Homework. Nooooooooo!

So as one would expect, I've spent a fair amount of time involved in overseeing my children's homework. It's safe to say that it ranks right up there with swimming lessons and band booster meetings on the enjoyment scale. No offense to swim teachers, but after dragging 9 kids to what they perceived as their certain soggy death and watching from the side as they clung to the pool's edge and their teacher's necks to avoid putting their face in the lethal water. I just don't have it in me anymore. Yes, I did it, and yes they can all swim. But it was painful.  Band booster meetings speak for themselves, amiright?

The way I see it, in 3.5 short years I will never have to help with homework again. We've come so far already. According to my supremely accurate calculations I have called words for 300 spelling test practices, I have been the whip-cracker and supply supplier for 24 dioramas, I have quizzed from hundreds of study guides on American History, Georgia State History, West Virginia State History, Kansas History, Nebraska History and World History. I have practiced English vocabulary, Spanish vocabulary and Latin Vocabulary. I have explained math skills up until about 5th grade when my abilities do not equal the task at hand. (Sorry, progeny.) So what I am trying to say it my enthusiasm may be waning a bit.

A couple of Saturdays ago, my 15 year old, who's excitement for homework matches if not surpasses
mine in the negative energy level, warned me that he would be working on a paper and would need my help.  We blocked out the appropriate amount of time-10 hours for 200-300 words. This included snacks and other avoidance activities, time for whining and complaining and throwing oneself on the floor (both of us, but not simultaneously) and went to work. The only way to start an unpleasant assignment is with a grumpy attitude which we both amply provided. He started by telling me how stupid the assignment and how mean his teacher was. I driveled on with my "The only way out of it is through it," "You can do hard things," No matter what you do in life, you'll need to be able to write," "This paper won't write itself." Then we got down to business.

 After informing me of how much his English teacher hated her students and wanted them to suffer, he explained the assignment. At that moment I realized how much his English teacher loved her students and tried to make the assignment relevant and enjoyable. He was to choose a "Life Law" by from a quote by which he could live. Then he was to write about an experience from his life where he learned about or demonstrated that Life Law.

His chosen quote was, "Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime." The experience he wrote about was camping. He related how afraid he was on his first camp out. He relied solely on his dad for survival. Slowly he learned how to put up his own tent, build a fire and cook. Eventually he went on a boy scout camp out without his dad and became one of the helpers instead of just a helpee.

What began as an intense, lets get this over with, Saturday to-do, evolved into an enjoyable sharing of feelings, experiences and tips for using more words to get your count up.  I started with a high heavy hand, but as I remembered the pressure of writing to a minimum and maximum word standard on a predetermined topic with a deadline, I empathized and softened and disclosed my dubious essay writing beginnings.  He smiled when I suggested using will not instead of won't. I recanted when I remembered that English teachers spot that old trick a mile away. I impressed him with my knowledge of the word counting ability on the computer. We laughed together when we discussed the difficulty of writing a proper conclusion. I confessed that I once talked a class mate into concluding with, "I can't really think of a conclusion for this essay so 'the end." My friend received a less than stellar grade with a red pen comment by the teacher, and I have to live with the guilt into eternity.

And then it was over. Two hours down and we had a big fat check on our list. There were 8 hours of Saturday left, and I realized that this homework assignment was some of the best bonding that had happened since we  had remaining episodes of "The Flash" to watch on Netflix.

So I guess these homework years need to be recognized for what they are; opportunities for me to work shoulder to shoulder with my children; a chance to help with what I know, commiserate with what I don't know, develop my googlizing skills, and laugh a little bit about the struggles of being human. I recognize that my best little children friends have mostly gone out the door and won't it be funny when I'm on facebook in 3.5 years saying, "I'm bored. I wish I had someone at my house that needed help with some homework."

Descroogifying

Well, it seems the Christmas season is upon us.  I'm working through my usual Christmas issues that I've already blogged about in previous years- my stress with gifts, my not quite recovering from last year,  (lets make that the last 25 years) my financial anxiety, my distaste for disappointment, and my basic aversion to a lot of work.  Pair that with my love for family, the Savior, Christmas music and lights and you can see the conflict.  It's actually business as usual in my brain as I strive to overcome the natural man and rise up a loving, kind, giving person.  To get to that place I always need a little help and more often than not, it comes because God is good and he has some wonderful children on this earth.

