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Softening Into Joy

2017 has been very, very good to me.

This is not easy for me to say out loud, because I know it's been THE WORST year for so many people. I won't even list all the tragedies and natural disasters that have befallen our nation in 2017, let alone the world, because I think we're all a little too well acquainted with them.

But even when turmoil and misery abound, there are pockets of sunshine and hope.

Someone, somewhere is falling in love. Achieving a goal. Healing a relationship. Creating something beautiful. Overcoming a health challenge. Finding God. Discovering their worth. Welcoming a baby. Lifting a lonely heart. Laughing until they cry. 

I'm living in my own little pocket of joy. And I'm terrified.

Researcher and writer Dr. Brene Brown has said, "There is no emotion harder to feel than joy." And here I am, having reached the end of the two biggest, most heart-wrenching challenges of my life, plus the realization of a lifelong dream, and I'm so stunned that it's all real that I keep envisioning something terrible lurking around the corner. I'm half-afraid that the moment I publish this post, a meteor might smash through the roof of my home, obliterating everything in sight. 

Brene calls this "foreboding joy." You look at your sleeping children and feel overwhelmed with a love you never knew was possible. Then the very next second, you picture a car crash or a kidnapping or a cancer diagnosis.

We do this to protect ourselves from future pain, but all it does is deflect the joy of the present, which is the very thing we'll need to draw upon if any of those unlikely scenarios were to occur. Here's the perfect explanation of foreboding joy:

 

 

As Newt Scamander says, "My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice." (I'm sure I heard this concept before the film was released, but when I looked it up, all the attributions went to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. So J.K. Rowling gets the credit!)

This is a mantra I had to repeat to myself ad nauseam during my last pregnancy: Don't let my fears of another bad outcome rob me of the joy of this moment. If everything goes well, I'll regret that I didn't revel in this once-in-a-lifetime chance to see a pregnancy to term. If things don't go well, my attempt at "preventative suffering" won't lessen that future pain. In fact, it might make it worse, since I won't have reserves of peace and joy to draw upon. Even if the suffering were inevitable, I could still control how long it lasts by, you know, waiting until the bad thing actually happens before I start suffering over it.

It makes sense, but it's still easier said than done. 

Luckily, there's a tried-and-true antidote to foreboding joy, and this is the perfect time of year to talk about it.

The antidote is gratitude, according to Brene's newest book, Braving the Wilderness, which I devoured in a couple of sittings earlier this month. My heart soared when I encountered this concept in her book. Now I have something concrete to do. Whenever I find myself cutting feelings of joy short with imagined future calamities, I stop and practice gratitude. When I can feel gratitude first, it's much easier to soften into feelings of joy.

Not only does this help me ward off my mental tragedy reel, it serves another purpose. As I revel in these happy moments, as I swim around in them and soak them up, I'm building up my resilience. Pain and challenge are a part of life, and I know I haven't reached my life limit yet. When the next big trial comes, I need reserves of joy to draw upon. I need memories of light and laughter to see me through. 

We tend to think "the bigger they are, the harder they fall." The bigger our joy, the bigger our crash? No, it's actually worse to spend our days wading around in low-grade misery, only to sink further when things REALLY get bad. 

So here I am, doing my best to soften into the joy of three wonderful, miraculous events that I thought might never come to pass:

#1. After 12 years of infertility (yes, you read that right, 12 YEARS...144 months...4,380 days), I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy in July. He is perfect. He is my second miracle baby, 6 1/2 years after the gift of adoption first made me a mother. My kids are my everything. The fact that I had to fight so hard for them makes the victory all the sweeter.

#2. After 14 challenging years with all of the typical blended family problems, plus a few more, my stepson is doing AWESOME. We faced some incredibly tumultuous years with this kiddo, and it was all happening right on top of the worst of our infertility struggles. But time can work wonders. He's now a senior in college, studying wildlife biology, and getting great grades. He's a healthy, responsible, contributing adult. He has a darling girlfriend who is great for him and whom we adore. Our relationship with him is better than ever. There were times we weren't sure we'd ever see this day, and it feels amazing.

#3. After a lifetime of dreaming, I signed a book contract for my first children's picture book earlier this year! I've nourished a secret wish of becoming an author from 3rd grade on. I wasn't brave enough to directly pursue the dream, so I got here in a circuitous way. I've always taken the practical path with my education and career, choosing common-sense fields and industries that would pay the bills. None of this chasing rainbows business for me! (Although I secretly wished I had the courage.) I thoroughly enjoyed the decade I spent writing and editing in the memory keeping/crafting industry, which was so fulfilling—and creatively draining—that my children's book writing pursuits were always sidelined. But now that I'm earning my keep with a part-time freelance marketing gig, I have enough time and creative energy for kid lit, too. 

Each of these gifts, miracles, blessings, whatever you want to call them, could fill a post of their own. They could fill volumes. And there will be volumes to come, I hope, as I figure out how to fit blogging into my life again.

I want to tell you my son's birth story, because I'm so proud of that accomplishment. It was truly a crowning event of my life. (And not in the way you think, wink wink, since this little man arrived via C-section after 20 hours of unproductive labor.) And I'm dying to share the serendipitous path that led to my book contract. I may not share much about my stepson's journey, since it's not my story to tell, but it's a good one...and getting better all the time.

For now, I'm practicing gratitude* so I can fully sink into this overwhelming, all-encompassing joy that I've been hoping, dreaming, praying for—all these years.

*What do I mean by "practicing gratitude"? More on that in a future post. But it's more than just feeling or acknowledging gratitude. It's an actual practice, and it works wonders.

Sweat, Tears and the Sea

It has been mentioned a couple of times, and I agree, that infertility is one of those trials that is "safe" to talk about. People will generally be sympathetic and kind, even if they don't understand. Unlike some other challenges, it's not something that can be easily blamed on the sufferer. 

