The Miracle of the Watermelon

What we've been up to this summer so far:

I spent the first part of the summer stressing out over my job at the young women's camp for our church. I was asked to be in charge of campfire programs--at first I was really excited until I realized, "Wait a minute! I'm in charge of everyone's fun!" That's when the stress started piling on. But I was blessed to work with the most awesome youth counselors, 17 year old girls, soon-to-be-seniors-in-high school, who were the most responsible, talented, organized girls I've ever met. I just directed them and they ran the campfire programs every night. We had hula hoop and gum-blowing contests, played a game called "pick your leader's nose" (the leaders stood behind a sheet and poked their noses through slits in the sheet. The girls chose which nose was their leader's.) One night, we wrote letters to children who are very, very ill. The camp theme was "Ya gotta wanna", so the last night we gathered around the campfire and the youth counselors "told" Lamanite and Nephite (Native American) stories from the Book of Mormon as if they were present at the time of the actual events. They chose their favorite scripture story and wrote a monologue based on that story. If you're worried about the state of education nowadays, don't be. Their monologues were beautifully written and beautifully presented. We interspersed music between their stories and they dressed in native American costume. The night was just right and I was so proud.

Back at home, after I caught up with the laundry and cleaning, we worked on a little domestication. Emily has been piecing a quilt so she can take it to college and Kristen practiced making cinnamon rolls to complete a 10-hour cooking goal.

Here are the 9-block squares Emily's sewing together and Kristen's rolls. Gorgeous! I love having the time for the girls to work on a little homemaking. Ahhh, the comforts of home.

Sarah and Kristen spent last week at Especially For Youth camp in Cedar City, Utah. San drove them out and flew back home. They've been as happy as can be. San and the girls stayed at his parents' log cabin and while there, San found a picture of himself on his mission in Finland. He's wearing a Michigan State sweatshirt that he gave to me once it grew too small (notice how diplomatically I phrased that). It's so fun to see it on San long ago. He's so cute!

I liked wearing it, but Emily loves it more, so I let her appropriate it. So now, more than 20 years later, Emily wears it, holes in the elbows and all.

And lastly, this is what I found when I sliced a watermelon in half the other day. Have a happy day!!

My sweet Emily graduated from high school a few weeks ago. She just graduated, but she checked out from childhood about six months ago. She is much more quiet than Sarah, but surprisingly very independent. Often, during the school year, I had to remind her to ASK for permission (or, at least, let me know) before heading out the door.

As a matter of fact, just a couple of nights ago, she planned to go biking with a friend of hers. But it was close to twilight. I reminded her that she could see all the cars driving by, but the drivers could not see her. I reminded her that she had no reflective gear on, to stay well out of the way of traffic, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. "Mom! I know about personal safety," she said without much patience. I shut my mouth, chagrined.

It's hard to let go when you know how much they don't know, isn't it? It's hard to let go when they were just babies a short time ago. A minute after Emily was born, a few tears slipped down my cheeks. The nurse asked me if I was okay as she wiped them away. Of course I was okay. I was just happy!! Emily had the cutest little pudgy face and hands.

I don't regret her moving on in life, though. It's a good thing. It's just that there will be another empty hole at home after she leaves. She has been such a calming influence in our family. When she and Sarah were small, I'd put them to bed, only to see Emily slipping into the bathroom a few minutes later. San and I would peek around the corner of the hallway, wondering what she was up to. Emily would leave the bathroom with one paper dixie cup, full of water, in each hand. "What are you up to?" we'd say--she'd reply that she was bringing water to Sarah (who was lying comfortably in bed, I might add) (okay, Sarah is very, very helpful too!).

And that has been her disposition ever since she was little. If I need someone to drive a younger sister somewhere, Emily will do it. If I need someone to run to the grocery store, Emily will offer. No questions asked. Emily just doesn't mind giving people a hand. She's a good example for all of us and I think she'll make a great nurse some day. Emily, I'm eager to find out how much you can accomplish now that you're all grown up.

And Away They Go

(Note: I wrote this three years ago. I wanted to reread this little essay and post it because Emily just graduated this week and we're getting ready to send her off to college in the fall, just like we did with Sarah. I'll post pictures of Emily's graduation soon. I remembered I had been sad to say good-bye to Sarah, but I didn't remember the intensity of the emotions.)