In the Stoker house, Christmas comes as soon as the Thanksgiving dishes are done.  It sneaks in with the viewing of  "Miracle on 34th St." the darling Mara Wilson and dreamy Dillon McDermott version. This always melts my heart a bit and the descroogifying begins.  Trimming the tree is the next step.  This is where I always run into a little trouble as I remember that every ornament we put up needs to be taken down in January-the grayest of months.  This attitude problem causes a little blip in my merriment and can be compounded if my lights don't work.  Not to worry, however, they sell lights at stores. Another plus is that if the kids are happy, I'm happy.  This year all were happy, not to mention co-operative and efficient.  It was painless.  In fact it was fun.  I still felt myself holding back a little, it's as if I didn't want to jump all the way in  to "Yuletide festive" because it may not be all the way safe there.   But as we all know, if we don't give something our all, we don't receive all that something has to offer.

The night after the tree was ornamented, we loaded in the car and drove to the Gaddi family's community Christmas light display.  I brought along my "Let's not kill ourselves when we celebrate this year" attitude.  I had not been to Gaddi's before.  They had killed themselves.  I tried to calculate how long it had taken them to prepare for this holiday gift to the community.  The displays were fantastic,  just the ticket for getting in the Christmas spirit, and just the ticket for showing me that when you sacrifice for the good of others without any thought for yourself, Christmas comes.  They had been doing this for many seasons. I'm sure they were a little tired of all the work it took to make every thing merry and bright, but they did it for me and my children and the hundreds of other Fayettevillers who drive through their property from Thanksgiving to Christmas.  Oh yeah...gift of self...just like Jesus.

See?  I knew this.  I just needed a little help getting there.  I remember now how thankful I am for the sacrifice of our Redeemer for all of God's children.  And thank you, Mary, for bearing a son that was born to die.  And I'll try to remember who's party this is anyway and not get grumpy or obsess about things, but try to give good gifts, from the heart, and I'll work on being free with myself and my substance but not walk faster than I have strength and leave some strength to enjoy time with the people I love.  And if I forget, I'll just listen to wonderful souls who "get" the season, like my one friend who when I was thinking of ways to save my energy and get out of things said, "December is such a special month for me.  I love everything about it."  And I'll celebrate.

Merriest of Christmases to you all.  May it be filled with beautiful music, wonderful people, lots of lights, good gifts and the Spirit of our Lord.

Shoot the sky or the ground

I grew up in a household full of girls.  My first brother was born when I was 15.  This information is necessary to understand the circumstances surrounding my upbringing. One of the family rules was that we didn't say "butt" (Well, Dad said, "butt") but we would substitute a more genteel but considerably less threatening, "booty," as in "Get your booty in here," or "I'm going to kick your booty."

( TMI alert) We girls never peed or pooped.  My mom insisted that we tinkle or have a BM.  We didn't fart either.  We cut the cheese or passed gas, but mostly we didn't talk about it. My Dad would occasionally try and out an offender, but we remained in feminine denial. When my brother was born my father announced, "My son will not tinkle." And for the sake of my brother's masculinity everyone started peeing and pooping and farting.  I hope he appreciates our efforts in his behalf.

 My mother wouldn't allow guns either.  I remember my guilty fascination with the neighbor's cap gun.  I loved the loud "Pop" followed by aromatic gunsmoke stinging my nostrils.  Of course I never owned one, but it always remained "cool" in my mind.  At our house our imaginary gunfights were always accompanied with the maternal instructions, "Shoot the sky or the ground." That was my mother's solution to the chance picking up an actual loaded gun and accidentally injuring anyone. During cowboys and Indians I would obediently point my gun to the sky when I ran by the windows to my house but then wickedly point to my opponent's heart when I turned the corner out of my mother's view.

It should not surprise me that when I had children of my own and my mind repelled the idea that these sweet darlings would ever be involved in violence, real or imagined, fail safe shooting rules were difficult to enforce. When my oldest was a toddler I decided that we would just have the rule-- No guns.  However, since necessity breeds ingenuity my gentle baby created a weapon out of PVC pipe, pencils, or his finger when nothing else was available.

