Magic.

Today was Christmas. It was a wonderful, relaxing day that even included a nap. Naps didn't come easy when my children were younger. 

This Christmas, we were able to get wonderful gifts for each other and our children, without gut-wrenching worry over each dime spent. But today I was also remembering a Christmas of years past, when money was extremely tight. 

The flooring industry had taken a hit with 9/11, and our fledging software company had absorbed that downturn, with very few sales and not enough maintenance fees to hold us over. Things were very, very tight. We had not had much of a paycheck for months. And at the time, I was working doing marketing for our company but not getting paid. (In that it was counterintuitive to building a financially stable business if we both took paychecks at that time.) So I couldn't supplement our income.

As December approached, I was really worried about presents for my children. I had a pit in my stomach all month long. While they were not particularly greedy nor materialistic, they were at an age when they believed in "the magic of Christmas", and in the power of Santa to bring them whatever toy they asked for. And while I understood that money and presents do not buy happiness, I felt weighed down by stress and worry. 

If I remember correctly, this was our first winter of Chad serving as bishop. He and I have wondered, in retrospect, if this experience was to give him an extra measure of compassion and empathy for ward members going through difficult financial trials. 

And despite the anxiety, small but significant blessings came. Annie's sweet preschool teacher Mrs. Goose offered to let her continue to attend, and told us not to worry about her tuition until we got a paycheck.  We had enough food. We somehow could pay our house payment. Everyone was relatively healthy. But we were basically living off our credit card, which was terrifying and risky.

But it ended up being such a beautiful, memorable Christmas. 

We were blessed with many sweet acts of service that year. There were so many tender mercies. But one I remember in particular was that someone (or a group of someones, most likely) did a Twelve Days of Christmas for us. Each night, we would receive a gift at our doorstep. Thoughtful, funny, and creative little gifts or treats, that warmed our hearts each night. My kids absolutely loved it, and were so excited each night to find the gifts. 

At the end of the 12 days, we were given an envelope filled with cash. I can't remember how much it was, but I do remember it was a significant amount of money. And I remember that both Chad and I just cried. 

I'd worried about missing the magic of Christmas, with our stringent budget. But have realized since that THIS was the magic of Christmas. Feeling God's love through the kind acts of others. Sharing love with one another. Strengthening the feeble knees. Serving and giving without recognition. Pulling others to their feet and putting an arm around them, to rejoice in the birth of our Savior, together. 

Christmas angels appeared amidst our heavy, dark night that year. They helped us feel seen, supported, and loved. It was extremely humbling.   

And it was truly magical. 

Learning Humility By Force (also known as Parenting)

Before I was a parent, I thought I was a patient person. I was wrong.

For me, motherhood has been the most amazing, most rewarding, greatest generator of joy in my life (besides Jesus Christ, of course), and 10/10 the most humbling thing I have ever experienced. I so often felt (feel?) like a large lump of a rock, that God was chiseling, bit by bit, to try to uncover the daughter He knew was in there and the parent He knew I could be. News flash -- this did not feel pleasant nor comfortable.  

Luckily, I have been blessed with absolutely incredible kids who were resilient despite a mother who made all sorts of mistakes. 

I have an embarrassing confession to make. When I was something like 3 weeks pregnant with my first child, and thus an Expert on all things related to motherhood, I smugly said to my husband, "I don't think I will get morning sickness. Because I'm a healthy person, and not one of those drama queens who have to 'take to their bed' with a migraine every few weeks."  Well, God heard that, and decided I needed a bit of a lesson in empathy and judging others. I had terrible morning sickness throughout my pregnancies. And, just in case I hadn't learned my lesson, later in life He allowed me to experience debilitating migraines, just for good measure.

That pattern has repeated itself throughout my entire parenting career.

I was NEVER going to talk baby talk. And that lasted until Aerin, my first, was about 15 seconds old. 

I was NEVER going to be overprotective. But then I quickly spiraled into a complete meltdown when my three day old baby was exposed to chicken pox. I called the doctor, after hours, sobbing. ME: "My neighbor came over with her 2 year old toddler. Her daughter had her hands all over my baby. And I just found out the next day she broke out with chicken pox! And I know that the day before is when they are the most contagious!" DR: "Does your baby have a fever?" ME: "No." "DR: Has she broken out in spots?" ME: "No. Not yet. But the toddler was contagious! And she was touching her!" DR: "Is your baby showing any signs of sickness?" ME: "I don't know! She's only a few days old!" DR: "But there are immunities. She'll probably be just fine." ME: (wailing) BUT I"M NOT BREAST FEEDING!!!" (Dissolving into sobs.)

I'm sure I made the "Honey, you'll never guess what happened today at work," conversation that night between the doctor and his wife.

