Centered
Here
I am
sitting still,
while all the time
swinging sattelites
in an intricate dance
around and around
kids are laughing
Sam joins in
I am
here.
What makes being a mother the most important work in the world?
My work is to improve myself--not numbers, outputs, or processes. The very measure of my success is in the changing of myself from disorder to order, from dark to light, from ignorance to knowledge, from pride to gentle kindness. I must do this, so that the generations that follow will also be improved. Each mother is a step forward (or back) for the next generation. My work is the work of eternity.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Best wishes for Mother's Day!
Ah, Mother's Day--day of expectations and memories. I sort of wish we could do away with it, but that is probably just selfish. It makes me uncomfortable for my praises to be sung at any time and in any way. Having them sung simply because I am a woman and mother (so generic!) means I have no qualms about simply wanting to hide. Do I have to be gracious about generic praise? I think not.
Phrases that are particular pet peeves: (to me) "You should get a break--it is mother's day!" (to the kids) "You should make it special--it is mother's day," (to men) "Show your love and appreciation--it is mother's day." Shouldn't we help, love and appreciate mothers every day? Shouldn't moms feel okay about taking a break any day and every day? It is like the existence of Mother's Day gives people leave to recognize women just once a year. I'm afraid I'm being cynical. My family doesn't only love and appreciate me on Mother's Day. They are reasonably great all year. I am quite satisfied. So why have Mother's Day at all?
Two moments to share:
The primary sang in Sacrament meeting today. My kids pushed their way to the front and were very cute as they hugged and poked each other and waved at me. They were happy with their singing. When they sat back down, Ethan asked me "Mom, did you cry when we sang to you?" "No," I replied. "Should I have?" "Well," he responded, "the music director said we should sing loudly to make the moms cry. I guess I'll just have to kick you in the shins, instead." I laughed out loud at his idea, but was also annoyed by the expectations people set up for mother's day. Why do I have to cry? I had just lost my temper with my kids 20 minutes before, as I tried to get them all out of the baths and into the car so we would be on time for church. (We weren't.) I wasn't feeling great poignancy or tenderness. I was still a little stressed and annoyed.
In our ward on Mother's Day, the men take over all the women's responsibilities for the third hour of church so the women can go to Relief Society where a special "Mother/Woman Appreciation" lesson is taught and some special dessert is handed around. Today, I didn't want to go to Relief Society. I didn't want to hear another lesson with generic praise and words of affirmation and encouragement. I wanted to sit quietly, all by myself, and pray or contemplate or just be. Either that, or run home and clean the kitchen which had been left an absolute disaster by the kid's efforts to create a "special" mother's day. Upon being pushed out the door of nursery, I did dutifully make my way to the Relief Society meeting, but I just couldn't bear to stay after the song (a sappy sentimental one sung by two young women). I resorted to the Mother's lounge, hoping it would be empty. It wasn't, but I didn't worry too much about what my friend Charity (who was there) would think when I just plunked myself down and closed my eyes and cried. It was good to be still. It was good to cry.
Ah, Mother's Day--day of expectations and memories. I sort of wish we could do away with it, but that is probably just selfish. It makes me uncomfortable for my praises to be sung at any time and in any way. Having them sung simply because I am a woman and mother (so generic!) means I have no qualms about simply wanting to hide. Do I have to be gracious about generic praise? I think not.
Phrases that are particular pet peeves: (to me) "You should get a break--it is mother's day!" (to the kids) "You should make it special--it is mother's day," (to men) "Show your love and appreciation--it is mother's day."
Two moments to share:
The primary sang in Sacrament meeting today. My kids pushed their way to the front and were very cute as they hugged and poked each other and waved at me. They were happy with their singing. When they sat back down, Ethan asked me "Mom, did you cry when we sang to you?" "No," I replied. "Should I have?" "Well," he responded, "the music director said we should sing loudly to make the moms cry. I guess I'll just have to kick you in the shins, instead." I laughed out loud at his idea, but was also annoyed by the expectations people set up for mother's day. Why do I have to cry? I had just lost my temper with my kids 20 minutes before, as I tried to get them all out of the baths and into the car so we would be on time for church. (We weren't.) I wasn't feeling great poignancy or tenderness. I was still a little stressed and annoyed.