 Inspired by my mother I told my children to shoot the sky or the ground.  I remember them looking at me with indignant confusion, "How will we hit anyone that way?" I had to smile at the logic of this observation and began to cave.  As 1 son grew to 5 sons and then 7 with a couple of daughters thrown in, I realized that boys gonna fight and fighting's always better with weapons.

Thirty years later, I look back on my infinite purchases of Lego, Star Wars, ninja, and knight weapons with fondness. The best weapons, however, were homemade by Dad, brothers, and, OK, me.  I'm not condoning violence in any way.  I hold by the "Jesus said love everyone" creed, but how cute are these little fighters? Maybe it's just a normal part of growing up and if you're going to pretend shoot, you might as well pretend aim at your target.

Cardboard swords courtesy of Dad

Bows-Dad again.

I believe the boys made these weapons themselves. There are those who stuffed the tube to give them an advantage.

Choose your weapon

Baby girl packin' heat and her dolly.

Construx swords-not very resilient, for all you connoisseurs

Bring it on, big brother

Fierce Rebecca and Andrew
These swords are dangerous-no contact allowed
Lots of tears because smashed fingers- FYI

Marshmallow guns-always a hit

Weapons bonding with Aunt Stephanie

May the force be with you, Padawan.

The college freshman's mother's survival guide.

Children leaving home is a surprisingly colossal event and I want to share some thoughts with other moms who are crossing this portal.

Silly couch picture on the last night home.

1.  This is going to hurt more than you think.  In the summer months, between high school graduation and leaving for college, your child may or may not say, "I can't wait until I'm at college.  I shouldn't have a curfew, or need to tell you where I am, or get a parent's permission, etc because I'm an adult."  You may think to yourself, "I can't wait until you're at college either."  And then a funny thing happens.  They open up their empty suitcase to pack, and a million sweet and tender memories start flowing.  You remember when they used to put their chubby little hand in yours, when they always squeezed you tight around your neck, when they cried when you left them, and when they recited the Mother's Day poem they wrote just for you in their 1st grade class.  You hold back the tears because this is an exciting, happy time, but they don't go away, they stay right on the verge of spilling for a long time.

2.  Make the split quick.   I've tried accompanying them to their new school and place and also just dropping them off at the airport, and I think the airport route is the best.  An emotional mom just doesn't make for good company.  She's controlling, over protective and her fears communicate to the child that potential failure is around the corner.  I think the "You got this" approach instills much less apprehension and much more confidence. Besides, a trusted liaison who doesn't have quite the emotional investment is a much better escort to Wal-Mart.  Your college freshman has heard, "Don't forget to eat vegetables, buy foods that nourish, make your money last," enough.  It's game time. "Let's see if Mom knew what she was talking about.  I'll try to live off Lucky Charms for 2 weeks and see how I feel."  Believe me.  You don't want to watch.

3.  Your child's future is as bright as their faith.  Their choices determine their destiny, not your choices for them.  This is where is gets hard.  I know you know what will make them happiest.  Believe me, I know. But consequence is a brilliant teacher.  It's true that we aren't perfect parents, and I like to spend a lot of time thinking about things I would have done differently.  I wish I would have been more patient, more fun, more loving, less...human.  But I never gave up and even though I get tired, there has been nothing more important in my life than my family.  So, my children know and have what they need to make good choices and upon these choices rest the rewards of heaven, so what I'm trying to say and what I tell myself about 3 times a day is let go and let them live.  They'll call when they need you.

4.  Grieve and then live it up.  The first day after Andrew left I couldn't even go into his room.  It was too empty.  The next day I went in and sat and smiled as I remembered his smell, his energy, his books on the floor, his over flowing garbage and half empty water bottles in the corner.   All that was left now was a couple of Rubik's cubes and a half eaten bag of pretzels.  Pretzels..."Remember when you said I'd get tired of pretzels, Mom?  You were wrong.  I never did."  I had a little pang when I saw that pretzels were on sale at Publix, but no one was around to eat them.  And then one night when I was getting ready to go to bed and my immediate thought was, "Where are all my children?  I'd better text Andrew to see where he is."  I realized, I didn't need to know.  The children who live at my house were both  home in bed.  I had the best night sleep I've had in about 3 years.

Before

After

Would you please mail the things on the top bunk
before winter?