It can still feel embarrassing and shameful to acknowledge any kind of inner struggle. There's the fear that people who can't relate might be thinking, "Why make such a big deal out of it? Just accept it and move on." It took me years to be willing to even say the word "infertility," let alone blog about it. There's the fear that others who are suffering more will look at you like you're a whiny little speck of sadness. That they might even intone "first-world problems" at you. There's the fear that people will look at you in pity and feel grateful that they aren't you.

But generally, I've found that people try to be kind.

On the other hand, there are plenty of trials that cannot be discussed in a public way, because of the other people involved who don't want or deserve to have their part in the story revealed. I'm dealing with some of these too, directly and indirectly, as I suspect we all are.

Things like:
personal addiction
addictions of family members
rebellious or difficult children
abuse
anxiety/depression
anxiety/depression of a family member
mental illness in one's self or a loved one
financial struggles
divorce and separation

All of the above become even more difficult to talk about in a public forum like Facebook or a blog when you have older children who are able to read and somewhat active online.  

For me, it was cathartic to finally share the story of my miscarriage 2 1/2 months after the fact. I'm definitely on a path of healing, feeling mostly good most days. But there are still times when I feel like the walking wounded, and with yesterday's post, I wanted my wider circle of friends and acquaintances to understand what's going on with me if I'm a bit more absent or emotionally fragile at the moment. 

Like the other day at Home Depot, when the wail of a tiny newborn baby pierced my composure. Partly because it was unexpected in that setting, and partly because the baby was SO small and SO upset—and the mother was making no efforts to soothe the child. Much to my embarrassment, tears filled my eyes and I lost track of the conversation I was having with a store associate about furnace maintenance. Thankfully, these moments are becoming more rare.

Given the general level of peace and equilibrium I had achieved while not being confronted with distressed infants at hardware stores, I didn't expect the volume of tears that accompanied the writing of my story. I could barely type through the waterworks, and I had to write it in three pieces on three different days. But when I punched out that last sentence, dry-eyed, I thought the well was exhausted once again.

Until, that is, I read your comments on Facebook and on my blog yesterday. 

I saw there were comments, while I was out and about with Keira. I got the alerts on my phone. But when the very thought of there being comments made my eyes water—and when I got one or two texts that triggered the faucet—I knew I couldn't really read them until I had a box of tissues by my side and no immediate tasks to perform.

Good move. Because last night, I was a puddle. Useless, really. 

Kindness makes me cry. Of course, everything makes me cry. I've always known my emotions are directly wired to my tear ducts; sometimes I even cry when I'm angry, which only makes me ANGRIER. Also, extreme laughter makes me cry, which only makes me laugh harder. It's a vicious circle. (One day I'll have to tell you about the 10-minute cry-laughing fit that interrupted a recent Polar Express-themed train ride with my sister and all five of our children.) 

Honestly, I didn't expect the flood of kindness, empathy and prayers offered on my behalf. 

I am overwhelmed and grateful. 

And I feel for those who are struggling silently with things they can't share. 

A dear friend who's going through a divorce sent me this text:
"The way you expressed your feelings helps this apply to so many different trials and struggles. I definitely identified with some of your honest feelings of disappointment and still wishing that things had ended differently than they had. Also, holding on to hope against the odds!"

That was my hope in sharing this trial of mine that is more relatable than some others are.

I still believe we get most of our comfort directly, through the mirrored expression on a friend's face who may not know what to say but still shows up on your porch and gives you a long hug. Through generous hands who have prepared a meal and dropped it by. Through the ringing of the phone at the very moment I had just said "Amen" at the end of a pleading prayer. Through an anonymous note in my mailbox. Through my greatest comforter of all, the holy spirit and the intercession of a loving Savior.

We all need one or two people who can offer hands-on help with our quiet trials, and we need to be willing to let them in.

I felt, and still feel, like other people are (literally) carrying the weight of this with me. When I hear the words, "I'm grieving with you," it feels (figuratively) like a pebble or a stone has been taken from the backpack I'm carrying. And it makes me want to do more to ease their burdens too.

A few weeks after my loss, I escaped for a week to my sister's house in Southern California. I soaked up all the love and sunshine I could and shed all the tears I wanted, which wasn't too many, right then. I even bodysurfed with my nephew, unsuccessfully. As I sat on the sand feeling the wind on my face and watching the children splash in the waves, I was reminded of a favorite quote.

Thank you for shedding tears with me and helping me heal.

 ***

All this talk of water brings to mind a short, stunning article I recently read by Martha Beck: "3 Words that Will Help You Comfort Anyone." It's definitely worth reading.

Related Posts:

Falling and Rising
Meditations on Grief
I Am Infertile
The End of Infertility?
The Three Most Annoying Words in the English Language

 

Falling and Rising

Despite my intentions to make this year my blogging comeback, I'm still not very consistent. But I haven't lost hope.

I've found that holding on to hope against the odds is one of my gifts. 

An almost obsessive concern with authenticity is another gift, but also a curse.

In the last couple of months, I've found it hard to blog because the one thing that's been on my mind the most is the one thing I wasn't ready to share just yet. And blogging about anything else seemed somehow false and trivial. But I think I'm ready now. 

Right around the end of September, I had been planning to share some wonderful news that I had been keeping to myself until I was more certain. I alluded to this pending announcement a couple of times, but I had to get through one final hurdle before the big reveal. 

I was pregnant, for the very first time EVER at age 39, after a 10-year struggle with infertility.

 

7 week ultrasound

My due date was April 2, which was perfect in so many ways, especially as news trickled in that others we care deeply about were expecting too. All the stars had finally aligned for me. I was exhausted and hormonal, but otherwise perfectly healthy. No morning sickness at all. My blood tests looked wonderful, and my ultrasounds with my fertility doctor at 7 weeks and 9 weeks looked perfect. I heard my baby's strong, steady heartbeat twice. And once I saw her wiggling around like crazy, even though I couldn't feel her yet.

At my 9-week appointment, when I was about to graduate to my regular OB, my fertility doctor calmed my anxiety and disbelief that this was really happening after a decade of hoping and praying. She told me that when things look this good at this point, and considering the particular IVF protocols we had followed, my chances of miscarriage were less than 5%. And I reminded myself of that fact often.

