumps in your throats and you’ll probably sound (and look) reminiscent of a pond full of weeping, sunburnt frogs.  Or a note that says, “To our Honorary Chongi:  Thanks, we love you”.

Thank them for the months of endless list making, one more call making, meeting, and meeting again, planning, fasting, praying, worrying, praying, hoping, praying, working, praying.  Thank them for the meals, the belly laughs, the seemingly endless lip-syncs, the poi balls and the wood-bead necklace that you’ll work your tail off to earn every last bead – then keep for 30 years just to look at and remember those terrible, terrible reflection oven potatoes and Sister Standage’s patient smile as she said “mmm” but her eyes screamed “Boo!  Get them away!”

Thank them for stubbornly sleeping on a pillow that once cradled a bloated cricket, teaching you how to burn raw hamburger, wearing sweatpants under their skirts to a rainy camp Sacrament meeting so you wouldn’t feel embarrassed to do the same.  Thank them for crying their makeup off and meeting late at night to make sure you had the most perfect fireside.

And thank them for doing it all to foster your testimony of Jesus Christ.  Tell them, like Elder Holland, you are “grateful for Young Women leaders who go to girls’ camp and, without shampoo, showers, or mascara, turn smoky, campfire testimony meetings into some of the most riveting spiritual experiences you girls—and leaders—will experience in your lifetime.” (October 2010 General Conference)

This is why they’ll do it:

June 6th, 1993

The Savior lives.  He knows who I am.  He is my friend forever. 

A Mother’s Day helping of “Overheard”

“The only way to get through life is to laugh your way through it.  You either have to laugh or cry.  I prefer to laugh.  Crying gives me a headache.” ~ Marjorie Pay Hinckley

My kids say funny stuff.  All the time.  I love it  – I live for it.  This Mother’s Day, I’m sharing the hysterical things I’m fortunate enough to hear on a regular basis.  (Small-type disclaimer: Because my kids are real kids, there are multiple comments that refer to body functions, bodily fluids and pseudo-swearwords.  Not for the overly proper or faint of heart…)

—–

When our kids complain of random aches and pains, we often tell them it’s probably due to their bones growing. After a disappointing day, Reece found me crying and promptly comforted, “It’s ok Mom, maybe you’re growing.”  Little did he know.

—–

EmmaKaite  “Mom, you’re addicted to showers.  You take one like every day.”

—–

2 year old Reece sitting on my lap at church with his hands over his ears  “Dat singing is making me DEAD!”

—–

Reece   “Honeys don’t get divorced.”

—–

Me: Ugh, that dog shed all over me!

Reece: Don’t you mean “pooped”?

Me:  No Reece, I said “shed” not “sh…”.  Never mind.

—–

(During a discussion about not using the words “shut up” in our house)

Reece: I know…kissing! Kissing is a nice way to say “shut up”.

—–

Reece:  “No.  I didn’t break up with her.  Hannah Montana broke up with me…on the phone.”

—–

(For Robin.  After taking the Sacrament…)

Reece:  Water is gluten-free!

—–

Reece: Dad, how did we unlock Baby Mario?

Daniel: I can’t remember, but it took a lot of hard work.

Reece: Oh wait! I remember…pure awesomeness…that girls don’t have…except for mom.

—–

Sadie at breakfast, “Can I have my English muffin blind?…uh, no…naked?…I mean plain! with nothing on it!”

—–

Reece “My teachers at the Children’s House don’t wash their clothes”

—–

Daniel:  Why don’t you want me to put you to bed?  What does Mom do that’s so awesome?

Reece: I just like Mom better than you.

—–

Reece:  If someone gets lonely they can stab a cow with a knife and get a hamburger…if they have a bun…and some cheese…and some ketchup…and a pickle…oh, and some mayo…and salad…and mustard…and a potato…but I don’t even like those.

—–

(Just before Nathan got married, I asked Reece who he was voting for – Nathan or Amanda?)

Reece: It’s a wedding, Mom.  Nobody wins.

(After the laughter died down…)

Oh wait, everybody wins!

—–

EmmaKaite:  Sadie, your breath really stinks this morning.

Sadie: Does it smell like poop?

Emma: Yeah

Sadie (matter-of-factly): Oh, then that’s yours.

—–

Reece: I tried to wake up Emma but I couldn’t understand her.  She was talking bliberish.

—–

(At Nonnie’s funeral)

Reece:  Her hand is hard.

April:  Nonnie’s hand is hard because her spirit isn’t in her body anymore.

Reece:  Huh, so your spirit makes your body squishy.

—-

5 yr old Reece (at lunch):   So, I was just thinking about my future…

—–

2 yr old Sadie:  Mine bye-bye no hoop wah wah!

(Yeah, we’re still trying to figure that one out.  The closest we’ve come is “My car doesn’t drink water!”)

—–

Reece “You can hide but you can’t run.  No wait.  You can’t hide.  Ok.  You can run but you can’t hide!”

—–

(After questioning the kids why no one was laughing)

Sadie: Uh, Mom, no one ever laughs at jokes that aren’t funny.

—–

Daniel: Reece, you’re going to go to your soccer camp tomorrow.  Your coaches came all the way from England.  They’re British.

Sadie:  Oh, you mean they talk like they’re rich?

—–

Sadie:  Wanna play house?

Reece:  Can I be a plant that shoots?

Sadie:  No.

Reece:  Can I be a zombie?

Sadie:  No.

Reece:  Then no.

—–

Reece:  Mom, is it awesome being you?

—–

Reece:  Who doesn’t love Smarties?

—–

Sadie “I wish I could die and live with my guinea pig.  Actually, I wish he would come back alive and live with me.  I’m too young to die.”

—–

Reece:  Do spiders have lips?  If not, then how do they kiss people they love?

—–

Sadie:  “I only want to do the things I want to do!”

—–

Overheard Reece singing in the other room “♫♪♫ We founded love in a hopeless place…we founded love in a hOpeless place ♫♪♫”

—–

Sadie:  Reece, you have a police record.

Reece: What? No I don’t!

Sadie:  Yes you do.  You called 911.  You have a record.

