Theological Landmines . . . or . . . Questions I Hadn't Anticipated

"How come we all get to get resurrected but not babies in tummies?"

Yes, I got that question today. Eden was serious and I had no answer.

It snuck up on me. She started with, "When will your baby get resurrected?"
"Well, I don't think she gets resurrected. . . . I mean, she wasn't all the way a baby. I think. But, I did see her arms and legs moving. . .  I have no idea."

And, then I can see that "no fair" look on her face, and she slams me with, "How come we all get to get resurrected but not babies in tummies?" Ahhh, the old familiar slap of theological ambivalence. (It cracks me up when I hear non-believers accuse religious people of being "so black and white." I wish!)

I swear children are born understanding the concept of resurrection. Nothing makes more sense to them than the notion that whatever/whoever has died will one day wake up and be alive again. What they can't understand is why it's taking so long.

Nancy was only four when I heard her tell a cousin, "When Grandma Nonie gets resurrected, we're going to get a dog." A long string of very rational, inductive reasoning brought her to this verity (I'll fill in another time), but what matters is, I could tell by her tone of voice that this event was absolutely secure and just around the corner in her mind.

So, I should not have been surprised that Eden wanted to nail down exactly how this resurrection business would work for our family now.

After a couple of false starts at answering, I had to end with, "We just don't know--would you like a taco?"

(I'm a coward.)

"I have chemo tomorrow. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you."

Seriously, I got an email from a friend with those exact words. And she meant it.

After three weeks of bed rest and much jubilation that I had finally stopped bleeding, I found out on Tuesday that my baby (12 weeks) no longer had a heart beat.

The pregnancy was tenuous, so it hadn't made facebook yet, but my heart had already shifted from "MOE" (mother of eight) to "MON" (mother of nine). And the kids' had done the same.

I have my few baby girl clothes in the baby slot in my closet. (Just what's left from a box that got lost and never used. Everything else I gave away.) I need to put those somewhere. And put the Pack n Play deep in the fruit room. And, the double stroller. . .

I need to adjust my plans. No baby November 30th. (David could have registered to teach at AutoDesk University that week.) No redo of the family nativity picture with a new baby. A thousand very small, almost imperceptible adjustments--together they make a wave that rolls over me and back again, an invisible tide.

As a counterwave, I have my life: too many children (read: interruptions) to keep up grief for more than a minute or two.  I also have my gift for procrastination that even reaches into grieving: just like laundry, I can actually put off my grief until I'm "in the mood" to be sad. I've been doing that fabulously while I've waited for the miscarriage to start.

I decided to lay my anxiety to rest and finally had a D&C this morning. I'm relieved. And sad. It's over. She's really gone.

On my way to bed, I ruminate on how much sadness I'll allow myself to feel when I lie down. And, then my last look at email . . . and there's that line: "I have chemo tomorrow. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you." Oh, the blessed irony of it! It's part of a very sweet note of consolation from someone who really has reasons to complain. And, because I know the life she leads, I know she means it. She threw in the chemo comment just to explain that she'd be tied up in the morning. And, suddenly, I'm laughing and crying. . . and thinking . . .

 . . . maybe I can blog about this after all.

Thank you, Deanne, and all my D6 friends and ResponsibleWomen, and family for the many comforting words,  dinners and banana breads, watching my kids during the bed rest even though it came to nothing. You're all part of my counterwave, the sine for the cosine of my grief.

Friendship is a rich and priceless gift . . . a kind of baby. I feel wealthy!

Thank you!

(Davie, please notice: I used a math metaphor there. I'd like credit for that. Thanks.)

My Girls' Lax

We had a great game yesterday. The girls played hard. 

Fun write up here. 

Opening lines were my favorite: 

"Junior attack Nancy Linford registered a game-high five points on four goals and one assist to lead No. 17 Alta to a 17-2 victory over Park City in a Utah Lacrosse Association Division I semifinal Tuesday night at Juan Diego Catholic High School. . .

The Hawks have outscored their opponents, 269-46.

Tuesday’s game was more of the same for a team that is playing a different level than the rest of the state." 

State game on Saturday in Bountiful. 

Something for Earth Day: My Rainforest

Hi friends, this post (marriage: my rainforest) has been reposted here: 

http://guardmarriage.com/marriage-politics 

I have to take it off my blog, so it won't impact the other site's search results for being repeat content. I've just left the ending here, since they didn't take it with the rest of the essay. 

