The Bike Parable

When my mom died, I felt this force surround me like angels carrying me through the difficult days ahead.

I remember the moment they left. I dropped like a rock into dark waters. I felt absolutely no light, no support, nothing. I prayed for strength. I felt nothing. I read my scriptures, fasted, went to the temple but remained empty. Days passed, then weeks, then months. I started to question everything I knew. Where was God? Why wasn’t He listening to me? Why couldn’t I feel His spirit?

What if everything I had been taught wasn’t true? What if the truths I’d learned about life after death and eternal families was false? Would I see my mom again? Where was she? Worry, fear, depression, anxiety became my constant companions.

Then one day I had a thought. I knew that that I had felt the Spirit before even if I could not feel it now. I knew that I wanted everything I’d been taught and believed to be true. I decided that I was going to go forward, believing with all my heart, clinging to the truths I’d been taught. I decided to exercise faith. Immediately I felt the spirit again.

For a long time I wondered why I hadn’t been able to feel God. When we take the sacrament we are promised that if we keep the commandments and are willing to take upon us His name, that we will have His spirit to be with us. Why had I not felt it for so long?

And then one day, I received insight. My son was about 6 and was riding his bike around the block. I was inside washing dishes and suddenly I knew that he needed me. I ran outside and found him a short distance from our house on the ground scraped and bruised. His pants caught in the chain. He couldn’t right the bike and he didn’t know how he could get home without taking off his pants, so he prayed.

"Did you wait long for me to come?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered, "but I knew you would come."

When my son was learned to ride his bike, I was constantly there. I held onto his seat and guided him and whispered encouraging things in his ear. As he got better, I would remove my hand for a few moments. Soon, I let go all together but continued to run next to him. Eventually, when he could ride on his own, I still knew where he was.

I couldn’t help but think, I was like my son. Sometimes the Lord is constantly with me. I feel His presence and encouragement. But if I am going to learn to be like Him, He has to let me ride alone or go around the block. If He isn’t running beside me, do I have the faith to keep pedaling? If I fall, do I have faith that He knows where I am and that He will come?

My friend shared a similar story in testimony meeting today. When she couldn't feel God's love, she prayed for a hug, something concrete that she could feel. Eventually, she visualized Christ hugging her. God comes to us in ways that are personal and powerful. Just like she needed a hug, I needed to know why I couldn't feel Him for so long, so He gave me the "bike parable." Michael McClean experienced his own spiritual crisis and after a long wait received answers tailored just for him. You can read his inspirational story here.

If you can't feel God, have faith that He knows where you are and that He will come. Until then, keep pedaling.

Me and that guy biking down a volcano in Hawaii--okay, technically we're not biking, but we're about to and we did and we made it even though it was raining and a little bit scary because we're old now and think about all the ways we could die.

Enough

Three of my grandsons, ages 2, 4, and 5, slept over. They giggled and played with swords and jumped on my couch and wrestled on the floor.

Okay,this isn't an actual picture from the sleepover. It's from Christmas. In fact, these aren't the 3 boys that slept over--well some of them are, but I thought this post needed a picture and I didn't get a picture at the sleepover because I was living in the moment. So you get the picture from this picture even though it's not the actual picture, right?

Okay, this isn't an actual picture from the sleepover. It's from Christmas. In fact, these aren't the 3 boys that slept over--well some of them are but I thought this post needed a picture and do you seriously think I thought to take a picture while I was chasing all three of those boys? Ya, no. But from this picture, you get the picture, right?

I finally got them to the bathroom where the sword fighting continued without swords. Boys. . . They got into their Power Ranger, Spider Man and Paw Patrol pajamas and we made a big bed on the floor. Finally, I fell asleep. Not so sure about them.

In the wee hours of the morning, still in my clothes, with fur growing on my teeth, I woke up. I said a sleepy prayer and stumbled to the bathroom and brushed my teeth.

I went back to sleep but was awakened by the crying 2-year-old who wasn’t sure where he was. I pulled him next to me on the couch and fell back to sleep. For awhile.

At dark thirty, they were all awake and bouncing. We read stories, made pancakes---Mickeys and snowmen which were oohed and ahhed over but not actually eaten. Worn out, the 2-year-old was happy to see his mom when she came to get him.

Having errands, I dressed the other two, washed their faces and did their hair. I am not very good at the mohawk. The 4-year old informed me that if the girls at school saw his hair, they’d laugh.

