Carry On

I'm not sure what normal is anymore.

I miss the days when I could walk through the grocery store unmasked. And for some reason, while (thankfully) the shelves of bread and milk, rice and flour, canned beans and veggies, and toilet paper are once again stocked after months of scarcity and panic, I still can't find bacon bits. However, no longer are the arrows on the floor directing you one way down an aisle, as you roll your eyes at (or perhaps even admire the nerve of) the maskless rebels coming from the opposite direction. Of course, the markers are still there at the check-out line to keep everyone six feet apart, as is the plexiglass between you and the cashier, adding another layer of auditory fun as you try to have a conversation around that and the double-layers of fabric covering your mouth.

I miss seeing faces. Smiles. But, hey, at least I don't have to worry about checking for food stuck in my teeth.

Of course, we have to carry around hand sanitizer with us wherever we go... even if I don't use it as much as I probably should.

Allie and Sami have been attending the high school for their classes, both part of the "brick-and-mortar" group of kids braving the risks (which for them are minimal) so they can participate in marching band, orchestra, and chorus in person. Drew and Eve, however, are home with me, glued to computers during the school day, doing the best they can to keep up with assignments and avoid the distractions of home. Admittedly, Eve is having an easier time with this. 

Then I think of all we had anticipated this year... Allie going to Nashville with her orchestra class in April, Sami's dance recital in May, the girls' first FSY (For the Strength of Youth) week-long church conference at Stetson after visiting my parents in California in the summer, and even a family trip in December to New York to see The Music Man on Broadway. The Music Man! With Hugh Jackman and Sutton Foster! Sigh...

All cancelled.

This past Sunday was the first Sunday our ward has met together since mid-March after having spent seven months having our own worship services at home. Prior to the announcement of this date, Allie and I had already committed to sing at another church for their live (with limited attendance) and livestreamed service. So Kevin took the other three kids by himself. I guess I'll find out how I feel about it this coming Sunday. With the required masks, lack of singing or socializing, and regimented social distancing in the chapel, it's not the kind of "new normal" I look forward to accepting willingly. I had become all too comfortable with the our little home church, and the time we spent singing together, teaching each other, sharing testimonies, and partaking of the Sacrament (even through some occasional bad attitudes and lack of cooperation). Those memories will always be sacred to me.

I'll admit, I don't like it when people tell me what I can and cannot do. I want to do the right thing for the right reason, not because someone else tells me to do it... even if it is for the right reason. I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much!

But I'm also compliant, mostly. I'm very choosy when it comes to boat-rocking, and I haven't felt compelled to stand up in the boat. Yet. 

However.

I am looking forward to seeing faces I've missed for seven months. Many will still not be there, but I do miss my church family. And, truly, as Jesus taught we are meant to "meet together oft" in fasting and prayer. We are meant to strengthen each other, and that's tough to do when separated, even with Zoom. 

And maybe someday soon I'll even be able to hug them. 

And I have to believe that we will be able to sing again. I have to. And even if we can't at church, or school or anywhere else, we can still sing at home. 

And, sure, we missed out on some really amazing experiences this year, but what we gained in time together has been priceless. Oddly, I think the kids are arguing less now than they were pre-pandemic. 

And in spite of the new challenges with school, they are all doing fine. 

And while I can't see smiles, I have become more aware of eyes, and of their crucial communicative role in relaying thought and expression beyond our words. Perhaps many of us had become really good at smiling through pain and heartache and grief that only our eyes revealed had anyone noticed. 

And shopping at Publix may not be as much of "a pleasure" as it was before, but it is still an amazing place. There is an abundance of food there! And not just any food, but food that is clean and safe to eat! Guys, we live in a spectacular country. 

Perhaps, as I contemplate this idea of a "new normal," I need to focus more on what we are still able to do, still able to achieve and accomplish, rather than how.

In fact, just over a week ago, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints held its 190th semiannual General Conference. President Russell M. Nelson spoke directly to this concept of a "new normal." In a follow-up social media post he said, "Today we often hear about 'a new normal.' If you really want to embrace 'a new normal,' I invite you to turn your heart, mind, and soul increasingly to our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. Let that be your 'new normal.'"

Amen.

This is the time to pause and get our bearings. Make needed corrections as we turn our hearts toward God. Focus on what we can do, rather than dwelling on the how. 

And just carry on. 

Harrowed Up by Rejection

As I drove home yesterday morning, with tears streaming down my face, my mind raced with thoughts that I believed were true. Honestly, I still wonder if they are, but I cling desperately to hope that they aren't.

"Why do I keep trying? I always fail!"