—–

(Asking Daniel about seeds in the NCAA game)

Reece:  “Which team has more beans?”

—–

(Bedtime.  A tiny 2 1/2 year old voice)

Sadie:  Mom, you’re my best.

—–

(Random Florence and the Machine reference)

Reece:  She’s right.  It is hard to dance with the devil on your back…

—–

Reece after cleaning the playroom by himself   “I did a great job for a 6-year-old who really only wants to just play.”

—–

Sadie:  “Oh man!  That eel is biting the octopus’s squench-acles!  I mean arms!”

—–

EmmaKaite (to me):  Heh heh.  When you drive, your arms kind of flap . . . right there on the bottom part.

—–

And, par for course, I received this note from Sadie just this afternoon:

“Dear Mom,

Thank you for being really nice to me!  And before I forget, I really really want rollerblades!  I am so happy that you are my mom!!!

Love, Sadie”

—–

For more Mother’s Day Madness, here’s last year’s post “The Day I Saved My Kid’s Life”:  https://justjodie.wordpress.com/2011/05/08/the-day-i-saved-my-kids-life-a-mothers-tale/

Of Bees and Knees

Have you ever tried to take a blankie away from a toddler?  It is no small feat.  There’s sweat and tears, pleading, wailing and teeth gnashing.  The kid doesn’t behave civilly either.

That’s because her lovey isn’t just a ratty, old, Cheetos-stained rag.  To the child, a blankie is security, comfort and companionship.  It’s a pair of familiar arms wrapped around her or a soft hand on her cheek.  When you take away the blanket, you take away a sanctuary of sorts, a friend.  Who wouldn’t throw a fit when that is snatched away?

I had a security blanket once.  Only I wasn’t 3 years old, I was 34.  And it wasn’t a blanket, it was book.

My dear friend Cindy loaned me The Secret Life of Bees to read while I recovered from knee surgery.  Three pages into the book, I fell in love – with the characters, the story line, the setting.  I knew it would keep me entertained throughout the entire ordeal.

I was buried in Bees when the nurses started my IV, marked the correct knee, donned hair nets and generally fussed over me.  I had to lay the book on my stomach so I could put on my own fluffy blue net of hairlessness.  After removing my glasses, one of the nurses reached over to take my book.  I shook my head and muttered “Nuh uh.  We’ll just leave this right here.”  Consulting each other with their eyes, the nurses left me and my Bees to fetch Dr. Nelson (not unlike two kids running off  hollering “We’re gonna go get Dad!”)  Those two turkeys had already taken everything they could from me – my underclothes, my ring, my phone, my glasses, the freedom to wear my hair long and unrestrained.  The only item I had left in that cold and lonely room was the little book Cindy loaned me.  I wasn’t about to give it up to a couple of snitches or their dad.

Dr. Nelson returned with his two flying monkeys in tow and took a stab at grabbing the book.  With an air of confidence he stuck out his hand and said “Ok, let’s get that book put away and we’ll take you down to the O.R.”  That’s when I, a 34 year-old grown woman, threw a tantrum – complete with a knuckle-white death grip, an overly determined head shake and a “Nuh uh!” that really meant “I imagine you, as a practiced surgeon, value your hands.  If that is the case, do not again attempt to remove this book from my possession.”  They begrudgingly allowed me to keep it.

Without my glasses, the book was no good for reading.  But I held it tight and it was an absolutely perfect something-to-hold.  The team wheeled my bed down a long hall into the operating room.  I held the book to my chest the entire way – partly to curb my mounting anxiety and partly to prevent the cold breeze from blowing my gown up for the whole world to see what I wasn’t wearing underneath.

In the O.R., the anesthesiologist noticed Bees and told me to give it up.  Again, I shook my head, “Nuh uh.”  (You know what they say about the terrible mid-thirties – you cannot reason with a 34 year old.)  Momentarily ignoring my irrational attachment to the book, the doctor explained the reasoning behind the leads on my chest and breathing tube placer.  They were there just in case I crashed under the anesthetics.  I gripped that little book even tighter.

Sliding over onto the operating table, the nurses began their latest evil book-snatching scheme. Under the guise of gently strapping me to the table, an arm flew up out of nowhere and attempted to swipe my book!  Surprised, but determined to not be bested, I firmly shook my head, “Nuh uh.  Not.Yet.”

It worked!  I temporarily won another 30 seconds of security with my beloved Bees.

Collectively, there must have been 100 years of education in that operating room and all of it conspired against me in the final attempt to win the book.  The anesthesiologist and the conniving flying monkeys devised a brilliant plan.  Feigning warm concern, the good doctor said “Ok, you breathe into this mask 3 times while I stand over here doing nothing in particular to your arm….doo dee dum dee dum…I’m not administering unconscious drugs or anything…”

In my heart of hearts I knew what they were doing.  Even I had to admit brilliance when I recognized it.  Since the guy literally held my life in his hands and I technically still had the book in mine, I obeyed.  First breath.  Second breath…I felt the book slip out of my hands.  I attempted to shake my head “Nuh…”  That was it.  They won.  My lovey was gone.  So was I.

Anyone who knows me well can tell you I’m overly stubborn and highly independent.  I never imagined I would need that kind of comfort, a lovey-like security object.

And I’m sure Cindy had no idea that’s what she was giving me when she loaned me her book.  I imagine her thinking it was no big deal to grab a book for me on her way out the door.  A small kindness.  However, there is no such thing as a small kindness.  In the fable about the Lion and the Mouse, Aesop reminds us “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”  Loaning me her book may have seemed small at the time, but it meant the world to me.

I wonder if sometimes we think our modest efforts of kindness are meaningless, that they have no serious or lasting implications. I’m sure occasionally we feel discouraged as we give into the idea that we cannot change the world.  That our small contributions are inconsequential or that we don’t have the time or means to be concerned for others.  However, as a recipient of a multitude of little acts of kindness, I know that our seemingly small endeavors are more valuable than we imagine.

