Structure and Flexibility

We have started homeschooling, and for the most part, it is going well.  I love the flexibility of homeschooling.  I love the lower-stress environment which I can create for the kids and myself.  I love being with the kids during the day and getting to be totally involved in their schooling and curriculum/subject choices.
On the other hand, the thought of managing to cover every point of information that they ought to learn, and doing so in a meaningful way, such that they actually learn and are able to use and apply it is overwhelming.  The thought of lesson plans makes me nervous.  It is not that I don't have faith that I can do it.  It is just that I don't have much faith that I will do it.  Some subjects are not a problem that way.  Musical instruments are great, because I can help the kids practice at a moments' notice.  They have a work book for vocab and spelling that I really like.  Latin is fun.  History is all set.  PE is no problem.  Math is a breeze.  Art is a go.  Logic workbooks are at the ready. So what is stressing me out?  Language Art (which seems so ironic, because that is what I love best!) and Foreign language (is Latin right for the girls?  What about Spanish?) and assessments, writing assignments, etc.

Hmm, so apparently what is most stressing me out is the subjects in which I feel I have the most to offer. Interesting.  Is it because I can't bear to just get some curriculum and use it--I feel like I have to produce it myself?  Or is it because my expectations for the kids on that front are so high?  Whatever it is, this feeling of worry that the kids won't get everything they could or should get has been weighing on me.  Other home school moms would tell me not to worry, I know.  I have been trying to face it an deal with it.  So far, that has led to several things:
1. Looking at enrolling the kids in an online "virtual academy." http://www.k12.com/arva (and going so far as to start the application process)
2. Researching what makes teaching / learning effective.
3. Questioning why I am doing home school.
4. Recognizing that I need to step it up.  Yikes. This gets us to the topic of flexibility/structure.

How do you do that?  Be both flexible and structured, I mean?  In my former life (pre-kids) I was great at structure.  I thrived on structure.  I embraced it.  I think I still do/would.  Except that having kids taught me (read forced me) to be flexible.  That is a good thing, though.  I am grateful for the ability to be more flexible.  It is a good life skill.  However, somehow, somewhere along the way, flexible turned into something more like chaotic.  Or just, unstructured?

I am overstating things, actually.  Our family is not chaotic.  We definitely have some structure.  People are not constantly confused about what is going on.  We have breakfast, lunch and dinner.  We have morning and evening prayers, and family scripture study every day.  Dad goes to work, mom stays home.  We clean up the dishes after we use them.  We go to bed at consistent times (or the kids do, at least.) On Saturdays we clean the house and the kids take baths and we do something fun as a family.  On Sundays we go to church (we are even getting better at being on time) and engage in quiet family activities, including Family Home Evening part A.  Monday nights is Family Home Evening part B.  We do all those things quite consistently, except for when we don't.  The "don't" is the exception rather than the rule, but it exists nonetheless.

But even for all that, there is a lot of unstructured time.  Homeschooling is part of that time.  I have attempted to structure the homeschooling time.  I have a great excel spreadsheet print out that we refer to constantly from 8am to 2pm. It is currently under renovation, though.

So, now we come to the real issue: me.  The kids are always up by 7am, and ready for breakfast, family scripture study, and heading out for a walk.  I, however, am not.  This morning I got out of bed at 9am.  (Granted, that is very rare--it is usually more like 7am for me, too.)  And the reason for that anomaly is that I stayed up far, far too late for two nights in a row, worrying about home school stuff.  Ironic.  Anyway, this all has led to my understanding that in order for all this to work satisfactorily, I need to step it up.  That means I need to have more self-control (and head to bed by 9pm instead of 11:30) and be more accountable.  I need to live a higher law. I need to do things that make me nervous (like lesson plans.)

This is all very good for me.  Having to keep myself to a schedule and be disciplined without some outside influence bearing down on me requires a whole new level of growth.  I'm not good at it.  And you throw the necessity of flexibility in there, too, and WHEW, this is uncomfortable.  I believe I can do it, though.  I think I can, I think I can.  Getting to do home school inspires me to step it up, so I can make it work.  I want it to work.  I'm loving it, generally.  Whew.

So, it has been good to write.  Here is what I just learned:
1. I am most stressed by the subjects I love most.
2. I'm not doing too badly.  I haven't failed.  There is structure in place, and light ahead
3. I'll keep working on this, engage the children in the process, and enjoy the journey.

The kids are watching Planet Earth right now.  There are so many resources readily available for an excellent education.  I can do this!

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.

I Thank God for My Handicaps

"I thank God for my handicaps for, through them, I have found myself, my work, and my God."

--Helen Keller

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."

--Albert Einstein

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.   

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.

John Olin Campbell III ~1955

JOC III _1965

Olin Campbell family ~ 1990

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.

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.

Bentonville part.1 June 2006- June 2009

I have loved Bentonville.  Just thinking about its streets and trails, trees and streams, businesses and people makes me smile.  Bentonville has been a place of nurturing for me, in a time when I needed a lot of nurturing.  It was the setting for some of the hardest, most harrowing challenges of my life, and lent its light to times of darkness.