Driving, I realized that I had not done any of my usual morning things like dress, (I may or may not have been in the clothes I had slept in), shower, brush my teeth, (unless 2:00 a.m. counts), but more importantly say my prayers and read my scriptures. So I said an open-eyed car prayer to the accompaniment of laughing boys comparing fruit snack colors and tried recite a scripture or two in my head.

Then I heard the 5-year-old say, “I’m kind of sad because my grandpa died.” (Not the grandpa that is my husband, in case you are wondering.)

“That is sad I agree.” There was silence as we looked out the windows at the sooty snow and miles of smog.

“There are a lot of dead things,” said the 4-year-old.

“Let’s talk about live things,” I said.

I told them that the leaves would come back on the trees and the grass would turn green again and baby birds would hatch from eggs. “Your grandpa’s body is dead, but his spirit is alive,” I reassured my grandson. I tried to do the hand in the glove lesson only I didn’t have gloves so I’m not sure how well this went.

Then an excited voice from the backseat said, “I remember, I remember! My dad told me that Jesus died and that He came back alive again!”

“That’s right,” I said. “And because Jesus died and came alive again, we can come alive again and so can everyone else!” We talked about Jesus and about how He knows us and loves us.

Then from the backseat again. “I can’t wait to see Jesus and give Him a hug.”

After this conversation I was reminded of something my husband used to counsel when he was bishop. Sometimes people would come to him lamenting whether they should participate in a family activity or do their church work. He would tell them, “Your family is your “church work.”

Sometimes we fill our buckets, put oil in our lamps or whatever metaphor you want to use, and sometimes we share our water or light. Sometimes we go to the temple or fast in the desert and sometimes “we suffer the little children to come.”

Car prayers and scripture thinking cannot sustain a soul just like 5 loaves and 2 fishes can’t feed a multitude, but both are more than enough when given to the Lord. He takes the best that we can offer in the moment and turns it into so much more.

So young moms, old moms, young grandmas, old grandmas and dads and grandpas and uncles and aunts and everyone, stop beating yourselves up for serving your families. Do what you can in the best way that you can whenever you can and trust that God will make it and you enough.

What Ministering May or May Not Look Like

When my friend arranged to have some sisters in our ward (congregation) over so that she could take a picture of what a Relief Society ministering interview looked like and then realized she wouldn't be home to take the picture, she asked her good friend me if I would take it. Since I am such a good friend and ever so nice and helpful and would do just about anything for this friend, I said yes. 

This is the picture my friend wanted and it turned out ever so nice.

But since we were the only ones in her house and we think we are so darn funny, we took a few more. Maybe she can use these in a slideshow titled What Ministering May or May Not Look Like. I guess that's okay with me as long as she gives me photo credits.

and my personal favorite--

So, if you ever need some pictures taken at your house while you're not home, call me. I'm your girl. #Iprobablyshouldn'tbearealtor

Some random thoughts at 1:44 a.m.

The Greatest Showman

I saw The Greatest Showman for the 5th time yesterday, and loved it even more. My grandson, who turned 8 and loves all things Lego and dragons, and action, wanted me to take him to see it for his birthday date. He loves to listen to the soundtrack when I pick him up from school a couple of times a week. He goes to a school about 30 minutes away for kids who are "on the spectrum."

When we listen, he asks me to explain what is happening in each song and then he does some analyzing. So, this song is really about being kind to everyone. Or, this song means we should be proud of who we are. He says that the songs make him feel good. He turned and hugged me during Come Alive at the theater because he was feeling pure joy. Music is better than drugs.

When I am in pain from my surgery, if I listen to music, usually The Greatest Showman and dance, even if I can't use my feet, my pain goes away in a couple of songs. The doctor should say, "Dance 2 songs and call me in the morning." Dancing is a powerful drug.

My final, (for today,) take away from The Greatest Showman is: if you are ever kissing on the beach, make sure it is windy and that you are wearing a long scarf. Dreamy.

Animal Kingdom

My granddaughters would rather be animals than people. They act more like animals than people. They sound more like animals than people. They know a lot about animals. They have watched a lot of animal shows. They know what animals do, so it was great Sunday dinner conversation when they said to my teenage son and his new girlfriend, "You guys should mate when you get older."

I am those people. . .

