What's a Family For?

“Sometimes we want to have growth without challenges and to develop strength without any struggle. But growth cannot come by taking the easy way. We clearly understand that an athlete who resists rigorous training will never become a world-class athlete. We must be careful that we don’t resent the very things that help us put on the divine nature.” Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Seventy, General Conference, April 2011

His tiny face is dominated by the largest eyes I have ever seen on a baby and the thick shock of shiny yellow hair is a delightful contrast and surprise. His perfect head lay against the pillow on my lap, so that we could interact face to face while we rocked. It was our first opportunity to have a real interview – just Grammy and Little Boy Blue.

Of course, I had lots of questions and I asked them, but he was reticent to answer just yet. He knew I suppose, that his recollections of the home he’d left a week before were too brilliant for my dull brain; I might explode if he revealed too much. So instead, he kept his intelligence under wraps -- only he couldn’t keep the glow of it from spilling out of those huge, black eyes. I rocked, basked in his glory, and took up the slack in the conversation.

Grandma banter covers a lot of ground. For instance, Little Boy Blue is now oriented to nearly every Merit Badge. (I think he’s excited about Cubs.) Yet for all the talk, most of our bonding time was spent silently appraising one another; just staring; just considering the possibilities.

I must admit, when Old meets New like that, the bulk of “possibilities” are on a grand scale: what grandma doesn’t wonder if she is holding a future President of the United States or the genius who may cure cancer? On the other hand, and maybe because I had just attended Sir Henry’s memorial and graveside service, I realized with a slight shudder that “the possibilities” also included a great deal of loss and pain.

All of a sudden, I wanted to protect my Little Boy Blue from real life. And then I wanted to protect his parents. My imaginary umbrella grew and grew until it ballooned big enough to cover an entire group of people – the ones I call “family”.

What really saddened me momentarily was the thought that my umbrella was not made of some heavy Indian rubber, but was more of a parasol made of paper. Nothing I could do would ever shield my loved ones, especially Little Boy Blue, from the risks associated in the Plan of Salvation, nor would/should I desire such a thing. The prospect of growth, of growth all the way to perfection, over-ruled my natural instinct to squelch trouble and tribulation from having their sway.

And then there’s my baby girl, who will be married next Saturday. Talk about risk! I envision she and her Little-Boy-Blue-nephew jumping feet-first into very deep water, while I wait, somewhat helplessly, at pool’s edge to see how long before they come up for air. Each of them are surrendering all illusion of control, giving themselves wholly into the hands of others, with no other strategy or defense or protection other than love.

With that picture, the things I had been studying and musing about recently, finally all came together and sunk deep into my heart. The essence of it is this:

The rain and the sun in Father’s Plan of Happiness, his Plan of Redemption, our tailor-made Plan of Spiritual Maturation, is obviously not about deflecting pain. It’s about absorbing pain; greater and greater amounts of it. With each new addition to our family, through marriage or birth, the risks may be increasing, but from where else comes the joy of progress? Family life is not a way of hiding or shading from suffering, but a way of suffering purposefully. No family will ever come into being, or become ultimately successful,  who doesn’t accept that reality and relinquish control over life and one another, which, in fact, is precisely how love wins in the end and fills our lives with the peace and abundance we all crave.

I wanted to explain all that to Little Boy Blue as he lay on my lap: I wanted to teach him that instead of fearing “the possibilities”, he should completely and enthusiastically embrace them, even relish them, and that we, his family, would love him through every eventuality. But just as I was formulating the words, those great, dark eyes lit up, a quiver of a smile passed his lips, and I heard a petite voice say, “It’s alright Grammy, I’ll take good care of you. It’s gonna be so much fun.”

Related Musings:
Imagine a Life
What You Don't Have of Have Lost

Father's Day Detour

Thirty-four years ago, a boy who made me laugh, promised to make me laugh forever. We both knew he had no idea how to deliver, but at 19, laughter cannot be supplanted by practicality.

To see what has become of us, or rather, what has become of HIM, please visit my Father's Day musing at Mona's Musings with a Hint of Romance.

Happy Father's Day my Friend, my Friends, my Brothers, my Priesthood Brothers, my biological Fathers and Sons, and my Fathers and Sons in spirit!

May the women in your life appreciate and respect you.

You're Home Now

“This was a real, truly live place….I remember that some of it wasn’t very nice…but most of it was beautiful. But just the same, all I kept saying to everybody was, I want to go home. And they sent me home… And this is my room – and you’re all here! And I’m not going to leave here ever, ever again, because I love you all! And – on Auntie Em! – there’s no place like home.” Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz

Raising children in one corner of the United States, when everything I knew and loved best was 3,000 miles diagonally in the other corner was hard.

