Wanna laugh?

Benji has the CUTEST toothy smile. He was flashing it all over the place today. It was making me laugh. He must finally be feeling better. We didn't bring him to church on Sunday because (1) he was vomiting unpredictably on and off this week and (2) we heard rumors that there was swine flu in our congregation. I went to church because I was substituting in Leo's primary class. My favorite part was when the song leader asked all the kids to get out their "pointer" fingers and Katie turned to me and whispered, "I don't have a pointer. I only have wings." flap flap. That made me laugh.

Regarding #2 ... there is no topic that can get people in a lather faster than germs. Me included. Little, invisible things that pass from person to person in ways that we really can't control, and invade our cells, give us weird rashes, cause us pain and make us sick. And mutate. Isn't that a scary word? MUTATE. And the media isn't helping. "Tonight on the SWINE FLU ALERT! Someone between the ages of 3 and 49 died of swine flu somewhere along the Wasatch Front." Thanks, media. YOU'RE FREAKING ME OUT!

My nephew is on a mission in Mexico. They couldn't wear ties because ties carry germs. For two weeks he didn't wear a tie. Maybe we should wear garlic around our necks instead. So I laugh about it because otherwise I would be at the head of the mob shouting witch. It is the only way to stop the germs.

I love funny people. Here are two blogs that make me laugh out loud:

Cake Wrecks
Bad cakes. It is that simple.

The Pioneer Woman
Many of you may have heard of this one. It is so dear, and so funny. And so beautiful. I don't want to live on a ranch. I don't work that hard. But it is fun to do so vicariously.

Sweet Little Benji

That's right. Clean it up kid.

Sweet little Benji ... barfed all over the floor ... at church ... in front of 40 people ... in the line to get root beer floats for Father's Day. Picture me looking down to see what was spilling on my shoe and realizing it was my baby's stomach contents. Picture me plucking up the little critter, handing him to Jeff (happy father's day) and running for paper towels. Picture me in my barf-spattered skirt, kneeling on the floor in front of 40 people who are not so sure they want root beer floats anymore, cleaning up half-digested cheerios with paper towels, trying to explain that it was the curdled milk sippie Benji found and drank in his bed, not the flu.

Fun times. Fun times.

And by the way, you know you are a mom when you can catch a hand full of applesauce barf, go wash your hands, and then go back to the dinner table to finish your steak. It was STEAK after all.

In this photo Benji spilled a milkshake.
But it looks like barf.
I don't take pictures of my kids puking.

Father's Day Talk

I spoke in church on Sunday ... an early Father's Day talk. For those who happen not to be Mormon, in my church, occasionally, you are asked to share thoughts with the congregation in a short sermon. I relied heavily on thought from my brother, Toby. This is what I chose to say (I always write it out, to beat the jitters):

I was asked to talk about the blessings of the Priesthood from a woman's perspective.

Men are not “the priesthood.” The priesthood is the eternal power and authority of God. Through the priesthood God created and governs the heavens and the earth. Through this power He redeems and exalts His children, bringing to pass "the immortality and eternal life of man" (Moses 1:39). The blessings of the priesthood, such as baptism, receiving the Holy Ghost, the temple endowment, and eternal marriage, are available to men and women alike. God gives priesthood authority to worthy male members of the Church so they can act in His name for the salvation of His children. Priesthood holders can be authorized to preach the gospel, administer the ordinances of salvation, and govern the kingdom of God on the earth.

-Dallin H. Oaks

In practice, men and the Priesthood have a mutually reinforcing relationship. The man in his family and the church is dependent upon the Priesthood for doctrine, ordinances, and priesthood keys. The Priesthood provides the authority and ordinances necessary to perpetuate man's relationships to the eternities.

Priesthood strengthens men, and men strengthen the Priesthood.

Manhood

It is hard to find a talk about what it means to be a man, except in relationship to others … women, children, in a family, a quorum. Why are relationship so important to being a man? Perhaps because there is no single definition except as he looks outside of himself. Like the definition of light. Light is only seen by how it reflects off an object.

Men are created in the image of God. Each is a beloved spirit son of heavenly parents, and, as such, each has a divine nature and destiny. Gender is an essential characteristic of individual premortal, mortal, and eternal identity and purpose.

From The Family, A Proclamation to the World:

Men are born with inherent characteristics of a the male gender. What are those characteristics? We can't generalize too much, because I know the great and wonderful variations in personality there are from one person to the next. I can tell you what it means from the examples I've had in my life.

Physical Strength

Men are generally physically stronger than women and children. This can be used for good or bad. I've seen great examples of using a man's strength to help and lift others. There are also those who would use their advantage in a negative way ... in temper, force, and manipulation.

Fortunately for me, my dad is a second cousin to Superman. One time when I was single and in college, I had to go interview a forest crew on the far side of Utah lake for a research paper… there is nothing on the far side of Utah Lake. It is 40 miles from the freeway, 100 miles from Provo, and eight miles from the nearest tiny town. Halfway up a mountain, I got a flat tire. I didn't have a spare. Irresponsible, yes. And I'm sure my dad thought so when I called him from my cell phone. He had a very busy day, he said. He had meetings at work, and classes to teach at BYU. I said Okay, I'd see what I could do on my own. Five minutes later he called back and said he had canceled it all, and was on his way. I protested, you have so much to do! His words of love will stay with me forever. “Everyone needs someone twho will drop everything to save them.” It took the whole day to get the spare, get it on, and get home. But he did it. Like I said, Superman.