David O. McKay spoke of the power of small and simple acts:

“There is no one great thing that we can do to obtain eternal life, and it seems to me that the great lesson to be learned in the world today is to apply in the little acts and duties of life the glorious principles of the Gospel.  Let us not think that because some of the things named this afternoon may seem small and trivial, that they are unimportant.  Life, after all, is made up of little things. Our life, our being, physically, is made up here of little heart beats.  Let that little heart stop beating, and life in this world ceases.

The great sun is a mighty force in the universe, but we receive the blessings of his rays because they come to us as little beams, which, taken in the aggregate, fill the whole world with sunlight. The dark night is made pleasant by the glimmer of what seem to be little stars; and so the true Christian life is made up of little Christ-like acts performed this hour, this minute, in the home, in the quorum, in the organization, in the town, wherever our life and acts may be cast” (Conference Report, Oct. 1914).

I wonder if the post op staff knew that little gem because when I came around, they slipped book back under my arm.  They didn’t give me my glasses because I didn’t need them – I wasn’t going to read again for hours.  The worth of the book wasn’t in reading it, but in the book itself and what it represented.  Those 302 pages held an emotional value that is still hard for me to put into words.  Maybe its the idea that security objects are more than just their physical properties.  What I didn’t want them to take away wasn’t the book, but the extension of the loved one who gave me the book.

And also, maybe I should apologize for calling my nurses conniving flying monkeys and thank them for eventually seeing the greater value of the book.  And while I’m at it, I should probably apologize for threatening to bilaterally amputate my surgeon at the wrists.  However, I would’ve allowed him to keep his woobie – that would’ve been the kind thing to do.

All is Well!

So today we’re celebrating Pioneer Day with a non-competitive fun run, a fantastic parade, food, music, dancing and fireworks! Here’s a post in honor of the reason for our festivities today…

(2010)  This has been an epic summer for us.  We had the opportunity to walk through Nauvoo, Winter Quarters, Sweetwater Camp, Martin’s Cove and Rock Creek Hollow.  We spent much time on hallowed ground.  There is a spirit in each of those sites that settled into my heart and I felt the presence of our gospel forbearers.

 President Hinckley said of Rock Creek Hollow, “A spirit of peace and reverence and sacred remembrance will hover over this whole area as a beneficent cloud on a hot summer day.  The memories of those who here perished are deeply and indelibly etched, and this ground must forever hold for us a feeling of great sanctity.”

 While visiting those sacred places, I read and heard countless stories – tragedy and suffering almost impossible to describe.  The sacrifices of our beloved pioneers were greater than we understand.  Their reward, however, was just as substantial.  They slowly came to know the Savior in a very unique and deeply personal way.

The Willie Handcart Company suffered beyond imagination.  An early storm brought freezing temperatures and severe snow fall.  They were slowly freezing to death in their threadbare clothes and thin-soled shoes.  Exhausted from lack of food, they couldn’t push any further.  They stopped and waited to be rescued.  Thirteen Saints died that day and were buried in a common grave. The next day, two more died and were buried nearby.

Francis Webster was a boy in the Martin Handcart Company.  Looking back on his life, he wrote “We suffered beyond anything you can imagine.  Many died of exposure and starvation.  We became acquainted with God in our extremities.”

Brother Webster told of looking ahead to see a spot on the trail and saying, “I can pull the handcart only that far.”  And when he got to that point, his cart started pushing him.  It was then that he said he knew God and angels were helping him push.  Brother Webster wrote, “Was I sorry that I chose to come by Handcart?  No.  Neither then nor one moment of my life since.  The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay and I am thankful that I was to come to Zion in the Martin Handcart Company.”  Brother Webster considered his suffering a privilege to bear.  Through his suffering he came to know God.

Years before the pioneers pulled their handcarts west, the Saints became well acquainted with grief.  Driven out of their beautiful Nauvoo, the Saints left behind all they had – only to face the bone-chilling cold and the unknown.

Pres Hinkley said, “Leaving Nauvoo was a remarkable act of faith. There was much of hardship ahead for these pioneers, but they had faith in their leaders and faith in the Lord and His goodness, faith that He would once again lead His people to the promised land, faith that they would not fail. So they walked out into a wild place, their journey showed  faith – in every footstep.”

Daniel and I walked a long gray dirt path in Nauvoo traditionally known as “The Trail of Tears”.  My eyes were drawn to a single yellow butterfly landing almost in the middle of the path like a tiny spark of hope.  I wondered if President Hinckley saw something similar when he renamed the path “The Trail of Hope.

A series of quotes from the journals of these Saints now decorates the trail leading out of Nauvoo. To my amazement, I found in several of the quotes – not desperation and discouragement – but confidence and commitment and even joy!  They were filled with hope!

Sarah DeArmon Rich wrote “To start out on such a journey in the winter would seem like walking into the jaws of death but we had faith … [and] we felt to rejoice that the day of our deliverance had come.”

Zina Young said “There on the bank of the Chariton River, I was delivered of a fine son. Occasionally the wagon had to be stopped that I might take a breath. Thus I journeyed on. But I did not mind the hardship of my situation, for my life had been preserved, and my babe was so beautiful!”

Orson Pratt recorded,  “Our camp resounded with songs of joy and praise to God — all were cheerful and happy in the anticipation of finding a resting place from persecution.”

And Brother B. H. Roberts wrote, “With this advanced camp of the great exodus, there had come a brass band, led by Captain Pitt. After encampment was made and the toils of the day were over, the snow would be scraped away, a huge fire or several of them kindled within the wagoned enclosure, and there to the inspiring music of Pitt’s band, song and dance often beguiled the exiles into forgetfulness of their trials and discomfort.”

Hope is what filled the hearts of the Saints as they undertook their monumental journey.  Hope is what continued to sustain the Saints nearly ten years later when the handcart companies traveled west.

John Latey observed two companies as they arrived in Florence, Nebraska.  He wrote to Elder John Taylor:

“They were in fine health and spirits, singing as they came along Elder McAllister’s handcart song “some must push and some must pull…”  One would not think that they had come from Iowa City, a long and rough journey of 300 miles, except by their dust-stained garments and sunburned faces.  My heart is gladdened as I write this, for methinks I see their merry countenances and buoyant step, and the strains of the handcart song seems ringing in my ears – like sweet music heard at eventide or in a dream…In giving you this description of the feelings of the first companies, I give you, in effect, the feelings of the whole.”