In our ward on Mother's Day, the men take over all the women's responsibilities for the third hour of church so the women can go to Relief Society where a special "Mother/Woman Appreciation" lesson is taught and some special dessert is handed around. Today, I didn't want to go to Relief Society. I didn't want to hear another lesson with generic praise and words of affirmation and encouragement. I wanted to sit quietly, all by myself, and pray or contemplate or just be. Either that, or run home and clean the kitchen which had been left an absolute disaster by the kid's efforts to create a "special" mother's day.
I miss my dad. He has been slipping away for years, now, slowly covered by layer after layer of the shadow of Alzheimers. My dad is a vital force in my life. I frequently reflect on the fact that he is largely responsible for my foundation of self-confidence, my love of beautiful things, my belief that being deeply spiritual and highly intellectual can co-exist in the same person harmoniously, and that kindness and gentleness is the best policy.
My dad's being is vibrant and clear. He is truly a great man. Educated at Yale, Union Theological Seminary and Stanford, he pursued a life goal of bringing education to the masses--making it available for anyone at any stage of life. He was researching distance education decades before the internet existed, and now, as I see his dream being realized through organizations like KhanAcademy.org (where my homeschooling son learns math) and Western Governor's University (where my sister assists students around the country in accomplishing their coursework and earning a degree), I wish he was here to see it, too. I wish he could rejoice in the advancements of the field he championed, and talk with me about what is best in class.
Dad found so many things to be excited about and grateful for. A smile was his signature expression. He would frequently give a whoop and punch the air to express his joy in seeing one of us kids, or celebrate a success we shared with him. His exuberance sometimes embarrassed me as a child--surely adults should be more staid--but I loved it, too. His excitement about life, about people, and about me, was a great window with which to see the world. Dad was amazing, and if he thought I was amazing, too, then it must be so. Dad was free with his praise, and loved to point out the positive about everything and everyone around him. He was a Dale Carnegie man, and lived the principles faultlessly.
Dad loved finding the intersection of truth and beauty. He often took us camping and hiking, and would point out the delicate details around us. Photography was his art form and his eye captured beauty all around, whether it was a laughing child, an awe-inspiring landscape, a gathering of friends, or a trick of light. Dad sought to embrace and make permanent that resplendence.
My dad's being is vibrant and clear. He is truly a great man. Educated at Yale, Union Theological Seminary and Stanford, he pursued a life goal of bringing education to the masses--making it available for anyone at any stage of life. He was researching distance education decades before the internet existed, and now, as I see his dream being realized through organizations like KhanAcademy.org (where my homeschooling son learns math) and Western Governor's University (where my sister assists students around the country in accomplishing their coursework and earning a degree), I wish he was here to see it, too. I wish he could rejoice in the advancements of the field he championed, and talk with me about what is best in class.
Dad found so many things to be excited about and grateful for. A smile was his signature expression. He would frequently give a whoop and punch the air to express his joy in seeing one of us kids, or celebrate a success we shared with him. His exuberance sometimes embarrassed me as a child--surely adults should be more staid--but I loved it, too. His excitement about life, about people, and about me, was a great window with which to see the world. Dad was amazing, and if he thought I was amazing, too, then it must be so. Dad was free with his praise, and loved to point out the positive about everything and everyone around him. He was a Dale Carnegie man, and lived the principles faultlessly.
