Am I Smarter Than My Six-Year Old?

With the warmth having returned to my desert home in full force, we've been prepping for scorpion season.  Last weekend we sprayed outside and inside the house and recapped our safety rules with the kids:

• Always wear shoes outside
• Check your shoes and clothes before putting them on (especially our eighteen-year old whose clothes live on the floor)
• Be careful
• And if you do cross paths with a scorpion, follow your oldest brother's example: scream like a girl and jump behind the couch to safety.  No, not really.  Don't touch it and get someone older to come take care of it.

My kindergartner is very afraid of bugs and is always very grave and serious when we discuss scorpions, black widows and other dangerous pests.  He's also my thinker.  Which combination lead to our conversation as I walked him to school a few days ago.

Just before noon, the day was still somewhat cool with an intermittent breeze flitting by.  I held my son's hand as we walked and felt like a really great mom.  How nice to have some one-on-one time with the boy.

Then he turned to me and asked, "Why did Jesus create scorpions?"

And I, in my amazing motherly wisdom, replied, "Um.  I'm not sure."  Looooong pause.  "Maybe he thought they looked cool?"

My son gave me an
is-that-really-the-best-you-can-do? look and let his gaze drop to his shoes.  After watching the dust kick up around his feet for a few steps he said, "I think I know why."

Curious, I asked him what he thought.

"I think when Jesus created them, they were good, but Satan made them turn bad."

Wow.  Such wisdom from one so young.  That simple phrase taught me so much.  My son not only understood that Jesus is Good and Satan is Evil, but he understood that Satan, by influencing the fall changed the nature of things.  Creatures that once lived in peace and harmony were now at odds with each other.  And by considering the nature of scorpions, he reminded me that I should do the same.  I should remember that the Lord is in every aspect of life, and I should look for evidences of such.

Am I smarter than my six-year old?

Not always.

The Big Bad Mommy Wolf

If I had a dollar for every time my three year old has told me "Mommy your mean" in the last two days, I'd have, well, a whole lot of dollars.

I'm mean because it's not time for snack yet.  He calls me mean for not letting him have another Popsicle.  Or because I told him he couldn't have more snack after he'd already had a Popsicle, sour patch kids, and fruit snacks.

I'm mean because HE pooped in his pants and lost his reward.

I'm mean because it's getting dark, and  I tell him to come inside for dinner.  And because I make him hold my hand when we're crossing the street or walking through a parking lot.

The list of my evil doings goes on.

None of my other children ever called me mean.  They've never said they hate me or any such thing.  In fact, I like to believe that my older children live in fear of upsetting me.  But not this three year old.  He pushes me to the count of three then comes running, giggling and grinning, just before I finish counting.  He's like Nemo, defiantly swimming out to touch the boat, watching to make sure I see what he's doing just before he does it.

This kid will do the opposite of what I tell him while smiling mischievously, but then, when he faces the consequences of a time out, the tears quickly pool in his eyes and he says, "sorry Mommy."

Despite his tantrums and his flinging of the "mean" word though, he either loves me or really likes to torture me.  I'm the only one he'll let get his pajamas on or brush his teeth.  Only Mommy can take him potty or get him dressed.  No one else can put him in his crib and cover him up.

And as I ponder this, I suddenly understand why my youngest brother seemed to get away with murder in our home.  He got to stay up late, eat whatever he wanted when he wanted...he pretty much did as he pleased.

By the time he came along, the Big Bad Mommy Wolf was too tired to fight those battles.

I know how she feels.

Movie Night

Most weekends my husband and I like to unwind by watching a movie.  Unfortunately, sometimes a crazy, hectic day leaves us with little viewing time.  On such nights we usually manage to fit in one of our favorite Star Trek episodes before exhaustion knocks us out.

Such was the case last weekend when a late work day for my husband  made us push back our dinner date with our almost eighteen year-old son.  Which, of course, meant by the time we got home and got all of the kids to bed, the time was pushing toward ten thirty.

But we felt the need to relax and do nothing before we could settle down to sleep, so we determined to watch an episode of Star Trek the Next Generation.

Well, that was our intent.

We turned on the TV and the blue-ray player to access Netflix.  However, our daughter had left a movie in the player.  Barbie, and a whole lot of pink filled the screen:  Barbie and the Fairy Secret.  I jokingly leaned over and asked my husband if he wanted to watch it.

He must have been pretty tired, since he said he'd give it ten minutes, and if he was completely sickened we'd have to turn it off.

So we let the movie play.

And surprisingly  after ten minutes we found ourselves laughing.  Admittedly, sometimes because the movie was pathetically cheesy, but at other times because it was genuinely funny.  (Ken's tiny pink clip-on wings were quite hilarious )  So we kept watching.  Fortunately, we were too tired to be annoyed at the rapid reversal of feelings between Barbie and her worst enemy at the end.

When our eight year-old came out to use the bathroom, my husband quickly snatched up the remote and paused the movie, not wanting to be caught watching it.  But by the next morning, all of our kids knew the truth.  Mom and Dad had watched the Barbie movie.