These early Saints were no doubt in destitute and desperate situations, but they were not hopeless. Many of their hearts were broken, but their spirits were strong as they sang with full conviction “But with joy, wend your way” and “Happy day!  All is well!”

They learned a profound lesson. They learned that hope, with its attendant blessings of peace and joy, does not depend upon circumstance. They discovered the true source of happiness — hope in the Lord Jesus Christ and in His atonement.

Elder Ballard said “We all face Rocky Ridges with the wind in our face and winter coming on too soon.  Sometimes it seems as though there is no end to the dust that stings our eyes and clouds our vision.  Occasionally we reach the top of one summit in life, as the pioneers did, only to see more mountain peaks ahead, higher and more challenging than the one we have just traversed.”

 It is at the very moment we think we cannot take another step, that we so desperately need to “Remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that [we] must build [our] foundation.  That when the devil shall send forth his mighty wind, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon [you], it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless woe, because of the rock upon which ye are built which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build,  they cannot fall.”  (Helaman 5:12)

The prophet Mormon was no stranger to difficult circumstances.  He understood and clearly taught this doctrine.  “And again, my beloved brethren, I would speak unto you concerning hope.  Behold I say unto you that ye shall have hope through the atonement of Christ, and this because of your faith in Him, according to the promise.” (Moroni 7:41)

Hope comes from faith in Jesus Christ. Your happiness now and forever is conditioned upon the degree to which you believe that.  He has already overcome the world, death, all pain, and all grief.  He promised that He will wipe away our tears if we will turn to Him and believe and follow with faith – in every footstep.

Tapping our reservoirs of hope and endurance that comes from faith in Christ, we can, as did our beloved handcart pioneers, push ever onward toward that day when our voices will join with theirs, singing, “All is well!  All is Well!”

The Day I Saved My Kid’s Life: A Mother’s Tale

Stuck to my refrigerator is a construction paper award with my name in big block letters.  It’s an 8.5 x 11 reminder of my shining moment as a mother:  The Day I Saved My Kid’s Life.

Before I recount the heroic tale, let me share a few less dramatic but otherwise noteworthy moments in my motherhood career…

…the time my two-year-old son Reece announced loudly (in church) that I had TWO BOOBS! then proceeded to count and honk each one.  If mortification is a word, I experienced it that day.  If mortification is not a word, it should be, because I experienced it that day.

…or the time while dining at Juniper’s, Reece watched a Hispanic man with a very large birthmark on his face eating dinner with his family.  Impressed by the colors and unable to contain his excitement Reece exploded, “MOM!!  DO YOU SEE THAT MAN?!”  (I did see that man when we first walked in and thought to myself, “That’s a pretty shade of purple.  But, please, for the love of all that is good in my son, do not let him see that man!”  My silent plea was not granted.)  “HIS FACE IS HALF BROWN AND HALF PURPLE!!  How did Heavenly Father make a guy HALF BROWN AND HALF PURPLE??”

What could I do?  I slowly, almost imperceptibly, lowered my son’s pointed finger and said under my breath, “I don’t know.  You’ll have to ask Him someday.”  The man and I exchanged smiles – mine apologetic, his amused and understanding.

…and the time at dinner one Sunday, Sadie announced she wanted to go on a mission…to teach aliens about Jesus Christ.  Because she and He loves them.

I’ve actually had a few proud, normal moments in my career.  At four years old, my daughter sang “Nearer My God to Thee” for a church meeting in front of an audience of almost 300 people.  It was supposed to be a duet with my husband, Daniel, until he got choked up and landed Emma with a solo.  She swiftly took over his part and finished the song by herself.  Absolutely beautiful.

And I’ll never forget Sadie’s first talk in Primary.  She retold the story of The Good Samaritan.  We recorded her practicing because we were sure she would be the first Sunbeam to speak in General Conference and we wanted to remember her when…

The Transcript

Sadie: ONE TIME THERE WAS A MAN HURT.  Another man found him and he helped him.  He put the hurt man on his own donkey and took him to the inn.  The man felt happy when he helped the hurt man.  I feel happy when I hurt others.

Me:  …when I help others…help!

But enough stories about the kids and their awesome accomplishments.  This one is about me and mine:  The Day I Saved My Kids Life.  Or, as I sometimes refer to it:  The Day I Won the Layperson Semi-surgical Procedure of the Year Award.  That single act automatically qualified me to join Daniel in the I Literally Saved My Kid’s Life Club.

Daniel’s account of the event that earned him a spot in the ILSMKL Club:  “She was choking on some chicken.  I did the Heimlich.”

The event that earned me a spot was, of course, far more dramatic and detailed.  In fact, it was so involved, the episode began several days prior to the actual life-saving.

The Sunday previous to the semi-surgical procedure, Reece had a bloody nose.  We didn’t think anything of it because the heater had been on since the beginning of time and the house was dry.  His nose ran ickily for the next few days, but what 3-year-old boy’s nose doesn’t?  Sometime near the end of the week, the stink was so offensive I could hardly hold him on my lap.  I threw him in the bathtub and tooth-brushed every spot in his mouth I could reach.  Nothing alleviated the stench.  Just to be sure I wasn’t insane, I asked Daniel to smell his son’s nostrils.  Even Daniel could smell the stink – that’s saying something.

The next morning, two feet away from Reece, I smelled something wretched.  Like spoiled-tuna-fish-with-feta wretched.  I grabbed the boy by the ears, peered into his nose and spotted a gooey, stinking blockage set deep in his right nostril. THE SMELL WAS HORRIFYING! (I’m gagging just thinking about it…)

I bribed Reece with a peanut butter cup to let me poke around.  He wanted to go to “the kid doctor”.  “I am the kid doctor” was all it took for me to gain nostril access.  (Every good mother moonlights as a kid doctor so my claim doesn’t qualify as total deceit.  Besides, the stink was so bad, I couldn’t take him out in public.)