5.  This is going to be great.  Do you know what's fun?  Seeing your children rise to the occasion, do hard things, get back up after they fall down, become a cause for good, love learning, make weaknesses strengths, learn to love.  This is what happens when they go off to seek their  fortunes (get an education.)  So when they call you to tell you they're failing chemistry, don't panic.  They're just  learning how to study. When they run out of money, they're improving their budgeting skills. When their heart gets broken, they're developing compassion.  When they don't call home,  call the police.  Just kidding, they'll call home, because they love you.  And remember, the best is yet to come.

"Which shoes should I take"  "Which do you wear the most?"
"I don't wear either of them."

Neonates-is this normal?

He's here! Pregnancy-check, labor-check, all the hard parts are over-not check, but good job on the delivery and surviving pregnancy. Now it's time to learn more about love, that "deep as the ocean," "I'd take a bullet for you" and "walk a hundred miles" and "never be the same now that you're mine" love. 

Babies smell delicious, which we understand is nature's gift to mothers for taking care of them.  Their skin is so perfect and their little fingers and toes and lips and ears are irresistible.  There are a couple of parts to new babyness however that moms and dads find less than irresistible and leave them wondering, why didn't anyone tell me about this?  The truth is, everyone told them about it, it just wasn't very applicable BC. (before children)

So, if you brought home a baby in the last couple of weeks let me answer some questions, the most common being, "Is this normal?"

1. Yes it is normal for the baby to fall asleep whenever he is nursing and then wake-up when he is put in his bed.

In fact, babies hate beds.  They especially hate beds now that they have to sleep on their back.  Their startle reflexes are a big problem and those wee little eyes pop open a lot.  Swaddling helps.  It's a genius idea to simulate the comfy confines of the womb, but what babies really like is to sleep with a real-live parent who breathes slowly and has a nice continuous heartbeat.  So, from my experience especially in the first weeks, your choices are co-sleep or no-sleep.

Here is the nice new bed from Grandma E., with the cozy
sheet that Mama made, but the mattress is very flat and
it's lonely in there.  The comment was made,
'"Won't the baby be surprised when he finds out he has a bed?"

2.Yes, it's normal to change the baby's diaper a million times a day.  In fact, it's a consensus at this house that babies prefer pooping in clean diapers and will wait, if they can, until they're changed to move forward. I also think babies get tired of their outfits and will work to dampen them with their various artillery: urine, spit up, milk, whatever. But don't the tiny clothes look cute hanging all rinsed in the bathroom?    The truth? Mom's and Grandma's like new baby outfits too.

The downside, okay there are a few downsides, but the main downside to needing lots of diaper changes is the increased chance that sweet baby will contract diaper rash.  We did a little product study and believe that old-fashioned Desitin with the cod liver oil aroma beats new creamy Desitin and Butt Paste for eradicating redness.

It's helpful to maintain a diaper changing station or two where all necessary ingredients are at the ready
One might even be changing a baby in the dark and one musn't be lacking any vital supplies and remember
put the tape side under the baby and make sure there's a snug fit around the waist...trust me on this one.

Another question new parents might ask is, 3. "Do we need to purchase a Boppy? (Or as my son calls them, a Floppy.)  Of course you do.  A floppy provides multiple uses.  The baby will rest there (for a few minutes on a good day.)  Mom can sit on them (yes, postpartum sitting is problematic.) 

A floppy makes a nice decoration, provided it fits your color scheme.

Dad can use it to catch some much needed shut-eye.

And if worse comes to worse, Mom can wrap the Floppy around her waist on the same side her baby is nursing. This gives her arm a place to rest and she can keep the baby comfortably positioned with his head higher than his heart, bottom and legs.  Because think about it, who likes to drink milk upside down?

Here is another helpful idea, lots of stations.  Anywhere a mother might sit to nurse a baby should have water, lanolin, and a burp cloth.  And if no one is around to visit, I would add reading material.  Try and have something on the lighter side, physically and mentally.  A nice Reader's Digest, church magazine, etc.  Reward yourself. and make breastfeeding a treat.

This is the "Hope-springs-eternal" station.  It contains a blanket for swaddling, a
pacifier, and a bouncy chair for when baby gets tired of being held and needs some alone
time...bahahaha.