"I can't sing! Anyone who has told me otherwise has been sparing my feelings all these years."

"I'm sick of trying, and I don't want to do it anymore..."

"I think it would be best if I never sang again. It doesn't bring me joy anyway-- only pain."

For the past month I have been helping out a friend of mine who is the music director at a local church. Since their congregations can't meet in person, they have been streaming live services on Sunday, and I have been one of their singers, along with my friend Laura. Yesterday's duet was especially embarrassing when I began to sing and my voice cracked to where, for a few seconds, I wasn't even singing the right notes. It didn't take too long for me to recover, and we finished the piece. 

But I couldn't get that mistake out of my mind. I held on to it, allowing it to fester. I replayed the moment over and over in my mind until, finally, I could get into the car and review the moment from the video on YouTube, confirming just how bad it was. That's when the tears came and the negative, or what I perceived as honest, thoughts consumed me. 

Many of you know that, coming into college, I had wanted to teach music professionally. Music had become a passion of mine from the first moment I touched a piano at eleven years old. It brought me so much joy, so much comfort. I would often set aside homework so that I could sit at the piano and play and sing. As opportunities came in middle and high school to participate in competitive show choir, my passion blossomed, and I knew my course in this life would be focused on music. 

I arrived at Brigham Young University as a freshman, having worked with my choir teacher through the summer to learn a couple art songs for my audition for the School of Music. I worked hard and came in confident that my dream would be realized. After all, I had been encouraged in this dream all throughout high school, even receiving the Outstanding Musician Award my senior year. 

I took the theory test, passing with quite a good score, and then went to my vocal audition. 

I could hear the other singers. They sounded like they had much more than a summer's worth of vocal training. And then I found out that most of the auditions had taken place earlier in the year, which I hadn't known about. Students from out of the state had submitted videos of themselves singing. Also something I didn't know could be done.

I suddenly felt discouraged, inadequate. I felt small and immature and foolish. Somehow, I mustered up the courage to walk into that room and audition. 

Word came within the month that I had been rejected. I was devastated, but I had signed up for a voice class on campus, and my teacher was confident we could prepare for auditions the next semester. 

So we did. Come January I auditioned again. I also interviewed with the head of the music education department, which didn't go well. He asked me to stand up and pretend I was approaching a music class for the first time. So I did, expressing to "the class" how excited I was to be there with them. He turned to me and said, "What would you do when they make fun of you for what you just said?" I didn't know. I walked out of there wanting to bury my head in the sand.

Once again, I was rejected.

During the summer before my sophomore year, I found a vocal coach back home to help me, because I was determined to not fail again. But I did. For the third time, I received a rejection letter.

And it was then I knew I would never be good enough. So, I did something very unlike me. I gave up.

I retreated. I let them win.

I prayed about a new course of study, and I chose English Teaching, mainly because I was a decent writer, and I also still wanted to be a teacher.

I continued with voice lessons throughout my college years, and even after I graduated. I participated in recitals and master classes, and even a couple vocal competitions. All I wanted was to prove them wrong, to prove that I did have a place there. And I have been trying to prove to myself that I'm good enough for the past two decades. But every time I make a mistake, I feel like I am reliving those auditions all over again. The judgment, the criticism. The rejection. And it's painful. Extremely painful. I can't help but think to myself, "They were right. I will NEVER be good enough." 

Recently, in my scripture study I have been reading about the Book of Mormon prophet Alma, and his experience of conversion. As he thought about his sins, of seeking to destroy the church of God, for three days, his soul was "harrowed up" before he remembered what his father had taught him about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. When he turned to Jesus for forgiveness, then "he could remember (his) pains no more" and "(his) soul was filled with joy as exceeding as was his pain." I have reflected over and over again upon the idea of his soul be harrowed up, plowed up or torn apart. Although, my anguish doesn't come from sin, it comes from rejection. Truly, my soul has been "harrowed up" for over twenty years, those wounds still being deep and painful. Even thought they aren't fresh, they still feel fresh. I have often wondered why-- why it just won't go away.

I talked with Kevin about my experience yesterday, and he reminded me of a baseball game we had watched the night before. It was game between the Nationals and the Yankees, and one of the pitchers lost his grip on the ball as he threw it. The ball went flying up in the air to the right, making the catcher run to catch it. We had laughed a little at the mishap, Drew joking that even the kids on his baseball team hadn't thrown a pitch that bad, but the pitcher didn't seem phased by it. He just continued playing. Kevin reminded me that the pitcher went on to strike out that batter, even after having thrown that wild pitch. 