I also was NEVER going to be overly controlling. When I was younger, I interpreted that as not doing my kids' science fair tri-folds for them. I thought it meant letting my children access their storybooks at all times, do art projects involving glitter, and get both the legos AND the pokemon cards out at the same time. But then I became a mother of teenagers. I became wracked with anxiety over the fact that I could not protect them from the hell of junior high. The heavy realization that I could not prevent them from choosing horrible friends or damaging boyfriends, nor could I keep them from potentially making dreadful choices that could harmfully impact the rest of their lives, was incredibly troubling. And at that point, I realized... I have Control Issues. 

My kids actually were all really great teenagers. But I didn't know if any of us would survive their toddler years. All three of my kids landed in the Completely Crazy and Out of Control Toddler category. Still not sure if it was genetic, parenting fails, or a combination of the two. But each one of my toddlers was incredibly busy.  

People would often comment on it, thinly disguising their criticism by saying things such as, "My goodness, your daughter/son is very.... active... isn't he/she?" or "Wow, you are a very patient mother." Which was usually code for, "If that were my child, I would not put up with that."

A few years ago, my friend Rebekka, who was always very direct, said to me, "I need to apologize to you." When I asked her why, she said, "We always sat behind you at church. And I would watch your kids climb all over you and I would tell Gary, "If those were my kids, they'd be slapped silly. Why doesn't she do something about her kids?" But your kids turned out really well. So I guess I was wrong." 

I mumbled, "Thank you?"

And then about 6 or 7 years ago, a friend from my old neighborhood and ward said to me. "We were just talking about you the other day. Y'know (neighbor)? Her kids are really really hard right now. I told her, "Do you remember Christy Ogden? Her kids were TERRIBLE, and yet they all turned out really great." 

I'm not sure if I should be grateful I'm a source of hope for beleaguered mothers, or embarrassed that I am the litmus test of crazy toddlers? 

Either way, I'm grateful that we all survived somewhat intact and that no one became an axe murderer. 

But never say never. 

Because that's how Parenting goes.

"Lord, If Thou Hadst Been Here" - Becoming Whole

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about the story of The Raising of Lazarus. It's a beautiful and amazing miracle. And while some think it is simply a nice biblical allegory, I believe it really happened.

In a talk April 2023, Elder W. Mark Bassett spoke of the story of Lazarus, and had some cool insights. He talked about how in the process of performing the miracle, the Savior asked followers to do what they could do, and then He did what only He could do. For example, Jesus requested that those present move the stone from the grave. They could do this. 

Jesus next expressed gratitude to His Father, which I believe is instructive for all of us. Gratitude opens the windows of heaven. And expressing gratitude to God is something else we can do ourselves. 

And then, Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, as only He could do. He commanded Lazarus (or "Laz" as the Chosen calls him) to come forward.  And Laz obeyed.  

Then He asked Lazarus's loved ones to help remove his grave bandages. And their fear turned to wonder. 

What a joyful scene this must have been!

The reminder that the Lord asks us to do what we can do, and then we look to Him to do what only He can do, has made me think about my Long Covid journey. What are those things that I can do to improve my health? And what things do I need to leave in His hands?

My favorite part of the entire chapter of John 11 is verse 5, which reads, "And Jesus loved Martha, and her sister [Mary], and Lazarus." I believe that all of our stories can start that way. 

"And Jesus loved Christy... and Chad..." and so on. 

But Him loving us doesn't translate into a stress-free life. He loved Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. And yet tragedy struck. 

"Lord, if thou hadst been here..." both grief-stricken sisters say to Him, when he finally showed up on the 4th day. "Where were you, and why did this happen, if you love us?" and "Why didn't you come sooner?" was the unspoken, heart-wrenching question. 

We all have those moments.

Yet Martha still met Him on the road when she heard he had come. She was in anguish, and He was too late, but she still exerted the initiative and energy (and, quite possibly, charity despite disappointment) required to go meet Him. I love that example. 

Do I go to meet Him? Even when I'm thinking, "Where have you been?"

My aunt and uncle asked me a few weeks ago to share some thoughts as we studied Paul's teachings about the Lord being with us in difficult times. I have so many different thoughts and emotions tumbling around in my mind, and it's hard to crystallize them all.

I have been learning a lot of truths over the past 2 1/2 years. One that is glaringly obvious is that I am NOT a patient person by nature. And while Long Covid has brought a lot of insights and a lot of growth, I do not yet feel like I am on the mountaintop, looking down with a clear perspective. I'm still trudging along I-80.

But I absolutely recognize that the Lord has sent heavenly help through all of this. His hand is seen in different ways... sometimes through a new insight; sometimes through the kind actions and words of others; sometimes with a reminder that I can still serve and help others despite my limitations; sometimes simply with peace. I try to record how I have seen the Hand of the Lord at the end of each day. Having that record reminds me of His tender care and that He is not an impartial observer.

But one thing that I have realized, to a much greater degree than before, is that the Savior is not a magic wand. He is a companion on the journey. When Jesus was on the earth, with only one or two exceptions, he didn't teleport himself from place to place. He walked the dusty roads alongside His followers. He camped on the hard ground and endured the elements. He worked to put up tents, find and cook food, and all of the other mundane and sometimes uncomfortable tasks, alongside everyone else.