I laid my kid doctor surgical tools on the bathroom counter: a Q-tip, tweezers, an emergency storage flashlight, Neosporin and some toilet paper.  Perched on the toilet at a negative 65 degree angle, flashlight between my teeth, I grabbed hold of that gooey mass and gave it a good tug.  I only got a tiny fraction of the Superbooger – one sticky, stinking strand of SICK!

Mind you, I had no nasal scope.  It was pure layperson mom rescue stuff happening right there in my bathroom.

On my second attempt to extract the supernatural beast, I slipped those tweezers so far up his nostril, I may have touched the olfactory lobe of his brain.  I pulled out a piece of bodily-fluid-covered Scotch tape scrunched up and folded over at the very top.  How could the kid breathe?  His nose had been cut by the corner of the tape and was totally infected.  I’m still surprised he didn’t have a raging fever!

The smell engulfed the room.  Nay, the smell engulfed the bathroom, the hall and two adjacent bedrooms.  It grew arms and attempted to choke the life out of me.  I gagged and swooned and gagged and swooned and almost threw up for a good 60 seconds.

Disgusting as it was, the foul antagonist had to be preserved until I could show Daniel.  But how?  I decided the best option was to contain the tape and it’s odor in a triple extra heavy duty Ziploc baggie with an armed guard.

I swabbed Reece’s nostril with some very medically-advanced tap water and a pea-sized dab of Neosporin.  By bedtime that night…no feta, no tuna, no odorous trace of the plastic offender!

What a tough little man.  He didn’t squawk once thanks to his high pain tolerance and unwavering faith in my kid doctoring abilities.

One may wonder, exactly how life-threatening is a piece of Scotch tape? And does its presence really warrant an armed guard?  To that I would reply, “one” wasn’t there to assess the gravity of the noxious infection.  “One” didn’t dare tweeze within millimeters of one’s only son’s brain.  “One” did not put the smack down on the polluted perpetrator.  But I was.  I dared.  I did.

So that’s how I earned The Layperson Semi-surgical Procedure of the Year Award.  Here’s the thing:  I made and hung the construction paper award myself.  Who else was going to do it?  No one gives moms medals.  Our names never appear in the Grand Journal of Professional Mothers.  But we are doers, darers, and achievers just the same.

I haven’t yet met a mother yet who isn’t worthy of a self-conferred award.  What’s yours?  What needs to be printed in block letters and stuck on your fridge?  Here’s a list of ideas to get you started.  Feel free to claim one as your own:

◊  The “I Saved My Kid’s Social Life by Not Allowing Her to Pick Her Nose and Eat It” Award

◊  The “I Survived a Two-Hour Grocery Store Tantrum Without Throwing One Myself” Award

◊  The “I Could Bake an Entire Casserole Using Only the Crumbs from the Floor of My Tahoe” Award

◊  The “At Least I Waited Until After the Kids Left for School to Eat Apple Pie for Breakfast” Award.  (Actually, that one’s taken.  I earned it a few weeks ago.)

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The Toughest Cowpoke Around

“Wanted”

They say he’s Wanted, that cowboy on wheels

Fer sleepin’ on the job, doin’ whatever he feels

Wanted fer pullin’ our hair and stealin’ our hearts

And spreadin’ that grin all ‘round these parts

But some Buckaroos are too good for this earth

They belong somewhere else, fer as much as they’re worth

So on March second, Two Thousand ‘Eleven

God called that Cowboy back home to heaven

“Wanted” He said. “But no wheels for my boy!

Just legs for the runnin’ and a life of perfect joy.”

With love,

Jodie and Daniel

WordPress 2010 Year in Review

The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads This blog is on fire!.

Crunchy numbers

 

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 1,900 times in 2010. That’s about 5 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 10 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 20 posts. There were 67 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 296mb. That’s about a picture per week.

The busiest day of the year was May 17th with 90 views. The most popular post that day was Real.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, mail.live.com, chriswilkesfamily.blogspot.com, mail.yahoo.com, and malloryhigginson.blogspot.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for frost, birthday pancakes, birthday pancake, “coleman”, and redneck water slide wellsville.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

1

Real May 2010
7 comments

2

The Little Grand Canyon Half Marathon September 2010
13 comments

3

Reflections of Wellsville September 2009
8 comments

4

Halloween 2010 – The Addams Family October 2010
15 comments

5

My Sisters’ Hands March 2010
4 comments

Halloween 2010 – The Addams Family

So…

They’re creepy and they’re kooky,
Mysterious and spooky,
They’re altogether ooky,
The Addams Family.

Their house is a museum.
When people come to see ’em
They really are a screa-um.
The Addams Family.

Neat…

Sweet…

Petite…

The Addams Family

Morticia, Wednesday, Pugsley, Gomez Addams and Cousin It

Morticia and Gomez

Wednesday and Pugsley

Cousin It

The Little Grand Canyon Half Marathon

So, although I ran for 2 hours and 28 minutes straight, I am not a Runner.  I am a Plodder.  It would be more accurate to say it took me 2:28:45 to plod The Little Grand Canyon Half Marathon course in The San Rafael Swell.  I can’t really claim I ran the Half, because at 11:00 minutes/mile one is not really running.  But I didn’t stop to walk either – not even to grab a water or almost-throw-up. 

Here is my Plodders’ tale…

After Mile 1, the group of 400 half marathon participants divided into three distinct packs:  The Masochists (or Real Runners), The Plodders, and Those Who Paid $50 for a Mammoth Marathon Runner’s Shirt and a Navajo taco. 

Included in our Plodders Pack was a Clydesdale.  In the Runners’ world (and apparently in the Plodders’ world as well) a Clydesdale is a male runner weighing over 200 lbs.  I noticed somewhere around Mile 2 that he was using me as a wind break.  Given a few natural laws of physics and the ratio of  his body width to mine, I was not his best wind-break option.  Nevertheless, the Clydesdale kept a steady pace behind me for several miles.  (By the way, you’re welcome Clyde.)

At Mile 3 I fell to the middle of the Plodders Pack and was passed by two grandmas, a mom with twins in a Plodding stroller, an Oriental guy taking pictures and a three-legged coyote.

