Volume X, issue vii. July 2014 (Strangers in a Strange Land)

The collective prayers that rose up to the heavens to get this boy into the outstretched arms of his parents are only matched by the amount he is now loved by those same petitioners. Our house is the headquarters of the Matthew Fan Club and we are devotees nine times over.

When Matthew came for a visit in July, you’d have thought we were expecting royalty with the way we planned and scrubbed. Madame Secretaire (aka Eve) carefully created a list of about twenty activities that we hoped would be Matthew-approved and with old toothbrushes in hand, the kids labored over our baseboards til they shone “like the top of the Chrysler Building!” 

When our red-headed cousinly cherub appeared, however, the rest of us melted into pleasant invisibility and only Marie seemed to exist. After his first evening surrounded by nine ardent admirers, he said, “I want to see that brown-eyed girl again.” Knowing the rest of his were at the bottom of the familial totem-pole, we just happily orbited around the two playmates, enjoying their grins of utter at-home contentment.

Our sweet M&M duo were even able to have their first sleepover when Matthew’s parents whisked themselves off to Jackson to celebrate their 10^th anniversary. We had planned on having Matthew sleep in Caleb and Peter’s room, which had been freshly de-junked and organized, and while Matthew didn’t complain about his roommates, his sad baby blues made it clear that he didn’t really love the set-up. When I asked him if he’d prefer to stay in Marie’s room, his face brightened with such freckled glee that I couldn’t stop myself from granting him a transfer to the other side of the basement.

 Unfortunately, this cousin-related bliss couldn’t last forever and there were some inevitable good-byes that had to be endured.

After we said goodbye to Matthew and his parents, my normally independent Marie lingered by my side a little longer than usual and said quietly, “Mom. . . my heart feels funny.” 

Assuming that she was talking about her elevated heartrate caused by gobs of recently inhaled ice-cream, I casually told her that she probably just needed to relax a little and she’d be fine.

A full fifteen minutes later, she found me again and softly touched my arm. Her big eyes searched mine and she struggled to speak. She finally said, “Mom. . . I think I know why my heart feels funny.” She had clearly spent the last few minutes involved in some concentrated introspection.

“Why, Marie?”

“Because,” and she paused to catch her breath. “It’s because I. . . miss Matthew.”

The mere pronunciation of those last two syllables caused huge tears to start flowing down her cheeks. It didn’t take long for my tears to join hers as I tried to explain to her that missing someone means that you love them so, so much and that it’s okay to feel sad when you say goodbye. I’d never seen a six-year-old with a broken heart, but my girl’s lips were shaking as she tried to translate her grown-up sorrow into a child’s words. 

“I’ve just. . . just never. . . felt this way before,” she whispered to me as I clumsily gathered up pieces of my composure so that I could offer up some maternal comfort.

Moses lamented that we are “strangers in a strange land” (Exodus 2:22).  I have a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t simply feeling the strain of culture shock as much as he was aching for home and for comfort and for the loving and endless embrace of godly love.

And that’s what my tear-stained Marie was trying to say as well. We don’t belong in this land of goodbyes and temporary emotional medicine.

We belong in a land of unity and togetherness and healing and eternal home.

These goodbyes are foreign to us because they don’t belong to the most essential parts of who we were designed to be. Marie’s whole being was rising up inside of her tiny body in closed-fisted resistance to the idea of goodbyes because it recognizes that goodbyes aren’t what her existence is for. She was made to create, not to destroy. She was made to heal, not to hurt. She was made to bond, not to divide.

Marie reminded me in that aching moment that I need to recognize this “strangeness” in my temporary earthly habitat instead of grappling to normalize it. She reminded me that I’m not supposed to be “at home” here. The tapestry of neuroses on which my personality teeters is meant to nudge me closer to God, so maybe I should stop trying to get comfortable and should just get moving.

So many of my moments are spent nursing my needs that sometimes I forget that maybe it’s actually neediness that’s next to godliness. How can I seek for God if I’m constantly trying to replace Him? How can I hear his voice if my days are ruled by the voices trying to quell my hunger? In our age of constant entertainment, boredom becomes an easy enemy, conquered by easily accessible, weak-willed fillers. But maybe boredom isn’t an enemy as much as it is an invitation to feel strange in this strange land.  If I get overly integrated, if I start to feel like I belong to this world of goodbyes, I might miss out on the wide-stretched true love that caused Marie’s funny-feeling heart and her tears.

Volume X, issue vi, June 2014

Mom and Dad's 50th Wedding Anniversary

When I was a big-haired, acne-speckled, angst-ridden adolescent, I imagined what love was. Like my hair, love was supposed to be big and glamorous and slightly out-of-control. Ideal love, the best kind of love in my mind, was kindled by external traits like beauty and the ability to look good in formal wear for balls. 