 |
| John Olin Campbell III ~1955 |
 |
| JOC III _1965 |
 |
| Olin Campbell family ~ 1990 |
He collected beautiful objects, too. His collection sat for years atop a low filing cabinet in his study--an archive of his admiration. I remember particular pieces of the collection: an open geode, a ceramic sphere, hollow and glazed so it resembled a planet. There was a chime, which lay horizontal, suspended by wires. It's beauty was in the piercingly sweet sound it made and sustained when struck. He had blown glass pieces and a birds nest created in reverse in a piece of clear acrylic. There was a beautiful white stone bowl, which sang when struck and rubbed with a rubber ball. Among the collection were items we children had contributed, too, as our own sense of beauty grew. It was always an honor to have a gift placed among Dad's treasured things.
 |
| Olin and Janet Campbell ~ 2003 |
 |
| Olin with grandchildren ~2007 |
Processing a weekend
Sam and I flew to San Francisco over the weekend, and had a unique experience. It was unique for me on a number of levels, and I am still processing it.
First, I think it was the first time Sam and I have left all the kids. I put a lot of coordination work into that, though, and felt very calm about the plan, and frequently reassured by the Lord that all would be well. It was very nice to be able to rely on good friends and family, and not worry.
Second, it was the first time I've visited Sam's grandparents' home in Alameda, CA. His grandfather, David Bernards, died a couple of weeks ago, so I was very grateful for the chance to visit with his (step) grandmother. Because of a rift between Sam's dad and grandpa, and Sam's grandpa and great-grandparents, the Bernards kids have missed out on a lot of the strength they could have had from a sense of family history, I think. Helen received us warmly, made us lunch, and showed us album after album of family pictures. They were wonderful. I want very much to be able to scan them all, but Sam did the next best thing in taking pictures of the pictures. Maybe someday we will get to scan them. . .
That was a really good visit for me. I loved getting to be with Helen, I loved seeing the pictures, and I loved getting to know this family that I married into and whose name I and my children carry. Yes, it is family full of pain in many ways. But it is good to know them nonetheless. There was a picture of grandpa Bernards with his brother and cousin when they were 6-8 years old, eating watermelon, with a back ground of cars from the 1920s. It is a great picture, and I discovered that grandpa had painted a picture from it, too, so it must have been special to him. There were several pictures of grandpa with his siblings, who are all members of the church and live in Utah, and I thought it was sad that Sam had never met them and didn't know who they were. We found a picture of Sam's great-grandparent's graves in Salt Lake, too, as well as a plot map which shows where in the cemetery they are buried. I challenged Sam to go and find his great-grandparents' graves while he was in Salt Lake (he is there now.) The time went by too quickly, and we had to leave grandma Helen before she or I was ready, I felt.
Our next stop was the Oakland temple. I'd never been there before, and it is where my parents were sealed, so I felt a special connection to it. As we drove through San Fran and Oakland, I kept expressing my feeling to Sam: "this place is toast!" It was the expression of a feeling that I can't describe about the place--tenuous, perhaps? I felt like the moral foundations of the area were as weak as the geographical foundations, and the whole place was nearly due to fall into the ocean. It wasn't pleasant, and Sam laughed at me and told me I was being a bit judgmental. I didn't mean to be--I wasn't making any comments on anyone in particular, as I didn't know anyone there, but grandma Helen, and I love her. But the whole place felt unsustainable, nonetheless.
Sam and I enjoyed our time in the temple. We did sealings, and I thought of my parents (and should have thought of Anna, as she pointed out to me later, because she was sealed to mom and dad there, too.) The temple is perched at the edge of a cliff, overlooking Oakland and San Francisco. It was weird to stand there at the edge of that cliff and contemplate what it might be like if everything below were to disappear. . . The temple itself was a little unlike other temples I'd been in, too. It was darker, being decorated with wood paneling instead of mirrors and white marble. It was wonderful to hear the familiar words of the ordinances, nonetheless, and rejoice in that place of holiness.
