Have Yourself a Sturdy Little Christmas

The cards. The baking. The decorating. The shopping. The gifts. The clothing. The caroling. The calories. The nativity play. The parties. The tree. The family get-togethers. The office get-together. The church services. The neighbor cookie plates.

How many things are on your list?

For many people, Christmas spells S-T-R-E-S-S!

If we don't do it all--and do it perfectly--will we ruin Christmas? For us or for others--which one bothers us more?

Over the years, I've learned to do some things to reduce my Christmas stress. Aspects of poverty and illness have forced me to. Most of these things could boil down to simplifying and doing things ahead.

I've forgiven myself--well, sort of--for not sending Christmas cards for several years running, and counting. Maybe next year.

While listening to the Church-wide devotional Sunday, one word caught my attention. President Uchtdorf said that Christmas is sturdier than we think. Sturdy. I like it!

Christmas has, after all, endured all these years. If I don't have the time, health, or means to do some part of Christmas, it won't go away. Other people are keeping up the traditions I've temporarily dropped. They'll still be there when I'm ready to pick them up again.

My thoughts lit happily on that word, sturdy, and then they went even deeper. What is Christmas, anyway? Is it the cards? The songs? The parties? The tree? All of those things are simply ways to celebrate what Christmas is. Christmas is a celebration of the most--maybe only--completely perfect gift ever given: the gift of a Savior to redeem the people in a darkened world. A gift so miraculous that no one but God could ever pull it off. A gift so perfect that no one needs to--nor can--improve upon it. No one can add to or detract from it one bit. No one can stop it from being given. It was given. Perfectly. Whole and complete. For everyone who ever lived or ever will live on the earth.

So, the things we do at Christmas time are all options for celebrating that gift. Some are perfect and miraculous in themselves. Some are generous. Some are merely well-intentioned. But they are all meant to help us remember God's gift to us and find joy in our knowledge of that. All of our Christmas gifts, songs, parties, and offerings put together can't make up Christmas. They only reflect it. Imperfectly. And that's okay, because that's the best we can do.

The best we can do to celebrate Christmas at a given time is perfectly okay. No stress necessary.

Maybe, just maybe, it's actually. . .arrogant of us to think we can ruin Christmas.

Let's do what gives us joy without giving us stress, and then sit back and enjoy it.

The Great Grape Pie

A mystery is brewing in my basement.

It might not be a mystery to everyone who lives here, but it is becoming one to me.

Of course, I don't always know much of what goes on here, because while I'm at work, the rest of my family is living their lives--especially when school is out--here in the house without me, and I have to keep up solely by reading Facebook postings.

Yesterday, I learned via Facebook that Paul had the kids squeezing "the jelly from [the] eyes" of the grapes that had been hurriedly harvested from the back fence on the first cold day and had been sitting in a basket on the counter ever since.

We've lived in this house for ten years, with grapes living out their lives and marrying, having babies and affairs and dying without any notice from us. So why the grapes had to be saved was the first part of the mystery.

But the Facebook post that something was actually being done with them was probably good news, as the grapes had started throwing parties there on the counter without the permission of their landlords.

Paul asked for suggestions from his peeps on what to do with the grapes, and got several, but decided for whatever reason to post, "I think pie!"

Grape pie is, to me, somewhat of a mystery all by itself.

When I got home from work yesterday, Paul was, of course, at work, and the children informed me that the pie was not yet ready. This was odd, but I accepted it.

Today when I got home from work, my children informed me again that the pie was still not ready. Possibly tomorrow.

I am really wondering now what kind of grape pie takes three days to make.

"Daddy had to watch two really long movies today," I was told.

"We made the crust today!" I was reassured.

This is all complicated by the fact that we are now using what Paul sort of termed the service quarters kitchen downstairs one day when he was feeling isolated cooking down there. I won't quote what he actually said, because it's just not PC, but it had to do with what kind of "help" he was feeling like at the moment. This downstairs kitchen is, well, downstairs, down a hall, around the corner, and the third light on your right.

If we didn't need the stove in it--currently the only functioning stove in the house--none of us would ever venture in there at all.

Personally, I haven't been in there since I blew out the fire I caused by forgetting all about the eggs I was boiling. And threw away my mother's pan.

Maybe I'll go down and check out this mystery for myself. Or not. I think I'll let the mystery play itself out. It's providing an interesting thread in this section of the tapestry of our hilarious lives.

Seeing It Both Ways

On Sunday, a daughter in a white dress with beautiful peacock trim harassed me for two hours over it feeling uncomfortable. She looked lovely in it. I even felt inspired to take a picture of her.

But, she's slim, and she needed a slip to help prevent a gap between the dress and her torso. And the slip straps tended to fall down occasionally. And sometimes, the dress (or the slip) was itchy.

"Welcome to the world of being female," I wanted to say.

Actually, I was torn. I could see it both ways.

Because there was nothing really wrong with her outfit and she'd even worn it before, I wanted her to stick it out. I want her to develop some emotional stamina and not need to give in as soon as something becomes difficult to deal with.

On the other hand, I don't believe women should put up with a ridiculous amount of discomfort just to look pretty.

We all draw our own lines between comfort and appearance. I want my daughter to learn to do this for herself. I tried to talk to her about it. From outside the dress, it was hard for me to tell just how bad her discomfort was. It seemed minor. This daughter reminds me of Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird, and pulls this rather often.

I talked to her about the dress and determined that she does like it. I talked to her about the idea of clothing rotation, and that if she wants to keep this dress, she should wear it sometimes. I asked her questions, but she didn't say much. She made faces and squirmed. I encouraged her to put it out of her mind. Part of that was for her benefit, but, honestly, it was also to accommodate my duties at church. Helping her change, at that point, would curtail my timeliness.

She kept it up after the services started. I put my arm around her and encouraged her. I said, "It's only three hours," but I think she heard, "It's only three days."

She squirmed. She frowned. She made faces. She scratched. She flounced. She pulled at her clothes. She huffed, and she puffed, and she blew my patience in.

"You're not the worst-off person in the world," I whispered to her as the sacrament song began.

I have sometimes wondered about the worst-off person in the world. Who would it be? And what would s/he have to be suffering to earn that distinction? It makes me shudder, but, still, it has crossed my mind more than once.

This comes from my own moderation of self-pity as I go to work each day and see people whose lives are--no matter what my current challenges may be--quite likely to be worse than mine. I see people who have made stupid mistakes--like tatooing the F word onto their body, as though getting a job weren't hard enough. I see people flattened by an unbelievable series of misfortunes. I see people who've never known anyone who didn't live in poverty--who have no family members who have ever finished high school or held a job. I see people who have piled so many barriers onto their own heads, it seems it would take a Resurrection or an archeological dig to unearth them. I see people who "did everything right" but woke up to find their health gone forever.

I've developed a mantra that has helped me keep perspective: You can always find someone better off and worse off than you are.

Whenever my mind has veered to wonder about THE WORST-OFF PERSON in the world, I imagine it must be someone in incredible pain, in a horrible victim situation, or being tortured. I can't think about it for long. My one comfort is the hope and likelihood that no one person occupies that place for very long. Hopefully, she or he mercifully dies, recovers, or is replaced shortly by someone in an even worse situation.

I'm sure it's something only God can track.

But, as I said those words to my daughter while the introduction to the sacrament song played in my ears and my hands opened the hymn book to the right page and offered it to share with her and my eyes caught some of the words of the song, I had an amazing insight.

I knew who the worst-off person in the whole world had been.

It had not occurred to me before, but, surely, the person who had ever suffered the most pain, the most agony, the heaviest burden, EVER, had to have been Jesus.

This surprised me, because I tend to think of Jesus as the best-off person. I mean, He was perfect. He's the Chosen One, the Beloved Son, an exalted God. He can do anything.

And then I thought again about the paradoxes in the gospel that always mystify me. The last shall be first. The greatest must be the least. The poor in spirit and meek inherit the earth. He who loseth himself shall find himself. If you seek riches in order to do good and not for yourself, then you will find them. To gain all, you must sacrifice everything. I think about the balance this gives.

And this brought an even better insight.

Long ago, I noticed that, while men generally build things in straight lines, God builds in circles. All fruits are round in some way. The earth, the sun, the planets and stars, orbits, atoms, body parts--round. Circular patterns in almost everything--the cycle of life, the water cycle, the cycles of systems in our bodies--reproductive cycle, circulatory system.

Advanced building.

And then I pictured two opposites--the dichotomies inherent in the gospel--filling out to make a round shape. The worst and the best on opposite sides of each other in a circle.

As God breathes life into these opposites--or fills them with spirit--they become a round whole.

As we achieve balance, as we are directed to do, we achieve a kind of wholeness that is our perfect form. We must be humble to be great. We must give to receive. We must forget ourselves to be remembered on the rolls of heaven.

Just one more way God builds--US--in circles.

So I struck some balance with my daughter. After she had suffered for half of the time of church in her dress, I took her home to change. But I felt unsettled, so I eventually asked a friend who has good sense what she would have done with a child whose clothes were uncomfortable at church.

"Have them stick it out," she said. Then, she reflected on her words and added, "But, sometimes, I think how I would feel in that position, and if I were really too uncomfortable, I might take myself home to change."

So, there I had it again--balance.

I guess I didn't do too badly, after all.

Except for the part where I lost patience. So I'll keep practicing on my balance beam until, through God's grace and with His help, I can round out to be whole.

Walking around in Our Own Skins

A little while ago, two different advice columnists published the same letter from a woman driven to distraction by her mother's apparently distractibility.

You see, her mother never locks her car door while she's driving. She goes walking alone in the moonlight and comes back to her unlocked house. And all without some dreadful thing happening to her.

