Heavy heart, thankfulness and words of advice

My heart is heavy and yet I am thankful. l received word yesterday that a friend I had served with in a Relief Society Presidency in my last LDS ward in South Carolina walked in on a robbery at her own business and was killed. She was well-known in the area and was very well liked. She was truly a wonderful and lovely person. Never have I met someone with such a smiley, happy attitude; one of those genuine souls.

I am so sad for their family.

I am thankful that I knew her. I am thankful that I worked with her and was in one of the best wards in the world where we still keep in touch, still send letters and Christmas cards, still mourn with each other... I am truly thankful for those associations.

As someone who has lost both parents at an early age, I can tell you that little anecdotes about your parent's life, those little remembrances told by people that loved them or worked with them or just associated with them somehow are hugely comforting. Not just the "you'll see them again" comments which are nice but I feel are a little trite. Mainly because most Christians believe in life after death of some sort so we want to hear something more personal in these moments. 

Remember that although intellectually they may believe in eternity and life everlasting, the heart is broken and tends to rule. It's ok to cry, it's ok to be angry, it's ok to be sad. Don't try to force the healing process by saying how wonderful their reunion will be some day. We know that. It may just take a little time for that to comfort us. Just share a nice moment in time about their loved one, something that will make them proud of their family, and be a friend. And all will be well eventually.

Last night I dreamt of my daughter; thoughts on depression

We were standing on the edge of the shore with our feet sinking into the sand as the tide rushed over them. The sea's foamy surf left bubbles on our toes. In the distance were big, crashing waves and white caps. Its sight along with the sound let you know of the sea's massive power. We'd walk a little farther into the ocean and run back as the waves got closer and flattened, laughing as we beat them to the shore.
I remembered in the last part of my dream thinking that the waves would not overtake us. They may always be in the distance but they're not coming close enough to suffocate.

And then I awoke and I wondered how my daughter slept last night. I wondered what her dreams were. This is her 2nd stay in the hospital and is being treated for depression. Like a freak wave in the ocean, it came out of nowhere and tumbled her to the ground. We had to deliver the news yesterday that she would not be involved in her high school graduation ceremonies.  Three and a half years of hard work and diligent studying seemingly washed away, she felt. Now we know this isn't true but in a teenager's mind the excitement of that day is all they think of. Her response was expected but through her tears she said, "I have literally been dreaming of this day with my friends. I should have done more."

It angered me a bit. Not at her but that here she is, fighting to get healthy and clear her mind and body of debilitating sadness and anxiety and even she falls into the culture so pervasive with mental health which says somehow she can prevent this. That somehow just thinking happy thoughts can take this away and she could have done more when she absolutely couldn't. By no means is this a choice, just as you wouldn't choose to have any other disease.

While I was visiting her yesterday, I counted 23 children at dinner between the ages of 4 and 12 in the child unit. 23 not counting those that hadn't earned a trip to the cafeteria and were eating back in the unit. And all those kids are the ones that are lucky enough to have people in their lives who feel that therapy is important and seek help or have the funds or insurance to place them in a mental health facility. It's time to deal with it as aggressively as we do cancer and other diseases. It's time.

We have decided as a family to be open with our experiences in mental illness. We're not ones to bring on the attention so you won't hear me talk about it a lot or reference it in everyday conversations. That tires people out. But we are not embarrassed because there is nothing to be embarrassed about and are open to questions of every kind.

As with pretty much everything in life, you meet challenges head on or you don't and just hope something changes. So we're going head to head with this sucker.

The only words I have

My heart is breaking. I love Connecticut and pray for comfort and peace for Newtown and especially for all those families whose lives were forever changed today. I really have no words and can only offer up this quote.

You and I may cry out, "No one understands. No one knows."

But the Son of God perfectly knows and understands.

He can reach out, touch and strengthen us.

~Elder David A. Bednar 

Drive by love

Just a corner of the back yard.

**This was to be my Valentine's post but I didn't quite know how to finish so I didn't share. But, I decided to share anyway. Enjoy.