Not only that, but Dad was quoting it.  More than once.

And so was our eighteen year-old.  Apparently he'd watched it, too.

This weekend, I'm hoping for a movie with a little more substance.  Hotel Transylvania is waiting on the bookshelf.

Firsts, Lasts and Inbetweens

I'm not a crier.  Except for the mad years of high school drama, I never have been.  I didn't cry when my oldest child started kindergarten.  Nor did I shed tears when he graduated from elementary and moved on to high school.

But...If I were to be a crier, this would be the year to do it.

2013 holds a frightening number of firsts, lasts and inbetweens.

Firsts: My oldest graduates from high school and Seminary in May.  He leaves for his mission sometime in July or August.  We're taking our first (and probably last) full family vacation to Disneyland in June. We'll spend our first Christmas without a member of our family (but at least we'll get to talk to him!) And for the first time ever, I have no kids in nursery and no kids who I'm counting the hours until their old enough for nursery.

Lasts: Today I went to my last "muffins with mom" with my eighth grader.  This is my last year of having four kids in primary.  In May I will disassemble the crib and assemble the toddler bed for the last time.

Inbetweens: My husband will baptize my fifth child in April.  My third child graduates from elementary school in May and will be old enough to attend the church dances in August.  My youngest daughter enters Young Women's in September.

The lists could go on.  But I'm not teary eyed as I contemplate these events.  Maybe because they are still out there, waiting to happen (except for the muffins.  And I didn't even blink back tears when my eighth grade son voluntarily gave me a hug in the middle of the crowded cafeteria.).

I have a feeling though, that the tears will catch me when I least expect it.  I got a hint of them during my oldest son's last drama performance when they called the seniors out and had them do an extra bow to the audience.  I'm sure my watery eyes as I watched him on stage were merely the result of my allergies and all of the perfume and cologne wafting from the teenage boys and girls.  Who cries at the ending of "Get Smart" anyway?

In the mean time, I'll be sure to keep a supply of tissues handy.

Play Date

Every school day, my three-year old and I walk my five-year old to kindergarten.  By myself, I can complete the trip in two minutes.  Even with just my kindergarten I can make it in under four.  But with my little Loopie Loo, the journey takes close to twenty.

His adventure starts the moment we step out the front door as he pauses to search for dead and dying crickets around our doormat--poor misfortune insects who made the fatal mistake of hopping into the pesticide that protects our house from terrorist scorpions.  After he's pointed out all of the bugs, Loopie Loo bounds down the steps, across the grass and onto the dirt road with its thick, loose dusty covering.  He plops down in a soft pile of dirt, dust billowing around him, and draws one of his two favorite letters--an "x" or a "t" or sometimes, both.

When I finally convince him that he can play in the dirt later, and that we must get his brother to school, he jumps up, his backside covered in a light brown sheen, and runs to catch his brother, who, by this time, is impatiently waiting at the cement bridge that spans the irrigation canal.

I try not to choke on the dust kicked up in his passing.  At the bridge, Loopie again pauses for insects.  This time he stomps around the bridge, squishing any and all giant red ants that come into his line of sight.  His brother helps him, until I insist on holding their hands so we can cross the street.

The second we reach the other side, Loo Loo pulls his hand from mine and runs to check out a hole in the dirt next to the sidewalk.  He steps in it, then continues walking--on the curb, which at his age, with his grace and balance, takes an eternity.  For a brief moment he runs again, just until he's moved across the parking lot to another curb, and starts over with his tight rope act.

At last I take their hands again, we cross in front of the cars dropping off kindergartners and step to the office.  My five-year old says his goodbyes and disappears inside the building.  Time to go home.

But, no.

Loopie wants to wave to his brother at the playground.  So we walk to the fence that surrounds all of the cool playground toys that Loo Loo wishes he was old enough to use; while we wait, Loopie tries to squeeze himself through the slats of the fence.  Only his leg and arm fit.

My kindergartner eventually emerges, drops his backpack and waves at us.  Loo Loo stares after him for a moment before we turn around to walk home.  He slides his hand across the low wall in front of the office, and triumphantly kicks at the traffic cones set up to guide cars picking up and dropping off.  Thankfully, he ignores the curbs, walking contentedly beside me until we are again across the street.

As soon as we reach the rocky dirt, he selects two rocks, one for each hand, before resuming his war against the red ants.  When he has smashed enough ants, he drops to his hands and knees in the small, round stones that top the dirt in front of the bridge.  After he hands me his rocks, he scoots through the pebbles for the three feet that they extend into the dirt road while I cringe at the thought of holes in his pants.

Finally, he climbs back to his feet and runs over to the decorative curb that surrounds our neighbor's landscaping.  Loopie calls it "the snake."  As he walks along it, touching each of the solar accent lights he passes, I pray that he doesn't break anything.