I just sent my first child—Sarah—to college eight hundred miles away from our home. Tears streamed down her cheeks as we said good-bye and I kept my emotion partially concealed, for her benefit, until our van pulled out of her view—then the tears streamed freely down my face too.

It was a singular experience, to take my daughter to the very university from which I graduated, to a dorm a few buildings away from the very dorm in which I lived (in good condition, yet so much the same).

As I helped my daughter plan, register, and pack back in California, I was eager to get to campus, to show her around, show her the ropes. I was anticipating the thrill of this new adventure much more than she was. Perhaps she would date more, go to more football games. Do the things I wished I had done. I even had visions of her in her chosen profession, successful beyond her own imagination. I knew just what to expect—I was experienced at this.

After we entered the campus, my husband drove straight up to the dorm—my memory of the place was flawless. We huffed up and down the stairs with suitcases and boxes and I shamelessly examined each freshman and parent, speculating whether I knew the parents from my own college days. Were they as excited as I?

Our entire family of seven walked on campus to get our daughter's ID, check out the bookstore and cafeteria and help her feel more comfortable. At one point, I saw someone I thought I knew, ready to say, "Hey! It's good to see you!" until I realized I was mistaking the young people for the students of my day; anyone I was acquainted with would have grayish hair, or thinning hair, or perhaps a bit of extra weight around their middle. I knew my corner of the campus so well, but I didn't anticipate that I would feel so aged, one generation removed from the college experience.

All of us, all seven, squeezed into Sarah’s dorm room and helped her settle in. Her dad made sure her computer was up and running (certainly a change from the electric typewriter I was so proud to bring). Kate and Haley ran back and forth between the bedroom and the kitchen depositing kitchen gear. The rest of us placed pictures in frames around the room to make it seem more like home. All the girls groaned as I smoothed and tucked the bedding as carefully as possible. Did she have enough food? Did we think of everything we should have? Couldn't we have prepared her more?

And that was it. There really wasn't anything more to do. No excuses left for hanging around. We just sat on her bed, smiling awkwardly. Kate and Haley were oblivious to the hidden distress Sarah and I were feeling. San just wanted to get it over with, "Let's go," he said. I couldn't protect her from this parting, though I wanted to. We had to do it—just like giving her vaccines when she was a baby. "I know this is hurting you, but it's for your own good." I cried back then too and it was almost as difficult.

Once back home, I remembered how I felt the day we brought her home from the hospital. How could this be? How could there be a new, little person right there, smack in the middle of my living room, where there had been emptiness only the day before? And now, she was gone again, only the emptiness was different and I knew this girl. This girl who had made us young again, and everything new again—her first bike ride, her first movie, from kindergarten to prom. This girl, who is embarking on her own life's beginning, and our family will never be the same.

Real Preparation

Today I made bread for one of the 12 Apostles. Yes, an apostle like Peter, James, or John.

Several years ago I set a goal to become a good bread baker. After a few attempts, I discovered it was the type of skill you need to practice often, so I decided to make homemade bread every Sunday. It would be my treat to my family.

In the beginning, my baking wasn't what I'd hoped it would be--once, while making dinner rolls, I doubled the amount of butter by accident and the little lumps of dough never puffed up the way they were supposed to--but eventually, after many months, I could whip out a batch of homemade rolls without thinking about it. I must confess here that I got so into bread-making that we bought an expensive mixer that practically makes the bread on its own.

One of the 12 Apostles of our church came to Northern California this weekend to meet with the people here. The president of the Fremont Stake of our church and his wife are our friends and neighbors. They made lunch for the Apostle at their home and I figured it would be a little stressful. Looking for a way to help, I offered to make bread.

But this morning as I rolled the dough into a loaf, and dropped it into the greased bread pan, the thought struck me with force: "This is for one of the 12 Apostles of Jesus Christ. I am making a loaf of bread for a real apostle!"

With the flurry of news stories about Judgement Day coming yesterday--May 21--the juxtapostion of our Apostle's visit and the End of Days was just too good! I don't know if you noticed, but the Apocalypse was a non-event yesterday. I couldn't help but think--this is what's real: we have a living, breathing apostle--M. Russell Ballard--a special witness of Jesus Christ, a disciple, visiting us. (Members of our church do believe in the Second Coming of Christ, but we believe no one knows the actual day and time.)