I had told just a few people, and of course my family all knew and were absolutely ecstatic for me, but I was waiting until after my first official OB appointment before making the big announcement on Facebook or here on my poor, neglected blog.

My doctor's earliest available appointment was when I was just shy of 13 weeks along, on the cusp of my second trimester. When that day finally arrived, Travis and I headed in to the office, list of questions in hand, excited to finally get the self-imposed stamp of approval I felt we needed before going public.

 

9-week ultrasound

As we sat in my new doctor's office, going over our list of questions and feeling thrilled that A) he assumed I was in my early 30s, and B) he never once uttered the words "advanced maternal age," he was paged for an imminent delivery. He apologized and said, "Let's do a quick ultrasound before I head down there, and then we can continue our conversation after I return. I'm sorry for the interruption." I didn't mind. The high prioritization of baby delivery is precisely what I'm looking for in an OB/GYN. 

I lay on the table, and he pressed the wand into my abdomen and paused. He readjusted, pressed harder, and paused again. And again.

He said some very direct but very kind words that I couldn't hear or accept in the moment.

On the monitor, I saw a perfectly still baby in profile, but that didn't sink in either. I just waited calmly for the second opinion with the more advanced ultrasound equipment. 

"I'm not going to panic yet," I said to Trav when we were alone in the room.

When the second ultrasound confirmed the first, and we heard the silent sonogram, I still didn't panic.

Instead, the truth sank into my chest like a terrible, dark weight. 

My first instinct was to run. I wanted to escape the grief, to leap over it and land in that place of acceptance and understanding that I hoped would be on the other side of this chasm. I ached for it all to make sense, right away. 

But there were things to get through first.

In the last weeks, which have now turned into months, there have been countless tears and countless prayers—some painful and pleading, some peaceful and grateful (much to my own surprise). There have been a lot of questions and a few answers. 

We did genetic testing on our baby, who was somewhere between the size of a Brussels sprout and a lemon, and everything came back normal. They can't test for everything, of course, but all of the most common things were ruled out. We were having a baby girl, just like Keira and I both thought. 

My fertility doctor also ordered an array of tests on me, because this is just so uncommon considering the particular facts of my situation. Everything came back normal. I don't have a blood clotting disorder. I don't have a "hostile uterus," whatever that means. I don't appear to have an incompetent cervix; even a couple of weeks after my baby died, my body was not ready to let go of this pregnancy.

The answers are: we just don't know. It may only happen 5% of the time after a picture-perfect 9-week ultrasound, but it still happens. To me, so far, it happens 100% of the time.

 ***

The day we got the news about our baby, I felt restless and impatient, on top of all of the other, weightier emotions. 

Trav would have done anything to ease my pain, and in hindsight I should have requested a red-eye to Hawaii. But instead I asked him to drive me up Little Cottonwood canyon to see the beautiful fall leaves and fill my lungs with fresh mountain air. 

The heaviness in my chest pressed harder the higher we climbed on the winding canyon road. I looked out my window at the dormant, barren trees, and the scattered remnants of glorious reds, oranges and yellows littering the ground. We had just missed Utah's very short window of brilliant canyon color, probably by no more than a few days. 

Of course, I thought bitterly. Of course.

We wondered if we should just turn around. We made it this far, I said, so we might as well complete the journey. We drove to the top, and then took the sharp left toward Guardsman's Pass, leaving the bleak, faded landscape behind us--all the more depressing considering how fiery and alive it must have been just days before.

We drove higher as the sun sank lower. And there, at the crest of the pass, were dozens of cars and dozens of cameras on tripods. They were trained east, toward the scenery in front of us, instead of west, the landscape we had just left. 

Ahead there was beauty.

Small patches of trees that seemed to be lit from within were still belting out the song of fall, still fighting off the encroaching grays and browns of winter.

I stood and stared, pulling deep breaths of solace into my soul. 

It was enough, in that moment, to carry me on for a few more hours. 

 ***

I wanted to wait and tell this story when I had a happy ending to share.

That's kind of how I approached it when Keira was born. I didn't share much publicly about my infertility journey until we were pretty darn close to having a successful adoption. I know how I crave a nice lovely bow wrapped around the end of a story. 

But I'm realizing it's important to tell our sad stories too, and to speak up when we're in the middle of the struggle. That small piece of wisdom came from Brene Brown's new book, Rising Strong, which could not have been released at a more perfect time. Next to my faith in my Savior, my caring family and my friends, and several addresses from the October LDS General Conference—which have brought me waves of peace and perspective that are still ebbing and flowing—this book has been a lifeline.

No one likes to talk about the messy middle of a story, even though that's where all the strength and growth happens that eventually carries you to the finish line. We only hear about the initial falling down and the eventual rising up, and we sweep that painful, scary, uncertain stuff under the rug. 

This is my messy middle. I'm glad I could keep it to myself for a little while, shared only with a small circle of family, friends and neighbors—many of whom were first tipped off by a very excited 5-year-old. But now that I've lived with it for a while, I'm okay to talk about it, even though I'm still waffling between grief and anger and denial and hope. 

Maybe seeing me be brave, fall flat on my face, and then pick myself back up, maybe that will give someone else courage too. 

It has taken incredible courage for me to grind away at this dream of growing my family, after so many years—to continue to put my heart and my hope on the line. I had to decide what kind of person I wanted to be. Did I want to resign myself to disappointment, take the safe path, and maybe always wonder "What if..."? Or did I want to risk big, throw that Hail Mary pass, and know that whatever happens, I gave it my all?

In the lives we imagine for ourselves, we all pick the second option. In reality, it's not so easy. I'm now finding out how much it hurts when the risk doesn't pay off.

But you know what? I'm still glad I tried. 

I liked being pregnant. 

I liked finding out that I can get pregnant. 

I liked the camaraderie I felt with other pregnant women.

I loved seeing the nurturing side of my husband, as he sheltered and cradled me in my despair.