And with my personal journey, I've realized He is walking alongside me, even on the most difficult paths. He doesn't just magically whisk me onto a Nimbus 2000 to skip the hard parts. (Is it sacrilege to combine Harry Potter and Jesus? Hopefully, no.) The point is, the key element that makes things easier to navigate is NOT that the setting changes. It's that when we are yoked with Him, we benefit from His strength, His power, His direction. We can't access those things if He is just cheering us on from a distance. 

I've thought a lot about what it means to be yoked with the Lord, and how I can choose to be so. What does that look like for me? And, once I am, how I can be submissive and not continually yank against the yoke saying, "No, I want to go THIS direction!" or "I really think your navigation must be off..."

My illness has increased my desire to be yoked to Him, and has reminded me that I need Him. (Every hour I need Him.) Because everything is better and easier and more joyful when He is near my side.

But it's a work in progress. My health is a work in progress. My life is a work in progress!

The oratorio Lamb of God, by Rob Gardner, has a song that Martha sings, that speaks to how I feel. She pleads,

Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, which should come

The Son of God

But I do not understand...

Touch my eyes and bid them see

That my gaze might pierce the veil

And behold the wondrous scene

That, in dreams, I've long beheld

Oh, touch my heart and bid it know

That ev'ry sorrow here

Is but a moment's tear

And Thou wilt make me whole again

Touch my ears and bid them hear

All the glory of Thy truth

That my hope might come of faith

And no more require proof

Oh, touch my heart and bid it know

That, while in darkness here

The light is ever near

And Thou wilt make me whole again

Then touch my lips and bid them sing

Songs of everlasting praise

That my soul might then believe

And give thanks through all my days!

Oh touch my heart and bid it know

That ev'ry breath I take

Is by Thy tender grace

And Thou wilt make me whole

And Thou wilt make me whole

Oh, Thou wilt make me whole again.

("Make Me Whole", Lamb of God, by Rob Gardner)

Here's to becoming whole!

Lessons Learned Juggling Work and Family (My 2 part column in Floor Covering News)

So I was asked to write a column for Women in the Flooring Business, and Floor Covering News, on juggling work and motherhood. I think the invitation was based on some conversations I had had with a friend @ WOFB, and the empathy I expressed in her role as a young single mother juggling a career, kids, and car pools. It certainly wasn't because I have it all down. I never have. 

TBH, I struggled with writing the column. It was daunting because I know that these women are trying really hard to do really hard things, and thus, it's tender. I also recognize no one's situation or path looks the same. And I would never want to make a woman feel discouraged or defensive. I wanted them to feel encouraged.

So this is what I ended up with, and they printed it in a 2 column series in Floor Covering News. Keep in mind this is a professional newspaper for the flooring industry, so the audience is made up of individuals working in the industry. But I believe many of the lessons apply to those working hard as stay-at-home mothers as well.

Getting older is a mixed bag, but one of the blessings is that life teaches you lessons along the way. When WOFB approached me to talk about balancing a profession and parenthood, it was definitely NOT because I did it perfectly, or even gracefully. In fact, I often felt I was dropping balls at the speed of light. And sometimes I bungled things, on both the workfront and the homefront.

But with age comes experience, perspective, and empathy. I’ve worked full-time, part-time, and been a full-time mother at home. I’ve worked 100% in the office, solely from a home office, and a hybrid of both. I’ve been the employee, the employer, and the freelance contractor.  

Spoiler Alert: It’s All Hard. 

It’s okay that it’s hard. Often in today’s world, we’re wired to automatically jump from “This is really hard.” to “Therefore, something is VERY wrong and needs to be fixed.” But the reality is, parenting demands a lot of us, if we are engaged and committed. And it’s extremely difficult to juggle work and family life, particularly when children are young. Feelings of exhaustion and overwhelm are common. 

But that doesn’t mean we’re doing it wrong. Worthwhile, long-term investments, whether building a business or nurturing a family (or both, simultaneously), require much of us. Ask any elite athlete or musician. Sacrifice is always part of the equation. So when you’re feeling like a failure, try to allow yourself a little grace. You’re doing difficult things. Life often gets easier. And forward progress doesn’t have to be flawless in order to still be gaining ground. 

Evaluate, Adjust and Adapt. And Repeat.

That being said, it’s amazing how sometimes small adaptations can improve things dramatically. A change to your schedule, a different day care solution, doing certain tasks from home, etc. We often jump to All or Nothing conclusions, when in reality, the looming concern can be helped by a slight adjustment. One mistake I made when I was younger was thinking that I had to choose A or B, when really there was an entire alphabet of options that were available to explore. Secondly, I thought that once I made a decision, I had to stick with it forever. That also is a fallacy. For instance, I worked fewer hours when I had little ones at home, and as my children grew, (and our company grew), I was able to increase my work hours and responsibilities. Of course, a large percentage of people simply don't have a choice - regardless of their children’s ages, they have to work full-time. But Covid forever changed workplace expectations and configurations, and we often don’t consider all of the creative ways we can adjust and adapt to make the best choices for ourselves and for our families. 