4."My baby seems to cry a lot."  This is normal. (at my house at least)  Babies cry.  Here is a list of possible reasons:  "I'm hungry, I'm tired, I need to burp, I just pooped, I can't poop, there's too much going on, there's not enough going on, Mommy ate something weird, I'm hot, I'm cold, I'm not really sure but it seems like a good idea."  Parents cannot ignore this heartbreaking sound so become clever scientists as they chart, record, theorize, experiment and use all their resources to make the love of their heart happy.  My advice? Don't take it personally, remember it doesn't usually last forever.  (Okay some of my children still cry.) My sister's advice? Ear plugs.

Next question, 5. "I'm not that excited to hear my baby's voice at 3:00 am.  Is this normal ?" CODE--Am I a bad mom?  Babies, and children for that matter, have not yet learned the art of playing hard-to-get.  While it might seem logical for them to give mom a chance to miss them, there's probably a greater plan in the works here. As moms and dads sacrifice their all in the care and feeding of their dear ones the relationship becomes more than a fleeting crush.  It develops into a deep and abiding love.  The kind that you would throw yourself in front of a speeding train to protect.  So, buckle up and get comfortable and put all that you own and ever hope to own on the altar.  You will be repaid 100 fold.

PS. My last bit of advice, some of which is a review, is since you're giving your all, make sure you have something to give.  Eat, sleep, shower, learn, laugh, dance, talk to adults (call your mom), exercise, pray, and most important, flirt with your spouse.  They're still your number 1.

One, two, skip a few

I've read some parenting books in my day, and I had good parents.  I know the difference between authoritarian parenting and authoritative parenting, but the truth is, real parenting is the hardest thing in the world.  What matters more at the end of the day than how your kids turn out?  I'm writing today not because I have some great answers for you, but because I have some good stories for you.  Some of these situations are things you do not want to do. Others are things you might want to prepare to do.  These stories are about consequences. There are always consequences in this life and the next.  As a parent I feel it's my duty to provide my children with consequences for bad choices that might help them learn before life becomes the harsher teacher.  The trick is coming up with the best consequence.  It needs to be something that can be repeated often.  Children need a few chances to learn a concept.  The more naturally the consequence follows the choice, the better teacher it will be.  Rewards should be administered randomly so the good behavior won't stop when the rewards stop. "Thank you for making a good choice" can be interjected any time it applies.  Consequences for negative behavior need to be administered consistently and confidently and sometimes courageously.  And did I mention that the perfect delivery is friendly, but firm?  Studies show that if a parent is angry the child remembers the anger, but doesn't remember their behavior.  Now onto real life.

My firstborn and well-loved child was born to the mother with the most perfect plan.  He would be obedient and well-behaved. I would be wise and ever-patient and never find myself in a power struggle.  When he was maybe 1 or 2 he defiantly dumped a bowl of popcorn on the floor.  Anxious to implement my parenting skills, I explained that he would now need to pick up the popcorn  because we couldn't have it all over the floor.  (I'm sure my voice was perfectly friendly but firm.)  He looked at me with his sweet little face and refused.  I didn't have a plan B so I put him in my lap, covered his hand with mine and "we" picked up the popcorn.  It was our first power struggle.  Score 1-0. Or was it?

For minor infractions the consequence is usually "Go upstairs and count to ...(depending on the child.)  The kids love to tell the ways they modified their sentence.  There was the famous, "One, two, skip a few 99, 100."  Counting by 5's and 10's.  One of the more creative modifiers required his younger sibling to write the numbers on a page when he was in charge, "Don't kid a kidder."  There were those that didn't even bother counting, they just started reading a book and came down later, or not.  Last year it was revealed that one child would break a manners rule at the table to get sent away so he could avoid eating food that was unappetizing.

I wanted perfect peace and harmony in my home so in the beginning the consequence for hurting a sibling was service to that sibling.  One conniving, I mean creative, child would set to bugging a more volatile sibling on the provoker's dish night.  It wouldn't take long before he would get punched, and his brother owed him service, "a favor."  Totally worth it.  My husband and I had to make new a game plan.  No longer would the child owe their sibling a favor.  They would serve me.  One child ended up owing me 4 favors and 1/2 day of slavery.  The slavery came from super-defiance.  That wasn't a fun day for any of us.  As I recall, the offending child was so mad about his sentence he broke a shovel slamming it into the ground as he dug up my new flower bed.  Then he had to buy me a new shovel.  The other day I asked, "Do you remember the shovel?"  He smiled.  He remembered the shovel.

