Thank you, Third World

My daughter, Lauren, served a proselyting mission in Fiji. At the end of her service I took my other daughter, Sara, with me to bring Lauren home. We spent ten days with the meek of the earth.

"Sister Lewis" Fiji 2005

After this experience I came to understand the outrageous abundance with which I am daily surrounded. It is easy to forget. Even now I'm having difficulty clearly remembering the emotions I felt at the time. But I woke this morning thinking of a Fijian woman whom Lauren had taught and befriended.

She was near my age. She lived in a shack on a hillside. There were no windows or doors. Fabric was tacked over doorways, hung for privacy when it wasn't pulled back to allow for the breeze or light to come in. With her own hands she had built a primitive gazebo/seating area outdoors from scrap wood. It was shaded in the afternoon and she invited us to sit there while we talked about life and Jesus and my daughter, whom we both loved. It reminded me of when I sit beneath walnut trees in my own yard with friends and family. There were scrap-wood shelves on which she placed potted plants—potted in tin cans and maybe plastic dishes or a few broken ceramic pots. She grew a small garden. While we visited, her twenty-something son scrambled up a coconut tree and brought down fruit for us. Her only other child, a toddler from her second marriage, sat on her lap. This woman was beautiful in every way.  Physically, spiritually, personality-wise. She felt very much like a sister to me as we sat together and talked. I wish I could recall her name just now. Lauren knows it.

She was a creative, talented woman who dreamed of being a seamstress. She had no electricity so she sewed things by hand and on a treadle machine which had broken a few months earlier. She wove purses and bags from plant leaves and fibers, then lined them with tropical print fabric. I still use the one she gave me. I gave her a framed photograph of the Savior. She showed me a clipping from a newspaper perhaps five or six years old. It was an advertisement for a sewing instruction book. She could not afford to repair her machine. The parts she needed may not have even been available. There was no hope of buying a new machine either. Buying a sewing machine for her would be like buying a new house for you and I. . . if you or I had no steady income.

It would take far too long for me to explain here why I did not simply buy her everything she needed or send money to her for the rest of her life. You can talk to Lauren about that if you want. My belly aches a little right now thinking about it.

As I write this post I am sitting on the sofa. I glance up at a James Christensen print hanging over the fireplace. I think I paid around twelve-hundred dollars for it. The leather chair in the corner on one side of the fireplace was a steal for about six-hundred at Costco. The custom upholstered chair on the other side of the fireplace was seven-hundred and fifty. The laptop I am typing on was a bargain (with student discount) for eleven-hundred and came with a free printer and a hundred-dollar iTunes coupon. There is hot water coming from the tap when I want it. This morning I will make cranberry sauce in a food processor and later I will drive to my sister's home. In a heated car. On paved roads. For Thanksgiving dinner. I could go on and on. . .



. . . I really wish I could remember her name.

Thank you, James Taylor

Yep.

Thank you, Feet. Contest

This is giveaway post inspired by my good friend, Dalene, who had her own blog contest recently. You can thank her if you win. Or, if you ARE her (because she is one of a very few people who read this blog) you can thank yourself.

If you want to enter, leave a comment below about why you are thankful for your feet. Include a link or e-mail address.

Feet are under-appreciated. They deserve a little recognition. They deserve a massage.

Which leads to this: The prize is a Foot Massage. By me. From me. For your feet.

I know. It's not a typical giveaway. Maybe you're one of those people who are uncomfortable having your feet touched or you just don't like your feet or think they are ugly. If you are one of those folks, well, try to get over it because this will be really good. If you're just not sure about having a friend massage your feet try to get over that too. It' no big deal. Your feet do a lot of hard work. They deserve a massage.

You may enter the contest through Sunday, November 27th at midnight.

One of those randomizer things will be used to select a winner.

Prize includes: Steaming washcloth cleanse (Like they do in the first-class section of airlines for your hands. Yes, it really happens. I've been there. Twice. By serendipitous upgrade. Except this is for your feet. The airlines don't do feet. At least not on domestic flights.) and foot massage with Bath and Body Works Aromatherapy Tranquil Mint Stress Relief Lotion. 