Ciao!

Sally

Please, keep talking . . . "Who overcomes by force, hath overcome but half his foe" (Milton)

 photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/neanderthal/3721585903/  

My Best Lesson Yet!

Bondage, Passover, and Exodus

That was the title of today's lesson. . . . Oh, haven't mentioned, I teach Gospel Doctrine? . . .That's because I just barely admitted it to myself (even after 6 months).

It's my bi-weekly heart attack . . . and the closest I have ever come to saying no to a calling. (fyi: in my family, saying no to a calling is roughly the equivalent of  . . . oh, I don't know what--but something awful--truly awful. And, I'm nobly passing on this fine tradition to my own children.)

Today was my best lesson ever!

I've been dreading it because it covers so much and it's so important--basically, everything between the death of Joseph and the Exodus out of Egypt--no sweat. 

Moses' miraculous rescue, his childhood as a prince of Egypt, going out to look at "his" people, defending the slave, killing the Egyptian, escape into Midian, life with Reuel/Jethro and Zipporah, children born, meeting with God, burning bush, prophetic calling, rejection by the Pharaoh and the Israelites (he had the toughest job! even worse than Gospel Doctrine teacher), 10 plagues, institution of Passover (don't forget to tie it into the Last Supper and institution of the Sacrament), gather spoils of Egypt, prep to leave, the big exit, Pillar of Fire / Cloud, walk through the Red Sea. Egypt decimated, Israel free.  

I left Sacrament Meeting during the closing hymn to set up my awesome powerpoint. Went for a quick hair check, and coming back into the room, I heard the most magical words: "I thought I had the lesson?" 

Yes! She did. I blew it. Joy! Peace! Love! (Finally, a weakness becomes a strength--calendar problems.)

I absolutely insisted that my fine partner proceed with her lesson. It was delightful. I was totally prepared and didn't have to go through with it--the greatest of all possibilities. 

I love my calling! 


Can someone please explain the freaky formatting issues in blogger? This is getting ridiculous.

Shill Sisters Conference

I don’t usually have two sisters’ conferences in one month, but somehow it happened this year.

Our Shill conference started when we met at the Assembly Hall on Temple Square for a zipping concert of the St. Michael Trio. Wow! It was perfect music and the perfect way to start our summit! I’m so mad we didn’t get a pict. We must have been too overwhelmed by the music!

We missed Elizabeth who was in Guatemala picking up Heather from her mission and Katrina who was coming up for Easter and couldn’t do the trip twice. Amy and Danae joined us Friday night and Saturday, but we never got a picture all together. Ug.

Here are a few highlights.

Sorry, Dad, I’m not great with the timer, and your mantle is to dang high!

Marsali practiced every spare minute she had, making do with the sorry accompanists who had to take turns to keep up with her.

Emily typed her recipes right up to the bitter end.

Party favors! Book about Grandma Inie (with journals of Cora Lindsay Ashton), sealing wax & signet, lemon hand soap, basil seeds, bookmark, and spatula extraordinaire.

Danae read a true life Hallmark story that her parents lived through—amazing!

Saying good-bye.

Sunday evening, Emily joined me, singing with the Draper Temple Choir for a fireside in the Tabernacle. What a place!

David and his brothers, Austin and Ray, also sang in the choir. That's Ray who looks like he's standing next to me.

Between rehearsal and fireside.

Sorry about the eyes, Em, but it was such a cute picture otherwise, I thought your public should have it. 

When Little Girls Play "Guns"

I've noticed something about little girls: their play and work involve a lot of talking. And, I mean A LOT: Talk . . . plan . . . talk some more.

Our cute neighbor boys like to play with guns. They run hard and play what looks to me like random war games: run, chase, duck, feint, serpentine, . . . rinse and repeat. From what I can tell, there is no talking required. They could be deaf and dumb without hampering the game at all.

I don't actually have toy guns--not out of any principle, just lack of interest. But Jonathan has shown the girls how anything with a right angle can be a firearm. Grab the short end and the long end transforms into a gunbarrel: K'Nex, legos, even a Barbie--bent at the waist, she's Napolean's double barrel pistol.

Today, this happened with a tabletop easel.

