Scrambled Thoughts V (part 1)

1.  Life goes on.  Even when you're sick.
 

I wasn't actually sick when I took all of the photos in this post.  But I got sick before they were edited, and something about Photoshop made me dry-heave every time I opened it... so picture editing was put on major hold.   The nausea is halfway gone now... Photoshop leaves me alone, but something about all of these Utah pictures still gets to me.  Unfortunate, I tell you.  Nothing like seeing my dad's smiling face in a photo and feeling like running to the bathroom.  But I care too much about these pictures and some of the stories behind them to let them go untold... so, bring on the nausea!

2. It was a good thing we asked the lady toting a $2500 camera with a $1000 lens popped onto it to take our picture.  

Who else would have known that we cared more about the carpet ten feet in front of us than Christ's head?

Here we are... sitting in the very spot where Brian nervously gained courage to grab my hand for the first time over 10 years ago.  I'm pleased with how our lives have gone since, but Brian's face here seems to suggest his feelings might be different.  His thought bubble would probably say something like, I've made a terrible mistake.

3. There is no way to ruin a Lake Powell trip. 

Especially if you're surrounded by some of your very favorite people on the planet.  The kids and I met up with a few old NC friends who have since moved to Utah and Arizona, and camped on the shores of Lake Powell.  Husbands couldn't make it (Brian was already back in NC, Jason couldn't get away from work, and Merrill was only able to spend one of the two nights with us), so we three women braved the camping with our 13 collective children alone.  The kids had a blast reconnecting...

...but I think we women had even more fun catching up on the troubles and triumphs of our hearts.  How terribly sad that I didn't ask one of the kiddos to snap a picture of us.  Oh, how I love them!  They made the whole trip possible... Brooke, packing food for my whole family; Cami coming up with the brilliant idea of meeting at Lake Powell in the first place and securing a campsite for us all.  Thanks, again, ladies!

Miles and Ty hit it off quickly when they discovered their mutual love of a football.  They played...

 ...and played...

...and played and played and played and played and played.

The last day we were there tried hard, but unsuccessfully, to ruin the vacation for us.  The wind picked up and blew our canopy, upside down, into the lake, and stung our faces with the sand it whipped up.  Also, McKenzie almost drowned and I sliced the bottom of my toe clear to the bone while rescuing her.  Kept me awake at night and then gave me nightmares for a month, I tell you (the near drowning part... not the toe part).  I can't decide whether I want to write about it so I don't forget, or if I want to keep it inside my head so I do.  *shiver*  Maybe I'll compromise and jot down the lessons learned instead.  1) Don't let your beginning/moderate swimmer go swimming off after an AWOL rubber duckie that is far away from the shore.  2) If she doesn't respond to you when you ask if she's okay, then she's not.  3) If you think of it, watch where you're stepping so you don't slice your toe open while you're running into the lake.  4) Don't exert all of your energy getting out to her... you'll need some left to get her back.  5) Don't try to calm her once you reach her - it won't work, and you might both just drown if you waste the time.  6) Swimming like a dolphin with her on your back is not the most effective way to carry a panicked swimmer.  After clearing my head I realized I should have wrapped one arm around her and backstroked back to the shore.  Probably slower, but I could have kept breathing that way.  7) Don't forget to thank the Lord in your prayers that night that your friend was watching and caught the problem in enough time.  8) Drowning is so silent.  So very silent.  No splashing, no yelling, no desperate cries for help.  Just silent, panicked thrashing underneath the water.  Watch those precious children...

Funny... all the sudden I don't feel much like continuing.  I think I'll go play a game with my kiddos instead and soak in their energy and happiness.  Especially Kenz.  This episode of Scrambled Thoughts, to be continued...

My Rock

I think I love him.  The thought surprised me a little.  Shocked me a bit that I hadn't really noticed the new feeling creeping into my heart.  But there it was... a glimmer of something that closely resembled other kinds of love in my heart, but spun in a different, unique, new and welcome pattern.  I suppose this is where it all started.  Really started, anyway.  There in the passenger seat of my boyfriend's old, red Honda civic, traveling south on I15 after meeting his family for the first time.

Over the months the glimmer grew stronger until all doubt had been erased and I confidently whispered yes through the lump in my throat and the glowing smile on my face to the most important question ever posed in my life. 