Bentonville brought many people into my life from whom I learned invaluable lessons and by whom I felt myself tested.  Friends were immediate—within the first day of being in Bentonville we’d been invited to dinner and to drop off our kids while signing on our new house.  We accepted both offers, and found friends forthcoming.  I loved having an immediate support network, having other women to guide me through mothering challenges, laugh with me over frustrations, and cry with me during low times. 

One of the first major challenges I faced in Bentonville came as I tried to reach out to a friend.  She was a single mom with three young children, struggling to juggle a job and child care in a new city and suffering the consequences of poor decisions she had made earlier in her life.  Her life was hard, and she lamented being stuck in what she perceived as an untenable situation.  I volunteered care for her son while she was working, took her grocery shopping, and invited her family for dinners, activities, and events with my family.  We established a friendship, and her children really enjoyed being in our home.  She talked about her aspirations in life—renewing her membership in the church, finishing her education, and getting a permanent job.  I wanted so much to help her. 

After about a year of knowing her and her family and watching them struggle, Sam and I prayed and decided to invite them to come and live with us for a while, until she could secure a permanent job and get some more education.  I was excited to have her and the kids be with us—excited to provide a comfortable, loving, stable home, excited to have a friend on hand, excited for the opportunities that would now be open to her, and excited to see her reach her goals.  I felt happy, also, in the service I felt we were providing and in the sacrifice inherent to that service.  It felt good to give of myself to help another and share what we had.  My friend and her kids were excited, too, and grateful.  We talked together and decided how she and her kids could continue to contribute to the household, what the living arrangements would be, and so forth.  It looked like everything would work out beautifully.

Once the family had moved in, I began to learn important lessons.  My friend was not as dedicated to her dreams as I’d understood.  She continued to make self-defeating choices, which was frustrating to watch.  Instead of working hard in her temp job and earning a place of permanent employment, she would frequently fail to go to work at all.  She also found it inconvenient to make the effort to go to church, and did not do so.  She was doubtless struggling with depression and physical illness (she was very overweight) which made those things difficult.  I had understood that she was dedicated to making progress, though, and either she simply was not or she yet lacked the resources/knowledge of how to do so.  I offered emotional support, physical support and financial support as best as I knew how, but I felt like instead of making progress, my friend was growing more and more apathetic, and (to my surprise and sadness) stopped expressing gratitude and instead resented that I wasn’t doing more.  If I had known then what I know now, I may have suspected depression was debilitating her, and suggested a counselor and medication.  I did know signs and symptoms of depression from college, and I guess what she was doing didn’t bring any of those to mind.  My memory is faded now. Whatever the issue was, she needed more than I could to give.

 As the months passed, my disquiet grew.  I began to see that instead of doing my friend a favor, perhaps I had handicapped her further.  Instead of using our home as a stepping stone for progress, she was using it as a resort from her problems.  Our bishop expressed sadness that we had not counseled with him first, telling me that what I had done was like breaking the egg for the chick and removing the shell.  People, like chicks, need to be required to put forth the effort to get themselves out of their difficult situation, or they will not gain the strength of character necessary to thrive.  At home, tensions were escalating.  My home no longer felt like a comfortable, safe place.  There was anger, frustration, and resentment towards me and my family, and disappointment, sadness, and self-reproach on my part. We started to look for other options for her family, though my friend felt she would never make it if we “turned them out.”  We kept looking, though, and arrangements were finally made.  About 4 months after my friend and her family had come, a week before they could get into another place, things came to a head.  The spirit in the home turned so acid one afternoon that I could no longer deal with it.  We rented them a hotel room for the week and helped them into their own space. 

It was a sad, sad, end for me.  The hopes that I had entertained, of helping my friend, ended in fear that I had severely hindered her progress instead.  My sadness and self-reproach was very poignant.  Now, four years later, I don’t know how she is doing or if she ever got herself on her feet.  Just this week, we parked next to a car wherein sat a very overweight woman and two large-sized daughters, and Ethan whispered “Mom, isn’t that the family who lived with us?”  It wasn’t, but it was interesting to me that he remembered them still.  I wonder what else of that time my children remember. . .

During that difficult time, I was buoyed up by a wonderful Relief Society President—Anne Arrington—and supportive friends.  Bentonville’s trails and scenery offered a welcome reprieve, and I enjoyed volunteering at Ethan’s school, often with Carol and Dorothea in tow.

Another challenge came as I pondered my identity and value, which I had long ignored as I was caring for small children.  By the time Dorothea was two, I started feeling human again, and my new-found energy led me to mourn the degree to which my talents, passions, and intellectual pursuits had fallen by the wayside.  I cried in my closet one afternoon, and opened my eyes to realize I was surrounded by momentos of my history.  I looked through old school papers (what a lot I had learned in college!) and impressive grades.  I looked through scholarships I’d applied for and won, I looked through pictures of places I’d been and people I’d served, and I read poetry, essays and vignettes I’d written long ago.  There was proof that (once) I was a worthwhile, impressive person.  What had happened?  What was I now?  My talents had mouldered on a back shelf for so long, they no longer seemed important.  Still, I wanted to resurrect them, and with them a sense of my own worth. 