This relaxing foot massage will be delivered on a day of winner's choosing during the first 15 days of December.

I will come to your home or you can stop by mine. Whichever is preferable.

Thank you, feet. You've carried me everywhere I've ever wanted to go. Now, let's go get a pedi!

Thank you, Quiet

It is 4:45 AM. There is no sound in the house. There is no sound outside.

(Except just now a train whistle in the distance.)

Thank you, Poop

Yesterday I wrote about God. Today I'm writing about poop. Bear with me. It's all about gratitude.

My daughter, Lauren, paid me a visit yesterday. She and the two littles ("Sunshine" and "Champ") and I went downstairs to visit with my other daughter, Sara, and her husband, Jordan, who live in the basement apartment. After lots of lively conversation about the coming holidays, speculation about whether or not the other sibling might be planning on having a baby anytime soon, here's how the conversation went.

I picked up Champ at his request (arms outstretched in a please pick me up manner.)

Me: I think Champ is poopey.

Lauren: He might be, but he's in a cloth diaper, so it might just smell like poop.

I move my nose toward his bum region then make the familiar visual inspection of said region by pulling a portion of said diaper out and away from said region. Visual and olfactory evidence confirm my suspicion.

Me: It's poop.

I look at Lauren and see the expression on her face. It's the expression of a young mom who gets very little sleep.

Me: I'd LOVE to change his diaper.

Lauren: That's a good idea. Thanks. It's great to have someone else deal with the poop now and then.

Me: (changing diaper) Wow! That's poop alright! It really stinks. (Let your imagination take you there.)

Lauren: I hate poop.

Sara: Me too.

Jordan: Me too.

Me: I LOVE poop. It means there is a healthy bowel in there doing its job! Hurray for poop!

Sara: Only a nurse would say that.

Lauren: Only Nurse Mom would say that. I'm pretty sure there are plenty of nurses who don't like poop.

Me: It's true. There are a lot of nurses who don't like poop.

Lauren: Of course, there could be a lot of nurses who aren't as mature as you are about things like that.

Me: It's probably more the whole "miracle of life thing" for me. A lot of nurses won't go there with poop.


End of conversation. Champ's bum is clean. New diaper applied. Smiles all around. Like I said:
It's all about gratitude.

Thank you, God

A little while ago I had a teeny, tiny experience that changed my life.

(click on this photo) courtesy of Luke Lewis

How, when and where it happened were as important as the message itself. In fact, the Moment was the Message. (It was so-like-God-to-do-it-that-way.) This may require a disclaimer. We'll see.

I had purchased a rug at my favorite store, TJ Maxx. However, I needed another of the same rug or something similar to fill the space in an L-shaped hallway of my home. The preceding week had been outrageously busy. By the time Sunday rolled around I was exhausted. I'd worked 50+ hours including Saturday. I decided to skip church, take a nap, then head north to a second TJ Maxx where the second rug waited for me.

Throughout my life I have observed the Sabbath by, among other things, not going shopping. [There is the disclaimer. I had a feeling it was coming.] However, on this day I felt no guilt, no shame, no fear of "breaking the Sabbath." I was relaxed, happy, relieved to finally have one day free from any demands on my time. My heart was filled with gratitude for a day of rest. I felt unusually peaceful as I drove in the late afternoon with a spectacular autumn skyline to the west. The sun moved lower in the sky, shown through clouds, cast an amber glow across the valley.

To be perfectly honest, I don't remember what was on my mind when this happened. I only remember that it came out of the blue and knocked me right off whatever thought process had been running in my brain.

It's always difficult to describe these moments of personal revelation or enlightenment. And the message I received was not new. We've all heard this message our entire lives if we are Christian or religious or spiritual in any way. But I had never before KNOWN the truth of it in the way I do now. Again, it is difficult to articulate moments like this, but here is what came:

God has lovingly cared for me and watched over me in EVERY MOMENT of EVERY DAY of my life.
(I rarely use capital letters for emphasis, so this is really big.)

Every moment.

Every day.

Not one second has passed when God was not completely, utterly, intimately aware of me.