As we drove away from our reception in a golf cart, small wisps of curled hair fell from my bun and tickled my cheeks.  I scooted closer to Brian, my new husband, and he grabbed my hand with an eager excitement as he let out a laugh.  Our eyes locked, and I'm sure the excitement in my eyes mirrored his as we laughed at nothing, or was it everything?, on our way up the hill.   Excitement, of course, for the days and nights to follow, but also for the years and decades after that.  I'd heard what they said, that we could love each other more in ten years than we did in that moment, but it seemed impossible.  My heart was already overwhelmed and overflowing... there was simply no more room.

Yet here we are.

A decade of life behind us.  Or, maybe more accurately, a decade of life under us, around us, in us and with us... enclosing us in a cushion of security and love truly unimaginable to our newlywed hearts.

A decade of discovering each other; of discovering ourselves while with each other.  And still occasionally being surprised by both.

A decade of compromising and, in so doing, realizing that the middle ground is actually often a better choice than was yours anyway.

A decade of building trust.

A decade of sharing hopes and secrets, dreams and insecurities, laughs, tears, responsibilities, ice cream cartons, toothbrush holders and closet space.

A decade of mistakes.  Of forgiving and of being forgiven over and over again.  Of coming to realize that, though the mistakes can hurt, the simple act of forgiveness (on either side) heals you stronger than you were before.  And you begin to trust in the security that - though you wish you didn't need it - you will be forgiven next time, too.   

A decade of looking, every day a little deeper, into the soul of another human being.  Of loving and learning to love every new layer discovered.  And of learning to let another look deeply into you.  This is where the trust comes, for me.  Knowing that my ugliest, rawest side has been exposed, and being met with open, loving arms in response. 

Oh, how this man loves me.  And he is a master at showing me.  There is a phrase sung by Faith Hill in a song called The Way You Love Me that says It's not right, it's not fair what you're missing over there.  Someday I'll find a way to show you just how lucky I am to know you.  Ooooh I love the way you, love the way you love me...  (Now you're singing it in your head, aren't you...)  Brian never seems to tire of offering the same compliment just when I need to hear it; of folding the laundry or doing the dishes without a prompt because he sees that it needs done; of sensing my emotional stability and sending me to my room for a break just before I snap.  If only I were better at offering these traits back to him.

He is my best friend.  Sometimes my only friend.  Always standing by with a gentle hug, a simple solution, a dose of reality, a goofy joke... always.

  Happy tenth anniversary, love.  Thank you for being my rock.  I truly am the luckiest.

Getting Crazier

I know.

It's been a while.

I have a good excuse though.

You see... I've been sleeping a lot.

And eating a lot.

And laying on the couch throwing goldfish crackers at my children a lot.

And watching Curious George a lot.

And Dora.  Too much Dora, actually.  Waaaaaaaaay too much Dora.  After grocery shopping one day, I staggered into the house carrying only the fridge and freezer items, shoved the entire bags into the emptiest shelf I could find, barely made it to the bathroom to empty my stomach contents in an appropriate place, and then collapsed on my bed feeling a bit triumphant for accomplishing a Costco/Kroger run.  I let my head bob along to the victory song in my mind, "I did it, I did it, I did it, Hooray!" and felt like I had finished something as noteworthy as crossing the singing snake river, climbing over marshmallow mountain, and going through the chocolate forest.  It wasn't until after several minutes that I remembered I'd left my 3 year old strapped in his carseat.  

Phew. 

But, I've started to see color in the world again.

And less of the bathroom.

And my children have started to see a bit less of the television and a few more fruits and vegetables.

Miles and I usually get out of our pajamas these days, and the computer screen has lost much of it's nauseating effect.  

But Carson is on day two (and Miles is on day three) of not wearing any underwear, simply because there are no clean pairs in the house.

And all of my children are getting a little too much practice on Mario Kart.

And my bed has not been made for... ... ... ?

But, oh boy, is there excitement in this house.

Mostly from McKenzie.  She was let in on the secret early - around 6 weeks when I started melting into an unrecognizable lump on the couch - so she would know why I was asking for so much help from her.  And she sure stepped up to the plate... perfecting toast and pancakes, picking up the house, keeping the boys happy and entertained, and (my favorite) consistently offering sweet eyes in my direction and loving pats to my belly.  Several times she would whisper in my ear, "I love you, Mom.  I hope everything is going well with the you-know-what."  It was a happy day for her when the news was spread to the rest of the family and she was given the green light to tell whomever she wanted. 

Carson is a little excited, 'but a little not excited because,  you know, babies need to, like, cry a lot, and get taken care of a lot...'

Miles doesn't really get it.  'I not a baby,' he says.  "I know, buddy... the baby is in Mommy's tummy."  'I can hold it?'  "Not yet because it's still growing up a little bit in Mommy's tummy.'  'Oh,' long pause... 'den it will come out?'