Protector and Provider

My husband Jeff doesn't have to chase after a saber-tooth tiger with a club. At one time, men had to be physical protectors of their families. Where we live, it isn't so necessary anymore, but a remnant of that role is the activeness and aggressiveness of boys … as anyone who sits behind me in sacrament meeting can attest, since I have four of them. Jeff still protects us from accident, from evil, from the elements. He provides our house, our cars, pays our bills, fixes our computer, fixes flat tires, builds tree forts, mows the lawn, washes windows, and occasionally changes a diaper. These are things we could not do without. Our kids will go on missions, go to college, need monetary help as they grow. Jeff provides.

This is the ideal, it isn't what happens in every family. My mom worked outside our home, and Jeff's dad passed away when he was young. His mom was the provider for most of his life. But we both understand the benefits of this system. I love to nurture my kids the whole day in these few fleeting years when they are young. Jeff has the talent and drive to provide us with the things we use to make for us a comfortable home.

Father

In addition to being strong, being a protector and provider, a father gets to model the role of man to boys and girls. Not only does a father show his children what it means to be a man, he, along with other great role models, set the stage for a child's relationship to God, for God is our Heavenly Father, and the definition of “father” is formed at a young age.

It is strange to compare cards for Mother's Day … with their flowers and heart-felt poetry, to your typical Father's Day card … with a photo on the front of an overweight guy on a couch watching TV. This is probably more indicative of the differences in sense of humor between men and women, but I also think that the role of father is undervalued. It takes only a few genes to be a father, but to be a good father is much more.

Which bring me to what it means to be a man ...

Perhaps to be a Man means to embrace and excel at the rolls I already mentioned.

I think the difference between being a man and being a great man is his ability to make and keep commitments (or in a religious sense, covenants … which brings us back to the priesthood). On the most basic level, this is what is takes to be true man – know matter who you are, or where you live. I'd like to talk about it in the more general term of commitment today, because it is more inclusive of the wide role that men and fathers play in our lives.

Even though it's painfully obvious to say, 'making' commitments and 'keeping' them are two different things.

The lowest of men either doesn't have enough sense to make commitments – or worse yet, willfully avoids them. A better man prepares himself for future commitments that will build upon his manhood. He also physically puts himself in situations that are conducive to commitment making (accepting the priesthood, going to school, serving a mission, dating, marriage, and having children).

All of these commitments are important to make...but this is only the beginning. With every commitment comes a responsibility to keep them. This is where it becomes HARD – and most rewarding. Waking up everyday, knowing that you're going to serve all those to whom you have a commitment – your wife, children, employer, neighbors, church members...even down to the people who drive along with you on the freeway (you've made a social commitment to keep others safe by not being distracted or aggressive when you drive). This is what God meant when he said 'endure the end' (2 Nephi 31).

[IF]

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

--Rudyard Kipling

God, however, did not make man to simply work or suffer. Commitments are a means to an end. God's plan for a man is to have joy – and the deepest and most fulfilling joy comes through commitment. Family, love, career, sport, achievement, grades, social fulfillment, talent, all things that make men have joy come through commitment.

I'm so grateful to have had wonderful role models in my life of what it means to be a man. I thank my heavenly father for these wonderful men in my life.

Amen

Two Great Quotes About Food

As you cook, you enjoy omniscience about food that no amount of label reading can match. Having retaken control of the meal from the food scientists, you know exactly what is in it. (Unless you start w/cream of mushroom soup, in which case all bets are off.) To reclaim control over one's food, to take it back from industry & science, is no small thing; indeed, in our time, cooking from scratch qualifies as subversive.

~~ Michael Pollan



If you're afraid of butter, use cream.

~~ Julia Child

More me as a kid

Rexburg, Idaho is a cold place. In the height of summer, a cool wind blows down from the Teton Mountains, rolling sagebrush across the highway on the edge of the town. In the winter, the world freezes for months at a time. The snowplow pushed snow out of the street in a haphazard manner, blocking driveways and crosswalks. Drifts from the cleared streets would pile on the side of the roads, growing steadily taller through the winter months. At the height of the frozen season, we would chip steps into the side of these peaks, and climb to the top. We would walk down their summits, from one end of my dead-end street to the other, high above the mailboxes and car roofs. One misstep meant tumbling down the side, to an icy landing at the bottom.

School was three blocks away, and I was usually dressed for the weather in whatever coat fit me that year. On days when I couldn't find a pair of matching socks in the laundry basket, I went without, and my shoes had a few cracks and holes. Icy water seeped under the arches of my feet, and I knew that I had to endure that painful frigid feeling until I could make it home. My fingers would ache. My nose would alternate between numb and sore. Two more blocks to go. The crossing guard lingered to chat before shuttling us across busy Main street. By the time I reached the top of my street, I could feel the salty tears stinging my eyes and draining down into my nose. The wet streaks would freeze. No relief, even in crying. When I got home, I'd run to the basement to see if a fire was lit in the black stove. If there was, I'd squeeze my wet sock and mittens and let the water drip onto the hot surface. It was shudder and boil in a gratifying way. I'd turn on Brady Bunch, point my toes toward the stove, and thaw until my mom called us up for music practice.