This poor woman has warned her mother of all the horrific things that could happen to her. Her warnings apparently fall on deaf ears as her mother goes about enjoying her life.

This is interesting to me.

I'm all for enjoying one's life.

I'm even more all for not letting someone else snatch that enjoyment from me.

In my life, I am the mother locking the doors and praying her children will always be safe.

Even more interesting were the advice columnists' responses.

The first one said (and I paraphrase): Leave your poor mother alone to enjoy her life. It's only just on this side of the line of possibility that something awful will happen to your mother, and some people simply prefer to not concern themselves with gruesome but remote possibilities. And maybe hinted at: Get some counseling.

The second one said (and I paraphrase): Good gracious! Did your mother grow up in the Garden of Eden that she is so naive as to have no idea of all the dangers lurking out there to catch someone like her unawares?!

Actually, there were dangers in the Garden of Eden. But I digress.

As one who devours every news story of mishaps to people, analyzes them to discover if she might be making the same mistakes herself, and corrects things about the house if she is, I am pretty sure that such a letter will never be written by a child of mine. I also intend to teach my children properly impressively about Dangers Out There and How to Avoid Them while they are properly impressionable, and then not nag them about it when they become adults.

In this story, there are clearly four points of view, leaving out mine. Or, perhaps I should say, two points of view shared by two people each.

I can see both as valid.

I suppose if the mother who is the subject of the letter was naive before, she certainly cannot be after her daughter has educated her until she is blue in the face. She's making a conscious choice to be unconcerned.

I suppose it's all a matter of how comfortable one is walking around in her own skin. Personally, I am more comfortable knowing for sure that no one could have entered my house without making a huge mess and/or racket to tip me off.

Where do your ideas fall?

The Rhythms of Life

Yesterday was my last official Friday off as a state employee.

I complained plenty when we were all forced by the former governor, Jon, Jr., to disrupt our family lives to accommodate his four-tens whim. But that was 37 months ago, and, well, I've adjusted to it.

At first, ten-hour days (with no lunch, in my case) seemed to last forever. I simply could not keep up the same rate of production for that long, and each day seemed endless. I even taped a cheat sheet to my desk underneath my telephone to help me cope. It told me at what time in the week I was 10 percent through that week, 20 percent through, etc.

I started going to bed at seven-thirty, with the children, so that I could get up at 3:30 or 4:00 to go to the gym before work. I started doing my laundry the minute I got home on Thursdays. Having to get my forty hours in exactly between 6:30 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. on four consecutive days worried me. What if a huge snowstorm made me late? I could no longer use my lunch time to make any adjustments. Believe me, it's difficult to have every minute of your life so structured that you would have to take personal leave just to mail a letter.

I soon realized that 4:30 on Monday, when I left my house, to 4:30 on Thursday, when I left work for the weekend, meant that my weeks were split nice and exactly in half. I had my home-life half-of-the-week and my work half-of-the-week.

Different worlds.

Guess which one I liked heading into better than the other one?

But, out of this strict schedule, I learned to take some comfort. Everything I did, it seemed, became part of a routine. My life became very predictable, but I found some solace in this.

I actually liked going to bed with a good book or a Sudoku puzzle early in the evening before the light outside faded away. I liked noticing the moment when the sun made everything in my bedroom burn a brilliant gold before fizzing out for the day.

I even liked sorting the laundry on Thursday nights, as though flinging my work cares and troubles into piles of darks and whites. Bringing order to my household as I let go of the workplace each week filled me with peace.

I learned to look forward to certain times of the week--when I get to open the Sunday paper, family activity time the morning when both my husband and I were home, hot chocolate time each evening.

Recently, I heard a radio program about a book a woman had written in conjunction with an Amish woman. The author pointed out how marvelous it was that the Amish woman stayed in touch with the earth's rhythms more than most of us do. In an electricity-filled world, we can pretty much ignore the sun and do what we want when we want to. She noticed the joy and freedoms the Amish woman found in keeping her life in sync not only with the daily sun, but with the earth's seasons.

Not that I'm about to give up electricity, of course, but I think there is something to that. Instead of simply dreading winter, maybe I can find some comfort in the changes it brings. We get to shut down certain functions, like yard work (not that it isn't replaced by snow shoveling). Winter brings certain things to our lives that we simply don't experience at any other time of year.

In thinking hard about the changes I'm facing next week, I've decided I might as well give myself over to finding new rhythms and making this work for me as best I can. I would prefer to still go in to work at the same time and leave early in order to be there for my family more, but this isn't going to be allowed.

I have to take a lunch, something I'm not used to doing. But I'm sure I can get some of my weekend errands done then, find a few minutes here and there to do needlework.

I plan to use extra time in the morning for more exercise and/or writing. I plan to use extra time in the evening for my children--not that it won't hurt us all for a while for me to be gone one whole extra day.

But I'm actually a little excited for the challenge. Maybe I won't have to say no to quite as many things that don't fit into my strict half-week-this and half-week-that schedule.

Maybe I'll find some new comforts and freedoms.

Life-Changing Days

Every so often, life gives us a day that, like the earthquake in Japan earlier this year, shifts our axis a little bit and makes our outlook from then on just a little bit different.

The past twenty-four hours have been one of those days for me.

It started out fairly normally. I got up at my usual ungodly hour, worried about how my upcoming schedule change will hurt my life, worked out hard at the gym, went to work. I ate my same old day-in-day-out breakfast of an orange, two hard-boiled eggs, and a glass of milk. Saw the same people at work that I always see. Started my day with the same routine.

Then, mid-morning, it happened. Something out of the ordinary. One small event--an email, actually--that grew like a beanstalk I could climb into heaven and access a golden harp and a golden-egg-laying hen, if I want to. Suddenly, dreams I've harbored for a long time seem reasonable.

Best of all, my place in the universe seems defined for me. As a writer. As a mother and wife. As a worker. As a human being, even.

I remember as a child I often walked around the house wondering, "Here we all are, but what are we supposed to do?"

What I'm supposed to do, and, more importantly, who I am, both seem much clearer to me. My confidence has solidified.

The email was from a staff member of a newspaper, informing me that my first blog article, "Cooking Is Love," (look way back to the beginning of this blog), had been published in the online news. It's a small thing, but it's a start. It's a beginning, but it's an end of wondering why-oh-why.

From this grew affirmations from so many people in one day that my confidence, not only as a writer, but as a human being who is valued, grew right up into the sky like that beanstalk. Words like "brilliant," "funny," "very touching," came at me like wind up a hot-air balloon.

When I told my children that my article about their dad's cooking had been published, one of them gasped. "Does Daddy know you published that?"

I smiled. "Yes, he's the first person I told."

And it makes me smile--that I have him in my life, that our relationship has weathered storms to become something enduring and satisfying, like the tree growing out of the rock in my favorite painting.

There was one moment in my day that threatened to flush all of this. Someone who has some power over me heard something from someone else and repeated it to me in a not-nice way. She didn't take the time to hear my point of view and shut me down when I offered it. This brought all sorts of negative feelings and thoughts up for me.

I resented the lack of acknowledgement I got for doing her a favor in the first place, even though I had made one small mistake in doing it. I resented not being given a voice. And I resented the lack of acknowledgement or softening in her that I expected as I handled the situation maturely, taking full responsibility and apologizing.

I started to develop a new tic.

But as I reflected on that, it did seem to be a fitting part of the day, because there are changes I need to make. I've known I need to make them for some time, and this brought that back into view. And as I considered the source of the chewing out--both of the people involved, and acknowledged the wrong-doing on my own part, I felt at peace again. I am who I am, and I am really okay with that. I have grown in ways I needed to, and I can see my way clear for growing in the ways I still need to. I have gained perspective.

I have so much to be grateful for, and smallness on the part of one or two does not and should not cloud the validity of my worth to myself and everyone else I know, which, other than in that one moment of the day, had been coming through loud and clear.

Besides, some day, I can write about those people in detail.

To top it all off, a friend from high school I had reached out to four months ago and not heard back from finally got on Facebook and gave me the warm response I had hoped for. I had assumed all this time that he had not welcomed my hello, but, again, I just needed to be patient, and not assume the worst. Further validating to me.

I completed all of the evening chores and duties that I had upon my head and had myself put upon my shoulders, and went to bed.

Then I had a dream in which I was visited by another old friend. The details of the dream are not important. What is important is the feeling that I woke up with--that I matter. I matter to a lot of people who matter to me. What I have to say matters. I am who I am. I can do what I need to do. I have support and love. I feel confidence and courage.

I feel I can handle things better. The need to feel grouchy, or overwhelmed, or small, or stupid--less than I am in any way, seems to have vanished. Everything that matters to me is now in focus.

Thank you, everybody! And, yes, I mean you.

Linger a Little Longer

My baby just came into my bedroom and tossed two little white socks up on my bed at me.

"Too small," he said, then turned and left.

It felt as if the socks were not little and fluffy, but heavy as cast-iron and had landed on my heart.

It's not that this particular pair of socks means a lot to me, although it's clear that their usefulness in my family is over. He'll never wear them again.

I was only still in bed because I had to finish reading, The Help, an important book about the vital need for and terrible risks of change, before I could function again. I knew what was next--the long run for the week that I'd been putting off all morning. And then, finishing writing my own important book, which I'd been putting off even longer, before it's too late for me.

I picked up the little socks and folded them back together again into a tucked-over roll, the way my mother showed me how to fold socks when I was his age. I squeezed them a little in my hand. Lovingly.

Inexplicably, I felt like he had given me a gift.

Not a pair of socks no one will ever wear again.

His own growth.