Then, he's mine again, holding my hand (not the one holding his rocks) and telling me about the airplane he sees or the clouds floating by.  We are almost home.  We actually set foot on our grass.  But he asks for his rocks and trots off to drop them in the big hole he discovered in our lawn.  By the end of the school year, it should be filled.

After he plucks a leaf from a weed, Loo Loo runs to catch up with me, insisting that he open the door.  He swings it open; I barely catch it in time to keep it from slamming into the wall and watch as he drops his leaf and settles onto the couch to watch a movie.

I sink into a chair.  Exhausted.  Grateful that it's Wednesday, early release day.  Because it's too early to walk from the school to the mailbox.

That's an entirely different adventure...

NaNoWriMo

I'm sorry, my poor neglected blog, but I'm abandoning you for an entire month.

I shall not visit you, read you, or even think about you.

I have other things to worry about.

That's right.  Tomorrow is November 1st--the beginning of National Novel Writing Month.

For the second year in a row, I've decided to participate in the 30 day madness of writing.  And....I've convinced my husband to join me this year.

Looks like the kids will be busy cleaning, cooking and doing laundry.

Until December...

Day of the Dead

Halloween scares me.

And it has nothing to do with the year my brother jumped from behind a bush when I was walking back to rejoin my husband after taking my toddler son potty.  Although, that was pretty scary.  I nearly peed my pants.

Nor does it relate to the grotesque costumes that abound: Zombies, vampires, people sporting fake (but very realistic) injuries on their bodies.

My fear of Halloween stems from something far scarier.  On October 31, 2006 my husband nearly took his own life.

He hadn't yet been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but he had been suffering from depression since late summer.  We'd taken a few trips to a psychiatric emergency room, but at that point we were still waiting to get him in to see someone on a regular basis.  And none of the medications they gave him seemed to be working.  In fact, they were making things worse.

On the night of October 30, my husband and I stayed up late working on his pumpkins for a work contest the next day.  We had purchased a nice little set of carving tools: scoops and various saws and knives.  As we worked, I noticed that my husband kept pausing in his work and examining the implement in his hand.  His eyes had a strange faraway look, and I wondered if, at those moments, he was even aware that I was sitting beside him.

Realizing that my husband was considering how the carving tools could be used for suicide, I quickly counted how many we had and started tracking each one, hoping to prevent him from pocketing any of them.  When the pumpkins were finished, I cleaned up the tools, while my husband protested, insisting that he was fine and he could put things away.

After sending him out of the room, I found a hiding place for the tools and did a quick sweep of the kitchen for anything else that he might find useful.  I had already hidden most things weeks before.  Finally, I was satisfied that he was safe.

I was wrong.

I didn't know about the knife he'd found in the sink before my daughter washed dishes earlier that day.  The knife he had hidden under the cushion of the couch in the living room.

I expected him to be subdued as we prepared for bed, but instead he was oddly cheerful.  When I questioned him about his mood he shrugged his shoulders.  "Tomorrow things will be different."

His answer worried me.  I continued to press him until he finally confessed that he planned to take his life the following day, but he wouldn't tell me how.  I spent nearly an hour reminding him of all the reasons he had to live, of the people that loved him, and how empty our lives would be without him.  Nothing seemed to reach him.

Halloween was the day he'd set as his last day on earth.

To this day, I'm not sure what I said.  But somehow my husband ending up huddled in the corner of our bathroom, crying.  He told me to check under the couch cushion.  I ran out to the living room and found the knife, which I hid.

He insisted on going to work the next day since we had worked so hard on the pumpkins, so I insisted that his father drive him in.  I wanted someone with him at all times.  I picked him up from work and we took the kids out trick or treating.  Then I stayed up with him until after midnight, until the day changed from October 31st to November 1st.

Halloween had passed, and he still lived.

Six years later, my husband's bipolar disorder is controlled, and his moods are failry stable.  But he cycles in the fall, which happens to coincide with Halloween.  And lurking in my mind is the fear that one day he may again decide that Halloween truly is the day of the dead.

Considering Baby Names

My youngest daughter's birthday is next week, and her continual reminders have me reminiscing about how my husband and I decided on her name.

When I was a kid, nothing symbolized summer quite like finding cicada bug skins around our yard--clinging to the gray bricks of our house, slim blades of grass, and the thorny, green Palo Verde branches.  I would grab a sandwich baggie from the house and fill it with all of the skins I could find.  They'd crackle when I picked them, protesting their release from whatever item they clung to.

After several days of carrying my baggie around, the skins became a smashed brown mass that my mother insisted I throw away.  Which I did, right before grabbing another baggie and looking for more skins.

Besides the grumbling roar of thunder during a monsoon, the buzzing of cicadas in the trees has always been my favorite summer sound.

So I told my husband that I wanted to name our baby Secada, if we had a girl (of course I changed the spelling; I'm not that cruel).

I could tell right away that he didn't like the idea.  So we let the matter drop for a while.

We settled on a boy's name months before my due date, but as August crept to a close, my husband still wouldn't agree to name his daughter after a bug.  I tried throwing in his favorite grandmother's middle name for our daughter, but he wouldn't commit.