Yep.

Waiting for early March...

You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.

I wondered if I'd escape it this year, I thought, hugging my knees to my chest.  It seemed such a silly thought; naive, even, now that the pain had hit again with the same bitterness of all the years behind.  The cemetery was still, the only movement coming from the wind.  I could feel it softly brushing the wisps of hair that had escaped from my ponytail.  I could hear it gently rustling the leaves in the trees.  I could see it playing in the grass around the running shoes on my feet.  Such beautiful grass.  Deeply green.  Cool.  Alive.  I suppose there was movement inside my head and inside my soul, too, but though that movement was consuming me it would have been invisible to any other eye.  My breath came in deep from the short jog up the mountain, probably would for another minute or two, but my lungs felt awake and capable of handling the extra air gracefully.  The earbuds to my iPod shuffle still sat in my ears, though I'd run the last quarter mile in silence.  The podcast had become irritating and distracting as soon as I had seen headstones in the distance. 

I wasn't planning on coming here yet.  Not like this.  Though, you wouldn't have believed it from the direct route I'd taken.  I hadn't been in Utah for more than 12 hours, and 9 of those hours had been encased in darkness.  I had awoken feeling happy, invigorated by being close to so many people I loved, excited about the next two and a half weeks I would be spending with them.  I had tied my running shoes to my feet with a smile, anxious to enjoy a 0% humidity run, energized by the spark Utah had ignited.  I had set out at a brisk pace, feet pointed toward the cemetery long before my head caught on, noticing the beautiful flowers and carefully manicured yards along the way.  The run had felt great, my podcast was interesting, I barely felt winded as I climbed the mountain... I was about as far from pensive as one could get.

And then the headstones came into view.

Wait... I don't want to be here. Turn around.  My brain scrambled, but my feet kept along their direct route.  No... I'm enjoying my run... I'm happy and lighthearted... this is not the right time.  Yet deep inside, as I approached the section of the cemetery dedicated to babies and children, I knew I had come here purposefully; of course I would want to come as soon as I could.  As soon as I could... but not yet.  I flinched at the conflicting emotions... why are they so common when it comes to Jess?

I've asked that question hundreds of times.  And, after seven years, I think I'm starting to understand that it's just a consequence of being a spiritual soul in a mortal body.  My spirit, my soul, connected with Jess's when we were together for that short time, and consequently is always reaching for him, yearning to be with him, to feel him, wishing to see him again.  My mortal mind doesn't understand that connection and is always reaching for closure, reminding me to live today, working for less pain, encouraging me to let it go.  I appreciate both parts of me.  But, they don't understand each other unless I consciously sit and give them quiet time to sync.

Which usually happens every June.  Around his birthday.

I hadn't had time to let it happen this year though.  The weeks leading up to June 11th had been so full...  Each time my soul felt Jess's birthday approaching, my head pushed it away in an effort to save it for a more appropriate time.  A more appropriate time that, if left to my mind, would probably never come.

But there I sat, two days before the date engraved in the stone next to me, realizing that my soul had overridden my mind this time and led me to this place.  This place where I could sit by my son's headstone in complete silence and solitude to let that sync take place.  There's a protection I enjoy in keeping the two apart, though; it's not so painful when your spirit can't speak to your mind about what it's feeling.  But when the communication is opened, the pain that flows from it is not buffered, and the spirit communicates fast.  In seconds my cheeks went from completely dry to being soaked with the tears dripping from my chin.

Eventually my soul and my mortal mind began to feel more understanding of one another, though never completely.  Much like the way in which a husband and wife often come to understand each other, I think.  My soul weeping,  I miss him, and it hurts.  My mortal mind thinking, I know.  I can see that. I wish I could understand exactly why so I could try to fix it.  But I care, and I'm sorry it hurts.  But no matter how hard my mind tries, it cannot actually feel the pain, which leaves my soul... me... feeling alone.  Misunderstood by even myself.  I wonder sometimes about what it would be like to lose an older child.  A child that has had time to fill your mind with memories and experiences.  Would those memories be an added source of pain, or would they console?  Probably both.  I wonder if a mind full of memories would help bring my mind and soul together more...