I used to go to the gym and look at the people in the pool and think, ah, those people. The people who can't do real exercise. The old people. Well, now I am "those" people and, I like those people. I like being in the pool and exercising with those people. I actually sweat in the water. Is it because I'm old or because what I thought was easy exercise really isn't? So, until you've walked a mile in someone else's shoes or swam in someone else's suit . . . You know what I mean.

It is a Sunny Day

I practically ran a marathon today. Well for me. Actually what I did was walk one mile and it took me 23 minutes and 33 seconds. I was probably 50 yards in and wasn't sure if I could finish. But I did. One step at a time. Six months ago today I had my achilles tendon replaced and then I got a nasty thing called CRPS. Three months ago I felt like I would never walk again. Four months ago amputation sounded like a good idea. So, this was a BIG deal for me.

A couple of weeks ago Ric and I were in Santa Barbara watching our daughter, Tess, play Lacrosse for BYU. We went to a Chinese restaurant and Ric got a fortune that said something like, "A chance meeting will bring you great fortune and success." Mine said, "It is a sunny day." And it was. But what kind of a stupid fortune is that. I felt cheated. But then I thought about it and that little gem is actually packed with truth and wisdom.

When the pain in my foot was sooo bad, desperate for any kind of relief, I downloaded a meditation app on my phone. One session the guy with the cool Australian accent told me that if things were "mentally cloudy," to remember that the sun was shining above the clouds. That thought gave me a sliver of hope.

It was about that time that I started seeing a new physical therapist. He told me that I couldn't say, "my bad foot." I had to find a give it a positive label. "Left foot" didn't seem positive enough, so I finally settled on "new foot," which totally freaked my granddaughter out. New is better than old. New is stronger than old. New is shiny and perfect. New things are exciting--new shoes, new friends, new toys. New is so much better than bad or broken or stupid. . .

The foot that had once been a ball and chain, a curse, and a pain, a burden to heavy to bear, became my "pet." I coddled it. I talked nicely. When it hurt, I thought of tendons and muscles repairing. Bit by bit, my pain lessened and what seemed impossible a few months ago became possible.

My big toe, which has been known to give me some grief since my surgery, has been affectionately renamed "The Diva." She's behaving much nicer now that I've recognized she just needed a little extra attention and some bright red polish.

So, my stupid fortune became my perfect fortune. Forget the "fortune and success," I'll be all right as long as it is sunny outside.

To BYU or Not to BYU? That is the Question.

As much as I want to pay thousands of dollars to start having that dream again where I'm wandering around campus without pants, and I can't remember where my classes are, I'm just not sure if I want to go back to school. But it is my daughter's dream for us to go to school together. It use to be her dream for us to be roommates too until she married the dreamy Austin Anderson. She also dreams of Big Macs, laundry that folds itself and Lacrosse practices that don't start at 5:30 a.m., but I squirrel.

As terrific as it would be to wander campus with a big map in 20 pt font, I can think of a few problems:

There are so many other things I could be doing, like eating and sleeping and breathing, because I don't remember having time to do those things a bazillion years ago when I went to the BYU.

The major thingy. I think dance--that was my major before--is probably out now that I'm 20 lbs heavier and the only splits I'm doing are the banana kind.

Again, the major thingy. What in the world do I like enough that I want to study exclusively? Do they have a renaissance woman degree? Oh wait, that's motherhood, right?

Clothes. Can I wear stretchy pants? What about pajama pants? Are bras optional?

There's a good chance I might be older than most of my professors. If they ask me to do something I think is stupid, I might say something like, "That's stupid."

But I did some practicing last week. A friend and I went to Hank Smith's New Testament class with our daughters. When I wasn't stretching my neck trying to minimize my neck rolls, I was worried that I was breaking an honor code violation because you know I wasn't actually enrolled, and I had a wee bit of anxiety like the time I attended a full day of classes with my zipper down and thought the modesty police might write me up, but Bro Smith was happy to have us there probably because we brought some spiritual maturity to the class.

So when I wasn't worried about the honor police and my neck rolls and wearing pants, my brain did a little happy dance because it was entertained and it did a little stretch and I didn't want to say the word stupid once. Then later my mouth did a happy dance because we went to the Cannon Center and had a Navajo taco and I've missed those tasty guys.

Me and all my chins so happy to be arriving at that happy place again!

The lovely sight Bro Smith saw while he was teaching.

Can you see the "Y" behind us???