The house was quiet with all three kids taking a nap. I turned off the tv and listened to the stillness. Sinking deep into the comfortable leather chair that had been broken in over time, I looked out to the large picture window. To say it was large would be an understatement. It was massive, taking up almost the whole wall. I sat contemplating all that had gone on over the summer. The three months work of going through every single personal belonging in ones life was not an easy task. And the clearing, cataloguing, and distributing items along with cleaning and sprucing up a house to be sale-ready was a full-time job. At times it was overwhelming and I doubted my abilities to get it done. Soon though, I told myself, it would be over and done on time and we could fly back home to Jon and our other two children who stayed back with him in Pennsylvania.

My mind wandered as I stared out the window. Occasionally a car would drive past very slowly. I presumed they were taking a look at the "For Sale" sign in our front yard. It was a cute brick cottage on a tree-lined street with a half-acre backyard. Its sale was garnering a lot of attention.

A prime location in Logan, Utah and the unusual farm-like space out back was worth every penny I was asking for, maybe more really. Every Thursday I would go to the edge of the property and open up the water gates and flood the ground with fresh mountain water. Owning water rights was a commodity. I kicked myself for purchasing a home out East and tying us to that area when this house would have been a dream. I would have only been a day's drive from family. Originally we had planned on buying it years before but we decided to take the job transfer to Pennsylvania. My mom was so sad about that.

One car that drove by was going really slow. I thought maybe they were going to stop and then I thought they were running out of gas since it seemed to be inching down the road. I noticed the right turn signal was blinking so I knew it was not stopping. In order to come into my driveway, it would have to signal left. I waited to see where it would turn and watched as it began to turn into the driveway right across the street from my window. I was fixated on how slowly it was going and I surmised that it must be the elderly couple that my mom spoke of from time to time. They were well into their 80's.

I watched as their garage door automatically lifted and how the car pulled in to the immaculate space. There wasn't even a box to be seen, only a freezer and coat rack. It was a far cry from the garage that had just taken me months to unpack. The sun shine was coming from the East and gave direct light onto them.

From the driver's side stepped out an elderly man carrying a paper shopping bag with handles. His steps were short and shuffled. Time had slowed him. He came around the back of the car to the passenger side. With his right hand he gently opened the door. Reaching in with his left, he took the purse from his wife and was now holding two bags. How sweet, I thought, that he would make it easier for her to exit the vehicle. After pushing the door further open he extended his right hand and took his beloved's hand in his as he guided her out of the car. She was smartly dressed. A thin woman with a cream colored a-line skirt and long-sleeved blue flowered blouse. A light sweater covered her shoulders. It was the middle of summer but in the desert, the cool nights can leave you with a chill.

As she stepped out of the car, she smoothed out her skirt and smiled up at her husband. He took a small step toward her, leaned in and gave her a kiss on the lips. She smiled at him again and gently touched his face. I imagined she said something about their past, and maybe how handsome he still was, just like when they were young. They were still looking at each other, smiling as she fixed his collar. She stepped away from the car so he could shut the door. Turning back to her they each reached to hold hands and walked to the other side of the garage. With bags still in one hand, he reached up and pushed the garage door opener that was fastened to the wall, never letting go of her hand. I watched the door slowly go down, hearing the familiar whirl of its motor through an open window. My gaze was only interrupted by the single tear that fell from my cheek.

Sweet Basil

January is National Soup Month so in its honor I made home made chicken noodle soup and rolls.
Not the most original soup out there but it warmed the kids' toes on a wintry day and was spicy enough to make them sniffly. I was rifling through my spices to find some Basil to add to the soup but I didn't have any on hand.
I suddenly remembered a box of herbs and spices that I brought back from my mom's house the summer before last. With bittersweet feelings, I spent 3 months there closing up her house and going through her belongings. Some items made me laugh, some flooded my mind with memories, others made my eyes mist and some made me question her taste.

When I got to the kitchen items, I went through all of the spices that she so carefully planted, harvested, dried and bottled in her vintage Ball jars with zinc lids. Some were not marked so I had a sniffing test which ruined my sense of smell for a while. She never liked her handwriting but I always told her that it is part of history and she should write rather than type so we don't lose the personal touch. There is comfort in the written word - being able to see one's hand writing.