After the temple, we drove north on Hwy 1 to Bolinas, CA., a little beach town nestled between the Golden Gate recreational area and National Park reserve. It was an interesting place, belonging, it felt, to the generation of yuppies who descended from hippies and inherited both their "live and let live" attitudes, and the affluence of Silicon Valley. I'm sure there are other types that inhabit Bolinas, but that is the sort I was able to interact with. One afternoon I stopped at a yard sale on my way to the beach and wandered in, looking for a hostess gift. "Everything is very cheap," I was reassured. "Just ask for the prices, you'll see." There were pretty things, and when my eye fell on a pair of glass beaded necklaces I thought my girls might like, I inquired. "Oh, I'll let those go for only $20 a piece," responded the middle-aged woman, draped in shawls. "They are old crystal." My eyebrow might have raised imperceptibly, but I simply indicated that perhaps they were not suitable gifts, then, for very young girls. I did find hostess gifts there, and hope they were received well.
When we arrived at the home of the hosts, we were greeted warmly, both by a smiling, friendly Andy Ruben (wearing a square chalkboard name plate around his neck) and the sumptuous smells of spices and organic, vegan cooking at its best (compliments of Babs and Francine, the chefs of the weekend.) The "Farmhouse"--the weekend home of Adam and Lynne, the hosts--was a spacious, restored wood building, full of vintage charm and modern comforts. We gathered slowly around the dining table, which could seat 20 with relative ease, and snacked on a variety of cheeses and the most splendid olives I've ever tasted. (I forgot to ask about those.) They were cured with something much milder than any olive I've had before, and tasted faintly sweet with a hint of orange and EVOO. I ate one after another.
Most of the gang assembled there for the weekend went out on a walk up the hill, where there was a view of the bay, and had a "get to know you" moment. I worked on my article for Inspirational Women's Magazine, which was already late at that point. Being exhausted, I didn't get much done before everyone came back for dinner and meetings.
I didn't want to intrude on the meeting, uninvited as I was, but the topic was interesting to me, and little by little I progressed into the room, sat on the periphery, started taking notes, and finally broke in with questions and comments of my own. It was an interesting meeting--no agenda, no answers, just a free-flowing discussion. It was rather frustrating to me. I prefer a little more structure and concreteness, perhaps. I ended up making more comments than Sam, though his were certainly approved more, and even applauded (no one else at all was applauded. Go Sam!) By midnight (2am, our time) my eyes were closing despite myself, and they called a recess of the meeting wherein Sam took me to bed.
The next morning I was still exhausted, having slept little and dreamed heavily of the ideas we'd been batting around. After a late breakfast, there was a little recap and then we broke into groups to continue the discussion. I inserted myself into a group, but the morning meeting was even more frustratingly unguided and ambiguous, and my desire to participate waned to nothing. After lunch I headed back to our place and tried for a nap, but ended up talking a little tour of the community, reading for a while on the beach, and stopping by a yard sale where I found some beautiful items which I bought as hostess gifts (which I'd tasked Sam with weeks earlier, and he had not deemed necessary.) At about 5pm I finally fell asleep, missing dinner, the big party with the investors and everything. But wow, it felt good to sleep!
My birthday passed with blissfully little remembrance that it was that day at all. Sam said Happy Birthday, but he was the only person I saw all day who knew.
Okay, I'm done with the blow-by-blow that is excruciatingly boring. In the morning, we said goodbye and left, hit a sacrament meeting on our way to the airport, and then parted ways, Sam for Utah, me for home. By chance, I sat by a fellow I'd also sat by on the ride out, and we and our row-mate had great conversations both times. It was such good conversation, in fact, that we traded contact information. Cool.
I didn't reach home until 2:30am that morning, blurry and wondering what that weekend was all about. (At last, time to process!) It was an experience, to be sure, but one which my head had a hard time wrapping around. Was it fun? Was it nice to get away? Was it great to be with Sam? I'm not sure.