Some of my programs seemed so innocuous at the time of establishment.  I wanted the children to learn to put their belongings away after school instead of leaving everything around the front room.  I said, "If I find your stuff I'm putting it in this black bag.  You can either pay 50 cents or do a small job to ransom your belongings.  Who knew the chain of events this would set off?  I gathered a lot of toys that kids would rather lose than pick up.  No one claimed them.  Then I picked up a coat, a child's main coat, actually his only coat.  Of course it was winter.  Why else would his coat be on the floor?  Ransom: 50 cents or vacuum the10 X 12 carpet space in the TV area. Child's response: "I'm not doing that." I chose to keep my promise, and he chose to not pay the ransom.  Do you know how painful that winter was?  I went to pick that kid up at night from the school.  There he'd be in the dark, in the cold, no coat.  I'd see him and feel so sorry for him and then think, "What the heck?  He's an idiot." (Bless his heart and we don't say idiot.) Eventually, I'm talking weeks, he did his measly job and got his stinkin' coat.  Score?  Who even knows?

One Saturday morning I was assigning chores to everyone when a child asked a forbidden and dangerous question, "Mom, what do you do?"  There's only one answer to that question, "You're about to find out."  He  was Mom for the day.  He did laundry, cooked, and cleaned. Anyone with a request or complaint was sent directly to him.  There were a lot of little children at home at the time, so he met a lot of needs.  It was a great day of learning for him and a great day of resting for me.  If any sibling even thinks a similar sentiment he generously warns them, "You do not want to be Mom for the day."

Another part of my ideal picture was that all of my children would play the piano.  I would provide them with piano lessons and they would practice their little hearts out until they could play the hymns for church.  Well, I provided the lessons.  The practicing their little hearts out has been spotty at best.  Overall, I would say the majority of the children could play a hymn if they had enough time to practice, but I admit I modified my expectations.  One sweet boy hadn't practiced his piano even though it had been on his list for several days.  I said, (with possibly more firmness than friendliness) "When you don't practice you are wasting my money.  You can't go to sleep tonight until you practice."  Once again I underestimated the power of the Stoker resolve.  I woke up at 1:00 am and noticed the light still on in the music room.  There sat the child, looking straight ahead, with no intention of practicing.  I was mad.  I began conjuring up all kinds of consequences and then I started thinking and praying and thinking about what course to take.  It occurred to me to communicate my hopes and dreams for him and his talents and let him choose and live the consequences of his choices.  He chose.  He quit.  He has as much music in his life as he wants.  It's not none, but it's not as much as I'd like.  Welcome to motherhood.  We now have our modified policy.  If you start lessons, join a team, band, etc. you have to finish your commitment/season/year.  You can choose whether or not to start, but no quitting in the middle.

Now, if you want some good parenting advice I recommend these books:  "The Parenting Breakthrough" by Merrilee Browne Boyack, "A House United" by Nicholeen Peck,and "Emotional Intelligence"by Daniel Goleman.  If you want some ideas for some consequences, give me a call.

I'm not naming names, but every person in every story is in this picture.

Thank you for this trial.

 1 Thessalonians  8:18 "In everything give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you." So everything must mean every thing, even my least favorite things-trials.

I've been thinking a lot about this "thankful in your trials" concept.  It's hard.  During a trial, something that is happening different than the way I want it to, my natural response is to cry out, "I'm gonna die!"  I'm trying a new approach:  "Thank you for this trial and the opportunity to..."  and guess what?  I'm slowly learning.  My faith used to focus on trusting in God's love and power, which is good.  I want to keep that but also trust in God's ability to use trial to make me into someone better than I was.  So now my target response isn't just "get me out of this, pronto!"  (well the thought still pushes itself forward from the back of my mind,)  but "What Christlike characteristics can I develop and how is this difficult situation a blessing?"  I guess I'm trying to not just have faith in God
s ability to bless me with good things, but faith in his ability to use trial to bless me as well.