Not even a nanosecond. Nothing. No space in the time of my existence has been free of God's presence surrounding me. Not even now as I type this. Not last night while I slept or yesterday while I worked or went to school. Not when I sat at Mama Chu's waiting for take out. Not in the moment I called Lauren to see if I could stop and say hello to the grand babies on my way home. Not when I married the wrong person, then divorced him; or when I was a child—alone and frightened in the world.

Never. Not ever.

It seems beautifully, divinely ironic—filled with evidence of the perfect way in which the Holy Spirit works—that this overwhelming and simple message came as I drove to a store. On a Sunday. In a moment of solitude, respite and even joy (if you know how I feel about TJ Maxx.) In my car. Northbound on I-15. I will never be the same.


God lovingly cares for and watches over each of us—everyone, everywhere in every moment. 

 I am still in awe. Thank you.

Thank you, Lauren

You are a beautiful, amazing woman. You have always made it so easy for me to be your mom. I don't know how or why you came that way, but I can't thank you enough.

For creating a living legacy in the form of your firstborn and her middle name. (I know. It's your legacy, but still.)

For saying this in one of your recent blog posts:
I've never heard my mother say she missed this. I've never heard her say, "I'd love to go back to that time in my life." I've never heard her say that about any time in her life. I think she savored. I think she runs her life like a slow cooker-simple, easy, tender, and deliciously flavored.
(Once again, I can die happy because of you.)



For forgiving me and life circumstances that cause me to spend so much of my time just earning a living.

Thank you for being You. I adore you.

Life In Third Person to follow. Now I have to get to work.

Thank you, Moses. . .

And roses and yodels; old folks, holy rollers;
over-throws, rowboats, toast, snowblowers.
Thank you for no particular reason.
Just because I like how the words sound—
hopeful, open and round.

Thank you, Giveaways

This is my entry in the Just Ask Bucket List Getaway Giveaway. Just Ask offers a breast and ovarian cancer screening and is encouraging people to share 15 things that I want to enjoy in my lifetime as a reminder to be aware of my health. Want to enter? Head over to TodaysMama.com to get the details. 

It's all about me. Or possibly you. If you also enter the giveaway.

1. See Paris. Again.
2. Write letters to several people who need to hear from me
3. Finish school
4. Take my children and grands on a family vacation to somewhere warm
5. Have more grandbabies
6. Enjoy watching my children provide #5
7. Reduce my resting heart rate to 70
8. Hike Mount Timpanogos, Utah - all the way to "The Shack"
9. Learn to sail
10. Buy a sail boat
11. Write my history, organize it so someone can actually read it
12. Read War and Peace
13. Make more quilts
14. Cook more Thanksgiving dinners
15. Get married. Again.

Thank you, Sewing

I've loved you since sixth grade when I met you in the summer with Melissa Snow at ZCMI's beginning sewing class. We made shorts with an elastic waistband. In seventh grade you helped me make an apron, pants and A-line skirts with zippers. We were inseparable for years. You were my high school squeeze during all those hours for "Make It With Wool."

You kept me company through my early marriage, with newborns and toddlers. (How many footed jammies and sets of mini sweatpants and sweatshirts with raglan sleeves and ribbing cuffs did we make?) The weddings, the dozens of baby (and grown-up) quilts, the random Christmas gifts. . . You and I are BFFs. It's one of those things where no matter how long it's been since we've seen each other, when we do finally meet up, well, it's like we've never been apart.

It looks like you've been hanging out with my daughters.

I miss you. It's been too long.

Thank you, Wing'd Thing

You have stayed with me along every darkened or reckless path. Ever present. Ever fluttering. . .


Hope is the thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Thank you, Snow. . . er. . . Leaves

Yesterday morning I woke to two inches on the ground. It is green and flat. Not white and fluffy. Layered neck-deep to a grasshopper.

Typically, from this view on the porch I can see sidewalks, flower beds and turf sprawled across the yard. But no more. The usual scene has all but vanished beneath a blanket of leafy delight. The neighborhood children have begun to build nests in it. My belly still hurts a bit so I'll make no attempt to move it. People who drive past think it's an eyesore. I think it's magical.

Thank you, drifts of green stuff. You're something else.