But then, once you find your groove and things are flowing along rather smoothly, inevitably - BAM - life throws you a curveball. Perhaps there’s an emergency situation with your company, or a staff member has a crisis and you are unexpectedly picking up their slack. Or maybe your child or parent becomes gravely ill. There may be times you simply have to miss your daughter’s soccer game, just as there may be times you choose to miss an important sales meeting in order to watch her score the winning goal. You will at times have to revise and adapt, and find new solutions along the way. What works this year may not work next year. Don’t be afraid to adjust, evaluate, and adjust again, as needed. And as an employer, try to allow your team members to do the same.

Boundaries Should Be a Thing. 

Many years ago, I worked at an ad agency. The hours were long, the pace was intense, and there was an unspoken but very clearly defined rule that any inference that your life did not 100% revolve around your work was not acceptable. There were snide remarks, particularly (and sadly), from women about other women, when family interferences of any sort crept in. Fortunately, as a society, we have evolved a bit since then. As telecommuting and working remotely have become more prevalent, it also has become more common to see visible signs of your role at work and your role at home intersecting with one another. Some customers may be understanding; others are not. 

Life is easier, in my experience, when you can somewhat segment Home Life and Work Life, whether physically (store vs. home) or hourly (I am available these hours and days). Here’s the tricky part: it’s often much easier to say no to your spouse/partner, your kids, and your personal attempts for self care, than it is to say no to a client or supervisor. Getting swept up in the path of least resistance can negatively impact the health of those relationships. And these are people (yourself included) who are definitely worth investing in.

Sure, there’s never enough time in the day. And you wish you could clone yourself. That’s a given. But being purposeful in scheduling your time can give you a sense of control. It can remind you that you have the power to choose your own priorities and path.

Here’s an example. Growing my business was important to me. Spending time with my children was also important to me. Something I did with my children that worked well (among the 3,000 things I tried that did NOT work well), was Fun Day Fridays. I would do my best to clear my Friday afternoons in the summertime and during school vacations. Fun Day Friday would be spent enjoying time together, and everyone took a turn choosing the activity. It started with not-so-fun-for-Mom activities like “visiting the ball pit at McDonalds” but as my kids got older (and surprisingly, were still willing to hang out with mom), it evolved to movies, hikes, Super Smash battles, etc. Fun Day Fridays helped me feel less guilt when I had to say no to various activities Mon-Thurs, and that simple act of carving out a block of time just for my kids seemed to help them know that spending time with them was important to me. And ultimately, it created a reservoir of sweet memories that has blessed our relationships. The return on that simple investment of time has been huge. Perhaps you can’t carve out a weekly summer afternoon, but deliberately penciling in time (whenever it may be) with family and diligently keeping those appointments will have a huge payoff.  

The Myth of Balance - We all strive for the magical balance between home and family and self care and work and community service and everything else. I’m not convinced that true balance is feasible or realistic. And there are times that things will be dramatically skewed. (Starting a new business or just having given birth are two examples that come to mind.) But you get points for effort here. Taking time out regularly to prioritize and plan, rather than just getting swept up in the tumbling chaos of life, can help you stay mindful and present. Balance is not required to feel at peace.

You’re Doing Better Than You Think. Truly. One of the hardest things about trying to juggle all of the demands of life is that there are scores of spectators on the sidelines, throwing shade and critiquing us on our juggling techniques and the balls we’re dropped, and so much more. It’s painful to get punched over something you are trying so hard to do well. I wish that we as a society, and particularly we as women, could be better at recognizing that everyone’s juggling act is unique and worth celebrating. We are hard on ourselves, and we are hard on each other. And most of the time, we’re doing much better than we think we are. You may feel like a Hot Mess, but that heat is simply the steam powering you up and over the mountains of life. And I celebrate your journey.

Processing Long Covid, 2 Years Out

 (Written Dec. 26, 2022)

I cannot make out with my husband any more. I can kiss him, but I don’t have the lung capacity for long lip locks. I have to keep breaking away.

I’ve also learned I can no longer sustain a sound (ooooo or eeeee) and go up or down in pitch. (Is it called melisma?) I don’t have the breath for it. When I try, I just spastically staccato 3 or 4 different notes. 

Just a few ongoing gifts from Long Covid.

I hit my 2 year Covid anniversary on Christmas Eve. Thinking about it makes me weep. 

How irritated I was, Christmas Eve of 2020, that our plans for that evening had to be canceled. I smile wryly at the irony of it all. To think how annoyed I was that I couldn’t do what I had planned. It’s fortuitous that I did not realize that I had years ahead of me, stacked with plans I had to cancel, tasks I couldn’t complete, events I couldn’t attend, and symptoms I couldn’t understand, let alone clearly explain. And that I was just beginning a lengthy, interminable receiving line of doctors and nurses who either shrugged, dismissed, or were intrigued in an “aren’t you a fascinating specimen” kind of way.