I loved recognizing tender mercies from Heaven and sacred, undeniable answers to my prayers.

I loved the outpouring of kindness and compassion from those who knew of my loss. 

I loved liked didn't mind finding out that I'm stronger than I thought I was.

***

I desperately wish things had turned out differently. In that parallel timeline where I'm still pregnant, we would have just announced our baby's gender, a few weeks before my brother and his wife did (they're having a boy). I would be showing now, like my neighbor is (they're having a girl). I would be posting pictures of baby clothes to Facebook, like Keira's birthmom is (they're having a girl). 

Instead, I'm trying to figure out what "rising strong" looks like for me. Trying to choose courage over comfort. Trying to feel grateful for the opportunity I have to choose and chase my dreams at all.

Trying, still, to hope.

Meditations on Grief

As we've been observing Memorial Day here in the U.S. this week, I've had some thoughts swirling around in my head about loss and grief.

Pictured: small cemetery in Cleveland, Idaho, where many of my ancestors were buried.

Grief and Social Media

Social media is often (rightly) accused of connecting us only on a superficial level. But I've recently realized that it also has the power to make us aware that others are suffering—much like the black armbands or mourning attire of ages past. It's a signal to be gentle with those who are fragile, to mete out an extra dose of love and understanding. 

Were it not for my very haphazard monitoring of my Facebook feed, I'm not sure whether I would have heard about an old college roommate who recently buried her mom. Or a former work colleague who lost her husband to cancer. Or a woman in my church congregation who recently suffered through a stillbirth. 

The kinder side of social media has the power to connect us to our entire extended tribe on our very darkest days, the power to invoke kind words and prayers from all corners of the globe. 

I have a friend from high school and college who lost her husband to suicide last last year, after a long and private battle with depression. Although we had barely interacted with each other in the past 16 years, apart from random comments on each other's Facebook posts, I found myself weeping for her for days, weeks, months. She has been using Facebook as a public diary of sorts, which is a wonderful thing. I can check in on her daily and know how she's doing, since I'm thinking about her anyway. She can share her dark moments and her triumphs with an audience of family and friends—both old and new—who want to help her in any way that they can, if only by a few words of encouragement left in a comment.

She is finding that she has a gift for the written word, and that every expressed emotion lifts a bit of the burden from her heart. Every task she accomplishes in the face of overwhelming grief (her own and her children's) can be shared and celebrated by her circle of friends, since her beloved partner is no longer there to celebrate with her. 

Her honesty and vulnerability have inspired me, and apparently everyone else she knows, judging by the comments. She reminds us all to look past the detritus of life, find and celebrate our hidden reserves of inner strength, and focus our thoughts and energy on the things that matter most—like lifting and serving those around us.

Comparative Grief

I've blogged about it before, but one of my favorite quotes about grief is from writer Anna Quindlen. She calls it "the continuous presence of an absence" and "a whisper in the world but a clamor within."

I don't personally know much about the grief one feels at losing a spouse or a child, but infertility is its own kind of grief. In some ways, grief is grief. In other ways, it's a completely different experience for everyone, every single time.

I have another dear friend who is an angel mom. She buried her little baby just 2 months after birth. She has become a member of one of those clubs you never wanted to join. Just like the infertile, who understand one another in a way no one else can, angel mothers have a terrible and instant kinship.

And yet the very thing that unites them can also divide them. My friend has heard other angel mothers say things like, "Oh, she's so lucky she got to have her daughter until she was 14. I only got a few months with my baby." Whereas the mother whose teenager died might argue that her grief is deeper because the more years together, the bigger the hole that is left. 

Sometimes people try to relate to my friend's pain with stories of losing a grandparent or a pet. Some angel mothers take offense at these kinds of comparisons, and perhaps rightly so. But my very kind and generous friend looks at it this way: maybe that loss of the family dog is the most significant grief this person has ever experienced. And that's their only frame of reference for trying to understand and relate to her. And at least they are trying. So she accepts the gift of attempted compassion, and she does not diminish it. I admire that. 

I remember when I was in my early 20s and suffering from a broken heart, someone I knew laughed at my pain just a little. Admittedly, what she had gone through in her life was an ocean of grief compared to my trickling stream. I could easily recognize that, even at the time. Yet when she brushed off my pain as something insignificant, it only made me feel small and stupid and disconnected.

When we're our most generous selves, we would simply recognize a kindred loss and never diminish anyone else's. But we're not always capable of selflessness and generosity. Sometimes we're hurting so much that we succumb to feelings of envy and the tendency to compare. And I understand that, too. 

Mourning with Those Who Mourn

What I'm learning from my own experiences and friends who grieve is to never, ever judge. Everyone responds differently to loss. If this is the best a suffering person is capable of in this given moment, then they deserve my compassion, not my judgment. Heaven knows I've wished for that myself.

The more I've tried to "mourn with those who mourn" (a phrase I love from LDS scripture) the more I've learned to let go of my expectations of what a grieving person should think, say or feel—and when they should think, say or feel those things. For a million different reasons, the loss I feel for my grandmother is not the same as the loss you feel for yours. Every individual relationship is unique, and the grieving experiences will be too. 

Generally, I try to err on the side of being available to those in my circle who are suffering, rather than retreating in fear of saying the wrong thing. I believe that stumbling through my words imperfectly—and my efforts are always imperfect—is far better than never showing up to say anything at all. 

That said, it never hurts to brush up on a list of the wrong things to say. In every grief club, there are certain remarks and questions that are especially hard to take. They are uttered in innocence, but they cause pain nonetheless.

• To any parent anywhere, I try never to ask, "How many children do you have?" I know more than one angel mother who dreads this question. She has to decide, based on how long she's likely to know you, whether to answer "three" and include all of her children, "two" and include only those who are still living, or the more descriptive "two here on earth and one in heaven." If she chooses the last option, she may have to endure your embarrassed apology, sympathetic looks or questions. A safer approach is to say: "Tell me about your family." This allows angel mothers, those who are childless by choice, and those who may be childless not by choice to frame their answer however they want.
  