Thank you, Fortune Cookie

You don't taste very good, but sometimes I like to believe what you tell me.

Thank you, Serendipity

My fiftieth birthday came and went last week. It was a lovely week, finished off yesterday with Sunday dinner at my home with all the kids and grand kids. But the "birthweek" didn't start out so great. My friend, Dalene, has several really good "Bad Birthday" stories and I thought I might be able to contribute one of my own when four days before the big event I had surgery; three days before the big event two of my kids said, "Oh! It's your fiftieth? We didn't know. We should have done something special." Later another child mentioned, "I was going to do this really cool thing for your birthday, but then you saw it on Pinterest and life got super busy for me, so I'll do it when you turn sixty." None of my six siblings mentioned it, none of my close friends suggested doing anything special. For a brief moment on the night before my birthday I thought maybe someone was planning a surprise party because everyone was so quiet and nonchalant about it. But no. There were no secret plans being made.

Don't get me wrong, I am usually very happy to create festive and delightful celebrations for anyone and everyone, including myself. But I just didn't have it in me this year [see para 1 line 4]. Besides, the money for the 50th birthday trip to Paris is now in the hands of a skilled surgeon and the University of Utah Medical center. I will save other various and sundry details about the Dreadful Early Morning Fiftieth Birthday Hours for another day -- except for the part where helium balloons a friend had tied to my mailbox were drenched with rain, hanging down around the sidewalk and one of them would have been carried away in brown gutter water if not for the strength of that tiny saturated grosgrain ribbon securing it to its companions. Yes, I'll tell you that part. The rest will have to wait for an essay in Dalene's book, which I am certain she will write. Heaven knows she has enough material. She even has a working title: Eat the Damn Cake.

What I want to share today is a series of happy accidents that made the half-decade birthday quite wonderful. First, Carol (of the soggy balloons) called while I was shopping (my first time out since surgery) at TJ Maxx and asked if I had plans for lunch. No, of course not. It's only my 50th birthday. Why would anyone think of inviting me to lunch? She treated me to Spicy Thai, which was marvelous. Second, my energy medicine practitioner friend gave me an appointment on my very birthday for a rejuvenating, enlightening treatment session. Nothing like a good "clearing" as they say in the business. Third, Lauren asked me to stop by her house while I was out so she could give me a gift on my actual birthday. We ended up making a trip to the mall where my grand kids played at the indoor playground and we all ate See's chocolates. There were fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh other little surprises that made the day perfect. But the cherry on top of what one friend said should be an Epic Birthday came later.

Dalene took me to a salon for a pedicure on Friday. It was her gift to me and it was heavenly. We enjoyed all the usual stuff with the massage chairs and the making-feet-soft-and-pretty. (Including a paraffin wax foot bath. Oh, my! Why didn't someone tell me about this sooner?) When we first arrived at the salon, I had chosen a color for my nails that basically called to me. Seriously, as I perused the hundreds of colors on the wall, this one may have actually been singing my name.

When all the pampering was done and we were walking toward the door to leave, Dalene stopped and said, "Wait! You have to find out the name of the nail polish color. These O.P.I names are the BEST!" So we turned around. I went back and picked up the bottle, turned it upside down, pushed my glasses onto my forehead, squinted to focus my fifty-year-old eyes on the tiny print on the tiny white circular tag on the bottom of the bottle. "It's MY Year"

Thank you, Serendipity. Happy accident, indeed.

Thank you, Winter Sky

(Click on photo. You'll see what I mean.)

Yesterday the sky had the look of mid-winter Utah. It was strange and wonderful. Not a spec of snow on the ground in the valley, but the mountains had been dusted and the sky was unmistakably Winter-ish. This is a photo I used for a previous post. It doesn't show quiet enough of the blue, gray, white light brilliance of yesterday's sky, but it comes close.

Winter sky is nature's equivalent of a candy cane for the eyes. Except the red part is replaced with blue, intertwined with shimmering white vapor. It's crisp, clean and kind of minty-fresh.

I take back what I said (a million times) about how we should all live in central California on the coast because the weather is perfect there. every. day. of. the. world. And the cows are always happy. But I think I would miss that mouth-watering Utah winter sky. Especially on days like yesterday when it showed up a little early. Thank you, winter sky. You make me happy. (I can't speak for the cows.)