Every day of my life, I feel like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. Life stretches and pulls on me, forcing me out of my comfort zone before I'm ready. The old stuff pulling off hurts the new skin underneath.

But what does anything ever mean if it stays the same? Though I wish each moment could linger a little longer than it does.

Right now, half of my baby's brothers have already grown up and left the home. I have pictures, but they only capture seconds in time. His other brothers are away, with their father. They'll come back today. I expect.

At work, they keep throwing my department into the blender to see what else they can chop and mix up. I've had more supervisors in the past while than I've had in ten years before. Someone up above me in the department thrives on change. I think they're playing paper dolls with us and can't wait to see what we look like in the yellow outfit.

They tell us about the new changes planned and wait for us to thank them.

I think, "What will this mean to my family? Will I still see my friends? Will I get fatter if I can't work out on the new schedule like I can now?"

And then we all adjust to it and move on.

My baby is not really a baby anymore. He's been reading for almost two years. He counts everything on one hand, having learned a system for keeping the ten's place without involving his toes.

I want to believe the best part of his day--as it is the best part of mine--is when I gather him up onto my lap before he gets in his little bed and hold him, rock him, and sing to him. He wants to hear the babyish song I made up at his age for my mother to sing to me. He wants to hear an old favorite nursery rhyme that everyone knows so well they are sick of it. And he wants to hear a wrenching song about the crucifixion.

I sing the last song, at his demand, feeling guilty all the while that I've exposed his mind to this truth, that I've exposed his body to pain by bringing it into the world, that the love for him bursting out of my heart every time I look at or think of his angel face can't keep him safe from truth or pain.

And if that group of songs isn't life all rolled up into one, I don't know what is.

He reaches his little arm up around my neck, snuggles down into my softness, sighing out whatever stress has been in his day. For one moment, we are again connected, mother and child. I keep rocking after the songs are finished, hoping he will just stay that way with me a little longer, but he knows what is next in the routine and slips off my lap to accomplish it.

Like every other child, he knows his job is to grow up.

And I know my most heartbreaking job is to let him.

But I smile to myself. Because he is still here. Growing. That is my gift.

It's Independence Day Somewhere

Apparently, yesterday was France's independence day.

I don't know how I could have missed that!

Actually, I couldn't miss it, because I'm married to Paul.

And if there's any country out there with any independence day, Paul is the man to celebrate it!

When I got home from work last night, I found roasted pork and carrots waiting patiently for me in a foil tent. I found lentils, crepes, and bacon-cooked greens. Also a dish of green beans.

"Wow!" burst out of me before I even knew what I would follow that with.

I didn't know how to serve and eat all of these things. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that crepes were a dessert, but, well, they were sitting by the lentils, and, well, I've seen a lot of creative cooking in my house--mint in peas, peanut butter on meat, chili powder in chocolate. And, well, I grew up in a meat-potatoes-and-vegetable household.

But my daughter saved me from the full weight of my ignorance by pointing out YET ANOTHER dish on the south counter of prepared homemade raspberry sauce. "And you sprinkle powdered sugar on the top."

It was clear that Paul had been very, very busy. And, no doubt, had a great deal of fun. Why be bored cooking dinner when you can center it on a theme?

As we sat down to our feast, the baby declared the roasted carrots to look "ferocious yucky!" I already knew them to probably be the best part of the meal, because I had already sampled one. Okay, two.

"Oh, no!" I said. "These are going to be the best carrots you've ever had in your life."

He thought back over four years and was not impressed.

"Was Daddy playing Julia Child all day?" I asked, smiling.

"Who's Julia Child?" a middle child asked.

"She was a cook," an older middle child said snootily.

"She wrote 'The Art of French Cooking,'" I said.

"What's the art of French cooking--is that the meat? I don't like French."

Older child: "It's a cookbook!"

"Is that the cookbook Daddy used to make this food?" someone asked.

"No. Daddy doesn't use a cookbook," an older child snooted. "Just recipes."

"Daddy called and told me to heat some green beans to go with our meal, but I didn't add the savory, like he told me to," our daughter confessed.

I looked at the table. There were greens. There were beans (lentils). And then there were green beans. Paul had been very thorough. I told her I liked it when Daddy added savory. I think she had been thinking of the time when he had tried to add celery salt to all of our cabbagy veggies so the kids would eat them and I'd had to tell him those very same kids were plotting to hide the celery salt.

There was so much food I knew we couldn't eat it all, but I did encourage everyone to try a little of everything. It worked, partly because of the looming promise of the crepes! With raspberry sauce!

It worked on everyone but the youngest. He looked suspiciously at the crepes as he does regularly with all new foods. (We usually just refer to any meat on his plate as "chicken" to get him to not balk.) I got him to finally try his crepe by pointing out that it was like a pancake. The same line had worked earlier in the week on the Spaetzle we'd had with our Brats and Rotkohl. I had pried one paper-punch-hole-sized noodle into his mouth, but once he could look at them as teensy tiny pancakes, he'd eaten a plateful.

After showing our daughter how to cook the crepes, Paul had left for work. It was too bad he wasn't there to enjoy the meal and the comments with us. But he laughed hard at "ferocious yucky" later.

I didn't know how to serve the crepes. Never had one. Never seen it done. But, hey! A plate with a crepe, raspberry sauce, and powdered sugar on it cannot go wrong, right?

And my baby declared himself a "dessertarian"--something with which I think we can all identify.

Crown Thy Good with Sisterhood

When I was in first grade, I had the good fortune to be placed in the class taught by my Aunt Rosie's good friend, Marie Stuart. She was tall, slim, and gracious, and probably about sixty years old, as Aunt Rosie would have been, had my aunt not succumbed to poor health two-and-a-half years before.

I remember Miss Stuart well. She told me that when she and my aunt were young women, they liked to introduce themselves as Rosemarie and "Plain Marie."

Miss Stuart encouraged all of us to write a list of numerals from 1 to 1000. Once we had done that, we were eligible for random prizes she would bring for holidays and changes of seasons. I remember a little heart pin I received around Valentine's Day. I wore it with a blue dress I had that went with a white pinafore with cats on it. It took us weeks, of course, to complete the task of writing to 1000. I was not among the first to be done, but once I saw the prizes other children were getting, I really wanted to be in that club.

But the thing I remember more than that about Miss Stuart's class was how, every morning, without fail, we saluted the American flag, said the "Pledge of Allegiance," and sang, "God Bless America." When we sang the words to the chorus, we raised our right arms up to a 1:00 position for "From the mountains," then lowered them to about 2:00 for "to the prairies," then straight out at 3:00 for "to the oceans, white with foooaaammmmmm!"

I know from other people's reports that I could not carry a tune at that time in my life, but that did not stop me from belting out the words, pride in my country bursting like fireworks in my heart.

Decades later, it was my misfortune to see sexism in action while dealing with domestic disputes in court against a male foe who seemed able to stop justice just by objecting to it. I thought back to that daily ritual, and wondered, "Why didn't anyone ever tell me back then that I was a second-class citizen?" I had certainly never suspected it.

In a workshop I attended once, the speaker made the comment that boys grow up to be more unified than girls do--traditionally, they play on teams together, wear the uniform, have each others' backs. Even as adults, the business suit is sort of a uniform. A man could probably wear the same thing day after day after day without it being noticed.

Women, on the other hand, have to wear outfits different from each other's. They must display constant variety. The typical girl grew up playing with Barbies, or playing house--each having her own stuff to compare and contrast and compete with her friends' stuff.

This struck me as one of the factors of the societal problem of sexism. We need more sisterhood! We need to stick up for each other better, help each other out of difficult situations, have more empathy for each other, provide more practical help, and compete with and judge each other less. We need to be on the same team, so to speak.

That's why, years back, I started singing "And crown thy good with sisterhood from sea to shining sea" on the last verse of "America the Beautiful." I still sing "brotherhood" on the first verse. America needs both brotherhood and sisterhood, I explain to my kids when they look at me in wonder as I unconventionally sing the "wrong" word.

Truth be told, I wouldn't mind seeing the song officially changed to say "sisterhood" in the last line. And I have to wonder if Katharine Lee Bates, who wrote the song, would really mind, either.

My own sister was my rescuer from the worst situation I was ever in, and, without the laws in the United States of America being as good as they were, it could not have been done.

I like to remember one day in church when my second son was sixteen and we were singing "America the Beautiful" for the closing hymn. On the last verse, he looked at me, a smile playing on his lips as we neared that last line. He knew what was coming, and we beamed at each other as I sang it.

This year, some of my children noticed me choking up on the latter verses of "The Star-spangled Banner." They just can't know what it means to me to live in a country with more freedoms for women than most countries have--a place where women can vote, own property, work in an occupation of their choice, hold office, choose to marry or not and whom to marry or not, and all the other rights we enjoy. We still have a little way to go, America, but we have come a long way.

And I am grateful. My life is soooooo much better than it might have been in another time or in another place.

The ongoing prayer in my heart is, "America, America, God mend thine every flaw. . . And crown thy good with sisterhood from sea to shining sea!"

A Great Great-Aunt

Once upon a time, about two years ago, I had a fantasy that we could somehow squeeze in a trip to a coastal California town--while we were visiting Phoenix--to see my husband's great-aunt. She is a lovely person in her mid-nineties, and I wanted my children to know her.

Well, yeah. That didn't happen. It would be just as far to drive from Phoenix (or here) to there as it was to drive to Phoenix. With five young children and a week, it just couldn't work.

So this year, I proposed we go see her.

My husband took my idea and ran with it. He calculated distances on MapQuest, checked out books and videos on San Francisco and Yosemite (because they're nearby, right?) and booked hotels. In nine days' time, we drove our van and five kids through eighteen California counties, and that's not counting what it took to get to and from the California border.