As I reflect on times of trial I realize that one of its greatest benefits is the laser focus on the eternal that happens almost immediately.  My prayers become focused, sincere, pleading and frequent.  I put all aspects of life in order.  My slacking "I'll do that someday" intentions become diligent practices of today.  I immerse myself in the scriptures, searching for counsel and comfort. I reach out to others with a level of compassion that can only come from a heart that has felt pain.  I recommit my life to God the way I always want to, but sometimes neglect to. When I'm facing trials I don't like my life better, but I like myself better. 

 In retrospect some of my greatest discoveries about life and God came when life took a turn for which I would not have asked.  Ten years ago when my young son had surgery to repair his incomplete palate, he woke up from anesthesia very unhappy.  He was in pain, and nauseated and in a strange place.  People kept  coming into the room and couldn't always promise "No stick" with a needle.  I held him and rocked him and tried to comfort him. He cried, "Mom, take me home!"  I would have done anything for that child, but I knew that going home was not the best course for him at that time.  Through my tears I answered,  "No. We need to stay here where the doctors can help you."  That experience has come to define trial for me.  I am not having fun.  I ask God to get me out and make it stop and sometimes he says, "No, leaving this trial would not be the best thing for you."  But he says it with love, and compassion, and complete awareness of my hurting."

Well, this surgery experience extended and stretched me and taught me more.  A week after the original surgery the repair failed and we were in the emergency room facing an emergency repair repair.  The hospital was full so Gabe recovered in a room sometimes used  for storing extra equipment.  We stayed all night in the small room with another child and a mom who liked to sleep with the television on.  Gabe recovered enough to go home only to find ourselves back in the hospital for the 3rd monday in a row as he had spiked a fever.  Gabe was the one suffering, but my mental and spiritual wellness was slipping as my bright picture of the future and , sadly, my hope were fading fast.  Trying to hang onto my tested faith I looked for the positives...looking, looking and then I began to see them.  A message therapy student came by as a volunteer giving free massages.  The mother of the boy in the next bed was very kind.  The cheerful nurse decided that infection and respiratory (Gabe's roommate) patients should not be together so we were given our own room. A resident sat in the hall playing beautiful healing jazz on his alto sax.   As all those lovely gifts were being delivered I read in the Book of Mormon about the people that asked to be free from bondage.  The Lord did not grant them freedom yet, but he did make their burdens light.  I knew God knew our situation and did not remove the trial, but he blessed us in little ways to lighten our burdens and let us feel His love and power and restore my hope.

I've had other sweet experiences born in trying times.  I actually had 2 sons that had to delay their missionary experience because of surgery.  We call this phenomenon the "Mom Training Center" or the "MomTC."  on the second go 'round we were living in West Virginia in a neighborhood that we fondly refer to as the "witness protection program."  We were in the hills, in the forest, on a dirt road surrounded by wild and wonderful (heavy on the wild.) My sweet 19 yr. old son had already spent a funtastic year at college and planned on being on his church mission by then.  Instead he was at home with his Mom.  I tried to show him a big time by taking him shopping and giving him chores. In turn, he tried to not be miserable.  The surgery broke up his monotony a bit, but he was banned from sports...not funny.

 Seven days post-op my son was allowed to do some walking.  He needed a chaperone to keep him from  breaking  into a run and never coming back.  I offered to walk with him around the "block."  Did I mention that there were wild turkeys and bears in the neighborhood?  There was also a horrendous hill.  Previously, I had walked for a while and then turned around and returned along the same route avoiding the challenge available on the last leg of the circle.  Stir-crazy boy wanted to take the long, hard route.  He brought his football just in case.  We took it slow, for the convalescent, of course.  As I started up the incline my heart started to beat at an unhealthy rate and I couldn't breathe.  I suggested a little rest.  He reassured me, "You can do it mom."  He moved ahead of me and tossed me the football.  I tossed it back.  He jogged a little ahead, I yelled at him for running, and he threw the football to me again.  He joked a bit and pushed my buttons and tossed the football until I made it up the hill, alive and proud of both of us. And then he got better and went on a mission, and came back a beautiful man of God and then went back to his marvelous life at college. No one would have chosen that situation at that time, but I have a fond memory of love and encouragement and a pretty great season with my child. Thanks, good son, and thanks to God for the beautiful time of trial.