There’s been progress. On nights like tonight it may be hard to recognize, but it’s true. And I need to state, unequivocally, that the past two years have also carried plenty of joyful moments, and countless blessings. Truly.

But I guess I’m allowing myself to mourn a bit tonight. It’s 4:48 am, and my body aches and each limb feels weighed down and cumbersome, and my breathing feels shallow and off-kilter although o2 is perfectly fine right at this second (92%). 

But the body aches are keeping me up and I can’t sleep. So I figured I might as well process by writing. It’s what I do.

I’ve blogged a bit in the past about a few lessons learned along this journey. I learn them, and re-learn them, and then start to forget again. I’m obviously not great at retention, when it comes to Lessons from God.

But as I think about it, I WANT there to be growth and wisdom harvested from this horrid experience. Otherwise… what a waste. If I have to suffer, I want to learn from it.

The writer in me wants to be able to summarize the experience neatly into a tight, clear, precise thesis: Here’s the conclusion. End of story. End of suffering.

But it’s not quite that tidy.

Even with 2 years under my belt, I still haven’t given up fighting for a denouement to this story, and I’d like it sooner rather than later, thank you very much. 

I want Long Covid to be a mountain I conquer. Huffing, sweaty, legs wobbly, a bit dehydrated, but eventually sitting at the summit, being cooled by the wind, and taking in the beauty and immensity of the view below me.

I want it to be a formidable and worthy opponent whom I finally conquer, bleeding and staggering, but victorious. A half nelson on the wrestling mat, with the ref pulling my weary arm to the sky in victory.

I do not want it to be a slog along I-80 through Wyoming and Nebraska, the road endlessly stretching before me, each view similar, not knowing where the summit is or even if there is one.

I do not want it to be the horror flick villain that Just Won’t Die, the one who keeps jumping out from the shadows, just when you think he is gone for good.

I want a Hero’s Journey; a resolution; a victory. Not a weary, monotonous trudge.

But perhaps I’m being a bit melodramatic. (The middle of the night can do that to a person.)  I realize there have been small victories. And that I’d be a fool not to recognize it. I am significantly better than I was a year ago. Chad & my kids remind me of this when I start to feel sorry for myself.

I no longer have an o2 machine next to my bed. (Although strangely, I miss the o2, sometimes.)

My POTS is better controlled, so that I can drive most days, and thus I have regained my independence. I am less dizzy. My heart doesn’t race and jump all over like it used to. I can go to the grocery store without resting heavily on the shopping cart to steady and support myself. I can do more around the house. I can even exercise on good days. Not like I used to, but I remind myself that something is better than nothing.

And did I mention? I rode a bike for the first time in 2 years. It was blissful.

I’ve moved from an 80-85% cancellation rate to about a 15-20% cancellation rate of planned events.  

So there really is much to celebrate.

But not quite enough to say, “I'm on top of this.”

My body aches most of the time, and sometimes it is quite severe. It feels like the flu.

My chest occasionally feels tight and sore, particularly after breathing exercises. I already talked about the spastic breathing. It’s like my mind forgot how to breathe, and now it seems to take concerted effort and focus to do it right.

Then there’s the fatigue. Oh, the fatigue...

My hands go numb each morning and night when I kneel to pray. And several times throughout the day.  My feet also go numb quite often.

I still get occasional tinnitus in my ear.

The dizziness is better, as mentioned, but I still often have to seek out a wall to balance me. I’ll be standing and suddenly, standing up straight is a tricky business. When using stairs, I now have a white-knuckle grip on the handrail. And I’ve picked up the habit of automatically moving my hand along a nearby wall when walking.

I fight sleep issues more often. (Case in point - tonight.)

I am constantly trying to find the balance of pushing myself enough to improve and avoiding the dreaded Post Exertional Malaise crashes. But I am crashing less often than I was a year ago. So that’s something to celebrate. (Crashes are not fun.)

And in other good news, there is more research coming out about Long Covid. And some studies have been encouraging.

I’ve blogged about lessons learned, and re-learned. Things like:

Everyone has their own Hard, even when it isn't visible.

Don't compare. 

My value is not my Output.

My value is not my Body.

I believe in a God of Healing. I need to actively seek out and spend time where I can encounter  Him. I need to continually reach out to Him. He makes things easier.

Healing can mean many different things.

It's okay to rest.

Progress isn't always linear.

It's important to take care of myself.

Life is a gift.

I can reach out to others, even when I don't feel good. Connections bring joy.

(Anyone feel like they are in a greeting card factory explosion?) 

But one lesson I still am having trouble with is the difficulty of the Ongoing Trial.

It’s one thing to say, “This sucks” but still recognize that at the end of the day, or week, or month, it will be over. It’s another thing to navigate it when the end isn’t in sight.

The difficult relationship, despite sacrifice and herculean efforts to improve it.

The job that you hate, with no prospects for promotion.

The childlessness that doesn’t look like there will be a Sarah and Abraham ending to it.