Perhaps it was "important" rather than fun. It was important to me to get to be with Grandma Helen. It was important to me to discover that I am (probably unduly) still confident in intellectual/
collaborative settings. That may have been some of the first "professional" style conversation I've had in a decade, but I felt like I understood enough to contribute, and that my life experience of the last 10 years was worth while. I felt quite grounded in that setting--I know who I am and what I know and other's opinions of me are not a big deal. It didn't really phase me that the people assembled were experts in their fields, and some were nationally known, etc. They were just people, to me. I felt comfortable sitting quietly on the outside and I felt comfortable coming forward and joining into conversations. There was no feeling of being intimidated or unworthy. Perhaps that is more of a testament to their graciousness than anything else. I don't know. I was glad to be me, in that setting, though, and didn't envy anyone their life, professional or personal.
I'm not sure it was "nice" to get away. I was exhausted to the point of brain-deadness a lot of the time, and the feeling of San Francisco was not a "nice" one. I much prefer our own little town of Bentonville. I felt very calm about being away, and I certainly wouldn't have had the experiences I did without getting away, but still, I'd say I prefer home to "away."
I felt like I actually spent remarkably little time with Sam. At the "share-a-thon" meetings, we really split up for the most part. We didn't sit together or talk together. We got to know different people. We didn't keep the same schedule. We didn't eat together. In fact, as we were leaving on Sunday morning, Babs and Francine (who could see everyone from the kitchen the whole time) exclaimed in surprise that we were a couple. I don't feel bad about it being that way. Sam commented that he liked that we both felt comfortable apart, and it was great for networking for each of us to "work" different parts of the group. I'm pretty sure I wasn't "working" anything, but I did feel confident as a stand alone person, and didn't need to tag along with Sam. In the moments we were together, it was nice to discuss what was going on, and what we thought of it. It was nice to share the experience, certainly.
So, there was the weekend. It was interesting, and I don't know how else to describe it. I wish I had something more to say to my dear friends who sacrificed to take the kids so I could have a wonderful time. It was a birthday treat to me, from so many people.
I guess more than anything else, it felt like the weekend tested my metal. I've felt "[hidden] in the shadow of His hand" (Isaiah 49:2) for a long time, being at home, with the kids, in a very nurturing environment. And yet, I feel like the Lord has made me "a polished shaft," somehow, rather than a soft weakling. And when I went out into the world--I think San Fran qualifies as the world as much as anywhere--I felt strong and straight (heh heh) and grounded and confident. It felt good to be me. And that is a great birthday treat.
First, I think it was the first time Sam and I have left all the kids. I put a lot of coordination work into that, though, and felt very calm about the plan, and frequently reassured by the Lord that all would be well. It was very nice to be able to rely on good friends and family, and not worry.
Second, it was the first time I've visited Sam's grandparents' home in Alameda, CA. His grandfather, David Bernards, died a couple of weeks ago, so I was very grateful for the chance to visit with his (step) grandmother. Because of a rift between Sam's dad and grandpa, and Sam's grandpa and great-grandparents, the Bernards kids have missed out on a lot of the strength they could have had from a sense of family history, I think. Helen received us warmly, made us lunch, and showed us album after album of family pictures. They were wonderful. I want very much to be able to scan them all, but Sam did the next best thing in taking pictures of the pictures. Maybe someday we will get to scan them. . .
That was a really good visit for me. I loved getting to be with Helen, I loved seeing the pictures, and I loved getting to know this family that I married into and whose name I and my children carry. Yes, it is family full of pain in many ways. But it is good to know them nonetheless. There was a picture of grandpa Bernards with his brother and cousin when they were 6-8 years old, eating watermelon, with a back ground of cars from the 1920s. It is a great picture, and I discovered that grandpa had painted a picture from it, too, so it must have been special to him. There were several pictures of grandpa with his siblings, who are all members of the church and live in Utah, and I thought it was sad that Sam had never met them and didn't know who they were. We found a picture of Sam's great-grandparent's graves in Salt Lake, too, as well as a plot map which shows where in the cemetery they are buried. I challenged Sam to go and find his great-grandparents' graves while he was in Salt Lake (he is there now.) The time went by too quickly, and we had to leave grandma Helen before she or I was ready, I felt.