So, I decided to set goals and get to work on them.  I updated my writing resume and my dance resume and started making calls.  It was my intention to have an opportunity to write for a newspaper and to teach dance.  At that time, nothing really came about.  I needed more certification for most dance studios, and never put a lot of time into applying for a writing job.  Time passed, though, and the following year, the director of one of the dance studios (the best ballet school in Bentonville, which actually took dance seriously and put on a Nutcracker and sent students to New York every year) called and asked if I would like to teach.  I jumped at the chance, and for a year I got to teach beginning ballet at Classical Ballet Academy.  It was wonderful.

The achievement of my other goal happened through church, surprisingly enough.  I was called as the Stake Public Affairs Media Representative, and as such wrote press releases and articles for the local papers about Stake events, missionary service, etc.  Later, I served as the Public Affairs Director and continued writing and interacting with the Media.

The Lord’s orchestration of things so that my goals could be fulfilled was a beautiful testimony to me that He knows the thoughts and desires of my heart and answers my prayers.  Being in Bentonville was instrumental in making those goals a reality, too, I believe, because it is small enough that you don’t have to be the best writer or dancer in the country to get to do what you love.

The spring after my friend and her children left our home, I (finally) got pregnant.  It took longer to get pregnant this time, which was surprising for us.  Nevertheless, we happily shared the news with everyone.  During that time, for one reason or another, I decided that I was doing pretty well in terms of life-progress, and that I could kick back for a while.  I think I remember even informing Heavenly Father that I was quite content with my current state of being and I no longer considered it necessary to progress, or something like that.  I don’t remember what made me so confident, but it was certainly vain.  The Lord had other ideas for me, and as soon as I made that declaration, I lost the spirit.  I went on for a month of feeling rather lukewarm and grey, until I finally humbled myself and apologized to the Lord.  “I do need Your spirit and I do need to keep progressing,” I acknowledged.  The spirit returned, and the very next day I had an experience that brought progress: I miscarried.   I started bleeding and it got heavier and then terrible, flesh-ripping cramps tortured me most of the night.  In the morning I went into the OB, and he confirmed that I’d miscarried.  He was very gentle and removed the aborted tissue, which, luckily, had all been expelled, so no D&C was needed.  I wanted to have what had been the beginnings of a baby, to take home and bury it, but I wasn’t allowed to.  My frustration with legislation regarding human tissue was piqued (especially when I later got a bill from a lab company who had gotten my tissue.)

I was weak physically and emotionally for the next few days, but my spirit was strengthened by the Lord.  I wrote the following to some of my close friends:

Ah my wonderful friends, whose lives entwine about mine and shape and strengthen and enliven me!  You all have been with me since pregnancy #1.  What a lucky woman I am.  News on the pregnancy/Easter:

After some bleeding on Easter, and a very painful night on Sunday, I miscarried.  I was ending the first trimester, which, I understand, is a fairly normal time for a miscarriage.  We are doing just fine--I feel very blessed/protected in this whole experience, and that the tender mercies of the Lord have been extended to me on every level.  Sam has been taking care of me, and the process didn't require much medical intervention--I saw a doctor Monday morning who gently removed the remaining tissue and said that everything had passed naturally and I could go home.  And here I am surrounded by happy, beautiful children who are full of love and give me so much to be grateful for.  I felt protected emotionally, because my feelings about this pregnancy had been very sober--there hadn't been the usual sense of anticipation. I also felt prepared mentally, because I expected that, as common as it is, miscarriage would be a part of my childbearing years.  My body feels tender and in need of healing, but my heart feels tender, too, and full of peace.  Perhaps having it happen on Easter was another tender mercy--the symbol of the empty tomb brings peace for an empty womb, for I know that pain, death, and all our physical frailties and imperfections will pass away, and through Christ's sacrifice and resurrection, we will be able to transcend this mortal sphere and be renewed and live again in a glorious and eternal sphere.  I am so grateful for that promise.  

So, it was a very meaningful Easter.  When I started bleeding in the morning I called the doctor and he said some bleeding was normal, and that staying in bed wouldn't affect things, so I got to spend a wonderful day at church, doing an Easter Symbols egg hunt with the kids, watching Finding Faith in Christ, making and braiding Easter bread, and then giving it to a bunch of our neighbors along with the Finding Faith in Christ DVD.  We were even invited to have dinner with friends, which was fun.  It was a very satisfying Easter, and I felt very grateful to have been so fed by the Spirit before the difficult part began, which wasn't until we were getting into bed.  As I said, the tender mercies of the Lord were on every side.  

I love you and am so happy to continue being involved in your lives, even from a distance.  What a joy it is to watch as our lives progress--with up and down times, but with faith and hope and love.  We are hoping again for #4, in the Lord's time.  

LOVE!