I carried a cello to school some days. What possessed me to take cello lessons, I do not know. I disliked piano lessons before cello was even an option. Cellos are big and are heavy for a skinny kid. I grabbed the handle, swung my arm around the tall neck, and crooked the top scroll under my neck to keep it upright as I walked. It banged against my leg and made my fingers go numb from the weight. My mom bought me a luggage carrier to strap it to, but it did no good on snowy days. The little wheels couldn't make it over even the smallest slush-piles. I envied the flute players with their little black cases. And I once saw a piccolo player tuck her instrument, case and all, in a three-ring binder.

Mr. Hansen, the Orchestra teacher was one of the only teachers I loved with my whole heart. I was horrible on the cello, and he didn't care. He was kind, funny, and welcoming. He was even inspiring. I tried to excel, then when I made no progress, I didn't try. My older sister did well in orchestra, and I wanted to continue the family tradition. It wasn't until I was older that my mom finally discovered the reason I couldn't read sheet music was astigmatism. The lines seemed to criss-cross, and I couldn't identify on which line that little black dot was perched. Piano was the same … I never progressed. Of all my siblings who my mother force-marched through music lessons for our entire childhood, I was the only one she allowed to quit cold turkey.

Ironically, I loved music, and I loved the idea of creating music. I just didn't have the talent. It didn't phase me much. I still knew I was smart. That was my niche. Wearing glasses only reinforced that role.

*Note ... the above photo is a bad illustration of this snippet. It was taken in Mauritius, where it has never snowed. 75-80 degrees year-round. Also, I'm not wearing glasses because I "accidentally" broke my odious glasses the day before we left for this year-long adventure. That is me on the right. We are wearing uniforms because we attended a Catholic girls' school while we were there.

Me as a kid

I used to imagine myself beautiful … not that I was ugly. I had big eyes and soft brown hair … all any kid needs to be considered cute. But I wore glasses, and never had much of a sense of style. In my imagination, I would come to school in a beautiful flowing white gown, with long hair, and sparkling white shoes with high heels. I'd walk into the classroom, and everyone would turn and stare. Kids would run to me, and ask if they could sit by me at lunch. And Janee Jolley, the snob, would be bald, her long curly locks taken by a sudden illness she had brought upon herself with snobbery, and her bald head would be misshapen and have bumps.

The dream would always be hobbled at this point. I couldn't imagine going to recess in my beautiful white dress and heels. The dress would get muddy, and it would be hard to run. So I in my mind I switched to beautiful white pants, which had the magical property of not getting dirty, no matter how hard I played. But they didn't flow when I walked, and iI would lose interest in the odd amalgamation of dream and practicallity.

I had two enemies in 3^rd grade; Janee Jolley the snob, and Chelsey Hillman. Janee didn't pose much of a threat … frankly, I wasn't in her league. She lived on the hill with the other rich kids, had beautiful long blond curls, and was surrounded by a bevy of friends on the playground. I didn't interact much with her, only on the odd occasion when we were assigned to the same group table in class. She was for the most part a philosophical enemy. She represented everything I hated, and wanted.

Chelsey Hillman, on the other hand, was real. She was a mean critter, with sharp teeth and claws. She and her divorced mother lived in our neighborhood. She attended my church, went to my library, and played with my friends. We went to summer camp together, and ate at the same table in the cafeteria. I hated her. She hated me. She and I vied for the same friends, and she tried to poison their minds against me. She watched for ways to ruin my life. I had to be vigilant to avoid her tricks. I had to be conniving to spar against her. She told Laurie, my best friend, that she would rather die than invite me to her birthday party, even if I was the last person on earth. Laurie told me this, with pity in her eyes.

I tried on occasion, to do what we were taught in church, and turn the other cheek. I tried to be nice to Chelsey. I tried to invite her to my birthday party … the sacred day on my eighth birthday when my mom would actually allow me to have a “friend” party, rather than just birthday cake with my own family. I had five brothers and sisters, and my mom would only let us have friend parties on our eighth, twelfth, and sixteenth birthdays. It was a once-in-a-lifetime event, practically, and the first time I would have this privilege. I prayed for the strength to invite her. I felt inspired to do it. I wrote her name on the back of an envelope. Then I erased it. Then I wrote it again and put it in my coat pocket on the way to school. Then crumpled it into the garbage once I got there. I pulled it out of the garbage, and saw that it was ruined. I threw it back. I had failed. I couldn't do it. This was my day, and I didn't want her to ruin it. I knew I was being selfish, and didn't care. I had a chance to bridge the chasm, and didn't. I didn't want to take the risk.

The greatest affront, perhaps, was that I had invited everyone I could think of, even a few boys. But I didn't invite her. Not if she was the last person alive on earth.