My brain on ADD

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(Note: This is only the Reader’s Digest condensed version. You’re welcome.)

I start the dishwasher. I get the kids out the door. I’m going to write a blog post about the bird whisperer. I’m going to write a blog post about my trip to Heber Valley Artisan Cheese. I’m going to write a blog post about my new job. I’m not going to write a blog post. I’m going to clean out my spam (Thanks a lot, not, WordPress). I’m going to email my uncle about buying a Subaru Forester. I’m going to shop for a Subaru Forester. I’m going to do the laundry. I’m going to make soap. I’m going to make cookies. I’m going to go test drive a Subaru Forester. I’m going to go to clean off the sofa so I can fine my parents’ wedding photo and Kyle’s cell phone. I’m going to move the furniture and vacuum (and look for Kyle’s cell phone). I make breakfast. My neighbor is cleaning out her garage and is selling a love sac and giving away good hardwood doors. I go to my neighbor’s house and decide “no” on the love sac but bring home a hardwood door and agree to help her later pull down some more hardwood doors from the top of her garage. I’m going to Vineyard nursery to buy hanging baskets (will they be high enough the dog won’t chew them up?) and a couple of potted flowers. I’m going to pot some flowers by my front door. I’m going to come home and get all that stuff done. I empty the dishwasher. I’m going to go out and clip the last of the fresh lilacs so I can enjoy them for a couple more days. I’m going to pick up the fresh eggs and make sure my chickens have water. The dog jumps on me while I’m carrying the lilacs in one hand and holding my shirt which is full of eggs up with my other hand. There are broken eggs in my shirt. I wash the eggs that remain unbroken and stain treat my shirt. I’m going to make soap. I’m going to write a blog post.

the night before

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If I could scrapbook photographs of the days leading up to the wedding I would most want to capture the following:

Sunday afternoons. The entire family gathered around the dinner table, sometimes one end of it covered by scattered envelopes, lists and wedding announcements, trying to keep up with excited banter as it shoots across from one end or side of the table to another. energy. affection. humor.

Late nights. (too late of nights for my circadian rhythm) Luke and Emily dropping by–their evening just beginning, as we were winding down. love. laughter. energy.

Shopping. Meeting at a menswear shop. The bridal store. With a custom suit representative over the dining room table. Discussing colors, shades of colors, fabric; linings, bodices, beading. hesitancy. consensus. excitement.

Weather watching. Waiting for the ten-day forecast to appear. Disappointment as it first indicated stormy low 40s. Hope building as each day it improved to peak at a sunny 56. Sadness as it deteriorated to a cloudy, cold 37. prayers. hope. resignation.

Random shots of a pile of wrapping paper and bows in a room full of family and friends at the bridal shower on another cold windy day. Conversations over dinner at Brick Oven for another shower to include those who couldn’t make the first. introductions. connections. friendships.

Collaborations of beloved sister friends over the secret wedding presents and the wardrobe, shoes and jewelry of the mother of the groom. something old. something new. something borrowed. something blue.

And today: Kids off to school. Cleaning. Dishes. Laundry. Luke sitting on the sofa, headphones in his ear, studying for the third exam of this week, but the last before the wedding. Phone calls. Texts from reassuring and loving friends. People who’ve been there; done that. Finishing up unfinished business. Coming home after most all the errands to a houseful of family from here, Oregon and Idaho. A house full of energy. A house full of love.

A pile of dark brown hair on the newly mopped kitchen floor, carefully cut by my brother, who loves me just the way I am. The chatter of my nephew, who’d been car-bound for two days, from the other room. My SIL bearing good news of gifts of chips and queso and tres leches. My mom, her newly returning silver hair stylishly close to her head. My sister, who easily handled the centerpieces for the luncheon so I wouldn’t have to. My niece, who was the first to greet me before I even made it to the top of the stairs.

Lindsay towering well over 6 ft., practicing walking in borrowed heels (again with the something old. something new. something borrowed. something blue). Zack coming home from Wallsburg, asking if we could postpone the gathering of 75 chairs so he could go pick up the hide of a friend’s cow that had died. (We got the chairs first.) A last minute panic as we realized we had no black suit coat for Kyle. Relief when Luke’s old high-school choir tux fit just suited Kyle just fine.

Slowly making my way downstairs (the storm and a busy day having fun with my arthritis) to give Luke a hug goodnight. I linger for a second in his doorway, observing as he neatly packs the very last of his belongings still here away for their honeymoon. I give my sweet, tender-hearted worrier son a hug goodnight.

The realization that being so involved in the details–both significant and tiny–was a good distraction for the mother of the groom. The realization that this is different from leaving for his first day of kindergarten, for a week of Outdoor School, or scout camp, or for two years to serve a mission, or from moving into the dorms or an apartment for two semesters. This is leaving our Rowley family of six, established 1987, to cleave unto his wife–his best friend–to build a new Rowley family, established 2013.

This is the end. This is the beginning.

 

 

 

 

 

Dear little boy in the brown coat

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I’m sorry I scared you when I slammed on my brakes when you darted out into the cross walk in front of me this morning. I’m grateful I did not hit you. I tried to give you the “go ahead” wave so you would know you were safe. I watched as you raced across the white parallel lines, praying you’d be visible to all the other drivers coming and going just two minutes before the bell was to ring at the local junior high. My relief as you safely reached the sidewalk turned to concern as I watched you, still running, trip and skid across the sidewalk on your hands and knees. I hurried to drop off the four nearly tardy 7th and 8th graders in my care and rushed back to see if you were ok. I suspected you were not.

You seemed so vulnerable. So young. So small. So alone.