As soon as the trip-in-planning seemed like a reality, I emailed Paul's great-aunt and informed her we were finally able to come. Not having seen her for eight years, I wasn't sure what to expect. We didn't want to overwhelm her. So we invited her to lunch.

She emailed back that she was looking forward to it. We arranged to call her on the weekend. When Paul placed the call, I could tell that he was having a hard time getting her to understand who he was. Uh-oh, I thought. Finally, he said, "Yes, Janean's husband." That made me smile.

It turned out to only be a matter of a bad connection, however. She couldn't hear him well.

I still felt a little unsure about what to expect when we saw her. No one in my family has ever lived to the age she now is. However, when we pulled up to her center, she was standing next to the parking lot, waiting for us. Slim, radiant, made-up, and wearing an aqua-colored pant suit, she stood erect. She greeted us with warmth and wonderful manners. She was beautiful from her strawberry-blond hair to her nice shoes.

A good conversationalist, she paid attention to each one of us. She asked the children about their interests, their favorite subjects in school (she had been a school teacher), and their music lessons. She teasingly told the youngest that if he sat close to her, she might not be able to resist giving him a squeeze. And she gave him several.

She had arranged for her senior living center to serve us a lovely luncheon in a private dining room. The atmosphere and price could not have been beat.

After lunch, she showed us all around her center, including her beautifully-decorated apartment, the numerous flowers she is growing in various pots and baskets, the other buildings in her complex, the large room where she regularly plays the piano to accompany a chorus, her dining room, and the bridges she crosses on her walks. She introduced us to her director and some of her friends. Kindly, she announced each time, "This is my family, from Salt Lake."

Everything about her and her surroundings showed her care for herself, yet her conversation demonstrated interest in others. Her life still seems to be productive, inspirational, and challenging. She still uses her people skills and talents to make life meaningful for herself and others. One thing I noticed was how she ate. She saved her honeydew melon (an appetizer) to eat for dessert and didn't order a dessert (unlike the rest of us). She also ordered only a half-sandwich. She is probably only a hundred pounds--healthy for her petite size.

Her conversation was positive, thoughtful, and thought-provoking. She expressed happiness and gratitude.

I was right--the children warmed to her. It was rewarding to discuss with them later what a good example she is of living well and the important positive effects of good manners and thoughtful discrimination in choices.

It was a great and memorable trip for our family where we saw and did much. We had fun. Seeing Aunt Eleanor was, for me, the highlight. Lunch and a partial afternoon were not enough. Though she focused on us, I feel I have much to learn from her.

I hope we see her again.

Blah Rapture

So, Harold Camping helped fulfill a prophecy. Just not the one he meant to help fulfill.

"Many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many." Matthew 24:11.

Camping doesn't call himself a prophet. He is apparently much too modest. But he's not too modest to make it his profession to preach for personal gain. Nor is he too modest to set himself up as an authority on something God clearly said no one can know.

And what is a prediction of the Second Coming other than a prophecy?

This was a good opportunity to teach our children: if anyone ever tries to tell you when the Second Coming will be, you can automatically know they are wrong. Christ was clear about this. "But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only" Matthew 24:36.

It was also a good opportunity to teach them how important it is to read and know the scriptures for themselves, so they will be less vulnerable to deception.

"If any man shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or there; believe it not. For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect. . . .Wherefore if they shall say unto you, Behold, he is in the desert; go not forth: behold, he is in the secret chambers; believe it not" Matthew 24: 23-26.

Someone close to me said he had heard Camping talk, and he seemed to be sincere. He seemed to really believe it himself. This may be; however, as this person pointed out, this incident left many victims. And, as he and also some news articles I have read suggested, getting people to believe in something untrue can lessen, not build faith. And not just among those specific believers. It makes Christianity look bad.

It is a very popular thing these days to blame victims. How stupid they must have been to believe this, I hear on all sides. It may have been stupid, but most of us are stupid sometimes.

Is it stupid to believe in the Second Coming of Christ?

Is it stupid to believe what your ecclesiastical leaders tell you?

Is it stupid to act on the things you have faith in?

I know from experience that it is easy to get clouded thinking when you listen to someone charismatic, someone convincing, someone expert at turning things around.

Being vulnerable is something we, by definition, cannot help, right? We don't like to think about it, but we are all vulnerable in some way.

While I cannot personally imagine having sold my house or spent my money or euthanized a pet in anticipation of Saturday--actions some Camping believers took, I have forebears who sold their homes and gave up all their worldly possessions to "come to Zion." Would I have done the same as they did, had I lived in their time? I'd like to think I would.

Before we judge the victims, let's look at the perpetrator. I have never heard Camping speak or preach, so I may not be a fair judge. But if he is getting wealthy from preaching what he calls the gospel, to me that is a red flag. It means to me that he could have his own agenda, be it wealth or fame or power. If he has been benefiting in a worldly way--and the fact that he owns scores of radio shows and has been doing this for some thirty years indicates he may have--he may not be the best person to trust in spiritual matters.

What I can't get over is how he expected to pull this off. No matter how many believers he gathered, no matter how much publicity it brought, no matter how many dollars poured in, what would you say on May 22? Oops? Sorry?

It was also a good time to teach our children to not put their trust in man in place of God.

"Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs or thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. . .Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them" Matthew 7: 15-20.

Maybe he did really believe it himself. Maybe he has a delusional disorder. Maybe Camping himself is a victim of deception. I don't have enough information to know. I can only judge by the clues I have. I can see the ear-markings of fame, wealth, and power, which are worldly ambitions.

So, I ask you. Did promoting "the Rapture" do more good or more harm?

Death-Defying Prose

I do not laugh at dead people. Or--heaven forbid!--the bereaved. What I chuckle at is bad writing. And where is a large supply of bad writing published? The obituaries, of course! And on a daily basis, no less.

Most of the time, the things that amuse me are things that are probably not what the obituary writer meant to say. But the way it is written, well, yeah. It says something else.

Today's obits, for example, feature a woman who "lived independently throughout her life with the daily support of B. and K. in the last few years." She is also "survived and revered by her children and their spouses, son C. (wife S, deceased). . . ."

My husband pointed out this woman "sounds like she was a living contradiction."

One woman "served in numerous callings, including. . .Bishop's wife." I wonder if that calling was extended before or after she married the bishop? Uh, "Sister Slevin, we, the bishopric, have called you in here to ask you if you would like to serve as my wife for the next few years."

How about this gem? "She died as she lived, with dignity, peace and considering others." I can just imagine dying out of consideration of others: "That's okay--don't bother with me. I'll just die."

Some mistakes are probably just typos: "He spent his entire life faming and ranching, and was very successful at it." Never heard of him, though.

Others are metaphysical feats. Almost daily is someone described as "the oldest of ten children born on" a certain date. Earlier this week was a woman born in 1925 who got married "on her eighteenth birthday in 1942." Try that!

Or this: He "was valedictorian of his high school class, and in 1934, spent four years on a mission to Hawaii."

A month or so ago, I was saddened to see the obituary of a young teen who had died doing "what he loved"--mixing it up with gravity, speed, and friends. Despite this, the obituary proclaimed that he achieved every single thing he attempted. Uh, well, maybe not this time. . . .

And a six-month-old baby was "preceded in death by" grandparents, then great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents, all listed by name. Nine of them. I seriously doubt they all died in her short life span.

From people survived by their pets to prophecies on who met them at the veil and what they did after death, the obituaries always make me glad I'm alive.

Mother's Day Mania

I heard talk of hating Mother's Day start early this year. Mother's Day is not something that stresses me out. I had a wonderful mother, and setting aside a day each year to thank and honor her seemed completely appropriate.

Originally, when Anna Jarvis and others conceived of the idea, it was to simply honor your own mother. If your mother was alive, you wore a red carnation. If your mother was dead, you wore a white one.

I like that simple recognition that we each have a mother we should honor. I have actually worn a white carnation some years in the hopes that this observance would catch on again. But I seem to be the only one.

I once asked my daddy when Children's Day was, and he said, "Every day is Children's Day." I knew I didn't get tangible gifts every day, so it took me a few years to appreciate what he meant. I don't think it's bad for children to think outside their own heads for a moment once a year and give their mother a card, a flower, a gift of some kind.

When I was a little girl, this is what Mother's Day was. Sometimes we made something for her in school or church. Sometimes we bought something small. We gave it to her with love. Then we went to the cemetery so she could take some flowers to her own mother.

I find some of the ways Mother's Day has "crept" from its original intention silly and some amusing. Recently, a woman wrote to Miss Manners to angrily ask if it was too much to expect a card from her mother-in-law. After all, she was hosting a brunch for her. Miss Manners very correctly, of course, said, yes, it is too much to expect. The generations upward should be honored. Every woman who happens to be a mother should not expect gifts from every person she knows. I also find it silly to bend over so far backward not to possibly hurt any feelings that any female at all over the age of nine gets included in the recognition, taking all the meaning out of Mother's Day and leaving us with "Female Appreciation Day." Which could be something else altogether.

I think misplaced expectations account for much of the Mother's Day hostility. Misplaced expectations of what good mothers are like lead to guilt and misery. Misplaced expectations of what others "owe" us result in hurt feelings. I know a mother with a perfectly good family who becomes angry every Mother's Day when her good-but-imperfect husband and good-but-imperfect children fail to live up to her every expectation and fulfill her every fantasy. She thinks she shouldn't have to carry on that day pretty much the way she does every day--which is pretty much what mothers do.