He watched the video from earlier in the day, and admitted that what happened in the beginning sounded pretty bad, but that he was proud of me for shaking it off and finishing the duet. He said the rest of it was beautiful and inspiring. 

It's true that I bounced back. That is my nature. I've always been stubborn and determined. 

But those wounds... I think my problem is that I have been trying to heal those wounds myself, seeing the ability to "prove myself" as being the magic cure. Even my prayers have been focused on granting that desire. Regardless of what words I may pray, the desire of my heart has been what God really sees. He sees my pain, but he also sees my pride. He longs to bring healing, but only when I can let go of my pride. Only when I let go of that desire to prove anything to anyone will He begin to heal those excruciating wounds. 

And then, like Alma, will I be "harrowed up by the memory" of my rejection no more.

)

Struggles in Solitude

Not sure if life will ever go back to the normal I once knew-- too many uncertainties right now. Still, I know we will be okay. Life will go on, even if it is different.

Last week was Spring Break for our kids, and before that time the plan was still go back to school the week following. Since then, circumstances have changed, and school might resume on April 15th. Basically, that's four weeks away from school, and we are halfway through our second week. This week the school district and teachers have been planning, and "distance learning" will officially begin next Monday.

So, we're stuck here, hesitant to leave, trying to help stop the spread of this coronavirus.

I'm trying to keep busy, encouraging my kids to make daily plans and set goals. My eight-year-old seems engaged, trying to get exercise, setting aside reading and music practice time. She has gone on walks with me every morning, completely willingly, without any begging from me.

As for my son, his bike is busted... for the one-hundredth time. He is just too dang hard on it. So he has been trying to earn money for a new bike. Spraying down the back porch, cleaning the pool, dusting blinds, vacuuming the van, dusting the tops of the shelves... Any job he can get. If he's not working, he's light-saber-fighting siths or swimming in the pool with his little sister.

My teenage girls are little more difficult to monitor and keep from wasting time. And maybe that's my fault.

I really don't see myself as a very good mom. I don't think I've ever felt differently. Heck! I have no clue what I'm doing!

I'm struggling, and depression is rearing its ugly head again.

I started to feel it again in January, as I felt like my life was on a runaway train. I was losing control with every event and activity that was dictating my schedule. I felt my agency slipping away from me. Then everything on my calendar disappeared over night. At first, I was a bit relieved, and I still am in a way, but being stuck at home, dealing with bad attitudes, feeling I'm not doing enough to help my children grow into responsible adults who have a positive influence on the world around them, is taking a toll.

I just don't feel very good about myself.

Last night after dinner I tried to get everyone to do something together, like play a game or go on a walk. Everyone ignored me, except my little one. She tried to get someone to turn off the TV, but no one would. Faces were glued to screens of some kind, so I put my shoes on and said, "Just tell everyone I'm going on a walk alone."

I can't help but feel like right now God is telling us to slow down and remember what is really important.

It was a beautiful evening, clear with a slight breeze, but warm enough to not need a jacket. I walked around the neighborhood, which is maybe a mile all the way around, then came back and set out a camping chair in the driveway. I sat alone, listening to the birds flying overhead, watching the sliver of the moon set in an amber sky while Venus lit up above me. Slowly, Orion came into view, and I just stared, searching the stars for something to comfort my soul, all while pouring my heart out to Heavenly Father.

Then Kevin came around the street corner, apparently having gone looking for me. He sat on the ground next to me while I expressed my frustration, my discouragement.

The sky continued to grow darker, and Kevin pointed out a faint satellite not far below Venus. Finding satellites is one of my favorite games while staring at the night sky. I mentioned to him that it would be a nice evening to pull out the telescope. Soon, Kevin had the telescope set up, and the kids were outside looking at Venus and the Pleiades, and counting satellites (I found 7).

After we went back in the house, we settled down for family prayer, and I sent the younger ones off to get ready for bed. Eve and I then read a couple more chapters of Holes before she went to bed.

Sadly, I realized that I have not been kind to myself, have been too harsh and judgmental. I have spoken to and about myself in a way I would never speak to, or even think about, another person. And as much as I would like to keep moving forward in my self-care journey, I can't do that when I have started back-tracking.

This time of quarantine is a lonely time. An isolating time. I need to make sure that the voice I hear in my head is one of love and gentleness and forgiveness and mercy. My words need to echo the love that Jesus Christ has for me, one He has deemed is of infinite worth.

I'm not perfect, and life isn't perfect. But I am perfectly loved. Time to start believing it.

Time to see the doctor!