On one of these dewy-eyed days, I found myself alone in the station wagon with Mom and Dad, which was such a rare treat that I hardly knew what to do with myself as I was perched in the middle of the back seat behind them, leaning forward on the vinyl seats with anticipation as I asked them the question that had been on my mind. I chirped excitedly: “Mom and Dad, how did you know that you were in love?”

I braced myself with glee as my heart opened and expected to be blown away by a  timeless tale filled with romance, high-speed chases, and chivalrous fights to the death.

Mom and Dad each shared their side of the story. They had been friends and they loved to talk about. . . ideas. I waited for the good part.

I waited for Dad to talk about how gorgeous he thought Mom was when she walked into the ballroom and how her blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight and how she looked like an angel. I waited for Mom to describe Dad’s muscles and how she had never seen anyone more handsome or brave.

Instead they talked about how they couldn’t wait to see each other so they could talk about insights and feelings they had about news of the day or things they had read.

I was so disappointed. I thought, “Don’t they really love each other?”

Finally Dad said, “I knew I was in love with your Mom when I realized that eternity might not be long enough for me to talk to her about all the things we could talk about.”

I can’t even type it without crying. But I didn’t understand it then. I didn’t understand what John Haslam Clark described when he said that loyalty is even better than “love.” But I understand it now, finally, after meeting the one person who makes me wonder if eternity is long enough. And I finally realize that that kind of wondering is actually what romance and beauty are all about. I understand that my heart does “swell wide as eternity” when I think of him and that there is nothing more romantic than that. 

After the dreamiest dream vacation with all of the other couples in our family to  Laguna Beach for five luxurious days of anniversary celebrating, we had a more homey version of the anniversary celebration with all of the kids. Tom and Tracy even came via skype (although Eric kept deliberately placing his derriere in front of the computer so I'm not sure how enjoyable it was for them).

During one of our dinner conversations at Laguna Beach, we divided up the party planning for the family celebration into manageable segments. I volunteered to bring desserts for the party and in my party-planning delirium, blurted out, "I can make cupcakes with Mom and Dad's faces on them!"

Everyone laughed and I said, "Hey! I was serious!"

Later, when I shared the exchange with our kids, Eve said, "Do they even know you??"

My four sous-chefs and I worked for hours crafting five different kinds of d'Evegnee original cupcakes, finally finishing our overblown creations after 1 AM before we needed to pack all of them up to haul down to Utah for the party.

The different cupcakes each had a sugary-sweet anniversary-themed name to call its own: For Butter of For Worse (Butterbeer Cupcakes); Annivers-berry and Cream; Chocolate Peanut Butter Nuptials; Mint Chocolate Marriages; and "I Do" Gluten-free Carrot Cake.

One of my favorite scenes form the evening was watching my oldest brother, Jon, cuddling up with our little Charlie. They looked like two little Hafen peas in a pod.

All of the kids and grandkids wore their "party clothes" to the shindig which consisted of the t-shirts my parents gave to all of us for Christmas last year. Each shirt has the name of each person on the back with their birth order number. When Ethan saw me in my shirt, he said with a grin, "Mom, WHY are you wearing that shirt?" (I don't know where he gets his knack for puns.)

After interviewing my parents about their history and preferences, Mark created a delightful version of a Jeopardy game, which we played "Browns vs Blondes" following our long-standing family tradition. 

d'Evegnee Camping

Eric and I are admittedly the least outdoorsy folks in Rexburg. Our friends and neighbors seem to be constantly in search of the next hunting, camping, or hiking expedition. Not to be out-done, we decided to create our own version of outdoor fun, which we fondly named "d'Evegnee Camping."

For us, roughing it, means roasting hot-dogs over a completely contained fire-pit in our back-yard and playing games and talking on our lawn until it gets dark and we see the stars twinkling in the expansive Idaho evening sky. Then we simply pluck up our camp chairs and happily head back inside to sleep in our warm, comfortable beds.

No swarms of hungry bugs, no crying, no shivering uncontrollably as the nearly sleepless night madly drags on. No worrying that hungry bears will make a midnight snack of your kids. Just full bellies, the crackling of the fire, indoor plumbing and easy clean-up. 

We've also experimented with a "Foil Dinner Bar," where each child can choose their own mixture of vegetables and meat to chuck into the fire. The kids especially enjoy the curly fries with rivers of barbecue sauce. 

The kids loved these! We went a little crazy and added chocolate-covered pretzels and peanut butter to the list of ingredients we've seen other people try.

Daddy Daughter Kickball

For Eve's church activity called "Achievement Days," the girls in our ward had a rip-roaring game of Daddy daughter kickball. Eve was so excited for the event that she could barely concentrate on anything else for days before the game.

I loved seeing the Dads and daughters holding hands as they waited for their turn to kick. I also loved seeing Eric wildly sprinting to home base and finally dramatically sliding into home on his stomach even though the ball was nowhere near him. He never ceases to surprise me with his willingness to incur bodily harm for a laugh.