I have consciously taken the opposite tack. I assume Mother's Day will be pretty much like every other day. The children will still need to eat. They will still need their shirts pressed and their diapers changed. I consider any effort on anyone's part to recognize me on Mother's Day to be something extra, and something to be appreciated. Instead of starting with my marker at the top of the glass and judging every effort to see if it measures up, I mark the bottom of the glass at zero. That way, anything that gets put in makes an improvement. I end the day happy and grateful. It never fails.

After all, no one is forced to do anything for me, and the more I tried to force being respected and recognized for my place in the family, the less it would mean, really.

Whether it's judging what the ward decides to do to recognize mothers (be it flowers many mothers know they will immediately kill or chocolate that someone doesn't like, is allergic to, or is afraid will make them fat), or casting an envious eye at other women's blessings, unlikely-to-be-fulfilled expectations just lead to unhappiness. Personally, I don't think it's the ward's place to recognize mothers. Although, it's been going on my entire life.

In my childhood ward, I remember the mother with the most children being asked to stand up and be recognized. It was always Beatrice Marchant, who had fifteen. After a few years, the bishopric caught on that it was always going to be Beatrice Marchant and stopped asking. (No one ever tried to compete with her.)

The point isn't for the world to see how many children you do or don't have. It isn't a competition. It's for each of us to appropriately look to our mothers, grandmothers, mothers-in-law, and/or mother figures, and simply say thanks. I find it much more satisfying to not think of Mother's Day in terms of me, me, me, but to think of those who came before me--what do I owe them? What can I learn from them?

I know there are cases where even this is difficult, but motherhood in general is a mostly-thankless position that should have a place of honor. And the stories of perfect mothers, I take with a large grain of salt.

I know wonderful mothers who have won prizes for their motherhood efforts. I know a lot more mothers who should win mother-of-the-year: for rescuing their children from an abusive home; for speaking to their children with respect even when in pain, or frustrated with them; for planning ahead to make sure their child will be taken care of in their absence; for creatively solving problems in the face of few resources; for teaching a child how to do things for her- or himself; for teaching their children generosity toward others; for treating a severely physically or mentally disabled child like the most beautiful, worthwhile person on earth; for making their children feel rich, even in poverty; for keeping their children--and themselves--out of harm's way.

I know perfectly good mothers who allow Mother's Day to make them feel rotten, who guilt themselves for all the things they are not doing instead of patting themselves on the back for the good things they are doing.

A rose is beautiful, but it is not the only beautiful flower. God made myriad beautiful flowers, each unique and lovely. Each mother is unique and lovely in her own way, too. Each one has her own beauty and gifts to offer. If we were all roses, we would be sick of roses.

We each have different challenges, different homes, different children, different marriages or non-marital situations. We each have our own set of strengths and needs. We are each of value.

I know mothers who work as part of taking good care of their children. I know mothers who choose not to work and enrich their children's lives in other ways. I know women who judge other women for working, or for not working. A mother with her children's best interests at heart deserves no one's censure.

I know mothers who have taken on rejected children with profound physical and mental disabilities, just for the experience of motherhood at any cost.

I know a mother who is crippled by a chronic disease and cannot perform any of the functions that she feels "normal" mothers perform, but whose patient and loving spirit is the most beautiful thing in her home. She teaches her children work and independence like most of us cannot. She teaches grace and love in the face of adversity--a rare gift.

I know mothers with clean houses, and mothers with clean minds.

I know mothers who never self-examine, and I know mothers who, in retrospect, review every moment of their child's life to find out where they went wrong in it. I know mothers who let go too soon and mothers who never let go. Motherhood takes thought, work, sacrifice, inspiration, and creativity like no other pursuit.

Good mothering requires balance. Time for oneself and time with the children must be balanced. How resources are spent must find a balance. Work and play must be balanced. Pursuit of spiritual, physical, academic, and creative goals must be balanced, and that balance must be taught. And each mother must find her own balance in her own way.

Let's include, not exclude. Let's embrace, not judge. Let's see each other as comrades, not competition.

For those who find Mother's Day an excruciating burden, I suggest we simplify our expectations for the day--how we think of and celebrate the day. We may not ever go back to simply wearing a red or a white carnation, but I hope we can pull back the "Mother's Day creep" toward greater and greater nonsense and simply smile at what is.

We're here, because we had mothers.

A Program to Keep Forever

So, I am sitting at the funeral of a great man. A man so great that, fifteen minutes before his viewing was scheduled to START, there was a line snaking throughout the huge building. A man so great that, twenty-five minutes before his funeral is scheduled to start, the only seats left are folding chairs, in the way back. A man I knew was great but underestimated the greatness of by arriving only fifteen minutes early to his viewing and twenty-five minutes early to his funeral. A man so great that people remember the love he showed them thirty-five years or more ago.

A man who is not great because he thought he was great, but because he thought others were great, and showed them that.

And I think about the love he showed me in the brief time I have known him and how I wish I could have known him longer and better.

So I am sitting at the funeral of a man so great that the prophet is speaking at it. I am finally for the first time in the same room as the prophet of God, Christ's representative on earth. I am breathing the same air he is breathing. I am lifting my voice in song with him. I am sitting in a building that the great man who died erected as a place for the gathering of the believers, and the acoustics are so good that, for the first time in my life, I can hear my own voice rising with my fellow beings and mixing and blending with theirs, my one voice contrasting and playing off their hundreds of voices. It is a good moment.

I am breathing the same air as the prophet and this great man's hundreds of family members and friends, and I am sitting way in the back and peeking behind the heads of a beautiful white-haired couple. I am hanging on every word of the prophet who is speaking, trying not to miss any, because he is wise, he is funny, he is friends with the man, and he matters. He matters and what he has to say matters.

And I think to myself, I need to keep this program with the picture of this great man and the outline of his funeral service forever. After all, he will be the ancestor of some of my grandchildren.

And while I am listening, hanging on every word of the prophet with whom I am face-to-face for the first time in my life, though hundreds of people are between us, I start to fidget in my chair. Not because of the funeral, which was completely lovely, nor the speaker, but because of the cramp in my, well. . .in my "very high leg" that hasn't gone away for weeks because I won't stop running on it. The ibuprofen I took in the morning has just worn off, and I didn't bring any more in my purse.

So I am sitting in the funeral of a great man, listening to the prophet, and changing my position to relieve the pain running down my leg, and I set my program down on the empty chair next to mine for a minute as I shift my position. And I may or may not have rummaged in my purse for another tissue.

And the woman in the chair next to the empty chair next to mine picks up my program (which I intend to keep forever), turns it sideways, and starts to write on it. Really? I think, and I turn to look at her, but she does not look at me. She just keeps writing. And I do not speak to her, because what am I going to say? "When you are through writing on my program, will you please return it?" I think not.

So I turn to my husband and I say, "That woman just took my program and is writing on it." And my husband, who is not petty about programs and does not intend to keep such things forever, hands me his. So I have a program to keep forever again, and we really didn't need two, anyway, because my husband is not planning to keep a scrapbook one of these days that he will probably never start putting together until after retirement and all the children are out of the house, like I am, so the problem is solved.

So I am sitting at the funeral of a great man whom thousands loved, listening to no less than the prophet speaking, but I still feel miffed at the woman who took my program, and I wish I could make it right, meaning that she is made aware of what she has done. Even though my husband has already made it right, really.

And I tell myself that surely I don't believe she meant to steal my program, and she surely has no idea what she has done, and it's okay if it remains that way forever. And I am listening to stories about a man who would take off his necktie and give it to an admirer, and listening to the voice of someone who once gave his dear pet rabbits to another little boy whose family was hungry, and I wish I were a better person who didn't feel petty about small slights, and I think that maybe I was mistaken and my program fell on the floor--or hers did, and I look on the floor but it is bare, and the woman walks off with my program when the service ends and I know I don't really care.

And I know I want to stop being the kind of person who will only have a handful of people at her funeral.

So I make my way with my husband slowly to the outside, and, when we get there, we find that the family, which exited long before we could, is standing around in the spring sunshine, and we can move among them, so I find my son and his wife and we chat briefly. I tell my daughter-in-law how beautiful she looks and how beautifully she performed, and I give her mother a similar compliment.

And I see that my assumptions about the prophet's time and mobility were wrong, that he has not rushed off under heavy protection, but is standing there with us, talking with the family and friends standing in the sunshine. I see that, from behind, his hair looks as soft as that in a Carl Bloch painting, that he is tall and statuesque, but also ordinary and human. And right there with us. And it seems to me as I think it would if it had been two thousand years ago and I had been in a crowd with Christ.

He is only a few feet away, and I remember that my son met him a few days ago, and I wonder if I might meet him, after all--something which seemed impossible or remote at best up until this very moment. But his back is to me and he is busy talking to people--other people more closely connected to the family, closer to him, probably. I am several degrees removed, and likely always will be.

And he lingers, and as I talk with people, I move a little closer to him, and I decide I will try to walk by him and see if I can shake his hand. Not because I need to shake his hand, but because I know someone who needs attention from someone Christlike, and I think that maybe, in some mystical way I cannot articulate, my getting close to him may help my loved one.

He is walking away, and my husband and I are walking hand-in-hand behind him. A car door is opened and he is tucked inside. The door is shut. I am standing outside the door, not two feet away from the prophet, and my husband is saying, "One more handshake?" to the security men, and I am shrinking back, knowing I am not entitled to interrupt the schedule of the prophet and would never dream of doing so.

The security guard is explaining briefly to my husband that they are trying to get the prophet to the cemetery quickly, and I am awed all over again that the prophet of God would not only come to the funeral, not only speak at the funeral, not only mingle outside with the people, but would also follow the family to the cemetery.

And I know that I am not close enough to the great man to attend the cemetery and have not included it in my plans. So I murmur to the guards that of course I understand and I turn away with my husband to walk to our car.