After 30 minutes, a black SUV pulled into the small, empty, parking lot and stopped on the far side.  A woman jumped out, around my age, carrying a handful of flowers.  She walked briskly to a small headstone next to her running car and, after arranging the items in front of it, walked briskly back to her car and drove away.  I wondered if the land for babies and children extended across the small parking lot, and if she had lost a child, too.  Yes.  Only one date inscribed.  Two years ago.  My heart reached out for her, knowing how fresh her pain still must be.  I wonder how different my early grief would have been had I been close to Jess's grave through it all.

I took another long while meandering among the headstones.  Unexpectedly, my heart started swelling with love for the babies surrounding my own little one.  I hope someday to meet them.  It's comforting to have that visual cue reminding me that Jess is not alone; he is surrounded by friends.

When I realized my heart felt better and that the last tear had dried several minutes before, I walked back to Jess's headstone.  I stood in front of it for a few seconds and let my lips naturally turn into a gentle smile.  I would be a different person today without you, I thought.  Thanks.  I lingered, sending love I hoped would reach him, then turned my back and slowly walked back to the main road. As the cars sped past, my steps became faster and eventually transformed into a light jog. I felt contentment and peace as my pace quickened and my breathing became deeper.  But even though an understanding had been reached between my mind and my soul, I knew it would be several days before my life returned to normal again.  In the meantime, I would handle myself gently.  Take a few long walks.  Disappear to my room for a while to read the uplifting book I had brought.  I was lucky to be with my in-laws.  Though we'd all be staying together in a little cabin, they wouldn't notice when I took an hour here and there to myself. And my sweet husband would be there to pick up the slack.  Just like he always is.

With the cemetery at my back, and a little more peace with Jess's sweetness filling my soul and mind, my hand paused at my side just long enough to push play on my iPod.

*Title quote by C.S. Lewis

Greater Than a Strong Tree

• Alder
  Alder, part of the birch family, is a softer hardwood from the Pacific Northwest. Consistent color, stability, and uniform acceptance of stains and finishes are some of the characteristics that have made Western Alder a preferred wood for furniture. Its elasticity makes it ideal for carving intricate details. Ranking second only to oak as the most commonly used wood, alder offers the look of many fine hardwoods at a value price. source

Who knew that by marrying into Brian's family, I would end up with a last name hiding a brilliant analogy?  If you know me or talk to me much (or read my blog consistently), you know that analogies are generally my communication of choice.  So I lapped it up when my mother-in-law, Jean, introduced an analogy tied to my name.

Be Strong was the theme of our Alder Family Reunion.  Be Strong like an alder tree.   Jean put together a touching, beautiful family home evening and shared it with us while we were all nestled together in a little cabin up in Eden, Utah.  She even wrote a song, people, and mailed it out to her whole family weeks in advance so we could all learn it to be able to sing it that night.  A song about being strong, about sticking together, about loving each member of the family for who they are and what they do, and about letting the Alder name be a strength in each of our lives.  It was peppy and easy to learn (even Miles knew all the words by the end) and listening to those six little grandkids sing it was maybe the highlight of the reunion for me.  Oh how I hope they stay strong...

At the end of the lesson she pulled out a thoughtful gift: five pieces of alder wood, one for each of her children, cut and stained by her hands, each one adorned by a metal plaque engraved with a message: Be Strong.

Throughout the week, she found time to pull aside each grandchild on his own and talk about his life.  About what it means to stay strong and how he, personally, could do so.  I love it when my children get reinforcements from the outside.  When they see that mom and dad aren't the only ones encouraging and expecting them to make good choices.

She also planned a ton of fun things throughout the week.  A hike - complete with a checklist of things to find,




A puppet show - complete with color-you-own puppets,

White shirts for all the kids - complete with sharpie markers, rubber bands, and bottles of rubbing alcohol to turn them tie-dyed,

And lots and lots of relaxing time on the shores of Pineview Lake - complete with an entire bin filled with new beach toys.

The duck looks fun, right?  It took forever to blow up...30min? 45? (with three of us working simultaneously) and wasn't even a big hit with the kids.  At least Brian liked it.  And take a look at how high my brother-in-law, Chris, has his little Emmy!  He did it over and over and over again (enough times for me to see it a couple of times, realize it would be a cool picture, get my camera out from it's backpack, take a practice shot, fiddle with the settings, and snap). I'd call that a weeks worth of work-outs.  Then again, that's probably why I'd never be able to do it in the first place.

You wouldn't have believed the amount of cotton floating around in the air.  The top left picture shows it a little bit.  It was actually kind of pretty...not as gross and annoying as pollen, I have to say. I also love the bottom left picture... Brian's little brother, Dave, just as he's getting a face full of the football Brian threw for him to catch.

So many people I love... thanks for a great week, Alders!