Our next stop was the Oakland temple. I'd never been there before, and it is where my parents were sealed, so I felt a special connection to it. As we drove through San Fran and Oakland, I kept expressing my feeling to Sam: "this place is toast!" It was the expression of a feeling that I can't describe about the place--tenuous, perhaps? I felt like the moral foundations of the area were as weak as the geographical foundations, and the whole place was nearly due to fall into the ocean. It wasn't pleasant, and Sam laughed at me and told me I was being a bit judgmental. I didn't mean to be--I wasn't making any comments on anyone in particular, as I didn't know anyone there, but grandma Helen, and I love her. But the whole place felt unsustainable, nonetheless.
Sam and I enjoyed our time in the temple. We did sealings, and I thought of my parents (and should have thought of Anna, as she pointed out to me later, because she was sealed to mom and dad there, too.) The temple is perched at the edge of a cliff, overlooking Oakland and San Francisco. It was weird to stand there at the edge of that cliff and contemplate what it might be like if everything below were to disappear. . . The temple itself was a little unlike other temples I'd been in, too. It was darker, being decorated with wood paneling instead of mirrors and white marble. It was wonderful to hear the familiar words of the ordinances, nonetheless, and rejoice in that place of holiness.
After the temple, we drove north on Hwy 1 to Bolinas, CA., a little beach town nestled between the Golden Gate recreational area and National Park reserve. It was an interesting place, belonging, it felt, to the generation of yuppies who descended from hippies and inherited both their "live and let live" attitudes, and the affluence of Silicon Valley. I'm sure there are other types that inhabit Bolinas, but that is the sort I was able to interact with. One afternoon I stopped at a yard sale on my way to the beach and wandered in, looking for a hostess gift. "Everything is very cheap," I was reassured. "Just ask for the prices, you'll see." There were pretty things, and when my eye fell on a pair of glass beaded necklaces I thought my girls might like, I inquired. "Oh, I'll let those go for only $20 a piece," responded the middle-aged woman, draped in shawls. "They are old crystal." My eyebrow might have raised imperceptibly, but I simply indicated that perhaps they were not suitable gifts, then, for very young girls. I did find hostess gifts there, and hope they were received well.
When we arrived at the home of the hosts, we were greeted warmly, both by a smiling, friendly Andy Ruben (wearing a square chalkboard name plate around his neck) and the sumptuous smells of spices and organic, vegan cooking at its best (compliments of Babs and Francine, the chefs of the weekend.) The "Farmhouse"--the weekend home of Adam and Lynne, the hosts--was a spacious, restored wood building, full of vintage charm and modern comforts. We gathered slowly around the dining table, which could seat 20 with relative ease, and snacked on a variety of cheeses and the most splendid olives I've ever tasted. (I forgot to ask about those.) They were cured with something much milder than any olive I've had before, and tasted faintly sweet with a hint of orange and EVOO. I ate one after another.
Most of the gang assembled there for the weekend went out on a walk up the hill, where there was a view of the bay, and had a "get to know you" moment. I worked on my article for Inspirational Women's Magazine, which was already late at that point. Being exhausted, I didn't get much done before everyone came back for dinner and meetings.
I didn't want to intrude on the meeting, uninvited as I was, but the topic was interesting to me, and little by little I progressed into the room, sat on the periphery, started taking notes, and finally broke in with questions and comments of my own. It was an interesting meeting--no agenda, no answers, just a free-flowing discussion. It was rather frustrating to me. I prefer a little more structure and concreteness, perhaps. I ended up making more comments than Sam, though his were certainly approved more, and even applauded (no one else at all was applauded. Go Sam!) By midnight (2am, our time) my eyes were closing despite myself, and they called a recess of the meeting wherein Sam took me to bed.