And the day seems cloudy now and I feel my oppressive burden sitting squarely on my shoulders and neck and I know that this burden is and always has been and always will be mine alone to bear, and that no one else can really help me with it, that it is my own private hell that no one else can carry on their backs like a weighty cross. I know I am completely alone.

And my chest is heaving and I am sobbing because I was two feet away from the prophet, who would help me if he could, but I am only one of fourteen million followers and no one of consequence to him, and never will be. And I know this and it is okay, but I ache to know how to help my loved one and I am clueless. I am completely clueless and have been for a long, long time.

And my husband notices that I am sobbing violently and wiping tears and snot off my face and says he will take me to the cemetery so I can meet the prophet and I say no, it is not appropriate for me to follow him around. I mumble, "It is my burden alone." And I cry some more. And I know that it is my burden and not the prophet's burden, and that if I would not be the kind of person who can get offended about a swiped program, I could have a good influence on people by myself and not need to look outside myself for help. And I know that I need to change and become a better person.

And my husband says he does not have to go to work right away and I say that I have an appointment at three o'clock and I have to be back at the office to meet a person. And I think about the person I have to meet, and how insignificant she seems in my life at this moment. And I know that she has made many mistakes. Terrible mistakes that have put her life in ruins. And I know that it is my job to help her. And I think that I must be there to help her, and that I must not follow the prophet to the cemetery and expect him to help me. And the words, "do so even to the least of these" go through my head.

And my husband offers again to take me to the cemetery, and I know that it is not appropriate, and I do not want to be seen as someone who would do something inappropriate out of desperation for the prophet's attention. And I am loathe to make the funeral of this great man in any way about me and my problems and, even though I have a whole hour before I have to be back at work for my appointment, I am not going to change my mind.

And I know that I have missed an opportunity. Barely missed it. And I know that I wish I had not missed it, and I know that there is a lesson in there for me. And I realize that I tend to hope and expect that people will notice my needs and fulfill them, yet that just about every single person Jesus healed when He was on earth came to Him for help. I think about the woman who reached out to touch the hem of His robe and those who called out, "Son of David, have mercy on me!" And I think that I need to work on feeling more entitled. And I think again about the program and how far from great I am and how I need to be there to help the woman who is coming to me at three o'clock.

And we reach the car and my son calls me on my cell phone. I know it is my son before I answer it, because I have that gift. I answer the phone and he says that we did not say goodbye and I apologize and say I had wandered off and didn't mean to not say goodbye. And he says he is sorry and thanks me for coming and for other things and I tell him again that he is welcome to my time and love and efforts and he asks me if I am crying because I did not get to meet the prophet and I say yes but I need to go back to work and my husband needs to go back to work.

And we start driving back to work and my son texts me that the prophet will be at the cemetery and I can come there if I want to meet him, and I call him and explain that I do not think it is appropriate and I would not want to do anything inappropriate like following the prophet around so I can meet him or making the funeral of a great man about me or intruding on a lovely family beyond the proper bounds.

And my son who, quite normally, ten years ago wished that people would believe that he came into the world miraculously and immaculately without any parents at all tells me that he is sure that the prophet wants to meet me, as well, and that he just had to hurry into his car.

And I smile and say that I understand that and he assures me it would be okay if I come and I don't know what to do, but I thank him.

And I tell my husband that I am certain that trying to meet the prophet thinking that it will help me with my burden is surely a kind of magical thinking. And my husband, who is always telling me that my superstitious ideas are magical thinking says no, it is not magical thinking and he thinks I should go and meet the prophet.

So I tell him he should do what he thinks is right and he turns around at the next exit.

And I call my son and tell him we are coming but to please text me if the service ends before we get there, as we have been going in the wrong direction and are far away.

And then I think about the sins I have committed and the petty person that I can be and that there is surely nothing at all that I can say to the prophet. And I tell my husband it is not possible for me to talk to the prophet. And I think if I can just shake his hand, that will be enough.

I am still very nervous about the idea of following the prophet around and making the funeral into something about me, and I blow my nose a few more times and realize I must look dreadful by now and that I didn't bring any makeup with me, but by the time we reach the cemetery, I have calmed down some.

And I receive a text, and so I figure my son is telling me that I am too late. And I cannot receive the message because my mailbox is full, so I clear some messages, and wait. And my husband keeps driving on. And then I receive the message, and it does not say, "It's over--he left." It says, "Drive past all the cars and park behind us. There is a spot right by us."

So I feel encouraged and we drive up right behind my son's car and get out and join him. We have missed most of the ceremony, but everyone is still there, and the prophet is standing over there, waiting for his turn to place a rose on the coffin. And my son greets me kindly and I breathe in the sunshine. I can feel the sunshine on my hair and I think that just being in the presence of the prophet is good enough. But maybe I can position myself to shake his hand as he walks by and that will be plenty. I do not need to talk to him. I will just shake his hand, if I can. And then I will work on being a better person.

And people move about some and my husband inches closer to the prophet, and my son, on the other side of me, moves closer, too. And they are inching me closer. And the prophet turns to leave and he shakes hands with those he passes by, and I am right there, and he shakes my hand as he passes by, and his hand is warm and dry and I look him in the eye and say his name to acknowledge him.

And I am satisfied. I am there, which is a little obtrusive, but I feel I have not been too obtrusive, so I am okay.

And my husband is saying something to the prophet and he says, "Sure, I'll talk to her," and I turn around and feel mortified that he has stopped the prophet on his way out in my behalf and does not realize that I am satisfied. And I hear my husband tell the prophet briefly about my deepest wounds, the most private and painful pieces of my heart, and I wish he would shut up but I know you don't tell your husband to shut up in front of the prophet, so I can do nothing except wish he would shut up and feel my mind race to figure out how to seem proper under these circumstances, and it doesn't seem possible, because my son and members of the great man's family are hearing the embarrassing words that my husband is saying and I don't know what to do.

And I hear my husband repeat something I said months ago that seems to be telling the prophet what to do and I cringe and wish he would just stop.

And I know my son is hearing this, too, and I guess he is also cringing and I wish my husband would stop it. And I know my husband is just doing his level best to ask for the things he knows I should ask for, only I won't. And I know that my feelings are complicated by my unentitlement issues and that my husband understands this.

And, thinking back on this now, I remember the beautiful Carl Bloch painting of Christ standing in the public square and pulling a filthy, rotting rug off of an invalid who has been waiting for years to be healed--a man who has come to the Pool of Bethesda hoping to be healed but cannot get himself into the water and has no one to lift him in. And Christ, in His beautiful white robe, reaches down and pulls the nasty rag off of the man who has been decaying under it as if to say, "Who is under here who needs My help?" and exposes the man in all his filth to the glory of the sun and air and heals him then and there.

And I am standing right in front of the prophet, who takes a paper out of his pocket--a drawing by a child (I can see crayon sunshine and flowers on it), and he asks me for my loved one's name and writes it down. And he offers to pray for my loved one and I thank him. And he asks some questions about our heritage and tells us a story about his, and I can see he is human, an old man, and I am imposing on him half against my will, and he is being gracious about it, and I feel bad that he is taking more time with me than he needs to and telling me a story about his life, and then he offers to pray for me, as well, and I write my name down on the child's picture.

And then it is over and I thank him for his time. I want to leave and stop intruding. And as I hurriedly walk off, I hear another person call out to the prophet to talk to him.

And a man walks up to me and says he works for the Church News and asks me for the story of the child's picture. Only I don't know that story. I only know the prophet wrote a name down on the picture for me. So I tell him that. And he doesn't care about that, of course, and I don't blame him. I hope he can get the story he wants, but I cannot help him.

So we leave, and my husband and I laugh on our way back to work about what if I had made up a story about the child's picture for the reporter and how inappropriate that would have been. My story is about a child, but I am the only one who knows that.

And I don't know how I feel about all of this, but I know that I was privileged to be at the funeral of a great and generous man. I know I met the prophet and he was kind to me. I know that my husband stood up for me. I know my son was tender toward me. I know my loved one will be prayed for by more than just me. I know that I am loved and lucky. I think that perhaps trying to carry a burden alone has contributed to my rottenness. And I know that I am going to try to be better, as I should be.

"But What Will I Suck On?"

Yesterday, I attended the funeral of the mother of some friends. In sympathy with them, I was naturally reminded of attending the funeral of my own mother one January (perhaps partly due to the heavy snowfall). As I contemplated the thoughts and feelings of the deceased's family--including multitudinous grandchildren, as they dealt with something very hard, it brought back memories.

One specific memory is of having to talk to my then three-year-old daughter about giving up her pacifier. It was just time. Way past time. She had given up every other baby item and learned to go potty. The binkie was her last infant hold-out. Not only did she have a little brother, but a little sister was on the way. Having to track the binkies for three children did not seem prudent.

I talked to her about the reasons she should give it up: that she really didn't need it anymore--she was a big girl; that it could possibly misshape her teeth or mouth; that it was likely one reason she kept getting sick. She is an intelligent, compliant, and feeling girl. She listened quietly.

I told her that I knew it was a hard thing that I was asking her to do, but that I knew she could do it. This part of the conversation took the longest. I pointed out that her older brothers and we, her parents, did not use binkies, and she could learn to do without one, too. I reassured her that she would soon forget all about it, that she could adjust to no longer having it.

Then, for lack of a better example, I stated that I missed my mother, who had recently died, but that I had to adjust to doing without her. Lame, I know. But somehow, it seemed parallel at the time.

I again reassured her that she would be fine--that if she could get through one night without her binkie, she would not need it anymore.

I encouraged her to try.