Navajo taco, only mine was bigger and had a pint of guacamole on top.

Mother Nose Best

I was eleven, in the church gym, trying to find my silhouette that I'd made for a mother daughter activity on the wall. I examined the half dozen or so pictures, but not one of them looked like me or at least how I thought I looked.

My friends giggled and "kindly" helped me identify my likeness. "Yours is right there; the one with the big nose."

I was mortified. From that moment, I knew I wasn't as good, wasn't as pretty as the rest of them and I felt embarrassed, almost ashamed, that I had not been aware of this before.

 It was also at that moment that I mounted a continual, relentless effort that ruled my thoughts and actions to shield the world from the unsightly horror that was my nose. During school, I literally kept my nose in a book, or hid by my hand, or my arms by putting my head on my desk. Anything to hide the horror that was my honker. I even took up sleeping on my face thinking that I could force a little bit of it back inside my head. Of course it didn't work, but for years I sported a line--just like a minus sign--across my nose.

I worried that people were staring at my nose. My bigger worry was that they would think I didn't know how ugly it was, so to eliminate any confusion, I made jokes about it.

If this wasn't bad enough, at thirteen I discovered I had chicken lips. This was pointed out to me by my "helpful" Young Women leader who was teaching us how to apply make-up. And I quote, "If you have chicken lips like Jill, you can blah, blah, blah. . ." The rest was kind of lost on me because just like the silhouette nose thingy, I had no idea my lips were offensive too. I had no clue that full lips were what I was supposed to want. Heck, some of my best friends were chickens. Seriously. But that's a different story.

So why am I writing all this? Because 40 years later I finally like who I am. I finally feel beautiful, not because of how I look, but because of how I feel.

I'm throwing out the "b" word because of that Dove commercial where they have the "beautiful" door and the "average" door and women have to choose which one to walk through. Beauty has got to be more than how we look. We all know people who are visually appealing but are "ugly" and plain or average people who are beautiful, glorious in fact. We can choose to be beautiful.

I am writing this because my beautiful daughter, who looks so much like me but is so much better in so many ways said she wanted a nose job. I was crushed. How much of my "nose" paranoia had rubbed off on her?

So my dear "T," forget about your nose, embrace beauty. A nose job might make you look different, but it would also contradict everything that I love about you: your ability to see the beauty in others; your ability to help others see the beauty in themselves; your abundant joy and happiness with life and its many opportunities; your ability to triumph over adversity; your ability to not take life too seriously. If you changed your nose, I'm afraid you wouldn't be able to see past the end of it.

I wasted so many years worrying about my nose, focusing on myself, that I couldn't focus on others. Nobody cares about your nose. They only care about how you make them feel. So, forget your nose (or your hair, or your weight or your crooked teeth--insert whatever insecurities you have here--and leave them here) and be beautiful.

Happy Things

There has been a lot of sadness around here. Gut-wrenching sadness. But there is also love. So much love and so much goodness. Queen Victoria II (and my bishop) said, "Grief is the price we pay for love." So true. I've wanted to want to blog all week, but life has felt heavy, and if you haven't been reading, my last few posts have been heavy.

So instead of blogging, I've been procrastinating. I am good at it. I practice a lot. But I am finished flipping through Insta and FB and being "heavy." I am a doer. Of hard things. So I am blogging about things that made me happy.

1. I am happy that I can walk. It is such a miracle each time I take a step. I'm still not super good at it. But I am doing it.

2. I am happy for sweat. I went to the gym last night and for the first time in a looong time, I was able to work out so hard that I was sweating. That was joy sweat friends.

3. I am happy when my feet are so sore at the end of the day and I see this beauty. I 💗 Sheila.

4. I am so happy that I have a winter coat and warm shoes.

5. I am happy that I was insanely brave (for me) yesterday and I had something great happen.

6. I am so happy that Wingers makes those sticky finger tacos and that I have good friends to eat them with.

7. I am happy that when there is so much sadness there can be so much love too.

8. Car dancing makes me SO HAPPY and it is my new drug. If you are hurting, try it. Maybe it will work for you too.

9. I am so happy I got to go to this place with an awesome friend and that I only fell asleep for a little while. . . It was a celestial snooze.