The next morning I was still exhausted, having slept little and dreamed heavily of the ideas we'd been batting around. After a late breakfast, there was a little recap and then we broke into groups to continue the discussion. I inserted myself into a group, but the morning meeting was even more frustratingly unguided and ambiguous, and my desire to participate waned to nothing. After lunch I headed back to our place and tried for a nap, but ended up talking a little tour of the community, reading for a while on the beach, and stopping by a yard sale where I found some beautiful items which I bought as hostess gifts (which I'd tasked Sam with weeks earlier, and he had not deemed necessary.) At about 5pm I finally fell asleep, missing dinner, the big party with the investors and everything. But wow, it felt good to sleep!
My birthday passed with blissfully little remembrance that it was that day at all. Sam said Happy Birthday, but he was the only person I saw all day who knew.
Okay, I'm done with the blow-by-blow that is excruciatingly boring. In the morning, we said goodbye and left, hit a sacrament meeting on our way to the airport, and then parted ways, Sam for Utah, me for home. By chance, I sat by a fellow I'd also sat by on the ride out, and we and our row-mate had great conversations both times. It was such good conversation, in fact, that we traded contact information. Cool.
I didn't reach home until 2:30am that morning, blurry and wondering what that weekend was all about. (At last, time to process!) It was an experience, to be sure, but one which my head had a hard time wrapping around. Was it fun? Was it nice to get away? Was it great to be with Sam? I'm not sure.
Perhaps it was "important" rather than fun. It was important to me to get to be with Grandma Helen. It was important to me to discover that I am (probably unduly) still confident in intellectual/
collaborative settings. That may have been some of the first "professional" style conversation I've had in a decade, but I felt like I understood enough to contribute, and that my life experience of the last 10 years was worth while. I felt quite grounded in that setting--I know who I am and what I know and other's opinions of me are not a big deal. It didn't really phase me that the people assembled were experts in their fields, and some were nationally known, etc. They were just people, to me. I felt comfortable sitting quietly on the outside and I felt comfortable coming forward and joining into conversations. There was no feeling of being intimidated or unworthy. Perhaps that is more of a testament to their graciousness than anything else. I don't know. I was glad to be me, in that setting, though, and didn't envy anyone their life, professional or personal.
I'm not sure it was "nice" to get away. I was exhausted to the point of brain-deadness a lot of the time, and the feeling of San Francisco was not a "nice" one. I much prefer our own little town of Bentonville. I felt very calm about being away, and I certainly wouldn't have had the experiences I did without getting away, but still, I'd say I prefer home to "away."
I felt like I actually spent remarkably little time with Sam. At the "share-a-thon" meetings, we really split up for the most part. We didn't sit together or talk together. We got to know different people. We didn't keep the same schedule. We didn't eat together. In fact, as we were leaving on Sunday morning, Babs and Francine (who could see everyone from the kitchen the whole time) exclaimed in surprise that we were a couple. I don't feel bad about it being that way. Sam commented that he liked that we both felt comfortable apart, and it was great for networking for each of us to "work" different parts of the group. I'm pretty sure I wasn't "working" anything, but I did feel confident as a stand alone person, and didn't need to tag along with Sam. In the moments we were together, it was nice to discuss what was going on, and what we thought of it. It was nice to share the experience, certainly.
So, there was the weekend. It was interesting, and I don't know how else to describe it. I wish I had something more to say to my dear friends who sacrificed to take the kids so I could have a wonderful time. It was a birthday treat to me, from so many people.
I guess more than anything else, it felt like the weekend tested my metal. I've felt "[hidden] in the shadow of His hand" (Isaiah 49:2) for a long time, being at home, with the kids, in a very nurturing environment. And yet, I feel like the Lord has made me "a polished shaft," somehow, rather than a soft weakling. And when I went out into the world--I think San Fran qualifies as the world as much as anywhere--I felt strong and straight (heh heh) and grounded and confident. It felt good to be me. And that is a great birthday treat.
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