Strangely, though, I do think it was the example I gave of my mother's death that really gave her the resolve. I saw it happen in her eyes: if I could do without my Mama, maybe she should try to do without her binkie.

She agreed to try to go to sleep without her beloved red, yellow, and blue binkie.

I kissed her and thanked her and reassured her all over again.

As I was closing the door to her bedroom, her sweet little voice filled the mostly-dark room. "But what will I suck on?"

Her father and I smiled and suppressed giggles. Truthfully, I had to tell her, "Nothing. You will learn to not have anything to suck on. You can do it--you're not a baby anymore. You will get used to it, I promise."

Then, as her bedroom door clicked shut, my heart broke all over again.

Was I asking too much of her, this beautiful little girl normally full of sunshine, but who had also just lost her grandmother? Was it mean of me to use my own grief to guilt her into taking this step?

I find these moments in motherhood most poignant and most difficult. Part of me wants to protect my child from the trials that help them grow up. And part of me--a smaller part of me, perhaps--knows that they need the growth.

And so then I second-guess myself for a long time to come, and as my children grow into new stages and leave younger stages behind, I feel both relief and sorrow. At the same time I ache to keep them small, I know that, to be healthy, they must learn to fly. A little part of me looks forward to the freedom that this will give me.

Yet, I miss the small girl with the large question, even as I enjoy the older version of her who is so helpful.

Which reminds me how every moment is priceless and unique. And fleeting. And, no matter how many ways technology gives us to record them, they fly away, never to return.

Like my small daughter, who did get through that first night and did not ever need her binkie again, we have to adjust and get used to the new reality that replaces them--that new reality that both breaks and molds us at the same time.

Mystery Pants

This morning, I pulled a pair of workout pants out of my freshly-laundered stack of workout clothes and put them on.

They didn't seem familiar. At all.

I have two similar pairs, which I purchased together a few months ago. One is plain black and the other is plain black with little zippers in the bottom sides of the legs. I looked through the stack and located the plain black ones. So I wasn't wearing them. The ones I had on did not have zippers. I checked. Three times.

So where did these come from? My mind raced.

I'm fanatical about my laundry. I start it religiously every Thursday evening as soon as I get home. I have all my kids' clothes (and mine) in rotation, and, as soon as anything stops working--gets too small or ruined--it goes out of rotation. I know very well what clothing all members of my family have right now. I knew my older daughter did not have pants like this, because I've watched her supply of pants dwindle down as she's grown this year to only jeans plus one pair of nice black slacks.

And those were hanging on my shower door to dry. These were not nice black slacks. More like leggings.

My younger daughter is eight years old and skinny as a rail. Some of her clothes are still size 6X.

I have not brought any old clothes like this from the past into my rotation.

I have not gone shopping for workout clothes recently.

Did I pick them up at the gym somehow?

The idea of picking up someone else's workout clothes at the gym seemed remote. I mean, there are a lot of other pants around, but people are wearing them! That I could accidentally pick up some pants someone was not wearing seemed really odd. The only opportunity for that seems like it would be when I gather up my own clothes and stuff them into my gym bag after my shower.

But whenever I enter the shower, I always look at the floor where I lay my stuff, because, more likely than not, there will be a big hair clump or something I'll want to avoid. (I wish my gym would hire a different janitor.) That I wouldn't notice a pair of black pants sitting there on the floor seemed really remote. Like, impossible.

Could someone at the gym have accidentally stuffed them in my bag while I was drying my hair?

I asked my husband if he knew anything. He said he did not. "You bought them and forgot," he offered. As I am not suffering from Alzheimer's, I rejected that option completely. I asked my daughter, and she denied borrowing anything like the pants I had on. She said she could not imagine how I had obtained them, either.

The pants seemed a little tight but not too bad. I just really did not think I had ever worn them before. And I just could not figure out how they got into my laundry at home.

It is April Fool's Day, but, still!

I located my husband alone in the library. "You had another woman in the house," I said to him, "and she left her leggings here in her hurry to leave."

He laughed out loud. Loudly! And long.

That was somewhat reassuring, but, still, the pants remained a mystery.

I went back to folding clothes until it was time for me to leave for the gym.

Then, I went into the bathroom to check the pants label. "Green Soda," it said, which heightened the suspense. I pulled the other tag straight so I could read it. "Size 7/8."

They were my baby girl's pants!

I took them off and carefully folded them and put them in her pile, hoping she wouldn't notice how stretched out they were.

I guess the good news is that I could fit into her pants, even for a minute.

And may all April Fool's jokes played on me be played by myself!

It's Not Me, It's Everyone Else

I spent most of yesterday in the emergency room. I was not sure I belonged there. As it turned out, I didn't. It seemed that other people had the same angst.

Within the ER, the rooms were all full. I was told I would "start" out in the hall. (Seven hours later, I was still in the hall.) I was okay with that as long as they didn't make me strip and put on the gown lying there on the stretcher.

I busied myself with my newspaper and Sudoku puzzles.

From time to time, a woman came out of a room next to me and slid a curtain between me and her door out of the way to stare at me, then snapped it back in place. She was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, pretty, and sad. Hospital personnel could be heard telling her to go back into her room. Apparently, she wanted the hall. I would have gladly traded her. But then they might have stopped referring to me as "the dissection" and put me in the psych ward.

One time when she was wandering and someone told her to go back to her room, she asked, "So, am I just supposed to f-ing sit there and f-ing worry?"

"Yes."

After a while, the woman started lobbying on her excursions out to use the phone. "I should get to make at least one phone call," she asserted. "It's inhumane what you're doing to me."

"This is the ER," she was told.

When that didn't work, she tried, "I really have to find out what happened to my son."

"I have to ask your nurse," one guy told her, three times. The last time, he added, "If he says it's okay, then I'm all for it. I'm looking for your nurse right now."

"Do I have one?"

"Yes. His name's Russell." He walked off again.

Another man walked down the hall past her door. "Are you Russell?" she asked.

"No, I'm not."

After a few not-Russells came by, she got to make her phone call.

Unfortunately, the phone was right behind my head.

First, she called her mother. I wasn't trying to listen, but she was standing right over me. "I hate my sister," she announced, first off. "Do you know what she DID to me?" Then, "Fine, don't *#$@! believe me." A torrent of thirty more of these bad words followed, then she was on to the next call.

"Hi, Christina, I want to thank you for what you did to me," she said in a soft voice. Then, slightly more insistently, "I want to thank you for what you *#$@! did to me. I *#$@! appreciate it! You're out of my *#$@! life. Don't *#$@! call me again. *#$@! ever!"

I had to wonder what it would be like to receive that phone call.

Third call: "Jordan? When I get *#$@! home, you'd better be *#$@! out of my house! You *#$@! went too *#$@! far this time."

(Not one word about any son.)

Having triumphantly rid herself of everyone closest to her, she not only went into her room, but slammed her door. That showed all of them and us, too, I guess.

I only hoped she wouldn't make any more phone calls. I started asking every male who passed by if he were Russell so I could place that request. Just kidding.

It was clear to me and the hospital staff--and her family and boyfriend--that this woman was not in her right mind, either from something she took or just because. But I think she thought she was doing fine.

It made me reflect on how little we can see ourselves as others see us. God made us so that we cannot see our own faces without outside assistance. We can see our hands and most other body parts, but we cannot see our own faces. I remember being quite struck by this fact as a small child. Then, relying on mirrors, I forgot about how weird I thought that was. Maybe it's to help keep us humble. Maybe it's so we'll have to learn to rely on others to help us get an accurate picture of ourselves.

I'm sure her family and friends were trying to help this woman. I hope when she comes down (or up), she will be able to see that, and get a glimpse of her true self.

I hope I can, too.

Suicide by Gym-Goer

At my gym, there is a mallard duck that sits in the parking lot. He doesn't move when a car drives toward him. He just sits there. You get closer, closer, closer. He doesn't even look at you. And, of course, all the cars carefully edging closer to him WITHOUT hitting him have taught him he's in no danger. I can't tell what about the parking lot is attractive to him. It's. . .a parking lot. There's a pond right across the street. But, no. Yesterday, I didn't see him as I pulled into the lot in the dark, until I got out of the car. He had taken up residence in the parking slot next to me. With a little less luck, I would have had duck a la king on my tires. He didn't care. He's either too dumb to realize that a car can hurt him, or he doesn't care. The day before, he'd parked his heiny behind my car, so I'd backed up v-e-r-y slowly until I was sure I could go no further without flattening him--which was not very far, then went forward through the other parking slots (good thing no one was parked there). I'd like to teach him a lesson, but, unfortunately, that's a lesson a duck can only learn once. And, while I'm not an animal lover, I don't want to hurt any. I can only hope he never parks himself RIGHT behind my tire. I now understand the term "dumb duck." Also "dead duck." What is it about the parking lot, I wonder? Is he excited by the cars? Is he hoping to meet the right car sometime and hop into it and take off? Maybe he hates the cars and is waiting for an opportunity to leave a bomb on them. Is concrete nicer to sit on than grass? Maybe he was hatched in a parking lot and a car imprinted on his brain as his mother. Maybe he's trying to find her. Is he trying to be a hot-shot? Maybe he wants to work out? Last year, he usually had a girlfriend or two with him, but I can see they've given up on him now. So my guess is he's either psychotic or depressed. Maybe he was at the bottom of the pecking order at the pond and has nothing to lose. Maybe he really hopes someone will end it all for him. Unless his luck holds out, it could happen any time. I just hope I'm not the one who has to do it.

LOL Haters

Last week or so ago, there was an article in the newspaper about LOL haters, thus introducing me to a segment of the population of whom I had never before been aware.