Until one quiet summer evening.

After putting our three children to bed, we relaxed on the couch to enjoy a few precious moments of peace before pregnancy exhaustion forced me to go to sleep.  As we cuddled, I again approached the problem of a girl's name.

He sighed.  "I don't know."

We sat in silence.  Then we heard a soft rap on the door.  So quiet that we weren't sure we'd heard anything.

We listened...and heard it again, a little louder.

My husband walked to the door and cautiously pulled it open.

A cicada flew inside.

It circled the room before settling on our ceiling fan.

My husband looked from the bug to me and then back at the insect.  He shrugged.  "Okay, we'll name her Secada."

He re-opened the door, and with a flutter of wings, the cicada flew out the door.

Unbelievable, but true.

Even more unbelievable:  my little Secada bug turns 11 on Wednesday.

Longing for some old-fashioned writer's block...

When we were first married, my husband and I lived in a tiny little town on the northern border of Nevada in a small studio apartment.  My husband worked anywhere from 12 to 20 hours a day doing set up for banquets at the local casino, giving me hours and hours to do nothing but write.

I would sit at our table with my word processor (okay, at least it wasn't a typewriter--I'm not that old!) and work on my current project until my lead character managed to get herself into a jam I couldn't get her out of.  Writer's Block.

My word processor was just that--a word processor.  It didn't have any games to distract me from my character's dilemma, no Internet to look up a possible solution.  Just a blinking cursor.

Inevitably, I'd start working on a different writing project.  Usually around chapter nine (I have a lot of unfinished projects from that first year of marriage that all end at chapter nine).  And again, I would write for hours and hours until I ran into another wall.

And then I'd stare at the blinking cursor for hours.

I miss those days.

Now, writer's block is far worse than a brick wall.  It comes in the form of seven demanding children, a house that seems to always need cleaning, and fickle technology that decides to break at the most inopportune times.

My hours of endless writing (or staring) have shrunk to about two hours a day. Around 1 pm, after the cleaning is done and after walking my kindergartner to school. That is, if my three-year old stays with his first movie choice and decides to watch the whole thing.  But most days, I manage a sentence or two before he changes his mind and takes another ten minutes selecting a new movie, or he needs to go potty, or he wants a snack.

Or wants to sit on my lap.

But when I finally get him settled, playing quietly and watching his movie, just when I get rolling on my writing, the garage door bangs open and my teenagers come home.  My overly loquacious teenagers.

They pull the bench up from the table so they can sit beside me as I type, filling me in on every minute of their    
seven or so hours of seminary and school.  After two minutes, I abandon the writing and give them my full attention.

When at last, they turn to their school work, disappearing into the depths of their rooms, the front door swings open and my elementary school children pour through the opening.  Snack, homework, reading with my kindergartner, and sorting through papers occupies my time.

And so goes my two hours of writing.

I love those kids, but sometimes I yearn for some normal writer's block!

Baring the Writer's Soul

Few professions require people to expose themselves the way writers do.  Sometimes, like now, knowing my newest manuscript should have arrived at the publishers for review, I think posing in a skimpy bikini might be easier than allowing someone else to judge my writing.  At least in the bathing suit I would be judged by physical standards, things I can change.  But in my writing...well that's me.  I can't write without infusing part of my soul into the work.

Maybe that's why, as a writer, I find taking criticism to be as easy as eating Brussels sprouts--not only do they taste bad, but they smell bad, too.  When someone likes my writing, that person likes me, because I am part of the writing.  And when they don't like my writing...maybe that's why family members don't make very good critics--they have to live with us after all.

And revisions?  Revising a manuscript is like taking a deep look inward, facing the parts of you that you don't like, and having the courage to cast them aside.  It hurts.

But writers do it.  I do it.

Why?

I'm not sure.  Perhaps it has something to do with holding that novel in my hands, my name across the front.  Or reading that one review that says I did something right.  Whatever that something is, it drives me to keep writing, to keep baring my soul...

And, as I move the mouse to click the "publish" button, to keep wishing I had chosen to model bikinis.

Scripture Squiggle: Alma 28:13 (Of Roosters and Temptation)

"And thus we see how great the inequality of man is because of sin and transgression, and power of the devil, which comes by the cunning plans which he hath devised to ensnare the hearts of men."


I've mentioned Chanticleer, our attack rooster, before.  Here he is strutting his stuff in front of the chicken run like he owns the place.

He doesn't, but not for lack of trying.

Whenever I load the kids into the van to go somewhere, he stands at the gate crowing at us, his fathers fluffed up to make him appear bigger and scarier (I think he just looks like one of the fat biddies on my Fluffy Birds game).  If one of us heads into the garden, out to the play yard, or anywhere he deems his territory, he comes running--a crowing, fluffy bird-ball, that, I will admit, gets my pulse racing when no fence separates us.

We started using our green push broom to defend ourselves because it happened to be nearby.  But lately we've learned that nothing else can successfully keep Chanticleer at bay.