Somewhere between Mile 4 and Mile 5, number three on Jodie Coleman’s List of Worst Running Nightmares struck!  My iPod died.  Right there in the middle of “Bad Romance”, Lady Gaga quit my team!  (Thanks, little Reece, for the perfectly apt expression.)

With my hand cocked back, ready to throw the iPod across San Rafael county, I made the conscious decision to be rational and wait until the end of the race when I could properly back over the iPod repeatedly with the truck.  Cursing silently as I inhaled and audibly as I exhaled, I strapped Lady Gaga’s lifeless body to the back of my pants and shoved the ear buds deep into my pocket…and continued to plod.    

I needed a distraction – any kind of music to keep my mind off the repetitive “clomp clomp exhale…clomp clomp exhale”.  I didn’t even have to turn around to ask the Clydesdale if he would sing for me as he was still in earshot futilely attempting to draft.  I called out, “A little help here?  Could you sing the second half of “Bad Romance”?  The Clydesdale politely declined (claiming it was physically impossible for him to sing like a radioactive Barbie) and proceeded to breathe down my neck. 

Just when I started to lose hope of finishing the race, I remembered I had an entire pack of gum jammed in my left pocket!  I quickly made a plan.  At the next mile marker, I took one piece of gum from my left pocket, carefully unwrapped it, then tore it in half.  I stuck half into my mouth and rewrapped the remaining half.  I then placed the rewrapped half back into my left pocket.  (You’re thinking, “Man, this painstakingly detailed…”  I did it on purpose.  With my legs and breathing on auto pilot, I engaged my mind completely in the minutia of my newly concocted gum ritual.)  One half mile later, I chucked the chewed wad as far as I could and fished around for the second half.  I unwrapped that one, shoved the paper into the right pocket (next to my useless iPod buds) and waited for next mile marker to start the ceremony all over again.  I chewed the entire pack within 2 hours – which may explain why my temporomandibular joints are just as sore as my hips.

By Mile 7 the Clydesdale had enough of my gum unwrapping and wrapping compulsion and he dropped back leaving me to listen to my own breathing and to the runners’ echoes from the walls of the canyons “Whoohoo…hoo…hoo…” and “Yo Adriaaan…aaan…aan…”  Once I swear I heard a vulture screeching, waiting for someone to pass out.  But that could’ve been delirium setting in. 

Besides the gum ritual keeping me occupied, I started to note interesting sights.  The Swell is surrounded by sheer cliffs, red-layered rock, gigantic orange boulders and gorgeous trees.  I saw authentic hieroglyphics as well as an ancient grandpa in red and pink checkered socks.  The only thing distracting from the beauty of the canyons was an occasional insulting road sign reading “DIP” or “SLOW”. 

One of my biggest fears was that I would throw up during the race.  After the first three miles, it was a surprisingly smooth run.  But near Mile 11, I felt a burble.  Something was going the wrong way up my esophagus.  I couldn’t force it back down afraid that if I fought it, I’d cramp up.  I remember thinking “Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be…” (by this time, the Clydesdale was a safe enough distance behind to easily maneuver around “whatever will be”) and I let it go. *HIGH FIVE*  It was just a Gatorade burp!

Mile 12 and 13 passed uneventfully.  My husband and kiddos were there to meet me at the finish line.  I got a medal – and some watermelon.    

So there it is.  I ran two and a half hours without stopping, without my iPod, and sadly, without my best friend.  But I finished!  128th place overall.  That puts me smack in the middle of the Plodders – right next to Checkered Socks Grandpa and thirteen clomps in front of Clyde. 

Handcart Trek in Wyoming 2010

 
 
So here are just a few of my favorite photos from our unforgettable handcart trek in Wyoming…
 
 

The Coleman Trek Family

 

Our carts

   

"But with joy, wend your way..."

  

...

 

Sweetwater River Crossing

...

 

...

 

Rock Creek Hollow

Unmarked Gravesite at Rock Creek

Rock Creek Hollow

...

 

...

 

...

 

Near Martin's Cove

Sweetwater River Rescue Monument

Coleman Trek Family Ladies

Coleman Trek Family Guys

 

Brother Wells

 

Brooks

Second Rescue Monument

 

Company A men honoring our "Women's Pull"

My trek girls

 

There’s over 100 more photos of the trek in our Facebook album:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=sent#!/photo.php?pid=13568224&id=809315082

 To look through the whole album, click the blue “next” button by the top righthand corner of the picture.

Enjoy!!

 

 

 

 

A Third Helping of “Overheard”

_________________

Daniel:  Why don’t you want me to put you to bed?  What does Mom do that’s so awesome?

Reece:  I just like Mom better than you.   

_________________

(Just before Nathan got married, I asked Reece who he was voting for – Nathan or Amanda?)

Reece:  It’s a wedding, Mom.  Nobody wins.

(After the laughter died down…)  Oh wait, everybody wins! 

_________________

EmmaKaite:  Sadie, your breath really stinks this morning.

Sadie:  Does it smell like poop?

Emma:  Yeah

Sadie (matter-of-factly):  Oh, then that’s yours.

_________________

EmmaKaite (to me):  Heh heh.  When you drive, your arms kind of flap . . . right there on the bottom part.

_________________

Real

So it wasn’t until several weeks after I hung up the phone that I really understood the significance of our conversation.  It was sheer genius, the life truths we discovered that day.

In the midst of our chat, I mentioned some of the reasons I had for her awesomeness.  She denied being anything but normal.  She said something like “Oh, that’s not me.  I do at least three embarrassing things every day.” (She knows the average because apparently her kids keep a tally.)

Here is a soul sister!  There are days I say or do something embarrassing ON THE HOUR!  Thankfully, most days include only one or two mishaps.

Like the time I couldn’t see over my pregnant belly to properly dress myself so I showed up for work wearing one tan shoe and one blue shoe.  Yeah, they noticed.

Or the time my Bishop asked if I would serve as the Primary President of our ward to which I promptly retorted, “Have you been drinking?!”  The look on his face told me that’s not a question one normally asks a Bishop.  In the same meeting, I referred to a couple in our ward several times as “The Butts”.  I found out over a week later that when Erin and Jason got married, Jason changed his last name to “Botz”.  Again, “butts” is just not something one repeatedly blurts out when meeting with the Bishop.