As I lifted jars and plastic bottles out of the bin today, I inspected each. Some were store bought and had labels and others were in vacuum sealed pouches, unmarked.
I looked for Basil, hoping I'd find some and as I turned over the last blue jar, on its label in deliberate and beautiful, crooked hand writing were the words "Sweet Basil."

Chicken soup was good for my soul today.

Established 1993

1 girl + 1 boy + a small town = meeting in highschool

Meeting in high school + friendship = going on dates

Going on dates + time = love

Love + a wedding in Portland +

16 years

6 states
2 military deployments
several tdy's
11 moves
5 kids
4 colleges
4 job changes

with some sadness and joy = a good life.

I am thankful it's been with you.
Happy Anniversary.

Nourishing Hearts

What is it about food?

Why is it so central to our gatherings?

Besides the obvious-having to eat for survival, why is it so important?

Is it the food or the people with whom we're sharing?

I think it is a little of both.

Sitting down to a meal together is the time that people bond, where friendships are renewed and informative conversations are spoken. This is the time to catch up on the day's events or hear of personal victories or defeats. It seems that life is sweeter (no pun intended) when we share a meal together. We enjoy the taste of scrumptious food and are thankful to the laborious hands that prepared it.

It is also a time of vulnerability. It is a selfless act, this giving from one's pantry and hoping that someone will enjoy the outcome of your mixing and baking, stirring and cooking.

Will they like it? What if they don't? Is it too salty? Spicy? Is it done in the middle?

These are the questions that go through my mind.

But I don't think that should be a worry. People you gather with love you. And the food, even at its best, comes second to the crowd who's enjoying it.. or not.

I remember growing up in the Pacific NW, summers brought us evenings where my mother would spread newspaper on the table and we, with our mallets and forks, would crack the crab fresh from Astoria, Oregon. It was so tasty. But the memories of us kids proudly displaying a big, whole piece that we carefully removed from the shell, lasted much longer than the buttery taste.

There was a restaurant that we'd go to when I was in high school. It was an all night restaurant. After the movies or after just being out, my friends and I would go and order steak fries with tarter sauce, hot chocolate and nachos. Not the best meal in the world, I know, although their fries were really good. We would sit, eat and laugh hysterically for hours. It never failed, we saw other friends there and suddenly we had a huge group. It was comfortable, it was fun. We were young.

Nope, definitely not the food there!

When I lived in South Carolina, my friend Lara would come over to pick up her boys and I'd have fresh, hot-from-the-oven banana bread ready. We'd sit and chat and keep cutting pieces from the loaf, losing all track of time. It was the best recipe I ever had. My neighbor and friend in Utah, Kirsten, gave it to me. She would bring over a loaf and we'd do the same. I loved that.

I remember there was a family in my town that had problems. Who doesn't? But really, this was serious. My mom, seeing their situation only in passing, stopped by their house and asked if the kids could come and play. She loaded them all up in the car, 5 of them I think, and brought them home to us. We rode the school bus with these kids. My mom grilled hamburgers, set out potato salad, chips, cookies, and fruit. They ate like they had never had a meal. They had food at home but they were not allowed to eat. A terrible situation. My mom stuffed them until they couldn't eat another bite and then they played -all day into the evening, building forts with hay bales, climbing trees, riding horses and coming back to the picnic table for another chip.

She cried after she dropped them back at their home when the kids said to her, "We'll never forget this as long as we live." They were not allowed to come back to us. Later we heard that the state took them away from their house and to another foster home. We prayed it was better this time.

Food is comforting. But it is also comforting to know that when it is served to you from friends or family it is done out of love. Food heals hearts and minds. It lets you forget the day for a moment. It makes you happy, so simply happy.

And when it is something that is so delicious, and you bite in to it, your eyes widen with delight. It begs you to ask for its recipe so you can continue the cycle of nourishing hearts and minds.

I think that's what food really does...

I'd like to hear your thoughts on the subject!