As I turned left on to the street where your body had so roughly met pavement, I noticed a maroon minivan pulled to the curb. My worried heart relaxed just a little knowing someone had come to your aid as I had driven off just moments before. I slowed to ask the driver, who was walking back to his vehicle, if you were ok. He told me you were scraped up. Our eyes met. Shoulders shrugged and then sagged with the same sense of helplessness. Clearly we were both so willing and wanting to help. Yet we both knew it wasn’t likely we would be allowed.

Not in this day and age.

I pulled in behind the departing minivan, hoping that I, a woman–a mom, might somehow be perceived as “safer,” even though it was clear the good Samaritan who preceded me only had your best interest at heart as well.

Realizing it was unreasonable to offer you a ride home in my car, I asked to see your scraped up palms and offered to walk home with you (immediately realizing that now that too would be considered unreasonable). I wanted to make sure you reached home safely. And that someone was there to attend to your wounds.

“No, I’m fine alone,” you practically whispered.

As I desperately grasped at alternative ways I could possibly help you, you quietly repeated at each new offer.

“No, I’m fine alone.”

I understand. But I am sorry. So sorry.

I am sorry that you have–out of necessity, I guess, today I wasn’t so sure–been taught from a very young age that I, a stranger, am scary. A threat. And dangerous.

I’m sorry that even though you were surrounded by people who cared–people whose only desire was to help and make sure you were safe–this morning you had to go it alone.

 

Please join us

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We’re joining a couple of strangers in Toronto tomorrow for a symbolic march in protest of the brutal rape and murder of a bright young woman in New Delhi. Please come.

You can join us from wherever you are. Change your social media avatars to just your eyes. Share links to the story. Stand silently at 10:00am MST in solidarity. Use the hashtags #worldiswatching #india #nomorerape wherever you’d like. Invite your friends.

Thank you.

Lois

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The hush that winter brings was broken Sunday afternoon by the distant wail of sirens. As the wail became less distant, we realized that the louder it became, the more likely it was the sirens were coming for one of our own.

Turns out this time they were for a widow in our ward. Her name is Lois. I don’t know her well. I know next to nothing about her family. Her story is now lost to me. I just know she died alone in the cold dark of winter. And no one knew. The abandoned newspapers strewn at her door indicate she may have been gone a day or two before anyone even realized they ought to have missed her.

This breaks my heart.

My boys used to deliver her paper. She lived in a tiny square house that sat rather isolated on its nearly otherwise empty lot. Clearly humble circumstances aside, she was one of the very few who bothered tipping. A widow’s mite, if you will.

Lois didn’t become more than a name on a neighborhood roster to me until after her husband died. He was, shall we say, not very social. So she didn’t get out much. When she did she seemed very quiet. Not withdrawn so much reserved. Eventually she started showing up to choir practice. I applauded her courage, as it was clear she was more accustomed to the back row than up on the stand. She had some condition that made her hand–I only recall ever noticing it on one–shake. One more reason to hold back, but she stepped forward to worship through song. I didn’t know her well even then, but I was so proud of her.

I’m not sure when she stopped coming to choir. Or if it was her or I who disappeared first. I just realized that at some point that instead of in the choir seats, the only time I saw her at church was back in the far left corner, one of two places in our chapel where the widows and the widowers sit. Not so much to sit apart from the rest of us, but to endure together the loneliness that even the most gregarious of them must feel.

Even though my responsibilities require me to leave the meeting a few minutes early, I watch for them–particularly the sweet sisters–as I arrive and leave Sacrament Meeting. Ever ready with a hug, a pat on the shoulder or a gentle squeeze on the arm. I generally encountered Lois in the hall as she slowly made her way past the Primary room. Her sweet smile and gentle hello always warmed by heart. Notice that sparkle in her eyes? I am drawn to people who, despite the cares of this mortal world, manage to maintain the sparkle in their eyes.

I’m still watching for the obituary. I hope someone close to Lois will know and record her story. I don’t even know how old she was when she died. I just know I am grateful to have crossed paths with her. Sadly, I’m sure Lois is not the last person about whom I will have regrets.

I wish I’d have known her better.

 

The perfect thing to say

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I have been most blessed to have a few people in my life who generally know the perfect thing to say. This week in particular, two such people touched my heart in perfect and loving ways that I don’t want to ever forget.

Exhibit 1:

Me to a close friend:  Thanks for knowing me and loving me anyway.

Friend:  Not “anyway.” I love you because.

 

Exhibit 2 (aka Card Writing 101):

Birthday card from my sweet brother Keith

Actually, when I showed it to my kids (telling them, of course, to “watch and learn”), Zack pointed out that this is a little more upper division than 101, probably at least 303.

“This” is a gorgeous scarf my little brother has spent the past three months knitting for me for my birthday. Knowing that my kid brother spent the past three months putting all kinds of love into such a lovely gift from the heart–via his time and labor–warms my heart more than my mere words can say.

I want to wear this every day for the rest of my life. The photo doesn’t do it justice. If I see you, chances are I will ask you if you want to feel how soft it is, because the yarn is heavenly.

Taking care of business

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First–Congratulations go to Melissa (of runwithmel) fame. You have won yourself one of my very favorite cookbooks in the whole entire world! I hope you enjoy it. Text or message me when you are in town and we can meet up so I can return your fabulous heels and also present you with your prize.

Second–Sent this to dearelder.com today as I was logging in to write to Hermana Asay. I think we should all flood their email and contact page with similar messages. It’s about time, don’t you think?

Hi–I appreciate what you do here and I realize you may not be able to update your URL, but don’t you think it’s time you updated your name and logo to be more inclusive of the many, many sisters also serving missions? I sure would feel more inclined to support your website if you did.
Thank you for your time–

Dalene