The Long Game can be brutal.

What I am starting to realize, and trying to get a buy-in from my heart about, is that I can’t be so focused on that Takedown Moment. I can’t postpone my happiness for the denouement. 

I have to just put one foot in front of the other, and be happy for good walking shoes, kind companions on the journey, and the knowledge that God is real, He is loving, and He is near.

I’m still not happy to be on this path. In fact, I’m quite cranky about it.

But I can at least try to notice the beauties of the backdrop. 

Elder Neal A. Maxwell called it “enduring well”.  But then again, my problem is I don’t want to “endure”, I want to “conquer”. 

We don’t always get what we want in life.

And we can get stuck or move.

Most days I choose to move.

So I will have my messy, snot-smearing cry tonight, and then I will keep trudging along with my clumsy, heavy, weak, overweight body.

Because there is a lot of loveliness, even on I-80. 

And I choose to have Hope God can help me find it.

Rules of Etiquette #257: Sour Cream Should Not Be Worn on One's Forehead

 

Photo by Matheus Lopes

There are certain adjectives that have never, in my recollection, been used to describe me. Sadly, "quiet" is one of them. (Perhaps someday...)  Other terms include words such as "Refined", "Elegant", "Sophisticated", "Petite" or "Delicate". 

Although I must admit, I campaigned pretty heavily for "petite" many years ago. It was sometime around 6th grade, and my bestie Tami Mitsunaga and I were shopping downtown. At that time, I was tall, blonde, gangly, awkward, and skinny - all elbows and knees. (As opposed to now, when I am tall, brunette (shoutout to my hairstylist), awkward, and overweight - all tummy and thick-waisted.) Tami was short, "delicate", and graceful, a gymnast, with shiny long black hair. No one ever mistook us for sisters. But on that day we decided that Twinning is Winning, and what better way to prove it than to get matching t-shirts. We looked through the store's supply of Air Supply and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club t-shirts, and after quite a bit of searching, found a shirt in both of our sizes that had a sparkly plastic iron-on that read, "Petite Is Pretty!" in fancy script. When Tami, then (and still now) the more logical of the pair, pointed out that "petite" means short, and that term didn't really apply to me, I countered with the fact that according to my (own made-up) dictionary, "petite" could also mean skinny, and so it actually did apply to us both. When her mom Helen picked us up, and saw the shirts we proudly showed her, she also politely noted that "petite" didn't really pertain to me. And so it went. For the next year or so, whenever I wore the shirt, I had to patiently explain my personal definition of "petite" to people, who always seemed puzzled at the messaging. After awhile, it got old, but by that time the iron-on label was cracked and coming off, and it was just easier to abandon both the shirt and the effort to convince the world I was indeed "petite". 

As mentioned, "elegant" is another term that never seems to be paired with my name. At 55 years of age, I still can't seem to eat without spilling. I rarely make it through the day without a few stains on my shirt. The struggle is real.

Furthermore, I am That Person, walking around, grinning widely, with a stray piece of cilantro or large black poppyseed wedged in my teeth. 

One memorable eating disaster happened many years ago. I was 21 or 22, working at Scopes Garcia Carlisle ad agency. Some reps from a local tv channel kept inviting me to lunch, because I was an account executive for the 10-state Coca Cola division. They had not yet realized that I had absolutely no influence over our ad buy. So they kept inviting me, and finally I said I'd go. I was young and green and felt a little bit nervous. I didn't know these men very well. 

For background, you should know that it is decreed in the world of advertising that media reps are required to be Cool Kids. They are generally Beautiful People who dress stylishly, wear the right brands, drive the right cars, and always seem to have access to a box at the next NBA game. I guess the message is, "Hey, I'm a cool kid, and I want to be friends with you! We're besties, right? Maybe we should get matching t-shirts? And by the way, why don't you spend money... lots of it... with my company?"

So two media reps picked me up at my downtown office and we drove in their convertible, with the top down, to a hip new restaurant (Did I just age myself by using the term "hip"?... I think I did.)  The restaurant was Mexican. And it was where all the Cool Kids ate. 

The meal was going fine, and we were making small talk, interspersed with casual anecdotes about why Their Channel Was The Smartest One To Advertise With, when all of a sudden, these two men's expressions instantly changed. I saw it happen immediately. It was sort of a mix of horror and disgust and I'm-trying-not-to-bust-up-laughing. The change on their faces was so dramatic, I knew right away that something was wrong. And that it had to do with me.

It stopped the conversation. I immediately asked, "What's wrong?" 

They looked at each other. Then they looked at me. Then they looked at each other.

"What's the matter?" I asked again.

"Well, yhgmmms commmsf fdddd." one of them mumbled down to the napkin in his lap. 

I squinted, puzzled. "What?"

He mumbled something incoherent again, and his friend snorted.

"I'm sorry," I said politely, "I didn't quite catch that."

"YOU HAVE SOUR CREAM." He burst out. "RIGHT HERE" and he jabbed a finger at his forehead. 