Or the time we were at a beginning-of-the-semester work party and I slid my hand up the underside of what I thought was my husband’s arm.  My mind always replays what happened next in slow motion…

Daniel’s arm is soft.

Odd, Daniel’s arm isn’t normally soft.

Hey I see Daniel clear across the circle.  Hi Dan!

Hmm…how exactly can I have my hand up Daniel’s sleeve and yet be facing Daniel who is standing four feet away across the circle?”

After twelve eternal seconds, it registered.  I was actually feeling up my boss’ husband’s arm.  Embarrassed to no end, I laughed loud and hard.  He didn’t crack a smile.

Or the time I…

You get the idea.

So you can see how I could relate to my amazing friend.  I’ve been there.  I mean really been there (and still visit ‘there’ pretty much every day).  I wanted to disclose all of my own daily mishaps and misadventures, but I didn’t.  I simply said “Yeah, but you’re Real.”  Without thinking, she replied “That I am…very real”.  Her comment was so endearing to me because I’ve always loved Real people.  Not real as in non-imaginary, but Real as in genuine.

It’s taken me several weeks now, but I think I’ve finally figured out what Real is and why I love it so.

 

Much of what I know about being Real comes from a conversation between the Velveteen Rabbit and the Skin Horse.     

“What is Real?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

 

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily or have sharp edges or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But those things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

There it is.  Just about everything there is to know about being Real hidden in a children’s book about a talking stuffed animal.  Genius.

Real is not perfect.  It’s not perfectly non-mussed.  Real has flaws and defects and shortcomings.  Real botches stuff up every once in a while.  Real trips over things and slips sometimes.  Real is not perfect.

And it’s not superficial.  Real has a certain depth.  According to the Skin Horse, “Real isn’t how you are made.”  It doesn’t mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle.  Real isn’t shallow or pretentious, shiny, showy, brand new, or brand name.  It can’t be purchased and it’s definitely not decorative.

In Little Women, Mrs. March tells her three girls, “If you feel your value lies in being merely decorative, I fear that someday you might find yourself believing that’s all you really are.”  I want to give Ms. Alcott a high five on behalf of those of us who are not all that into being decorative.  Those of us who heavily rely on the belief that some days pulling your hair back in a ponytail is the same thing as taking a shower.

Sometimes it’s more comfortable to be superficial, to take care of all the surface stuff.  I think that might be because being Real often hurts.  It’s uncomfortable having all your fur loved off.  It takes a great deal of quiet strength to be dragged, dropped, squeezed, repeatedly broken and repaired again.

Real is all worn down and loved up.

That being said, Real is beautiful.  The kind of beautiful that comes from way down deep inside.  I found some Way-Down-Deep-Inside Beauty Secrets originally discovered by Sam Levinson:

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.
For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.
For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.
For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.
For poise, walk with the knowledge you’ll never walk alone.

He adds, “The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair.  The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.  The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mode, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul.  It is the caring that she lovingly gives and the passion that she shows.”

Sister Hinkley is someone I want to be when I grow up.  She wrote, “I don’t want to drive up to the pearly gates in a shiny sports car, wearing beautifully tailored clothes, my hair expertly coiffed, and with long, perfectly manicured fingernails.  I want to drive up in a station wagon that has mud on the wheels from taking kids to scout camp. I want to be there with a smudge of peanut butter on my shirt from making sandwiches for a sick neighbor’s children. I want to be there with a little dirt under my fingernails from helping weed someone’s garden. I want to be there with children’s sticky kisses on my cheeks and the tears of a friend on my shoulder. I want the Lord to know I was really here and that I really lived.”

The secret to becoming Real is right there in the middle of the mud and weeds and sticky kisses.  It’s forgetting ourselves and looking after others.

President Spencer W. Kimball said, “The more we serve our fellowmen in appropriate ways, the more substance there is to our souls.  We become more significant individuals as we serve others.  We become more substantive as we serve others — indeed, it is easier to ‘find’ ourselves because there is so much more of us to find”

More than anything, Real loves.  Even when it’s inconvenient – especially when it’s inconvenient.  Mother Teresa had a good grasp on being Real.  She said, “You must live life beautifully and not allow the spirit of the world that makes gods out of power, riches and pleasure make you forget that you have been created for greater things – to love and to be loved.”

And so it is with the Real people in my life.  They live beautifully.  They are gentle and strong.  Tender and kind.  They have not forgotten the reason they are here – to love and to be loved.  They are Real. 

That they are…very Real.

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Overheard…in February

So I can’t help but add a second round of Overheard

Sadie (a few minutes after she learned ‘Mo’ died)   “I wish I could die and live with my guinea pig.  Actually, I wish he would come back alive and live with me.  I’m too young to die.”

EmmaKaite  “Mom, you’re addicted to showers.  You take one like every day.”

Reece   “My teachers at the Children’s House don’t wash their clothes”

Reece (at dinner – maccaroni & cheese)  “Thanks mom, for the delicious meal.”

EmmaKaite  “We’re pretty sure Wiley wants to be Sadie’s boyfriend.  At recess, he came up to her and said ‘Hey Babe.'”

Reece  “So Mom…if you were the only one here, would you have to babysit yourself?”

Reece “You know Mom, you can’t fight fire with fire. No really…you can’t.”

Overheard

So I thought I’d share some of the funny things I overheard my kiddos say this month…

EmmaKaite: “Well, boys are a mystery, mom.”

Sadie: “Can I have my English muffin blind?…uh no…I mean naked…no, I mean PLAIN with nothing on it!”

Reece: “No. I didn’t break up with her, Hannah Montana broke up with me…on the phone.”

Sadie: “Stop killing me!”
Me: “Reece, stop killing your sister. Nobody likes to play with people who kill them.”

Reece: “Can I have a zu-kiwi?”
Me: “You mean zucchini? Odd, but ok…”
Reece: “No zu-KIWI! You know, the green strawberry that has that brown fur?”