Marie's Primary Talk

It was Marie's turn to give a short talk in Primary at church this month. As I whispered the words to her, she happily repeated them until I got to the end of the talk and she was clearly bored by my repetitive rhetoric.
I have watched three brothers and one sister get baptized. I love watching them get baptized because they are so happy after! In the scriptures it says that baptism is like a gate or a door. Imagine your favorite place in the world. Maybe it’s the zoo. Maybe it’s Disneyland. Maybe it’s your favorite place to eat. Baptism is like opening the door to go to your favorite place. . . but even better! When we get baptized we open the door that will help us get back to Heavenly Father. We open the door to be with our families forever. We open the door to happiness! I love that!

By the end of the talk,  Marie looked at me with an exasperated expression and whispered loudly,  
"Can you stop opening the door??"

As I was cleaning out our desk in the kitchen, I found this:

I'm so glad she took matters into her own hands and signed Eric's name for him. 

Volume X, issue v, May 2014

When the youngest of my first-born boys turned twelve, I was launched into a new phase for our trio. The first Sunday in May, Caleb was ordained to be a Deacon by Eric, which means that I am surrounded by Priesthood holders in my home. Some women love holding bouquets of flowers. I'd rather hold a bouquet of boys. Some women want their boys to be tough and strong. I want mine to be sensitive and strengthening, even if it means they're not the most visible ones in the school hallways. My boys are quiet and sometimes even awkward and I love the hesitancy that registers in their faces when they interact with others because it means that they are weighing options rather than just social acceptance.

As I watched Caleb pass the sacrament for the first time this month with such deliberate care laced with just a trace of anxiety, I had flashbacks to those moments when I could easily wrap my arms around that Sweet Three when they were all three and under. Three boys, all in diapers, all in my arms, all sent in rapidly asked-for succession, all granting wishes that had been on my lips for years of yearning. Thoughts of that little band of three accompanied me as I watched Caleb, now so tall and straight,  pass the bread and the water for the first time.

Three Cheers for Charlie

This guy's chubby swagger and cheerful charm make at least a little part of each day easy to enjoy. He inhales more than his fair share of cookies ( a lot more) and he is absurdly spoiled by his eight live-in babysitters/playmates/servants, but our curly-haired Little Prince has "tamed" us and is "unique in all the world." 

C is for Cookie and for Charlie and (at least for his birthday dinner) for Pizza (with c-shaped pepperoni).

The Fairest of Them All

By the time you arrive at the month of your fourth fourth grade science fair you've probably learned that the event has less to do with science than it does advertising. You've learned that rather than being based on the scientific method, it is based on the party-planning method. You know that you don't need solid evidence as much as you need a solid theme and color scheme. I can do that. 

For Eve's science fair project, she wanted to make flowers turn a whole rainbow of colors by letting them soak luxuriously in food coloring for a few days. We turned the whole thing into a multi-colored affair, complete with a logo and a motto and even bowlfuls of rainbow-colored candy to insure that she wouldn't meet the same woeful fate as Caleb did when a chipper young visitor at his fourth grade fair whined that his project was "boring." It still makes him sting in an oddly scientific way. 

When Eve trundled in with all of her science fair paraphernalia in tow, clinking with every step as she lugged the heavy vases into the house, she told me she had been saying the name of the flower incorrectly all morning until one of the visiting moms corrected her. I asked her what she had been saying instead of carnation and she said, "Kardashian." 

That one word made all of the many hours spent on this project worth it. I couldn't stop giggling and snorting as I called Eric and told him about it, so he had to tell me to breathe and slow down so he could understand what I was saying. 

One More Eve-Related Tale

Eve was reporting the scandalous fact that her teacher defined "skinny dipping" in class. She raised her eyebrows at me, so I said most parents wouldn't be offended by that unless they were super protective. She said, "Yeah. . . if that's how they coop their chickens!"

Elementary, My Dear 12-year-Old

We had Caleb's Sherlock birthday party the first weekend of May. Planning the party with him reminded me how irresistibly clever and cute he is. Our shy boy has been mysteriously transformed into quite a social creature when he is with his best friends and I love watching other people become clued-in to his quiet wit. 

We painted t-shirts, played "Sherlock's Smiley Face Shoot-Out," had a Mystery Dinner, and watched Young Sherlock Holmes (mostly because I have always wanted to eat some googly-eyed cream-puffs). A lot of the party was based on the BBC's interpretation of Sherlock, but we threw in a few traditional allusions as well. 

Mother's Day 2014

 Post husband-created dinner, post present-shower, love-enveloping group-hug with a spoiled mother squashed in the middle. 

The kids presented me with a variety of tear-inducing gifts and cards and Holden even composed a sonnet for me. Ethan told me, "I know how much you like infinity scarves, so I crocheted you one. . . for your WRIST!" I told Eric that I felt like Jimmy Mcenroe and he said, "You are so OLD! Don't you know any recent tennis players?" I said, "Bjorn Borg?"