The first time my mom took me to get a check up from gynecologist I was terrified. I was thankful that my doctor was a female, but didn't know what on earth to expect getting checked "down there". But the doctor was kind and respectful, and did her best to help me feel comfortable in an uncomfortable situation.

Still, I walked out of there dreading the next time I'd have to go in. I'm pretty sure I was a senior in high school, which meant that if I went in the future I would have to "adult" and set it up myself. And I think it may have been years (like maybe not till my pre-marital exam) till I got a gynecological check-up again.

The same thing went for my teeth. And my eyes.

Fast forward to February of 2004, where I sat cooped up in a hospital with a traumatic brain injury while eight months pregnant. I was a fall risk, and a serious one. I had double vision and terrible balance, short-term memory problems, and weakened muscles. I was a mess, and I couldn't be alone-- couldn't shower alone, couldn't use the bathroom alone. They would check me everyday, pretty much everywhere.

The story surrounding this event is really pretty involved (and I don't remember some of it...), so we will leave that for another post.

It was life-changing for me for numerous reasons, but one thing in particular I got out of it was that my doctors were working in my best interest. They wanted me to heal, they wanted Allie to be born safely. So when they performed tests on me, or when my therapists pushed me, it wasn't to torture me. It was to help me. Admittedly, not every doctor is an honorable as mine were, but I believe many out there are.

Since then, and since my healing, I have seen my gynecologist every year, as well as my optometrist, my dermatologist, and my dentist, whom I see twice a year. Oh, and I see an an endocrinologist every six months, because having a baby gave me hypothyroidism. Yippee!

I realized that part of caring for myself was allowing others who are trained to understand my body to look after it. They check for signs of disease and cancer, which I am so grateful for. As much as I hope none will ever be found, if any is there I sure want it to be found quickly!

My challenge this month from Cheryl Richardson's The Art of Extreme Self-Care is one that actually isn't too difficult for me-- to give myself a tune-up! I already have an appointment scheduled with my gynecologist, and another with my dentist. Actually, I have appointments scheduled with the others as well, but they aren't till the Fall, so I'll just do what I can.

If you haven't given yourself your own tune-up in quite some time, I encourage you to do it! Do it out of love for yourself and out of love for your family. If you don't trust your doctor, ask your friends for recommendations and find a new one. But find one. And see one.

You might end up just needing an oil change, but if your transmission is about to go it's better to find out now than on the freeway!

Yet Will I Not Forget Thee

Sunday afternoon I had to lead two different choir rehearsals-- one at our own church building, and another one over forty-five minutes away in Vero Beach. I left my van and caught a ride with a friend from the first rehearsal to the next in Vero, thinking I'd just ride back with Kevin, since he was planning to meet us at there. I knew he could just drive me back to get the van.

Of course, that would all have been wonderful if I had my dang keys.

After the second rehearsal, Kevin and I made the drive back. We pulled up to the van, and I went to grab my keys. A flood of panic washed over me as I realized they were nowhere. I looked under the seat, emptied my purse, and shook out my dress.

I had left them at the church in Vero Beach.

Now, as much as it's absolutely ridiculous to believe, I can go from content to self-loathing in about .2 seconds. It was like a a dark cloud infiltrated my mind, and I could only think about how careless and stupid I was, or about how I was ruining the evening. I knew I had to drive all the way back to Vero, but it was already 6pm at that point. I needed to go home and make dinner. Kevin offered to go, but I knew he wasn't feeling well, and sending him would only make things worse. After all, it was my fault.

So we left the van and went home. It was Drew's turn to help with dinner, so he flipped pancakes while I made sausage and eggs. And while we ate, Kev suggested I take one of the kids with me on my drive back. I shook my head. When he asked why, I darkly responded, "So I can hate on myself in peace."

He doesn't understand why I do this. And, truthfully, neither do I. Yet he is so patient and kind. In these moments, I'm never fishing for compliments or looking for someone to tell me nice things about myself-- truly, I look at that as patronizing. But he is learning to just listen, knowing there isn't much he can say that will make it better.

After dinner, I grabbed my purse and told him we could drive over to the van with the spare keys, and he could drive it home while I drove to Vero, but on the way he said he would go get my keys. I questioned him, reminding him that it was my fault. He said, "But it's my job to protect my family. And my wife told me that by driving alone she was going to tell herself she hated herself for over an hour and a half, and I can't allow that to happen."

Knowing he was sick and exhausted, I couldn't let him drive alone either, so we drove together. We called the kids from the car, and held our family night by speaker phone. We sang together, played 20-questions, and had a lesson. Of course, I was in charge of the lesson, so in a quick preparation I glanced back at the scripture reading from this past week. In opening up the Come, Follow Me manual, my eyes were immediately led to a scripture reference in the Book of Mormon with the following question: How might the message in these verses help someone who feels forgotten?