And then I couldn't help but compare--how were people preparing for Judgement Day, with all the dire warnings in the public arena? One man sold everything he had and paid for 3,000 posters announcing the end.

My husband, San, (and many other people) spent hours at the church, preparing the details for the apostle's visit. He even wiped down the furniture in his office with cleaner. San asked me how I would react if the Apostle came to our house for lunch. Honestly? I told him, "I would FREAK out!!" I'm sure I would see every cobweb in every corner. Had I taught my children enough good manners to weather a visit from an apostle of Christ? Would we be ready? How do you prepare to invite a representative of the Savior into your home?

How do you prepare for the Apocalypse? You can't run out minutes before, buy supplies and hole up in your house, praying that you'll make it through. It's much like a final test at school. If you're not ready when the date of the exam rolls around, it's too late. And it's a lot like baking bread. You don't just roll out of bed one day and pull a lovely, high, nicely browned loaf out of the oven. You have to practice; trial and error is what perfects the process.

Interestingly enough, Elder Ballard spoke at the General Conference of our church in April about how to find peace and happiness in this life. I think it also is how we prepare to meet our God.

Click here to read his talk.

My hero with the broken hip

People tell me it's hard to believe that I have a daughter who's finishing up her junior year in college. But, yes--I am, indeed, old enough. I'm 46 years old. I'm 46 years old and I just recently recognized two heros in my life.

A few weeks back, I gave a bio about one of the prophets of our church to the teens who attend our early-morning religion class. The teachers had asked me to choose a prophet and to make a presentation. I chose the prophet of my teen years--I already knew a lot of his stories and I knew that I had loved him. In fact, I have a vivid memory of the day I found out he had passed away in 1985; it was hard for me to hold back the tears.

I chose to tell one of my favorite stories about him. One snowy winter night, when he served as one of the 12 apostles of our church, he was stranded in a Chicago airport with hundreds of other passengers. Lines at the ticket counters were long and frustration was high. A young mother of a two year old stood in line near my prophet, Spencer W. Kimball. Her child sat on the floor--tired, hungry and dirty--yet she did not pick the child up. She scooted her child along the floor with her foot. The mother heard people voice their disapproval of her treatment of her child. A man (my prophet) approached her and asked if he could help her. She gratefully told him that she was pregnant and threatened to miscarry. Her doctor had warned her not to lift anything, not even her child. Spencer Kimball gently lifted the child, gave her a piece of gum and patted her back to comfort her. Then, he kindly told the people at the front of the line that the mother needed their help and went up to the ticket counter to make arrangements for the mother and her child to be put on a flight shortly. He walked them to a bench, settled them in, and then went on his way. The mother did not know who he was until she saw his picture in a newspaper days later.

As I prepared my notes to tell this story to the teens, I realized that this act of charity by my prophet had been dictating how I chose to behave in public for almost 35 years. It had taken me all these years to notice that I thought about his example almost every day of my life. Even though I accepted him as a prophet of God, I hadn't realized until a few weeks ago how his example influenced me. I recognized him as one of my biggest heroes! It was an epiphany.

Well, I had another "hero epiphany" last night. My good friend, Nanette Dunford, broke her hip on Friday night. San and I found out Saturday night and we hurriedly gulped down our dinner and threw on our coats to rush to the hospital before visiting hours were over. I tried to think of something to bring to cheer her, to show her how I care. I thought, I could bring a book. What did she like to read? I wasn't sure. I could bring her a treat. Did she like chocolates? I wasn't sure about that either. I felt rather ashamed that I didn't know these details about her likes and dislikes. I remember thinking that it just went to show that Nanette didn't talk about herself much.

But as I wracked my brain to think of a way to help her, in the end, I thought that she'd probably be in too much pain, or too worn out to pay much attention to anything. Maybe she couldn't even eat much. I decided we should just visit, find out her state of health, and bring gifts later.

I was rather dreading seeing her in a weakened state. I imagined her pale, perhaps groggy and disoriented from pain medication, or half-asleep. I was pretty concerned.