When parenthood overwhelmed me, I needed my mommy but this was before MMB, FB, AOL or IM (“long-distance” meant an expensive phone call and “leavin’ on a jet plane” was still exotic enough that the radio played songs about it).

And where were my friends? After high school or college, we’d scattered like the children of Israel.

Not only was this emotional terrain challenging to me, I refused to get comfortable with the physical environment. Palm trees, in my opinion, could never replace evergreens, and water in the air could never compare to water from the sky.

It scared and dismayed me--being so far from “home”.

This sickness turned toxic when it began to affect the precious relationships that had taken me to Oz: my in-laws, my children, my husband. At that point, Heaven knew it was time to intervene for their sake as well as my own, so a good fairy was sent on the errand; an angel named Aunt Athlene, my mother’s sister.

We talked for a long time over the phone —I mean, I talked for a long time, and she listened. After my whimpers were extinguished with just the right dose of sympathy, she turned me upside down with this profound perspective:

What you need to understand, darling,” she began gently, “is that you do not have “A” home. Rather, you have many homes -- or you WILL have many homes -- as a woman. There will always be the “home” of your childhood, but you also have the “home” of your college years; the “home” of your early married life; now another “home” of your young family life; and perhaps another in your mature years. They may even put you in a “home” when you’re an old grandma like me!”

She laughed.

“You will see with time,” she continued, “that each “home” in your life becomes saturated with its own memories, its own traditions and its own purpose. Think about this: your babyhood home must have felt very strange -- so different from the one you left in heaven – but aren’t you glad you made THAT move?”

I have mused a lot this week over that advice from long ago: in ten days we are leaving this little London flat for our three-story house, and I can hardly believe it was thirteen months ago I was leaving the U.S. for a place called England.

Experiences still too fresh to be called 'memories' are flooding me like the waters of the Red Sea on the armies of Pharaoh; I could almost drown in them. It is comforting to know that most of those experiences have been packaged in words and photos, blogs and journals. Even so, it is discomfiting that the flesh of it all, the people, cannot be shipped with the furniture. The only place for them is in my heart.

Aunt Athlene was right: life is all about creating a home, wherever you are and for however long, and the sooner you accept that and get on with it, the faster you can grow and the more love there is in the world.

So say it I must: good-bye wonderful London --you're (another) “home” now.

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”
Maya Angelou

Muse with me: are you "home"?

Click on the ruby slippers to watch a music video you may get as hooked on as I have:
"There Is No Place Like Home"

Angel Talkin'

Last weekend, in the name of togetherness, Dale and I bartered. I’d go with him to the electronics store, if he would come with me to “America’s Largest Antiques and Collectibles Show” at the fairgrounds near our house. We hit the Show first and clipped along because I figured (and I was right) that I had about 20 minutes to shop for a treasure before he started feigning exhaustion. We were moving so fast (by my standards) through aisles of dolls, dishes and dainties, that I almost sailed past the booth of “It’s A Wonderful Life” (click to watch 60 second clip) memorabilia. Dale slowed me down and pointed to the attractive older woman who stood in the middle, signing posters, DVD’s and books. He then pointed to banner above her head:
“MEET ZUZU”. (Click for "Zuzu" site)

It took a second to register…then…oh my goodness! It was the actress who played the littlest Bailey:

“Look, Daddy. Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.”

I admit to being star struck for a second before blurting:
“Zuzu’s an antique!”

Though Zuzu and her petals were adorable in the Christmas classic, my favorite character has always been the eternally bumbling, but oh-so heartwarming, “Clarence”. Here’s why:

I know we’re not supposed to aspire to particular callings in the Church. Primary, Sunday School, Seminary, Young Women, Relief Society…it has all been grand. But there is one position that, like Alma (Alma 29:1), I admit to coveting -

The Best Job in the Whole Kingdom:

Angel.

First Class. (Actually, I’d be thrilled with Second Class – but I’m naturally ambitious and would certainly try to earn my “wings” as soon as possible.)

I’m not talking about counterfeit angels (2 Ne. 9:9), or those who receive the unpleasant assignments like vengeance on the wicked. I am talking about the Angel rank who get to open dispensations (D&C 128:20), or make good guys out of bad guys (Alma 27:11-17), or deliver tidings of great joy with heavenly hosts singing back-up (Luke 2:13-14). I love angels.

And I’ve loved them ever since they became regular guests in our home; that is, ever since Ashley was born.