Early one evening, as I walked out to our garden where my husband was watering, I passed Chanticleer.  The rooster was pecking at bugs a good distance away, seemingly calm and nonthreatening.  As I pulled even with him, I spoke to him in a quiet voice.

"Finding any good bugs, Chanti?"

The stupid bird jumped at me.  No warning, no puffed up feathers or crowing, just an immediate, leaping attack.

Fortunately, I managed to kick out at him, catching him in the chest and knocking him backward.  But almost immediately he attacked again.  We stayed that way for several minutes as Chanticleer jumped and I kicked him down until my husband noticed what was going on and came running over with a large two by four.

He swung at the bird, and Chanticleer turned his attention to him.  He continued his dancing attack, only with a new partner.

After my husband landing three or four strikes with the board, my teenage son walked out the back door.  He saw the rooster leap at his dad, realized the wood did not deter Chanticleer, and grabbed the broom resting next to the door.

My son hadn't even gotten within four feet of Chanti when the bird saw the broom.   He ran as fast as he could back toward the chicken run squawking the whole way.

I landed direct kicks on the rooster's chest, and my husband got in some pretty good hits with the board, but only the broom, which hadn't even touched him, scared Chanticleer away.

The green push broom was Chanti's weakness.

Even my little five-year old can chase Chanticleer away from his toy construction truck worksite with one wave of the broom.

Although we had to discover Chanti's weakness, Satan already knows ours.  And he uses them against us as easily as we wave the broom at our rooster.

Fortunately, unlike our attack rooster, we can recognize our weakness with the help of the Lord, and thus Satan's attacks on us, and learn to overcome them.

Scripture Squiggle: Matthew 25:29

"For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath."


Not wanting to have my talents taken away from me, but rather wanting to increase them, I've decided that for today's blog, I will participate in LDS Publisher's writing prompt.

So, here is what I came up with:


Hilary paused in her sweeping and raised her head slightly so the gentle autumn breeze could dance across her wrinkled face.  She closed her eyes as the cool fingers of the wind caressed her cheeks, listening to the crinkling sound of cottonwood leaves skittering across the patio.

Time to start planning my winter trip to Phoenix.

After a moment, she hefted her broom and returned to her task of clearing the red brick patio of dust, debris and gathering leaves. 

Red brick?

Glancing at the skyline, Hilary saw faint purple mountains in the distance, framed by the faded blue of the desert sky, not the tree-lined ridges that pushed close to her small house in Oregon.  Directly in front of her was the gray wall that separated her son's swimming pool from the rest of the yard, not her round, above ground pool sitting open on the welcoming green lawn.   She released the broom, watched it fall and clatter onto the red bricks, not her wooden deck.

Her legs felt weak as she shuffled over to the wooden picnic table by the door, its checkered table cloth held in place by a variety of large rocks.

Phoenix?  How long have I been here?

She couldn't remember.  She tried and tried and tried, but she couldn't even remember what she had done the day before, or what day it was, or whether she'd had grapefruit or French toast for breakfast.

 

At least I know my name.  Hilary Grosberg.  And I'm...I'm...how old am I?

Hilary leaned her elbows on the table and rested her forehead on her hands.  She breathed in short, panicked gulps, and her heart began to pound a crazy rhythm against her chest.  Then she felt something furry rub against her leg.

"Beast!"  She scooped the gray tabby kitty onto her lap.  "You always know when Mama needs you."  She stroked his soft fur, enjoying the humming rumble of his purring.

The cat raised his head, looking at Hilary and mewed.  She held him up so she could gaze into his blue eyes.  "Now, Beast..."

Blue eyes?  Beast's were brown.

In disbelief, Hilary set the cat back down on the ground.  He rubbed his head against her leg a few times, but when she didn't respond he sat back to lick his paws.

Hilary stood up and walked slowly to the door that led to her room at her son's house.  She paused with her hand on the knob, her attention caught by a pile of rotting boards shoved in the corner against the fence that lined the property.   With her free hand, she touched her wrinkled, weather-worn cheeks, her coarse gray-white hair.

Crumbling.  Useless.  No better than a pile of forgotten wood.

Scripture Squiggle: Doctrine and Covenants 76:22

"And now, after the many testimonies which have been given of him, this is the testimony, last of all, which we give of him: That he lives!


President Monson, our latter day prophet adds his testimony of the Savior: http://www.lds.org/liahona/2012/04/he-is-risen-a-prophets-testimony?lang=eng

Because Jesus suffered for our sins and overcame death, we all have the hope that one day we can live again in his presence.  Knowing this makes the trials and tragedies of this life so much easier to bear.  May this knowledge fill our souls with peace.

Scripture Squiggle: Doctrine and Covenants 21:4-6

"Wherefore, meaning the church, thou shalt give heed unto all his words and commandments which he shall give unto you as he receiveth them, walking in all holiness before me;
    For his word ye shall receive, as if from mine own mouth, in all patience and faith.
    For by doing these things the gates of hell shall not prevail against you; yea, and the Lord God will disperse the powers of darkness from before you, and cause the heavens to shake for your good, and his name's glory."