San walked into her room first and I followed. I was surprised! Aside from sitting in a hospital bed, Nanette looked like her old self. I asked her what had happened and she replied that she'd done something dumb. I doubted it. But I did know that Nanette was a real go-getter. She used to be a runner. Now that she's 60 years old, she usually walks for exercise. Nanette likes adventure and is a world traveler. She and her family recently toured Guatemala.

Nanette told us that she'd simply tripped on the lip of her garage floor as she unloaded groceries from her car. Because she was holding a bag of groceries in each hand, she'd been unable to break her fall and landed directly on her hip--hence, the break.

She told me about how the paramedics had come and checked her body for broken bones--they couldn't feel anything wrong, but she was in a lot of pain. She pointed out to them that she has cerebral palsy on one side of her body. They asked her if she walked with canes. No, she told them. "I'm normal." Heck, she had walked four miles the day before.

Then, she went on to tell me that she'd likely be in a rehabilitation center for a while. She'll probably have to use a walker too; at least until she gets all better. And she told me all this with her usual pluck and charm. She didn't seem the least bit devastated. Oh, I'm sure, she's not having a party right now. I'm sure she'll have her down days. But this will not keep her down.

We went home last night and that's when I had my other "hero epiphany". My friend Nanette is definitely not a complainer. As a matter of fact, last night was the first time I've ever heard her mention her cerebral palsy. She pushes through life at such a pace, that I rarely ever notice her palsy myself. She's just my good friend. Without guile. Never complaining. Picking herself up and dusting herself off again, and again and again. And I just realized last night, she is my hero too.

When Life Hands You Lemons, or a 10 year-old's Recipe for Lemonade.

A couple of months ago my youngest, Haley, brought home a president report assignment sheet from school. "We've got this down," I thought to myself. It was my fifth time helping with a president report, so we should get the best grade ever!

I coached Haley that day. "Okay, make sure you ask for Harry Truman." I read David McCullough's Truman biography a couple of years ago and felt like I knew the man inside and out. (Well, I read to around page 500. The last part about the Korean war wasn't nearly as interesting to me as how it felt to be the man in charge of the atom bomb.) I urged her again in the morning before school, "Make sure you ask for Harry Truman. He's soooo interesting and we'd have tons of info for your report." Haley didn't look very happy about my ideas. I had a back-up plan this time too. I figured all the other parents might want Harry Truman too. I gave Haley a few other presidents to ask for, just in case.

You may be thinking, "Who's doing this report?" Yeah, I know. But I was looking out for my kid's best interest. And it was OUR turn to do an interesting president. After all, Sarah did her report on Grover Cleveland. Okay, at least you've heard of the city named after him. But do you know anything about him? Here's what he looked like:

Emily did her report on . . .Grover Cleveland. Again!!?!

Kristen did Rutherford B. Hayes.

Can you even think of something he's known for? Well? Kristen remembers what he's most famous for. He was almost impeached.

And Kate did William McKinley.

Did you know he was assassinated? Teddy Roosevelt was his VP. I bet you've heard of Teddy Roosevelt.

Okay, so I was getting really tired of lackluster presidents.

Haley came home from school. I mentally prepared myself to NOT get Harry Truman. But, this time, surely we'd get somebody like John Adams, Abraham Lincoln, FDR, maybe even George Washington or Thomas Jefferson. Hey what about JFK? or even Nixon could be interesting.

"Who'd you get?" I asked. "Franklin Pierce." "Who?" "Franklin Pierce." "He's a president?"

Haley pulled out the little president bio books they have in the school library. We flipped through it. Turns out he was the president when the country was gearing up for civil war. There was a lot of strife in the country--it was a hard time to be president. He was called a "doughface". A Northerner with Southern sympathies. What did Wikipedia say about him? He was known as one of the, ". . .worst presidents in U.S. history". Could it possibly get any worse? I couldn't believe our bad luck.

And Franklin Pierce's. He had three sons, two died young. His last son was on the train with Franklin and his wife as they traveled to Washington D.C. right after the election. There was a freak accident. The train flew off the tracks and the Pierces' son died while the parents survived without injury. Needless to say, Mrs. Pierce was devastated. Sadly, she blamed Franklin for the loss of their last son and returned home, resenting him and his presidency. She was known as "the shadow of the White House". And he suffered from alcoholism.