Winter Wonderland

So this post is dedicated to my good friend Letha who adores the Cache Valley frost.  We recently had an especially gorgeous couple of days and I thought she might enjoy a few snapshots of our magical valley…

Our neighbor's Willow

Our Aspen

Our Pine

Sumac in our back yard

Tree in our back yard - don't know what it is

Our back yard with the Wellsvilles in the background

bird house in our back yard

I put more frosty photos in my Facebook album:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=373620&id=809315082&l=f12f92f2fa

Happy Birthday, Pancake Maker!

So today is a good day.  It’s Erick’s birthday and I’m celebrating with pancakes that are burnt on the outside and runny in the middle!  There’s something beautiful in these black cakes of goo that calls for celebration.  Ok, maybe it’s not so much the pancakes that do the calling, but the pancake maker, Erick.

March 21st, 1993.  Imagine a Sunday morning in a household bustling with girls getting ready for church.  (You have to imagine it, but I was fortunate enough to have been part of it.)  As was often my habit, I sat back and watched this microcosm of motion take its natural course. 

Mentally noting the activity like a National Geographic field reporter, I observed the following:  Socks previously matched and put into a drawer, once pulled from the drawer, no longer match.  Hair evidently doubles in length on Sundays because it takes twice as long to blow dry.  Toothpaste shortages happen instantly and three minutes before it’s time to load the car.  Scriptures apparently have legs and can walk away from the place they were formerly laid.

I also observed (as a result of the aforementioned bustling) a busy mom and a teenage boy with an unusually big heart.

Looking back, I wonder if Erick had blown his hair dry that morning, because he was graced with an incredibly ingenious idea – he would lighten his mom’s load by cooking breakfast for the family.

After a good twenty minutes of clanging, pseudo-measuring, mixing and (I’m pretty sure) experimenting, the batter was ready to meet the nuclear-hot griddle.  The first ladle of batter seared and whistled as a small poof of greasy smoke clouded Erick’s face.  Working his way through the heat and smoke, Erick scraped and flipped the pancakes like he had been flippin’ pancakes all of  twenty minutes.

I knew the time would inevitably come for us to consume the cakes.  I stepped toward the chef, very literally a martyr.  Erick’s face beamed as the creature on the spatula fell to my plate with a “fwop”, batter oozing through crusty, burned cracks. 

Mmm.

I remember a lump growing in my throat as I watched the mass inch its way across the plate toward my fork.  It took the same amount of time for the butter to melt as it did for me to realize…the lump wasn’t a physiological response to the gooey black thing sliding around on the plate in front of me.  The lump was actually an assemblage of gratitude and respect.  It was a growing emotional response to Erick’s natural selflessness.

Needless to say, cooking was not so much Erick’s gift.  But in this instance of what he called “cooking”, Erick’s gift lived and shined.  His real talent was caring, providing, doing, and sacrificing.  He lived and breathed an innate kindness.  From Erick, I learned that kindness is not something you wish for; it’s something you make, something you do, something you are and something you give away.

Those black, gooey cakes were (hands down) the most delicious not-so-fantastic pancakes in the history of Sunday morning pancakes. 

So today I’ll burn me up some cakes and celebrate Erick, his sweet (yet charred) selflessness, and real kindness. 

This world is better for having welcomed Erick 34 years ago.

 

Coleman Family 2009

So I dug up some matching shirts, bribed my kids with either ice cream or a swift kick in the pants and hauled the family up to the big red door on 100 South.  Why I decided to take my own pictures this year has a simple answer.  Procrastination.  I waited too long and we had only one snowless day left in 2009.  I learned a grand lesson taking my own family pictures and this is it:  do not take your own family pictures.  Here are the results…

Halloweens Past

So I dug up some of our Halloween family photos…

Jacob, Joseph and Pharoah

Recycle (Bin) Bush, Trash (Bag) Kerry

Wizard of Oz

Midsummer's Night Dream

McCain/Palin '08

"Koosh Shing"

The Addams Family

Oh Shrek!

So, last week was Ginny’s birthday and her sweet daughter Shana put together a very special celebration. 

Here’s my contribution:103

You have to understand just a little speech and language background to really enjoy my favorite funny memory of Ginny.

Consonant clusters like “pr” or “shr” are difficult for toddlers to pronounce.  They will often substitute clusters with easier single consonants like “w” or “f”.  EmmaKaite was famous for doing this and we had lots of fun demonstrating her “trick”.

In the late spring of 2003, we stopped by to visit your mom.  She had obviously just been through a round of chemo.  She was weak and her pale face faded into the shades of pink on the scarf covering her head.  However, we weren’t surprised to find her still smiling and infectiously positive.
 
I poked Daniel with my elbow and asked him if EmmaKaite should do her trick.  After a moment’s deliberation on the appropriateness of the demonstration we plunged forward.  
 
I told EmmaKaite to look at Ginny and say “Oh Shrek!”  

Promptly and proudly, EmmaKaite turned to Ginny and blurted out “OH F***!”

Nervous chuckles broke into real laughter as we watched Ginny’s reaction.  She laughed with such force and depth, tears filled her eyes and brightened them so that they looked like gigantic blue jewels.  Big, fat drops of pure joy spilled down her face.  We laughed the kind of laugh that etches the moment in your mind forever.

When I close my eyes, I see the two of them at the dining room table squeezing each other.  I’ll never forget the loud, angelic “Oh F***!” from a little girl with dimples and curly hair, packaged in a pink top.  And the loud, angelic belly laugh from a woman with dimples and no hair wrapped in a pink scarf.

Looking back, I see the irony of an insidious, destructive disease trying to ravage our upbeat, happy Ginny.  Cancer could not destroy her spirit.  pink%20ribbon

“Cancer is so limited.  It cannot cripple love.  It cannot corrode faith.  It cannot shatter hope.  It it cannot eat away peace.  It cannot destroy confidence.  It cannot kill friendship.  It cannot shut out memories.  It cannot silence courage.  It cannot invade the soul.  It cannot reduce eternal life.  It cannot quench the spirit.” 
 
Cancer is so limited.  It cannot not take this memory from me.  And now, it cannot take it from you.

Happy Birthday, Ginny. 

I think we’ll pop some popcorn, put on Shrek and work up a good belly laugh for your birthday.

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