In the fall of 2006 my husband suffered from severe depression.  As a result of undiagnosed bipolar disorder and events from his teenage years, his thoughts revolved around suicide, which seemed to him to be the only avenue of escape from the terrible feelings that assaulted him.  We took several trips to the psychiatric emergency room in downtown Phoenix, visited with his primary care doctor, and even spoke with a lady provided for by his work's helpline.  But nothing helped.

I prayed fervently for something to lift him out of his depression, but I also prayed for strength to support and help him through his trials.  As general conference approached, I began to pray that one of the speakers would be inspired to address a topic that would help my husband in his quest to overcome his negative feelings.

Conference weekend arrived and we gathered in our home to listen to both the Saturday and Sunday sessions. I remember that not one speaker, but three speakers in that conference spoke on feelings of self worth, overcoming depression, and forgiving ourselves.  As that third speaker began his talk, covering items of great importance to me and my husband, my husband turned to me, a ghost of a smile on his face.

"You must have a direct line to heaven."

I realized at that moment, that I did; we all do.  Each of us can prepare ourselves to listen to the Lord's prophets and hear the words that He would speak to us if He were here.  Never before had I prayed to receive answers from conference.  I had never thought to.  But in 2006, I could not deny that the Lord had spoken directly to me.  The words that He inspired His servants to say brought me great comfort, and although the talks did not cure my husband of his depression, they helped to open communication between us about the subject, and that communication played a vital role in his eventual recovery.

I've had a lot on my mind lately; I'm anxious to hear what the Lord has to tell me this weekend.

Scripture Squiggle: Ephesians 6: 11-13

"Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.
  For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
  Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand."

Every morning I put on my shoes, a pair of gloves and grab our broken green push broom in preparation of feeding our docile, mixed flock of chickens.  If they're docile, why do I need the gloves and broom?  Because of the feisty, full-of-himself rooster waiting just outside the chicken run.


In early October of 2011 my dad brought over ten cute little, fluffy red-brown chicks that peeped and scratched at their cardboard box.  Ten Rhode Island Reds, guaranteed-to-be-hens chicks.  But by the first of February, as the time neared to move the young chickens from their small coop to join the mature chickens in the run, we were pretty certain that one of those now teen-aged birds was not a hen.

Chanticleer, as we called him, had a bigger comb, bigger body, and a fluffier, more colorful greenish tail than his sisters.  The feathers around his neck were shiny and smooth.  And he made a strange croaking sound like a toddler trying to imitate a rooster.

To be sure, I read up on Rhode Island Red roosters.  Chanticleer matched every description I found.  I  also discovered that these roosters were very protective of their flock and had been known to kill a fox if it threatened their hens.

Good.  Hopefully we wouldn't lose anymore of our birds to the wandering neighborhood dogs that had taken at least five of our original flock.

But we wanted chickens for the eggs, not to raise more chickens, so, with the help of my two teenagers, I clipped Chanti's wings and tossed him on the other side of the  fence, into the backyard.

At first he stayed close to the hens.  Whenever I went into the run to feed, water and collect eggs, Chanti would shadow my movements on the other side of the fence.  And his feeble attempts at crowing weren't enough to wake me in the early morning hours.  I felt kind of attached to him.

Attached enough to put off my husband's suggestion that we make a meal out of Chanti.  Instead, I pointed out that we hadn't seen any cats roaming around the yard in the weeks since we'd separated Chanticleer from the rest of the flock.

But the first time the rooster attacked me, I changed my mind.  I had just finished feeding and water the hens and was headed over to give Chanti his share of the feed and refill his water dish.  Walking past him as always, I started to dump the pitcher of water when Chanti jumped at me, his red-brown feathers puffed up like he'd been dried without a dryer sheet.  In response, I threw the rest of the water at him.  With a squawk, he sulked away while I tossed his feed down and hurried back into the house.

Over the next few weeks his attacks became more aggressive.  In the beginning, I could easily fend Chanti off with a quick kick in his direction, but as his crow matured, so did his boldness.  Soon enough I started carrying a short stick anytime I went in to see the hens.  We began dumping Chanti's food over the fence to keep him distracted while we escaped the run and went back to the house.

I didn't start using the broom until Chanti's attack on my husband.  One afternoon, he was checking on the garden, on the opposite side of our large yard than the coop, when Chanticleer came bounding across the lawn and jumped at him.  Twice.  Despite the hard kicks my husband landed in defending himself.

Needless to say, Chanti's days are now numbered.

But, like the wickedness and evil that we know exists in the world, I knew that Chanti had an aggressive streak.  It was part of his nature.  Yet, I didn't prepare myself to face that meanness, until after it almost had painful consequences.  And even after his attacks caused my daughter to spill feed and my son to drop some eggs, we still relied on our own strength to protect us.