Apparently I had been enjoying my fajita a bit too much, and a large blob of sour cream had attached itself, front and center, on my forehead. 

I quickly swiped it off, then giggled.

Silence. Then a throat clear. Then an awkward change of subject.

Now I speak with some authority (and a great deal of experience) when I say that it's one thing to have something embarrassing happen. But it's another thing when people do not laugh WITH you at the hilarity of the situation. Because if they are not laughing WITH you, they are generally laughing AT you. And there's a big difference.

The rest of the meal was brutal, because these two men were trying to hold back their laughter the entire time. They'd catch one another's eye, and then suddenly have to cough into their napkin. And those coughs sounded suspiciously a lot like guffaws.

I have absolutely no doubt that after they dropped me off and waited for me to walk into the office door, they wet their pants laughing over The Girl With Sour Cream On Her Forehead. 

We did not spend our entire ad buy on their channel. And they never invited me to lunch again.

In another notable incident, years later, Chad and I went to a wedding reception. It was an outdoor reception, with a large chocolate fountain. This was before chocolate fountains started appearing at every neighborhood gathering, Girls' Night Out, or party introducing your friends to an exciting new MLM opportunity. 

This was also before I realized that chocolate fountains + Christy = disaster. Every Time.

So at this reception I naively enjoyed several fountain dipped goodies. Then Chad and I stood around and chatted with friends, neighbors, people we knew from church, people we knew from our kids' schools and sports teams, people we knew from the community, people we thought we knew but couldn't place who they were or what our connection might be. Basically, we chatted with the entire county.

When we got in our car, my dear husband casually mentioned, "Hey, by the way, you have chocolate all over your face." 

What?

Sure enough, a quick look in the visor mirror showed me looking like a 4-year old at a birthday party, post-cake & ice cream. The amount of chocolate on my face was stunning. And even more so, that I hadn't felt it or sensed it and that NONE of the 300 people I had chatted with had thought to say, "Hey, speaking of the weather, did you know you have chocolate on your face?" or "That is a fascinating story. Which reminds me - you happen to be wearing chocolate. A lot of it". Or even "How are you, and by the way, when's the last time you checked a mirror? Or washed your face?" 

"WHY DIDN"T YOU TELL ME SOONER?" I demanded to my husband, doing the same lick-the-finger-and-scrub action on my face that I would later perfect with my children.

He shrugged. "You were talking."

Note to The Universe: If you ever see me with chocolate on my face, sour cream on my forehead, cilantro in my teeth, wearing an inexplicable T-shirt, or two different shoes, or my clothes inside out,  I'm begging you - please tell me. Even if I'm talking. 

Then laugh with me. Because it just gets real awkward when you don't. 

Even better, laugh with me, and then tell me I'm Elegant and Petite.

Just for fun.  

Miracles in the Holy Land

I feel compelled to once again interrupt the Embarrassing Moments Logbook to write about something a bit more serious. Not because I am running out of material... No, be assured that cringe-worthy moments of note happen on the regular around here. Perhaps I am just feeling a bit more contemplative lately. 

But today I want to talk about miracles. Actually, just one. One that happened to me. And I keep feeling that I need to record it, as a way to publicly acknowledge my appreciation to God. 

It happened in Israel, which seems appropriate.  

We had a trip-of-a-lifetime experience visiting Israel, Jordan and Egypt this summer. I have talked about it non-stop ever since, and continue to spam friends on social media with What I Did On My Summer Vacation anecdotes. 

While in Israel, we had the opportunity to visit many sites of the Savior’s miracles, as recorded in scripture. The Sea of Galilee. Capernaum. The Pool of Bethesda. Magdala. Jerusalem. But while following the Savior's footsteps, I had the blessing to experience my own personal miracle. Because He continues to be a God of Miracles.

But first I need to back up a bit, and give a little context.

We paid the down payment for our trip to Israel over a year before our trip. Before I was needing supplemental oxygen. Before I realized just how stubbornly my long hauler symptoms would hang on, and the havoc they would wreak as I tried to physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally straddle the vast gap between “What I want to be doing” and “What I can actually do”. The trip was then pushed off from December to June, and it imperceptibly became my light at the end of the tunnel, my reason to battle.

The trip was partially funded through a generous gift from my late maternal Grandmother Mona. Years ago, she and my grandfather paid for several groups to visit the Holy Land, including my mom and her siblings & spouses, and also a group of widows. My paternal Grandma Hazel was included in that latter trip, and it changed her life. So this trip was a link to my deceased Mom, and my deceased grandparents, and it represented so much more than a vacation to me.

About 2 months before our trip, I was listening to a conference of my church, and Pres. Russell M. Nelson, said the following: "Do the spiritual work to seek miracles. Prayerfully ask God to help you exercise that kind of faith. I promise that you can experience for yourself that Jesus Christ "giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.""

His words spoke to me and his invitation moved me. I was definitely "the faint", and I needed power and strength, very literally. And I knew immediately what Miracle I would seek.

Israel.