My easel broke in half at the hinges, making (if you're hugely creative) a perfectly matched set of handguns. Eden brought Alice into the entry for gunplay. Here's the conversation I overheard:

EDEN: "Alice, YOU stand here. . . . I'LL stand here," (3 feet apart, facing each other). "Now, you shoot me, and I shoot you." [Seriously, this had to be discussed.]
ALICE: "No, I shoot!" [This makes no sense: she's two and just needs to say 'no'.]
EDEN: "Ready, go! . . . pieou, pieou . . . pieou, pieou, . . . pieou!" [These are little girl gun sounds.]
"Now, we put our guns down and do 'Ring around the Rosies'."
[Begin rosies and posies, end gun play.]

So goes the warfare of little girls. Aren't girls great?

. . . and when the Huns show up at the border, I think I prefer the warfare of little boys. Boys are great, too!

Whatever you do, don't try to tell me it's environmental! Jonathan made his first Barbie-gun when he was two years old, back when I didn't allow guns of any kind in the house. Nice try, Mom.

In Defense of Snails and Flies

I don't want to be the girl who complains about the weather . . . in Utah . . . in January.

So I won't.

Instead of telling you how it's been 3 solid weeks since I've seen that HUGE MOUNTAIN right in front of my house, I'm going to reminisce about summer and my pots.

I'm thinking, we gave Eden the right name.

I have a sea green flower pot that sits low on one of the landings of my front walk. I fill it with white petunias, some pink begonias, and a sea green vine.

I love this pot.

Last summer, I had the horror of finding several large, juicy snails eating their way through the petunias and begonias. Enraged, I threw the snails to the ground as hard as I could, breaking their shells.

Eden is my witness and accuser. Her high-pitched voice screamed in distress: "MOM! You broke his house! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!"

In the echo of her accusation, my answer sounded thin. "They were eating my flowers."

"SO! YOU BROKE HIS HOUSE?! How would you like it if somebody broke your house."

This struck a memory.

Just a few weeks before, I had heard something similar as I swatted flies in my kitchen: "MOM, THINK OF HOW THE FLY FEELS! THINK. HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT IF SOMEONE SWATTED YOU?"

Honestly, I'm not much of a bug killer. When I find them outside, I feel like I am in their space and give them a shoo. But my kitchen is my space, and I can't cook with flies around. So, in the summer, when my children leave the doors open day and night, I have an evening ritual of purging the flies before I cook.

I'm thinking that whatever connection Eve had with the garden and the animals, survives still in my Eden.

Isn't she sweet?

Linguistic Gymnastics: Thoughts of an 8 Year Old

"Mom, can you lick your own tongue?"

Joanne asked me that as she rolled her tongue around in her mouth. I had to think about it. I don't know, can you lick your own tongue?

And is she really asking about the capacity of the human tongue or could she be probing the boundaries of the word "lick"? I don't know, but I'm completely fascinated that she could even conceive the thought.

After some consideration, I've decided, no, you can't lick your own tongue--like the mirrors in the celestial room where you can't see yourself in the repeating reflection, only the repeated reflection of the person standing next to you--only someone else can lick your tongue, linguistically or otherwise.

Ew. That was gross.

The Last Night of Summer

It's pitch black outside, and I can still hear my children squealing as they ride their bikes around the circle with the neighbor children. I should call them in and put them to bed, but tonight is the last night of Summer. (Sundays don't count.) Monday morning, Joanne, Lizzy, and Sarah head off to school; the rest of them start Wednesday. Play on, sweet peeps! Play as late as you want tonight. I hate to see Summer end, but I'm torn. The last two weeks, my little girls have lazed around complaining, "There's nothing to do," They avoid all forms of work and have tuned out the sound of my voice completely. Just last week I was complaining that I've had enough of summer. Now that it's really ending . . . I'm sad. I have loved the warm nights and hanging flower pots, hours and hours of play time, and the almost constant baking projects (the inescapable fate of a woman with 7 daughters). My kitchen never rests. Lately, we've had lemon bars and Margarita cupcakes,brownies, Texas sheet cakes (many), cookies of every variety (not always recognizable), and loaves and loaves bread (Sarah's newest venture). Somehow the cooking falls back to me when the sun sets earlier and everyone's in school. David just whistled out the window for everyone to come in. Lizzy yelled back, "But, Dad, we're playing Ghost in the Graveyard." "Okay," he said. I guess we're of one mind tonight.