Sometimes we face Satan and his temptations the same way, boldly trusting in our own strength and cunning to keep us from his grasp, when we would have been better off girding ourselves with the Lord's armor.

We know the devil's character.  We know he is cunning and tricky and determined to get us.  Knowing this, we should never face him unarmed, but we should beat him off, standing strong in the armor the Lord has given us, even if our only weapon is a broken push broom!

Scripture Squiggle: Galatians 5:13

"For, brethren, ye have been called unto liberty; only use not liberty for an occasion to the flesh, but by love serve one another."


I heard my husband's aunt banging around in the stairwell as she lugged her bags upstairs.  I thought about offering to help, even set down the measuring spoon I was holding and started toward the stairs, but something stopped me.  What if she didn't want help?  What if by offering to help, I made her feel weak or offended her?  With those thoughts in mind, I waited for her to reach the top of the stairs, thinking that maybe I could give her a hand then.

As I hesitated, my twelve year old son walked into the kitchen and saw his aunt as she approached the gate at the top of the stairs.  "Tricia, do you need help?"  Even as he asked, he was already moving forward, opening the gate and helping her get her bulky bags through.  He then opened the door of the house for her and followed her outside to make sure she was able to get everything in her car.

Why did I hesitate?

Elder M. Russel Ballard, in a general conference session in April of 2011 counseled, "we need to be sensitive to the promptings of the Holy Ghost. The still, small voice will let us know who needs our help and what we can do to help them."

I felt the prompting to help, and I wanted to heed it, but I let my fear of man overcome my fear of the Lord.  And this wasn't the first time.

Recently, after learning that a friends daughter was in the hospital in serious condition after a fall off a swing, I thought about the long drive they had from their house to get to the hospital and the rising price of gas and wondered if I could do anything to help.

I considered giving them a call and offering them some money, but I worried I might upset them by assuming they needed my help.

Most times, I don't have too much trouble heeding the Holy Ghost's promptings.  But when they relate to other people, people I don't know very well or even at all, I struggle.  How can I learn to set aside my doubts and worries about how someone will receive my service and just do it?

Elder Ballard offers this advice: "Brothers and sisters, may I reemphasize that the most important attribute of Heavenly Father and of His Beloved Son that we should desire and seek to possess within our lives is the gift of charity, 'the pure love of Christ.' From this gift springs our capacity to love and to serve others as the Savior did."

Charity doesn't come to us overnight.  We have to pray for it, and we have to work to attain it.  As with all things in the gospel of Jesus Christ, line upon line--a little at a time.

The next time the Holy Ghost urges me to do something for someone else, I'll do my best to respond without doubts and worry.  If I succeed, I'll have taken an important step towards developing charity.

Scripture Squiggle: 2 Nephi 24:16

"They that see thee shall narrowly look upon thee, and shall consider thee, and shall say: Is this the man that made the earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms?"


Last night as the family was gathering for scripture and prayer, my 16 year old son told my husband that he needed to talk to us before he went to bed.  My stomach knotted up as I thought about all the awful things he might be about to tell us.

Satan works that way on me.

He starts feeding me all of the worst-case possibilities anytime something breaks, someone is late coming home, or a teenager wants to talk.  And even though I try my best to turn to the Lord and trust the peace and reassurances he gives me, I always seem to keep Satan's version of things in the back of my mind, wondering if maybe he's right.

So as we walked down the hall to my room to talk, I envisioned tales of secret girlfriends, teen pregnancy, failing classes and suspensions from school, even though I know my son stresses over a C on his report card and can't even jokingly lie to us with a straight face.

I let Satan have those few moments to torment me, which he did rather well.

Until my son confessed that he forgot to turn in his application essay for National Junior Honor Society.  Oh that's all?  Why was I worried?


I look forward to the day when Satan's true character is revealed and he stands powerless before the righteous.    I hope I'm there to say, "Is this the man that made the earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms?"

Until then, I'll try my best to ignore the trembling and shaking he sends in my direction.

Scripture Squiggle: 2 Nephi 28:30

"For behold, thus saith the Lord God: I will give unto the children of men line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little; and blessed are those who hearken unto my precepts, and lend an ear unto my counsel, for they shall learn wisdom; for unto him that receiveth I will give more; and from them that shall say, We have enough, from them shall be taken away even that which they have."

I walk up the stairs in my house multiple times in a day, often carrying a sturdy two-year old, and I've done this now for over a year.  So, why don't my legs feel any stronger?  Why do I still struggle up all fifteen steps when my little boy decides he needs a free ride?

The answer, I believe, comes from laziness.  Yes, I climb those darn stairs A LOT!  But I only climb them when I have to.  What would happen if I pushed myself a little and threw in an extra trip down and up every time a task required me to move from one floor to the next?  

Well, for one thing, my thighs and buttocks would scream at me the next morning.  And they would protest each step I took the next day.  But if were to challenge my body by continuing the extra trips, soon my legs would get stronger and I could totally handle it.  However, if I didn't continue to challenge myself, adding even more journeys down and up, my strength would again plateau.