  
• To adoptive mothers, you never ask about the child's "real mom." While I may not have carried my daughter in my womb for 9 months or given birth to her, I am a real mother who is doing the hard, daily work of parenting. And I'm eternally grateful to the birthmom who gave me the opportunity to be a real mom.
  
  
• To birthmoms, you never say that they "gave up" their babies. She "placed" her baby for adoption. She will keep her baby forever in her heart, even though circumstances may have made it impossible for her to parent the child. I wish there were a more elegant expression than "placed," but that's the preferred term in adoption circles, and you'll earn compassion points for using it correctly. 
  
  
• To infertile women, you never tell stories of friends who managed to get pregnant right after they "stopped stressing about it so much" or after they adopted a child. The first makes women feel that they are to blame for their situation, and trust me, they already feel that enough. The second frames adoption as a means to a different end, rather than a beautiful choice in and of itself.
  
  
• To women who have suffered pregnancy loss, especially when it occurs later on, it can be painful to hear the term "miscarriage" or especially the more active construction "she miscarried." Both terms subtly imply some fault on the part of the mother, as if there's another way should or could have carried the baby, and it can minimize late-term losses that are more correctly described as stillbirths. I'd never thought about this before, until a friend who is in this club enlightened me. I've learned that a better thing to say is, "I'm sorry for the loss of your baby."

Clearly, this is not a comprehensive list. I'm certain there are other innocently insensitive remarks that are often made to other "grief clubs," probably even by me. And after hearing these kinds of comments often enough, those of us in a particular club become inured to them over time. Nevertheless, a little extra compassion goes a long way.

We've all been on the receiving end of stumbling remarks made by well-meaning people who are just trying their best to identify with us. Perhaps, to help lessen the feelings of offense, we can give the other person points for trying and realize there are no magic words anyone can say that will make it all better. 

Above all, it helps to remember that we're all walking wounded, in one way or another—and connection is the only way through. 

The Three Most Annoying Words in the English Language

These three little words comprise one of the most irritating phrases in the English language.

I know I've been guilty of saying them myself here and there, but I hereby vow to stop cold turkey. Won't you join me in helping to eradicate this smug and unpleasant utterance? It's not just the words themselves that offend, but the sentiment behind them, so let's get rid of that as well. 

Here are three situations that will explain what I mean. 

Just You Wait, Newlywed

I remember being a starry-eyed newlywed, blissfully in love and dreaming of a bright and unblemished future ahead of me. I was so happy to be married and living in a home of my own—no more roommates or apartments—and I honestly felt like I was playing house at first.

Every now and then, a veteran married person (you know 5+ years) would ask, "So, how's married life?" And I'd share how I happy I was, with a small detail or two thrown in, such as, "You know what's really great? Since he spent so many years as a single dad, he is so appreciative of anything I do for him. He knows what it's like to have to do everything by himself, so he never takes me for granted."

And the response, quite often, would be, "Just you wait. He'll get used to it and start leaving his socks around with the best of them."

Another time I mentioned how grateful I was for a husband who cares about a clean house and would willingly complete about half of the housework (back when we were both working full time).

One more experienced married woman replied, "Enjoy it while you can. Trust me, it will start driving you crazy soon enough. My husband cares way more than I do about keeping the house clean, and he constantly nags me."

Bubble effectively burst. 

Sure, I was living in a bit of a fantasyland back in those days, imagining a happy, shiny, problem-free future. It's tempting to do exactly that anytime we're at the start of something new. But reality always rises up to smack us in the face soon enough. We should all let each other enjoy the fantasy while we can. 

I'm not saying that we should indulge a person's unrealistic expectations forever—especially if the fantasy could be damaging—but in the moment, it never hurts to just share in another person's joy. 

Here are some alternative responses to keep in your back pocket:

"I can see the joy on your face. It's good to see you so happy."

"Yeah, I remember those days. It's fun to be a newlywed. Things will get both harder and more wonderful from here on out. You have lots to look forward to!"

"Sounds like you're starting out your marriage on the right foot. Stay in the honeymoon phase as long as you can."

 

Just You Wait, New Mama

When Keira was a tiny, sweet, immobile newborn, and I'd spend hours just holding her and staring at her, people would ask, "So how's life as a new mama?" I'd reply with how much joy she had brought to my life. I'd express surprise that I'm really not as tired as I expected to be, or as overwhelmed. I'd say how shocked I was that I was still managing to keep on top of my business (for the most part), blog occasionally, and even read a book every now and then. I'd say that I didn't really know what was missing in my life until now—that Keira Jane Lucas made me feel complete in a way I hadn't felt for the 7 years I had waited for her.

Now, if you imagine yourself saying in response to any blissful new mother, "Just you wait until you have a teenager, then you'll know what tired is," or "Just you wait until she's crawling. You won't get anything done after that," please hold your tongue. Here are some alternate responses to try:

"I'm so happy for you!"
"I remember when my son was that age. The baby years are so precious."
"You're lucky. My baby never slept when he was little. I hope things continue to go well!"

Just You Wait, Rookie Employee

There are definite disadvantages to being a new employee (not knowing where the break room is, having no grasp of corporate culture and history, being unaware of company processes), but there are advantages, too. New employees can see issues, problems and areas of improvement that more entrenched employees are blind to—and they have a sense of optimism and energy that can be infectious to others.

If you're a long-term employee, it's tempting to fill the newbie's mind with all of your own gripes, injustices and prejudices right away—because you will certainly have some. But why not see if the new employee's fresh perspective can rub off on you, rather than letting your cynicism rub off on her? It's a chance for you to look at your team anew.

If you find yourself wanting to reply to all of her new ideas with a "We already tried that and it didn't work," try the following instead: "I'm interested to hear more about that idea. I'll share a similar idea that we tried last year, and maybe you can help us understand why it failed and what you think we could do differently if we tried it again." 