I mean, I know different people have from time to time a word or a phrase that just doesn't sit well with them. There used to be a guy who regularly addressed his opinion that we should not say we're "grateful" in prayers because we should just directly thank the person to whom we are grateful, since we're already talking to Him. He had a point, actually.

Twenty years or so ago, my husband says he used the then-popular term "No doubt!" so much that his school-teacher sister put the kabosh on it. I am taking his word on this as I have not heard it much from him. No doubt!

So, I was not surprised to read that there are people who hate "LOL," but I was surprised to read about the venom with which some hate it. And, more so, the seriousness with which people take it.

"I make it a point to never type 'LOL' unless I am actually laughing out loud," one person was quoted as saying. Really? Does s/he never say, "Sure" in response to someone unless they know what they said was true for absolute fact? Do they never say "Okay" to acknowledge they heard someone unless they absolutely agree with what was said? It's hard to understand such angst about a tiny little one-syllable blip.

I would not call myself a "LOL lover," but, as a term, it has its place.

It can mean anything from a slight smile to "Yes, I heard you," "That was funny," "I see your point," "I like that," to "Hilarious!" It's a quick way to acknowledge, approve of, respond, reply. It's useful. And, like it or hate it, as other terminology before it, it seems to be here to stay.

Time's Up!

Last time I was asked to serve in the church in a new calling I wasn't especially thrilled to have, the sacrament song that day was, "Thy Will Be Done."

"Okay," I thought. "I probably had that coming." I mean, if the Savior could step down from being the Creator to take on a humble earth life for a while--a life that would include outright torture by the end of it--I guess I could give up the calling where I feel I'm doing something important in order to play the piano again.

But it smarts. It seems to me that anyone can play the piano in meetings. All the children in the ward have been growing up with piano lessons for decades. Why can't someone younger do it? Someone for whom it would be a challenge? Maybe even exciting?

We usually get attached to our church callings. When I was the chorister, I didn't want to stop to be a Primary teacher. When I was a Primary teacher, I didn't want to stop to do something else.

Sometimes, we wonder if our efforts have been recognized and appreciated. Sometimes, the less faithful among us wonder if the calling was really as inspired as it was supposed to be. A bishop actually said to me once when calling me to head up an organization that he had not prayed about it--I was just the obvious person.

That's really hard to take when you don't know if you can do the job. At least, you want to feel like it's part of some grand design and all the "guarantees" will apply to you. You know what guarantees I'm talking about--that God won't give you more than you can handle, that there is a reason for you to be in that particular position at that particular time so that something wonderful can occur that you and your grandchildren can talk about in testimony meeting for years to come.

At the very least, you hope something good will come of what you are being asked to do. You hope all the work you did in your last calling won't be destroyed by your successor. You hope you can find something meaningful in the next task, even a completely mindless one like banging out "As Sisters in Zion" every single week for the rest of your life.

It's also hard to take when you don't want the job. I mean, if the calling isn't inspired, isn't meant to be, doesn't place you where God wants you--then doesn't that kind of mean that your bishop is just a neighbor asking you to do something? Shouldn't that give you the option to accept or decline as suits you? You say yes because you put your trust in the mechanism that says that you're a cog in the machine that is the body of Christ, and, no matter how lowly your position, it is an honor just to be there, serving in "some lowly place in earth's harvest field," as the hymn says.

You don't want to start hoping you'll get called to some stake calling just to get out of the current one.

So we need to believe that saying yes is right, because of course the people with the idea to fit you there in the structure had some kind of spiritual manifestation.

I've also heard that a lot of people say no, just because they don't want to or don't feel equal to it. That makes me wonder--what are they saying? Do they then feel that the calling must not be inspired? That the bishop is just a neighbor? Or do they just not care whether they foil the "grand design"? Do they not believe the scripture that it's an honor to serve anywhere in the church?

I guess my take on this is that, in the right spirit, we can seek our own confirmation that the calling is appropriate. Maybe we're not being asked to grow ourselves this time around, but to foster the growth of someone else. Maybe we'll grow or be helped or be needed in ways we cannot anticipate.

Maybe there's not any big, grand SUPPOSED TO out there, other than just following through with what we're asked to do. Maybe we can find it in ourselves to follow through and just wait and see what happens next. And then we'll get it.

Having your calling interrupted abruptly also brings to mind these truths: that we are not in charge of everything in our own lives, and that we do not always get to say when enough is enough. I know stories of people who found out quite suddenly that the were simply out of time in their whole life--not just their favorite calling. "Really? It's just over--like that?" can apply to anything from losing a job to your house burning down to your parent/child/spouse/sibling dying to hearing "You're not my mom anymore" to finding yourself on the other side of the veil with no power any longer to change anything left unfinished to our satisfaction.

Are we going to be ready for that?

Parallel Play

Presidents' Day is over, and the gym is no longer packed with pretenders. I have mixed feelings about this. I wish--for their own sake--more people would stick with exercising. At the same time, I am glad to not have to get up at 3:30 in order to get my favorite machine.

The fitness center is the place where grown-ups can engage, like infants and toddlers, in parallel play, where we play next to, not with, each other. We may watch, entertain, and learn from each other, often doing the exact same thing, but, generally, we aren't interacting. For the most part, we're all in our own heads.

Yes, now we're back to the regulars. There's the woman who used to compete with me for the same machine, after exercising nicely across the aisle from me for three months solid. However, she has moved on to a machine down the way a bit. Now we smile and wave at each other. We have this two-year history with each other where we both work out on ellipticals at the ungodly hour of four and do about 70 minutes each, yet we don't know each other's names. She looks great.

Her husband is there, too. He reminds me of an Italian boyfriend I once had, only he's shorter. I got the idea one day that he's secretly abusive to her, but I hope that's not true. I don't know if I thought that because he comes up to get kisses from her all the time, or if it's because I caught him looking at me a couple of times, or if it's because when he comes up to her machine, she is done. Anyway, it's none of my business, at this point.

There's the guy who wears the same outfit every day, day in and day out, week in and week out. I just hope he's not really sweating in it.

There's the girl who looks like an old photograph negative--long, bleached white hair against dark skin who is always checking herself out in the mirrors in the dressing room, looking in them over her shoulder down to her calves, while telling her boyfriend via cell phone, "I've gotten so big, babe."

There's the squarish-shaped man with the extremely tight calves who sticks to the bar and desperately tries to engage anyone who gets near him in conversation.

There's the skeleton girl. It's bad enough to see an anorexic pounding it out on a treadmill--I always want to say, "Go have a shake or something"--but now that I'm seeing her in the locker room, I can barely look at her. Her skin is stretched so tightly across her ribs that it is ridged, making her look like she has even more ribs.

There's the tall black man who is very nice but always coughs as he works out.

There's the girl who brings her whole bathroom from home with her--plush burgundy bath sheets, a bathrobe, her makeup case, several brushes, a hair dryer, a hair styler, flip flops, and heaven only knows what else. I bring the bare minimum, and my gym bag is heavy enough. When she uses my shower, I end up stepping in after she leaves to turn off the water she has left running.

There's the guy who swings his head back and forth and sways to the music he's listening to. It looks like he's doing a dance instead of working out.

There are the two women in their late fifties who chat incessantly--on the bikes and in the locker room--about vacations, healthy cereals, what's going on in their neighborhood, whatever. I don't know if they really get much exercise, but it's nice to get caught up on Desperate Housewives without ever having to watch the show.

There's the man who is at least 99 and wears the kind of very short shorts popular in the 1980's, who always sets the treadmill too high for himself and hangs on to the machine for dear life, while his feet slip right off the sides of the treadmill! I am just sure he is going to fall off sometime and I'll have to break up my routine to rescue him. This sounds cruel, but I am always as mentally busy as physically busy, tracking my time and percentage done, and estimating the time of my finish. I write this data down in my notebook daily and don't want to lose it. Plus, I make it a point to never do anything dangerous so that someone else will be called upon to save me.

There's the very fit Barbie's kid sister who is unfailingly there, using various cardio machines and weights. Just like Kelly, she has a long ponytail right on the top of her head. I've never asked her if it grows when pulled.

There's the guy whose hair is as wild as mine--only shorter, who reminds me of a grizzly bear.

There's the woman who NEVER wears a shirt. (Yes, wearing a shirt is a rule posted on the wall.) She's very tall and fit, so she doesn't look bad in her sports bra, but she gets very sweaty as she works out and is usually right next to me. She reminds me of a foaming horse, actually.

There's the slight, older woman who walks every day. Fast. She is amazing. I don't like to be next to her, though, because she is full of surprises and distracts me. Suddenly, her foot is up on the arm of the machine, or she's walking backward. Or singing.

There's the tall, good-looking man who always comes up and says hello to me, then disappears into thin air.

There's the woman who had a baby a while ago, who, as hard as she works out, never seems to lose the love handles on her back, like me. She works out hard, too!

There's the man who can hardly walk, clearly due to some physical ailment, but it always there, every day, on the bike and slowly doing what weights he can.

And then there's me. I'm the middle-aged lady who looks like she just rolled out of bed without combing her hair. (I did.) I do, however, brush my teeth before I head to the gym. I know how unpleasant it is to be stuck next to someone whose oral bacteria are still dancing with garlic molecules from last night's dinner. I'm the one who has a favorite machine and a favorite shower, and will hang my coat on my machine to save it while I go to the locker room. However, if someone's already on it or in my shower, I'm nice about it. And I do clorox-wipe my machine before and after I use it. In other words, I want to do what I want to do, but I try not to offend or bother anyone else while getting it.

By the time I finish my workout, the gym is full. But I am streaming sweat and not paying attention to anyone. And I'm certainly hoping they're not paying attention to me.