Not only making it there, but being able to participate in the rigors of the tour and not miss out on any of this once-in-a-lifetime experience. So that became my Big Ask, and my daily prayer. In a way, it seemed slightly selfish. Like perhaps the miracle I should ask for should be more altruistic and have something to do with World Peace. But Israel was important to me, and I sensed God knew that. 

I know that seeking miracles isn't a passive act. It means doing everything in our power to move towards that goal. So as the trip neared, I gradually increased my walking by small amounts, learning if I pushed too much and too hard, I fell backwards. Two weeks before our trip, I was able to walk 2 miles without stopping. It was a route Chad and I used to do 3-5x per week, prior to me getting sick. And this was the first time I'd been able to do it since. After building up, a bit at a time, I finally made that 2 mile loop, although the last ¼ mile I staggered and swayed like a drunken soldier, tears running down my face and dripping off my chin. I walked it two more times before our trip (without tears).

I then packed collapsible hiking poles in my suitcase, and got on a plane.

But once I got to Israel, I found the trip was much more rigorous than I had anticipated. The days were long, packed full, with very little down time (aka "rest time"). We were always going hard, and almost constantly walking. One day my girls measured that we’d walked more than 9 miles. 

And I got my miracle.

I walked. I saw. I conquered.

There were a few exceptions; a few things I had to miss out on, like hiking to the top of Mt Sinai, climbing the Temple Mount ramparts, and the 3 am hot air balloon ride over Luxor. But I was able to participate in almost everything, and had such an amazing experience that I continue to torment the world by talking about it months later. I'm like an MLM rep for Israeli Tourism, building my downline. ("If I get three people, and they each get three people....") 

While we had the chance to visit many cool ancient churches, in fact, some of the oldest Christian churches in the world, one of the most emotional and spiritual moments of the trip for me was in a beautiful new church in Magdala. It was dedicated to the women who ministered to Jesus Christ. In was near the banks of the Sea of Galilee. The chapel had a huge window overlooking the Sea of Galilee, and then a large boat similar in style to those of the Savior's time. The rostrum was in the boat. So the priest would actually stand in the boat and preach, much like Jesus. (See pic.) It was very cool.

The church also had a beautiful atrium with pillars, on which there were female saints' names. But one was left blank, representing the opportunity each of us have to be Jesus Christ's disciple. Kind of a fill-in-your-name-here type of thing. I loved it.

But the room that had me standing, sobbing, was downstairs. It was empty except for a small sacrament table and a large mural -- a close up of the woman with the issue of blood reaching out and touching the hem of the Savior's robe. The stones of the room matched the paving stones of the picture. It was beautiful. (Again, see pic below.) That story, the Healing of the Woman With The Issue of Blood, has become so meaningful to me. (See this post, where I talk about it takeaways from it.)

And here I was, having been granted healing enough that I could be there in the Holy Land, partaking of these soul-growing experiences. So I stood there and sobbed my little heart out. Then went directly to the gift store and purchased the print of the mural, which now hangs in my home's front entrance.

I find it interesting that among all of the many awe-inspiring places we visited, I felt the Savior's love most powerfully and recognized the gift of his healing in Magdala. A place recognized for a woman's SPIRITUAL and MENTAL and EMOTIONAL healing. And at a place highlighting and commemorating the Savior's relationship with his female followers.

I once again cried on the last evening of our trip. This time it was on a hotel patio in Cairo. I was just having A Moment, realizing what I had been given by a loving God. I was just so overwhelmed with gratitude for my little personal miracle.

There's simply no way I could have gone at that pace, for 18 days, without His help.

But miracles are crafted lovingly by God, not by our own personal shopping cart order form. Because I was able to do so much on the trip, I came home with the expectation that I could just build from there.

Unfortunately, it hasn’t been quite that easy. I had a bit of a backslide, and just recently had the worst long hauler crash I've had since last spring. Obviously, I still can't overdo things. Yet I "overdid" every day of this trip. For 18 days.

I've had some people say, "Oh, but you were doing fun things! That's motivation to push yourself." But unfortunately, I miss out on fun things all the time, when I experience a crash.

My health dipping down a bit once I returned home could be due to many different factors. Altitude surely plays a role.

But the regression has also been a humbling reminder how incredible it is that I was able to have my Holy Land experience. I got my miracle. And I praise God for it.

“I will praise thee, O Lord, with my whole heart: I will shew forth all thy marvellous works. I will be glad and rejoice in thee: I will sing praise to thy name, O thou most high.” (Psalms 9:1-2)

"Blessed be the Lord, because he hath heard the voice of my supplications. The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, and I am helped: therefore my heart greatly rejoiceth: and with my song will I praise him." (Psalms 28:6-7)

"It is God that girdeth me with strength, and maketh my way perfect. Thou has enlarged my steps under me, that my feet did not slip." (Psalms 18:32, 36)

"But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation. I will sing unto the Lord, because he hath dealt bountifully with me." (Psalms 13:5)

(Can I get a SELAH??!!)