And yes, it did get worse. The assignment wasn't the basic, tell-what-the-president-accomplished report. The assignment was to write in first person, as the president, giving arguments for WHY YOU SHOULD BE RE-ELECTED TO THE PRESIDENCY. Poor Haley. I lost it then. Haley pulled me out of my funk when she kindly let me know that her teacher said you could argue why you shouldn't be president again. Well, thank goodness for minor miracles!

However, while I was formulating why Franklin shouldn't be re-elected, she had other plans.

Haley had been composing rough drafts at school. She proudly showed me that she had decided to argue why Franklin Pierce should be president. I picked up her rough draft to read it, preparing to help her change the entire thing. But I was taken aback. I was so, so proud and amazed by my wise 10 year-old.

What was her argument? You can read it yourself:

"I should be President again! I was known as 'Handsome Frank'! I loved my wife very much. She was very religious. She blamed the death of our third son on me. We were all on a train ride and the train rolled down a mountain. My son, Bennie, died. My wife, Jane, said it was God's punishment brought on by my Presidency. I had promised her I would not run for President but I did, after all. Then, she left me to go back to our home state. If I am President again, I would teach her to like it in the White House. I would reshape myself for her."

I would reshape myself for her. I was so worried that this man's poor performance would ruin my daughter's report and she zeroed in on what was most important--a family torn apart by tragedy. I stopped trying to interject my ideas. It looked like she was doing a fine job all by herself. Way to go, Haley. Oh, and her grade? 100%. A+. Lesson learned.

Life is what happens when you're making other plans. . .

We got a new computer last week. The former one was "ancient"--a little over five years old--and we couldn't do a lot of necessary tasks on it, so it was well past time for a new one. Well, this new computer does all sorts of fancy things, so I set it up to rotate through all our family pictures on the desktop.

Everyone at home had a hard time getting homework and chores done because they were glued to the computer, watching our past in pictures. I was a little distracted too, and then I noticed pictures Uncle Darrell took of our family. We were at San's parents' house in Palm Springs back in 2004 and we wanted to take a family picture for our Christmas card that year. We asked Darrell to take it for us, bought some t-shirts at Old Navy and spent a good portion of the day making sure everyone looked pretty. But somebody that day wasn't in a photogenic mood and Darrell thought it would be fun to keep snapping while we convinced her otherwise. Take a look:

Ok, let's try this again.

The nose is wiped, everybody smile one more time.

Dad's getting a little impatient.

Come on, Haley! Just one picture. You can do it!

The nose needs wiping again.

What? Wait!! I thought we had it that time.

What is the matter?

We eventually gave up that day; Haley's discomfort was a mystery to us until she told us back at the house, "I just didn't want to take pictures." I threw up my hands; I was dumfounded.

We tried it again the next day, but Uncle Darrell was asleep and we didn't want to disturb him after our lack of success the previous day, so San just set up his tripod and found a place for us to pose by the water. San almost knocked me off my feet a few times as he ran over to jump in the picture before the timer went off.

And Haley? For some reason she was okay with taking pictures that day. Go figure.

Panic on the Stairs

In 2007, one of the many sights my husband and our travel buddies wanted to see when we were in London was St. Paul's Cathedral. I was pretty excited to see it too. Mostly (I admit a bit sheepishly) because it is the cathedral of Julie Andrews' song, "Feed the Birds" in the movie Mary Poppins. Pretty cool. That was about all I knew about it. I had no idea that, among other significant events, Sir Winston Churchill's funeral was held there.

But, like most of the places we visited in England, I at least knew important people had been associated with St. Paul's. So, as a lover of history, I eagerly approached the grand 300 year-old building, intending to climb to the top of the great dome with my husband and friends.

We began to climb the steps—259—to reach the Whispering Gallery which runs around the inside of the dome 99 feet above the ground floor of the cathedral. (The Whispering Gallery—so named because you can hear someone whisper from the opposite side of the dome.) At first, the one-way stone staircase was enclosed within walls and I wound around the spiral steps, running my hands along the walls and chatting with my husband and friends. We had a lot of stairway to cover, so after a while, our chatter died down as our hearts and lungs worked harder.