10. And who cannot be happy watching The Greatest Showman (three times)? I love the message-YOU ARE GLORIOUS, "bruised" and all. The Best of Us All, the Greatest of Us All, "had no form nor comeliness; . . . (he had) no beauty that we should desire him. He (was) despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: . . .he was bruised for our iniquities." He knows what it's like to be bruised like nobody else does. And friends, He thinks we are glorious. Because of Him we can be even more glorious than we ever imagined. And it gets better. We are part of HIS family. His eternal family.  Family is also one of the themes in The Greatest Showman. Go see it. You'll love it. Buy the music. You'll sing it and car dance to it. You will be happy and you will fell glorious.

Burdens

Several years ago I had a friend that was experiencing a devastating tragedy. One night I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about my friend and the weight of her burden. Was she able to sleep? Did she feel alone? How could she possibly endure such a trial? I found myself on my knees praying. I asked if her pain could be eased if only for a while. I said I was willing to share her burden so it could be lighter. A heavy, oppressive feeling overwhelmed me. The weight was crushing, almost unbearable. After about an hour, the pain lifted. I wondered if my friend’s burden was eased just a little during that hour?

I love that Christ wept when He heard that Lazarus died. He had power to raise Lazarus from the dead, so why did He weep? I like to think He wept because He felt the sorrow of Martha and Mary. Their problem, their pain became His burden. Bearing one another’s burdens is a casserole and babysitting and lawn mowing and donating funds, but it is so much more. When we truly mourn with someone, we go from saying, “That’s sad,” to “I’m sad.”

In the Fall I had a surgery that knocked me for a loop. I had some set backs and complications that involved a lot of pain, no sleep, and little healing. Sometimes the pain seemed unbearable; I literally didn’t know how I could make it through another day. I received phone calls and visits from countless family members and friends. They brought meals and gifts, but more importantly, they listened to me, they mourned with me, and they cried with me. My burden, my pain became theirs and I was lifted.

Recently a friend and I talked and she shared a heavy burden with me. She apologized saying she didn’t want to weigh me down. I remembered a time several years ago when I had unapologetically unloaded on her. She had been through a similar trial and because she had been where I was and because she loved me, she could give me words that provided new perspective and charted a course of action that changed my life.

The Savior, through the power of His atonement, has the ultimate power to lift burdens. As a people that have covenanted to take upon us His name and try to be like Him, we should mourn with, cry with, and feel the pain and despair of our brothers and sisters, and no one should ever have to apologize.

New Year's/Old Year's Resolutions--I've Heard it Both Ways

New year's resolutions always kick my butt. I mean I make resolutions but let's face it, my resolve dissolves as fast as cookies in milk. I wasn't making new resolutions, I was really just wringing milk from last year's cookies and passing those soggy things off as next year's Oreos. So, then it got easier to not make resolutions. . . to break. But then there's guilt. And pounds. And dust bunnies. And chocolate cake for breakfast. And brain drain.

So last year I resolved to be more resolute. I thought carefully about what I wanted to accomplish. I had a long list of soggy cookies I could resurrect, but I decided to leave them all in the cup. If I died at the end of the year, would I really care if I had exercised, or eaten broccoli, or even if I'd read my scriptures everyday if it hadn't really changed me? Not changed my health or my body, but changed me, my soul, my spirit? So I picked one goal. One thing that mattered. My new year's resolution for 2017 was to not withhold love. It has kicked my butt, but in a good butt-kicking way, in a way that it needed to be kicked.

I learned that there are SO many ways to withhold love: when people annoy me, when family members hurt me, when my children are bullied, when I am jealous, when someone dismisses or even laughs at my opinions just to name a few. This week.

Last year, after a few months of this goal, I started to feel a little beat up and far less than perfect. That's when God sent me a message. I was at a conference and one of the presenters was a woman who my college boyfriend had dumped me for. I was hoping she was fat, not very interesting, and maybe just a little bit bald. She wasn't. She was beautiful, articulate, captivating, everything I felt like I wasn't.

That night when I checked in with Heavenly Father, I realized that once again I had withheld love for this sister in a big way. After I finished what I hoped was a full, sincere, heartfelt repentance, Heavenly Father said to me, "There's one more thing you need to repent of--withholding love from yourself. You are every bit as bright and beautiful and loved by me as that woman." That's when I learned, although I had been told and taught a jillion times in dozens of Sunday School classes, that I can't love others if I don't love myself.

That's why my resolution for 2018 is to not withhold love. It may be an "old" resolution, but it will make me a new person.

President Thomas S. Monson, a great example of love.