If you feel like warning her away from the difficult personalities in the office on day one, instead let her form her own opinion. If she says, "Mary in accounting sure seems nice," refrain from saying, with a mouth full of sour grapes, "Just wait until you're late with an expense report, then you'll see just now nice she is."

The office ogres will reveal their true colors soon enough. And then you and the new employee can commiserate together. Or maybe she'll forge a personal connection with Mean Mary that can smooth the way for you. 

 

Together We Can Banish Bubble Bursting

We've all been guilty of needlessly raining on another person's parade, haven't we? Whether out of jealousy or personal dissatisfaction or even genuine concern expressed in an unintentionally negative way. 

I cannot remember where this came from, or I would pass the credit along, but I've heard that every utterance that passes our lips should meet at least two of the following criteria, if not all three:
Is it TRUE?
Is it NICE?
Is it NECESSARY?

The bubble-bursting scenarios outlined above may be true, but they certainly aren't nice or necessary, so they don't pass the test. If for some reason it becomes necessary to burst a bubble, even if what you're saying isn't particularly nice, then by all means say the thing, as long as it's also true.

There's an adorable video from Dr. Brene Brown (below) that illustrates how disconnecting and isolating it can be when we try to paint a silver lining around someone else's pain. What I'm talking about is the reverse of that—inviting the storm clouds in to cast a shadow on another person's sunny news—but it will also get in the way of those true human connections that we are all starving for, whether we know it or not. 

Parades and blissful fantasies are rare and beautiful things in this world, and I believe we should all help each other enjoy the sunshine while we can—and then practice empathy and connection when those inevitable clouds roll in.  

 

 

Easter Traditions: Mona's Mustard Sauce

I  haven't always shared the depth of my faith on my blog, mostly because I consider it too precious to be held up to the potential scorn of the world at large. (Not that the world at large is aware of my obscure little corner of the Internet. Whew.)

But in honor of this Easter season, I'd like to share a personal essay I wrote about my grandmother, which was very nearly published in the LDS Church News. A shorter version of this piece is featured on the Family Search blog this week. I've also attached this story to my grandmother's name on my family tree on the Family Search website, so it will be there for any of her descendants to one day read.

"If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed..."
Matthew 17:20 

My Grandma Mona Hymas Hill made the world's best homemade mustard to serve with her Easter ham. I find it funny that my mom had to recently remind me about the Easter cupcakes grandma would bake specially for the grandchildren, topped with "nests" of dyed-green coconut and speckled jelly-bean eggs.

But I needed no help remembering the mustard. 

It was surprisingly mild in both color and flavor, given Grandma's lovably spicy personality. I can still picture her carrying it proudly to the Easter table in a gravy boat. My dad and his four sisters—nostalgia shimmering in their eyes—had to coerce each of the 22 grandchildren into our first taste of this thick, warm sauce that looked nothing like the French's we ate on our sandwiches. (At least one rookie in-law mistook the mustard for warm vanilla pudding and swallowed a heaping spoonful before realizing his mistake.)

My dad and aunts grew up spooning Mona's mustard over their Sunday ham. They also helped serve it in the small-town cafe grandma and grandpa owned for 30 years. But at banquets only, for either the Lion's Club or ladies bridge nights or when church dignitaries would visit the tiny Mormon town. Oh no, it was far too precious for the regular dining room.

The recipe can be found under the heading "Mustard Sauce" in the Matthews Family Cookbook ("Ewe'll Love It!"), which my grandmother typed painstakingly on a heavy old typewriter in a makeshift office in the backyard—otherwise known as a camp trailer. She spent an entire summer typing that old cookbook, copies of which now reside in the homes of nearly every descendant of her grandmother—as long as they attended the Matthews reunion grandma organized in the mid-1980s. My mom's copy is falling apart after years of heavy use, and the mustard sauce is highlighted in yellow.

I wonder how many of Caroline Elizabeth Orr Matthews's many descendants—she bore 11 children, 9 of whom lived to adulthood—skip right over the recipe to this day, having no inkling of the magic therein.

Truly, it can be the simplest, most unexpected things that turn into the most cherished and lasting family traditions. My cousin Andy's wife, Whitney, now stirs the mustard (for 15 minutes in a double boiler) each Easter for my Aunt Margo's family gatherings. My mom is the mustard maker in our family. I'm certain my Aunts Lynn, April, and Jennifer are carrying on the tradition, too. One day it will be my turn.

And grandma's example taught me so much more than just a tasty way to serve ham at family dinners.

I think of the impact of Mona herself, not to mention her mustard sauce, when I hear the parable in the book of Matthew, where our Savior likened the mustard seed to the kingdom of heaven. It "indeed is the least of all seeds: but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof." (Matthew 13:31) 

Indeed, Grandma Mona lived simply, never owning a dishwasher or even a disposal in her kitchen sink, in a little white house on main street in Grace, Idaho, a town of less than 1,000 farmers, homemakers, teachers, welders and plant workers. She and my grandpa could never boast much in the way of money or worldly goods, but she considered herself wealthy in terms of her blossoming family tree.

Never was there a woman more vehemently proud of her grandchildren. To be related to her was to have a champion in your corner who loved you unconditionally, unabashedly, and without reserve. She was a woman of fierce devotion to both faith and family, inviting all that she loved to "come and lodge in the branches" of her generous heart.

She spent her final years in a retirement home in a city 65 miles from home, where she had more visitors than she could count. She had been terrified to leave her tiny hometown and vowed she never, ever would, but she blossomed in her new life. She thrived. One of her final acts of faith was to be an instrument in the Lord's hands in introducing an 80-year-old fellow resident, Mary, to the gospel of Jesus Christ. 

For me, Mona's mustard sauce is a taste of childhood and of home. It's a reminder of the far-reaching effects of faith. How the tiniest seed of hope, kindness, and pure devotion can blossom and grow, touching lives in the most unexpected ways. 

I wouldn't even venture a guess as to how many of Mona's 22 grandchildren will be serving her mustard this Easter. I know we will be. 