That was me. I felt forgotten.

It wasn't so much the incident of leaving the keys. I thought about how I had spent the whole day serving in some capacity. Most Sundays Kevin isn't around, so he can fulfill his calling in serving the church members of the other congregations in the area-- the area being up to two hours away. I take the kids to church alone. Often I teach lessons. Sometimes I have to speak or help with music. At that particular day I also led two different choir practices. I was exhausted. By leaving my keys at the church, with having received no hint of a warning, I did indeed feel forgotten.

The scripture reference listed was 1 Nephi 21:14-16 in The Book of Mormon. So I looked it up, knowing I must need a reminder.

14 But, behold, Zion hath said: The Lord hath forsaken me, and my Lord hath forgotten me-- but he will show that he hath not. 
15 For can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee, O house of Israel.
16 Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.

My eyes filled with tears. God was sending me a message loud and clear. He had not forgotten me! He was with me, right there in that car, as we made the long trip back to get those silly keys.

I blinked away the tears and prepared my lesson, which actually dealt with a different chapter of 1 Nephi. We talked with the kids over the phone about the difficulties Nephi had with his rebellious and stubborn older brothers, and how such things as jealousy, contention, and complaining can affect our family. It was a good discussion, one which needed to happen.

Eventually, around 9pm, Kevin and I made it home with BOTH vehicles. We were safe. Our kids were safe. And they were even happy!

He had not forgotten me.

Back in the Self-Care Wagon

I love Christmastime. I really do. And, yet, so much of the month of December I spent in tears.

Admittedly, I fell off the self-care wagon. Somehow, though, mid-fall, I managed to grab the reigns, being dragged alongside for the rest of the month. After school got out, I finally had the strength to crawl back into the driver's seat, bruised, bloodied, and beaten.

One month ago I knew I needed to begin a new challenge from The Art of Extreme Self-Care by Cheryl Richardson, but I was so overwhelmed with concerts, rehearsals, and performances, I thought I'd give it a rest till January. I came to realize that self-care is the one thing I should have done! I needed to be kinder and more forgiving to myself, to cut myself some slack, to let some things go, to say NO. But for some odd reason, I believed that for just one month I needed to try to be super-mom.

And I paid the price.

I paid in my sanity, in peace, in joy-- in all those things that matter most. I dwelt on my failings, I cried in pure exhaustion, and then I ate too much sugar (because sweet friends kept bringing me cookies) and gained a few pounds. And I don't even like sugar very much!

Two days after Christmas, our family took a trip to the mountains in North Carolina. Five days with no internet, no cell phones, and very few distractions. The kids played outside, read books, and played games. We hiked together, tackling a couple pretty strenuous trails, proving to the kids (and myself) that we can do hard things.

And (get ready for this) I napped.

That Sunday afternoon, I sat in the cozy recliner next to the sliding glass door, overlooking the mountain behind us, listening to the roaring of the creek out back. I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt and grabbed a soft blanket. I tried to read, but then dozed off. Allie said I was sleeping for a couple hours. It felt amazing. When I awoke I threw in a frozen lasagna for dinner and went outside to see the kids. Other than that, I had nothing pressing on me, nothing burdening me. Even my kids weren't asking me for anything.

It felt good to be back in the wagon.

I do like people, and love a whole lot of them. But part of my own self-care is having alone-time, time to shut down, time to unplug and be still. So this trip was exactly what I needed. Sometimes (okay, maybe more than sometimes) I think I wouldn't mind moving to the mountains for good. Sami suggested we become "mountain men", but I don't think I would go quite that far... I like indoor plumbing... and having my meat prepared for me. And I'm not really in to foraging. You know?

As all trips do, ours ended. And as usual, it ended too soon, but it was enough to get me moving. You might also be pleased to know that I haven't had a meltdown in a few weeks.

I'm am still learning my limits, and saying "no" does come more easily now, but it is a process. It takes time to make things habit, to make things comfortable.

For this month, I am choosing Cheryl's challenge to create a soul-loving space for myself-- one that lets me feel that send of peace and stillness that I felt on our trip. My family room needs an over-haul. I will need to examine how the room measures up to a soul-nourishing space, evaluate what needs to change and how to do it, eliminate anything I don't love or need (hello, Marie Kondo!), and enhance the room to reflect what soothes my soul!

I even may end up getting new couches! Ours are fifteen years old, so I think it's time...

(Our hike up Grandfather Mountain! We can do hard things!)