Partway up, the stone stairs gave way to a metal spiral stairway and the walls disappeared, revealing where we were in the cathedral. We were pretty high up! And I could see that we had a lot farther to go to reach the Whispering Gallery. As I put one foot ahead of the other on each metal stair, I could see all the way to the bottom of the building through the black grating. And then, suddenly and without warning, I suffered a severe attack of acrophobia—fear of heights. Now, I don't mind confessing, I do cling a little to the edge of a high mountain trail, or steer clear of the far edge of a cliff, but I had never before felt the panic and palpitations that hit me with a force that took my breath away. I had never been frozen in my tracks by this phobia before. I found that I could barely lift my legs because the "fight or flight" response had sent so much adrenaline pumping to my quadriceps. They were burning and quite stiff. My palms were sweating and I felt decidedly dizzy. I clung to the black metal railing, frantically searching for a solution to my dilemma; as I mentioned before, I was on a ONE-WAY staircase and it was PACKED with wall-to-wall people. Or should I say stair-to-stair? I had no choice but to go up. I was going to see this thing through, whether I liked it or not. I chose not to mention my condition to my husband or our friends. What could they do to help me, after all?

And so, with the queue of people, I stepped my way up, one step at a time, and while I stepped up, I tried to breathe as deeply as I could to ease my panic. I found that by looking at the metal grating of the next step I must conquer, and avoiding looking up or down at the bigger picture of St. Paul's, that I could lift my legs and calm my fluttering heart. It took every fiber of my being to focus my eyes on that one stair ahead of each foot.

After what felt like a long, long time, we made it to the Whispering Gallery, where I assumed I could find relief. The Whispering Gallery—a thin, slanting ledge around the inside of the cathedrale's dome with a very thin, unsubstantial railing to hold on to. Anyone could simply slip over the edge of the railing and fall, crashing to their death on the cathedral floor 99 feet below, right? I gave my husband a weak little smile and inched my way around the ledge, clinging to the walls. He was having so much fun that he never noticed how pale I was.

I clung to the wall (as surreptitiously as I could) and tried to pretend that I was enjoying the view. I worked on my deep breathing at the same time, because I knew we had more stairs to climb to reach the very top—where all tourists go, to see the view of all of London—and I still couldn't go down. The stairs going down were not accessible until you reached the pinnacle of the cathedral.

The rest of the climb is all a blur to me. I have a vague memory that the stairs were enclosed again, but most of what I remember is me focusing on each stair, one step at a time.

At the top of St. Paul's, you can go outside and survey the view that people have been enjoying for centuries. I felt safer there. It was a smaller space, more substantial railing, no wide-open views 99 feet down. I knew I had to climb back down, so I was by no means wiping the sweat off my forehead in relief. But again, I didn't want to mention my great discomfort to my husband. I didn't want to ruin his good time. He took pictures—a couple of me—and we began our descent.

It seemed a bit easier going down. Was it because I had been practicing my deep breathing, or because I knew relief was imminent? My quads still felt as tight as stretched-out rubber bands, especially back on the metal stairway, but the panic subsided the closer we got to ground level.

Just a few weeks ago, I was visiting my oldest sister who lives in Virginia, and I told her this story for the first time. It wasn't until then that I realized what a great analogy this experience is for life.

Sometimes, when we look up and down at the staircase of our lives we see: the house that needs upkeep, the job skills that need polishing, the dirty noses to wipe, the sick parents who need care, the children who need to be driven to soccer, or piano, or dance, or who just need help studying for a spelling test, the old car that may break down soon, the dishwasher that doesn't work quite right, our own weaknesses, an impending divorce (fill in your own list) and we see how we're smack in the middle of a difficult journey. We may panic. Bad things could happen. Bad things do happen. Our legs seize up and we don't see how we can complete this journey, but it's a one-way journey and there's no getting off until we reach the top.

That's when it's time to make yourself focus just on the step ahead. Don't make yourself dizzy by looking at how far you have to go. Breathe deeply and lift that foot. One step at a time. You can do it. It's worth it, and the view at the top is spectacular. You'll be glad you went. I was.

This is dedicated to my courageous big sister, Donna.