Grandma originally got the recipe decades ago from a little old lady in town my aunt can only remember as Mrs. Titus. She made a few of her own modifications. From what I hear, the mustard sauce is still served to this day at most every funeral held in my grandma's former church congregation.

Mona's Mustard Sauce

1/2 c. sugar (scant)
4 T. dry mustard, Coleman's
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. cornstarch
Mix together well

Add:
2 beaten eggs
1/2 c. milk
1/2 c. vinegar
2 T. butter

Cook 15 minutes in double boiler. This is a very mild sauce. I add more mustard to suit the taste. —Mona Hymas Hill

Life Lessons from Laura Bush

I had the great fortune of spending a day at RootsTech, a huge family-history conference in Salt Lake City this month, where former first lady Laura Bush was one of the morning keynote speakers. Her speech was followed by a Q&A with her daughter, NBC correspondent Jenna Bush Hager.

I was able to sit in the media and blogger section, within 60 feet of the stage, I imagine—although I am notoriously terrible at estimating distances. While this photo came from the event staff instead of my own camera, this pretty closely represents my view of the stage. 

I was impressed by Mrs. Bush's poise and Southern gentility. And it was heartwarming and sweet to see this young reporter ask hard-hitting questions like, "Mom, so what's it like to be the grandma of the best baby in the whole wide world?"

There were, of course, other interesting questions asked and anecdotes shared about life as the First Family, such as the night that George and Barbara Bush babysat Jenna and her twin sister Barbara at the White House the night before a presidential debate. One of the girls had misplaced a stuffed cat that she absolutely needed to fall asleep, so grandpa George and the secret service were out combing the grounds with flashlights, only to return and find both girls fast asleep. 

Mrs. Bush shared the very human side of what it's like to hold on to family and relationships while living so conspicuously in the public eye. She said she's often asked if it bothered her to see her husband constantly excoriated in the press. Yes, if course it bothered her, just like it would bother anyone, but she purposefully didn't read the worst of it. 

"It bothered me, but it didn't get to me. I know who I am. And I know who George is," Laura Bush said.

I loved this for two reasons. First, I have recently discovered and embraced my own personal limits when it comes to consuming negativity in the news. Some days, I just can't do it. The polarization and the vitriol in the news itself—and especially in the comments—can throw a cloud over my head that lasts for hours; I can't imagine how much worse that would be if me or my own loved ones were the direct target of the negativity. Yes, I could become cynical and hard and learn to steel myself against the onslaught, but I'd prefer to continue to be myself while placing proactive limits around the news and commentary I allow into my life.

While I believe it's important to be informed about the issues of the day, I can control how often I'm exposed to the news and what sources I choose to listen to. For me, daily—let alone hourly—is way too much. I can catch up on an entire week's worth of news in an hour, with occasional news binges when a big issue catches my eye. Often, by the time the frenzy of whatever top story is dominating the headlines has receded a bit, there's more information available and a more complete and nuanced story reported. 

This is just more evidence of my suspicion—once expressed by my dad—that I was born in the wrong era. I long for a general slowing down.

Second, I want to embrace the "I know who I am" mantra for myself. Because I do know who I am, why I'm here, and what I believe—and perhaps because of that, I feel the chaos and confusion of the world acutely. I find peace and happiness within my family and in myself, and I cherish the freedom I have to make those little daily decisions that lead to inner peace.

But I also feel bombarded by the prevailing messages of the world—those that value cynicism over faith, self-indulgence over self-discipline, hedonism over humility, sarcasm over serenity.

Perhaps because of my sensitive nature, I am inordinately distressed when I see my deeply held personal views on anything (religion and politics, especially) misunderstood or mischaracterized. But such is life. People are so often unwilling to look past their own personal biases to truly see the other side's real intent, to find common ground, or to compromise. 

Laura Bush was far more magnanimous about it all—as I probably would be in a speech to thousands of people—in saying that all the bluster and bloviating is nothing more than the grinding gears of democracy happening right before our eyes. The very words "bluster and bloviating" put a less menacing spin on the nature of our national discourse. It's good to remember that so much of it is just spin and political posturing.

Having lived in the White House and having faced the weight of the office and those hallowed halls inhabited by so many great men and women before them, Mrs. Bush said, "Presidents are very generally decent men, trying to do their best with their breathtaking responsibilities." Yes, I believe that's probably true. 

Other takeaways from the speech:

• Make your life how you want it to be right now.
• All we know we have is NOW. It could all change any minute, as it did after 9/11.
• Walk on the beach every chance you have.
• Read, read, read.
• When it comes to parenting, "You show them the way, and then you hope."
• It is the job of every American to step up to your own pitcher's mound and stand your ground. And stand proud. 

 

Lullaby for My Little One

Tonight, as my sweet little one snuggled into me tighter than usual, afflicted by a 102-degree fever, I sang her favorite lullaby to her. And she joined in.

She knows every word, and tonight she sang some of them, interrupted by yawns and attempts to doze off, and it melted me. So we sang it again, this time recording it with the Voice Memos app on my iPhone. 

She should know every word of this song, as it's the only one she usually allows me to sing when I'm rocking her at night. Ever since she was TINY, if I attempted to hum or sing any other song, she would interrupt me and hum the first three notes of this lullaby, over and over, until I gave in.

I love that this is her favorite, because it's completely unique to her. I made up most of the words and even altered the tune a little. 

While we were visiting my grandma Neva, who was thrilled for a calm baby she could actually hold onto for a while, grandma held Keira and sang the words to a tune that was so deeply familiar to me.

As I sat there watching the sweet scene, the tune resonated so deeply that I knew my mom had sung it to me, and probably that her mom sang it to her.  I even remember my other grandma, Mona, singing a variation of this, too. But I had forgotten all about it until that moment. I don't know if the song is local to southeastern Idaho, where both of my parents grew up, but no one around here has ever heard of it.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry.
We will go to grandma's
Over the hill, behind the mill,
To see the ducks and lambies. 