Thank you, Modern Medicine

"I am on the edge of mysteries and the veil is getting thinner and thinner." Louis Pasteur


I am alive today and so are my children because of modern medicine.

2010- Luke, Sara, Lauren (Connor in Lauren's belly)

Almost thirty years ago, in spite of my desire for natural childbirth, my oldest daughter was born via C-section, (as were my son and second daughter.) There was no question in the room that day about what the outcome would have been only a few decades earlier. There would have been a note somewhere in the family history stating, "Neither mother nor child survived."

Last week I had surgery. The good people at University of Utah Medical Center performed an inguinal hernia repair with mesh placement. Unlike that first childbirth experience, no life-threatening condition prompted this surgery. Instead, a defect was repaired -- something that had been bothering me, causing minor aches, twinges and worry about the future. This relatively simple intervention prevents potential serious problems later in my life.

I could go on and on about this subject. For instance, I am amazed with something as simple as intravenous Ancef given pre-operatively -- an antibiotic medication timed for the moment when a surgeon's scalpel initially breaches the natural barrier of the skin, the moment of greatest risk for introduction of pathogens into the sterile environment beneath. This practice was initiated as a result of careful observation and tedious research surrounding post-operative wound infections. As a nurse I am continually awed by the beauty and mystery of the human body with its perfect and complex structures, chemicals, processes and their harmonious interplay. I am equally awed by the evolution of science in the areas of anatomy, molecular biology, physiology, pathophysiology, immunology and all the other ologies. There is beauty and mystery in modern science equal to the beauty and mystery of humanity. Every day all over the world new discoveries are made, old discoveries are re-examined, greater knowledge and understanding is gained about the intricacies of  the human body. I feel grateful for this today. And for ibuprofen.

Thank you, modern medicine. You're still saving my life.

Thank you, Imperfection

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them."  Book of Mormon, Ether 12:27

I am me. I am imperfect. I am enough.

Sometimes it is difficult to accept things about ourselves we see as imperfect. But these are important things that define us and make us unique. I'm not talking about physical imperfections. But I believe those also make us unique and beautiful. Currently I have undertaken the work of strengthening a few specific weaknesses. I love the scripture above for reminding me that the Lord is willing and eager to help me do this. Truthfully, I couldn't do it without him. He is the First and Best Helper. He loves me as I am. He wants me to become the best of who I am and while I'm working toward that he reminds me that I am precious and beautiful to him. And that I am enough. 


My weakness compels me to seek Him. Thank you, imperfection. You are my friend.

Thank you, Sleep

There are few things as delightful as waking up from a good night's rest. It goes without saying, really. But I had to say it anyway.

Such a simple thing -- so essential, so fundamental to good health and happiness. Yet, I rarely take time to thank my maker for this part of a perfect plan.

I revel in the l'heure bleue -- the blue hour. That precious, quiet space in time. A time of innocence as day surrenders to night and again just before the world has fully wakened; the gentle transition between the burden of reality and the unfettered world of dreams; perfect moments of circadian solitude.

I love letting go of whatever may be troubling my body or soul and drifting into sleep where unconscious wisdom rules the world. During those hours, the body takes care of itself without any attention on my part. This is miraculous to me. Body, mind and spirit renew, repair, re-generate, then come back to whatever may be waiting from the previous day with new perspective and fresh energy for the work at hand. What a gift.

Every day is new. Every morning is a resurrection. Thank you, sleep, for that.

Thank you, November

I've always loved you.

I love what happens when you make your way around this part of the world -- the changing leaves, the harvest and the subsequent rest you provide. The slowing down of things; the layering of things like flannel, down, and wool. I love the moving indoors and lighting a fire in the fireplace; the quiet anticipation of coming seasons.

There is something akin to Nova in your name and since I was born on the first of your thirty days you seem to be plum full of first-ness, generative energy, new beginnings and all that.

And in the spirit of beginnings, I love that you have once again given me a reason for daily posts of gratitude, like a few of my friends are doing.

Thank you, November. I'm glad you're here.