Answers

We went to the movies.

I think we found Miles's true family.

Just Us

"I grow-een up?" you ask.  I look down and lose myself, again, in your beautiful face.  The early morning sunlight filters through the trees and lands gently across your creamy skin.  Highlights the twelve freckles dancing over your nose.  Catches in the mass of untamed red curls that sits atop your head.  Saturates the blues in your eyes to that unnatural depth.  Those eyes, locked into mine, sit beneath your soft eyebrows which almost imperceptibly begin to knot together.  Your head begins to cock to one side and I remember.  You asked me a question.

"Yep.  You sure are." I answer.  I throw one last wave around the corner as the big yellow school bus mercilessly accelerates and carries away my other children.  Boy do I miss them while they're gone.  I subconsciously squeeze your hand as we cross the street to our home.  "An... after I grow-een up, den I can ride onna busss?"

"Yes," I reply.  "But don't forget being little is fun, too."

We enter the house and clean up breakfast together.  I try not to cringe at the clatter of spoons and bowls being thrown into the sink.  Then I listen to you play with your trains while I make a grocery list.  Only when I'm all ready to go do I ask if you'd like to go to the little cart store today.  Your imaginary world of tracks and trains dissolves in an instant and you jump to your feet with an excited clap of your hands.  "We go-een to da liddle cart store!?"  After my nod of affirmation, you sprint to the shoe basket and have your cameo crocks on impressively fast.

We get stopped twice in the parking lot, before we even make it into the store.  It's because I chose to go to Kroger on a Tuesday morning; the same morning senior citizens get a discount.  I did it on purpose.  I've found that we have much more fun (as long as we're not in a hurry) when we shop with them.  I've already decided that I will be a talkative, friendly old woman.

"Oh, I bet you just hate to cut that hair," the first lady comments.  She's leaning up against the passenger side of her car, using the open door as support as her daughter loads her groceries into the trunk.  We talk for only a minute.  And she ends the conversation with, "Well, maybe the Good Lord will bless you with a curly, red-headed girl so you can watch those curls just grow and grow."  Ten paces later we pass a younger lady, maybe 65, who loudly exclaims, "Oh my!  And I thought I had a curly red-head!"  Her hand instinctively reaches out to tousle your hair as she tells me about her own, grown, curly red-headed daughter.  It's small, but it bonds my heart to hers for a minute.

You're always patient with these stops.  They're just part of your life.

I smile when you see the little carts.  Week after week, your excitement seems to grow.  "Dere it is!" you sing.  You try to suppress a smile as you start pushing it along behind me.  But I see it.  We carefully load the produce in the front of your cart and I remind you that we need to be careful not to drop our other groceries on top of the peaches, bananas and tomatoes.  We walk down each aisle and I point to the items we need.

1 of those, Miles...  5 of these...  Can you grab 2 for me?  You obey each instruction with pride and participate in one of the following conversations at least once every aisle:

Conversation A:
Oh!  We need some-ah dis?
Nope.  We don't need any of that.
Oh.  We already have some-ah dis?
No.  We just don't need any.
Oh.

Conversation B:
Oh!  We need some-ah dis?
Nope.  We don't need any of that.
Oh. We already have some-ah dis?
Yep.  We have some at our home.
Oh!  I can have some when we get home?!
Sure.
Yay.

We always do the self-checkout.  Regardless of how many registers are open, or how many items we have.  You love it too much.  I pull each item out of your cart and you scan it and put it in the bag.  You're good at finding the bar codes.

Costco is next.  We eat samples and brace ourselves before we enter the fridge to get our lettuce and milk.  We practice shooting our sample cups into the trash cans and pause to sit on the furniture.  We tell the cashier to put two hot dog meals onto our receipt, and we sit on the picnic tables to eat them.

You happily help me carry our groceries inside the house.  This time you grab the strawberries and cheese in the same trip.  You make sure to point out how strong you are as we pass each other.  I make sure to agree.  When I come in with my load, you're standing in front of the kitchen island, still holding the strawberries and cheese, unable to get them up without a little help.  I take the strawberries, and you lift the cheese up to the counter with two hands. 

Nap time is next, and soon the big kids will be home.  Soon after that, you'll be getting on the bus yourself, and these days will become just a memory.

But that day is not today.  Today, you're my little one.  My buddy.  My constant companion and greatest source of laughter.  I know you're anxious to grow up.  In your terms, riding a bus is almost unbeatable in terms of awesome things to do.  But in my terms, having you with me all day - every day...

... that is what's unbeatable.