That's all there was to it. And with Keira insisting on no other song, I simply needed more verses in order to avoid singing those 21 words in an endless loop every night for 2 years. 

Here's our duet. Please overlook (overhear?) my tired, late-night voice and focus instead on the vocal stylings of Keira Jane, age 2 3/4, who is half-asleep.

Hush a Bye with Keira 071613

 

And here are the lyrics, in case we're mumbling unintelligably to the unfamiliar ear.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry.
We will go to grandma's
Over the hill, behind the mill,
To see the ducks and lambies. 

Once we're there, we'll find some chairs
And sit out under the apple tree
We'll feed the ducks and pet the lambs
And have a picnic party

Later that day, we'll gather to play
Out in the backyard meadow
We'll kick the ball, play hide-and-seek
And stay out 'til it's time to sleep

When we go in, you'll have a swim
In grandma's great big bathtub
With suds in your hair and bubbles to spare
I'll scrub you 'til you're clean, my love

When it's night, I'll snuggle you tight
And rock you 'til you're fast asleep
While mama sings, you'll start to dream
Of ducks and lambs and apple trees 

Images from Another Era

In the "Roaring Twenties," when jazz music and flappers were in vogue in the big cities, my grandmother spent her childhood summers on horseback, at a sheep camp in a small canyon in southeastern Idaho. 

My grandma, Mona Hymas Hill, is the little girl in this picture. My great-grandmother, Luella Matthews Hymas, is the woman on horseback. The man sitting behind her is a ranch hand, and I have a vague memory of grandma telling me they called ranch hands "camp jacks" in those days. (In case you're wondering why his hat has ears, there's another horse standing behind him!)

Years ago, when my grandmother was still alive and living in an assisted living center, I came across a couple of old photos from the sheep camp, and I asked grandma about them in the moment. The lost era they depict fascinated me utterly. Just look at those boots the ranch hand is wearing—and at my great-grandma's overalls! Grandma Mona was born in 1920, and she appears to be about 7 or 8 years old here, so this would have been right before the Great Depression and about a decade after World War I—in a lull between two great storms.

At the time, I begged my grandma to let me borrow them and scan them, promising to return them in pristine condition, which I did. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with them, but they captured my heart and I just had to have copies of my own. 

This picture shows my great-grandpa, Simpson "Sim" Evans Hymas, at the sheep camp with his two sons (my grandma's younger brothers) Scott and Kip. (And a little dog, too!)

Kip, the baby in this picture, died at age 9 of a bowel obstruction, an event that affected my grandma deeply. Even 70 years after losing him, her face would cloud over whenever she mentioned him—her grief still palpable. And it may also explain why she worried so incessantly about all of us as children, warning us of every possible mortal danger, whether it be falling down her deep basement stairs or running while holding a flashlight. (She also apparently knew someone who had died from doing that.)

My grandma told me all about these pictures at the time I borrowed them, but I didn't write anything down in the moment, which I regret. I walked away with a general impression that these summers were grueling work but fondly remembered. She spoke admiringly of her mother, who spent her days on horseback, all summer long, with two children and a baby in tow. Imagine that. 

I recently emailed these pictures to my dad and then called him for a bit of help filling in some of the blanks. He told me that Great-Grandpa Sim worked for his in-laws on the Matthews Brothers Sheep Ranch, which was located in Emigration Canyon in southeastern Idaho (which runs between the towns of Preston and Liberty). 

And, incidentally, my dad also told me that grandpa Sim had that same thick mane of hair until the day he died, in the 1960s. The way he achieved that combed-back style was by sleeping with a woman's nylon stocking on his head to train his hair to bend backward. That's exactly the kind of quirky detail you'll never learn if you don't scan and share the photos you have and then talk to someone who knows a little something about them!

Speaking of details, I also vaguely remember a story of a beloved dog that was killed by a bear as he tried to either warn or protect my grandma and her mother. Was it the little white dog in this picture? I wonder. I'll have to ask my dad more about that one!

This post was inspired by Project Shoebox, a challenge happening this month on a local television show, KSL Studio 5. The idea is to challenge everyone this month to scan one old photo. Just one. Then share it. Then collect stories and feel the satisfaction. You will have created a memory with a memory. Like I just did!

Click here to watch the challenge kickoff, featuring Wendy Smedley, or visit the Project Shoebox Facebook page.

Tuesday's TED Talk: Your elusive creative genius

I wasn't particularly impressed with Eat, Pray, Love, but I could not resist the title of this next TED talk. And it turns out I was profoundly impressed with Elizabeth Gilbert's creative genius.

This is a good one. Again, an idea worth spreading. 

 

My Takeaways

• Is it logical that anybody should be expected to be afraid of the work that they feel they were put on this Earth to do? Why are people who feel the pull of creativity afraid in a way that chemical engineers are not? (So true!)
• Why have we collectively accepted that creativity and suffering are somehow inherently linked? And that artistry will inevitably lead to anguish?
• In Ancient Greece and Rome, people believed that creativity came from a divine and unknowable source, versus coming from within us. There was a separation between the work and the self.
• "Genius" maybe isn't something that we ARE. It is something that we have, and that we all have access to.
• The pressure of having to be the source of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery (versus a conduit for it) can and does drive artists to various levels of insanity. We really can stop that.
• I love that she said, "I'm a mule, and the way that I have to work is that I have to get up at the same time every day, and sweat and labor and barrel through it really awkwardly."
• I've said to a friend before, "Our ideas are not US." Having a separation can guard from excessive narcissism (as well as excessive despair) about how a creative work turns out.
• "Continue to show up for your piece of it, whatever that may be."

And especially:

"Maybe if you just believed that [the most extraordinary aspects of your being] were on loan to you from some imaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life to be passed along when you're finished...it [would start] to change everything."

I have been thinking a lot lately about mystery—and how I so often search for certainty where it does not and cannot exist. There's something so beautiful and freeing about embracing the mysterious and leaning into the uncertainty–letting myself be carried by the tide of experience, rather than trying to resist it, form it, shape it, and understand it every step of the way.