When my baby was all cleaned up and swaddled, the labor and delivery nurse placed her in my arms and said something I will never forget: “A perfect little girl.”

Ashley was about 24 months old when we finally received a diagnosis that explained her inability to crawl, toddle or talk: severe, bi-lateral, diffuse brain-injury.

Twenty-eight years later, I can testify that the nurse was prophetic. Ashley is indeed perfect; so, perfect, that the angels are her closest friends.

From her earliest days on earth, Ashley has been fascinated by light. You may have noticed the same characteristic in your own newborns. Their little eyes rivet on the brightest light in their immediate environment. Tantrums often ebb to a snivel when they notice the bulb, the lamp, the stream of sunshine reaching into the crib. Besides this fixation with light, Ashley would also become engrossed with blank, white walls. Her stare was so intent, I sometimes waved my hand so that it passed through the air at the point of interest, wondering what I might be “touching”… something, or someone, Ashley could see, but I could not.

Ashley is generally a silent person. She has never spoken one word and goes day after day without voicing at all. But on occasion, on very specific, predictable occasions, Ashley makes a lot of noise. Whenever we have moved into a new ward, it has taken the members a few weeks to adjust to the fact that hymns are sung, babies are blessed, missionaries give farewells, and baptisms are performed with Ashley squealing joyfully in the background.

It takes only a little observation to realize, or sense, that Ashley is not making random sounds. She is communicating. Enraptured, she focuses on a spot in the room, usually near the ceiling, and goes to town – expressing herself with happy abandon. It’s a trial for me, as her mother, not to squelch the “conversation” in deference to all the rest of us, for whom the veil remains as thick as brick. But our fellow Saints have figured it out by and by through the years: Ashley is a living Spirit-O-Meter. When she’s rock- and- rolling we’ve got company – heavenly company.

These sessions between Ashley and the Angels are not limited to the chapel. As the kids were growing up, you could count on family prayer or Family Home Evening to have a drop-in or two. One of those evenings proved especially memorable for our family…

Ashley started up with the “angel talk” (as our elementary-school-aged kids referred to the phenomenon) at our very first notes of “I Believe in Christ” (which was one of our favorites, and apparently, one of the angels’ favorites). We sang over her loud jabbering as best we could while she nearly jumped out of her skin, captivated by something in the corner of our living room, right above the television set. One of the kids said the opening prayer. The bubbly banter continued. I began to teach the lesson. Ashley’s excitement (and the decibel level involved) only increased. It had been a long day and my patience was wearing thin. I just wanted to get through that lesson, get the kiddos to bed, and flop on the couch.

When I realized I was nearly shouting to be heard by the rest of the family, my exasperation reached its peak. I looked up and turned around to face the corner where our visitor was obviously hovering and said very politely, if not matter-of-factly (over Ashley’s cries):

“Would you mind moving to another part of the room so that I can continue the lesson?”

What happened next absolutely floored us.

Ashley’s ‘shouts of exaltation’ instantly – and I mean instantly - melted into tiny whimpers.

“Mmmmm?” She looked to her left and then her right, alarmed.

“Mmmmm?” She looked over her shoulder with a bewildered expression.

“Mmmmm?” She was about to cry.

The rest of us sat in stunned silence for a long minute.

“Well…” our oldest son broke the spell tentatively, “that proves it. Not that we needed proof! But………that proves it.” His last words dissolved into a whisper, his blue eyes as wide as I’d ever seen them.

“Mona,” my husband at last spoke up solemnly, “you scared them away.”

I chaffed.

“No I did not! I just asked them to go to another part of the room! I didn’t mean they had to leave!”

They probably did not actually leave. More likely, they just disappeared. And I’m certain they reappeared, the next night, and the next, and the next. Angels love homes where the Spirit abounds. Angels love the Sacrament and family prayer and hymn singing. And most of all – I’m sure of it – angels love babies, and little children, and hurt people like Ashley (3rd Nephi 17).

You see now why I’d like to be an angel? What better company to be in than the Pure and Innocent of the earth? However, since the office of Angel appears by all scriptural accounts to be a Priesthood function, I will be “content with the things the Lord hath allotted unto me”(Alma 29:3): living with Ashley who speaks “the tongue of angels” (2 Nephi 32:2-3) fluently.

And that is, after all, a rather wonderful life. (Click to watch 60 sec. trailer)


Thank you for your birthdday wishes at "Cherry-ty (Over Chocolate) Never Faileth". And holy kisses (Romans 16:16) to my Follower Friends

OTHER READER FAVORITES: "Who's Body Is It Anyway?" , "Leave it There"