Spiritually, we are much the same.  If we try to glide through life on the basic primary answers--say your prayers, go to church and read your scriptures--we will be stuck, our spiritual growth will stagnate.  Climbing the spiritual stairs of prayer, scripture study, and meeting attendance will take all of our energy and never get any easier.

Instead, we must challenge ourselves spiritually: stay on our knees longer, read another verse, try to apply something we learned on Sunday to our lives.  

Spiritual strength doesn't just happen any more than physical strength does.  

One of my favorite quotes is: If you don't feel close to the Lord, who moved?

Start climbing those steps back to Him.  

Scripture Squiggle: Doctrine and Covenants 68:28

"And they shall also teach their children to pray, and to walk uprightly before the Lord."


Most nights I don't feel like I'm teaching my two youngest boys anything about prayer.  Even when I do manage to convince them to get on their knees and fold their arms, they start driving toy cars around the living room or tackling each other as soon as the prayer starts.

But Wednesday night, my five-year old proved to me that he is indeed learning.

We discovered on Monday that our home's well water was contaminated so my husband and our neighbor had to clean the well and treat it with chlorine.  On Tuesday we were able to turn the water back on, but the water had too much chlorine in it to consume. As my husband and I were headed out to celebrate my birthday, we gave our children strict instructions to only drink from the water bottles we had filled at my parents' house.

When we arrived home, in the madness of getting our children ready for bed, Cyrus came running to me, a look of sheer panic on his face.

"I accidentally drank some of the yucky water!"

I assured him that a little bit, especially since it had come out of our filtered water spout, wouldn't hurt him.  He'd be fine.

Later that night, after Cy had fallen asleep, I learned that his older brother had told him and the other young boys that if they drank the water, they'd die.  No wonder Cy was scared to death.  But since he seemed okay with things, I dismissed the thought.

Until Wednesday evening when Cy again approached me.

"Mom.  Sometimes Secada prays."

"That's good." I didn't turn away from my computer screen.

"Sometimes I pray.  I prayed last night."

"Oh.  What did you pray for?"  Again, I gave him only a small portion of my attention.

"That I wouldn't die."

That got my attention.  My little Cy-Cy had been afraid he was going to die, and in his fear, he knew enough to turn to his Heavenly Father.  I wrapped him in a hug and tried not to let him see my tears.

Scripture Squiggle: 3 Nephi 16:13

"But if the Gentiles will repent and return unto me, saith the Father, behold they shall be numbered among my people, O house of Israel."


The man sitting on our tattered green couch looked frustratingly familiar.  He introduced himself and his teenage son as our new home teachers, and I had seen him around the church building a few times, but I was sure I knew him from somewhere else.

I studied him, noting his short blond hair and faded blue eyes, and guessed that he was probably around my age.  Then, when he mentioned his old high school, my old high school, I began to suspect.  As soon as the door closed behind them, I dug out my yearbooks to confirm what I already knew.  It was him, and he didn't seem to remember me.

But then, why would he?  Although the incident at the football game had been important to me, it had probably meant nothing to him.

I saw him everyday the first semester of my freshman year.  We passed in the crowded hallway after Algebra, and after a few weeks I found myself looking forward to seeing his handsome face each day.  Eventually he smiled at me--one of those shy smiles that sent my heart thudding against the books I hugged to my chest.

The next day he stopped me in the middle of the hall, people shoving past us on all sides, and asked if I'd like to meet him at the football game that night.  My mouth felt dry; I didn't trust any sound to come out without squeaking, so I nodded.  I was rewarded with another smile.

"See ya tonight."

My hands shook as I showed the gate attendant my ID card.  I peered around him, trying to catch a glimpse of the bleachers while he counted out the change from my entry fee.  Shoving the bills in my pocket, I walked toward the field, worried that he wouldn't show.

But when I reached the bleachers, he stood and jogged down the steps to reach me.  We walked together back to where he'd been sitting with a group of his friends.

"You look great."  He gave me that smile again.

I sat on the cold metal bench, mumbled a thank you and wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans.

He straddled the bench so he was facing me.  "Do you want a smoke?"

My stomach began to protest my dinner.  I looked from my hands to his smiling, handsome face and swallowed nervously.  Around us, some of his friends had already lit up and the acrid smell of smoke began to drift over me.  I felt a tickle in my lungs as the smoke triggered my asthma; I scratched at my throat.  "I guess not."

"Oh."  His wonderful smile disappeared as he moved to face forward.  "Well, I do."

Not knowing what else to do, I stood up and walked back down the bleachers.  He didn't try to stop me.

No.  He had no reason to remember me.  But that night was the first time anyone had so openly asked me to  do something I knew was wrong.  So I remembered.

And now fifteen years later, he was my home teacher.  A faithful, concerned home teacher, as it turned out, who brought us chocolate chip cookies and Oreos.

Evidence that the Lord gives each of his children a chance to return and repent.