Bread and Stones

I've had an image in my mind for a while of a big monument like the ones pioneers built.  It's made out of hundreds of stones all mortared together in some beautiful setting.  Sometimes you find them with a plaque attached that lets you know the reason for them.  Sometimes you can see where the plaque used to be and you have to wonder.  I searched the internet and this photo was the closest thing I could find to what I imagine. 

The reason for the image comes from a scripture--roughly--Michelle's translation--"Who are you, if, when your child asks for bread, you give him a stone?"  You can see the actual words in Matthew 7:9.    It goes on to talk about how we give our children good gifts because we love them and that God gives them even better gifts because he knows their needs better and loves them even more than we do.  I've really been thinking about how many times I've given stones instead of bread. 

I don't make homemade bread.  I could say I can't or that I don't know how, but I have umpteen cookbooks and plenty of flour.  I used to have a bread maker, but something happened to it.  I buy the frozen dough sometimes, but I usually make it into scones.  I don't make homemade bread.   I think I'm afraid of it.  I make such good pies and cookies and so many other things, but not bread.  My mother made the best homemade bread.  She would rub butter--real butter over the loaf right after it came out  of the oven so it would glisten on top.  It would only last one day no matter how many loaves she baked, because it was so good.  She is such a good soft-hearted mother.  She gave me all the right things.  She always said things in just the right way so that I would draw the right conclusion on my own.  She never pushed or forced.  She always complimented me and made me feel smart and talented and even though I never believed her, she always told me I was beautiful.  She gave me bread.

I could use some of her qualities.  I'm pretty rough around the edges--like a stone.  I say things that come out wrong and hurt feelings.  I don't focus on the positive enough and I certainly don't have a light fluffy way of making everything glisten.  This new year, I'm going to learn how to make homemade bread, but more importantly,  I'm going to learn how to give bread.  Maybe every mother in the world sits pondering all the unnecessary stones she has given her children.  I kind of hope so.  Anyway, the point of the monument?  I'm hoping by the end, when I'm the one going in the ground, that my kids won't see my mothering as a huge pile of stones.

Sweaters and Superheroes

Everyone who ever heard of a superhero knows that they all have alter egos.  They can't just go around in their cape all the time.  My superhero liked to wear Christmas sweaters.  It was getting pretty hard to find sweaters that looked like Christmas in the size 16-18 range.  I guess most boys that size have decided loving Christmas isn't cool anymore.  Not Ian.  He decided what was cool for himself and didn't really care what anybody thought.  I found some this year.  The first time I saw them I left the store crying, but I went back and got some.

I wanted our tree to be a tribute to my superhero this year and the family agreed it would be a good idea.   With a few eye hooks (70+), we made our tree a showplace of memories.  It looks fantastic.

Many of the action figures are without a hand or foot.  Shrek is without his ears--as is Jar Jar Binks. 

The paint is coming off of Batman and Poison Ivy. 

Napoleon Dynamite looks a little funny without the tether ball pole and only one Harry Potter still has his glasses.

Stitch is Ian's nickname at Heart Camp, so we had to include him too,  along with Mrs. Finster and each of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

We couldn't bear the thought of having Christmas without Ian this year, so we found a way to put him right in the middle of it.  One of his favorite questions to ask everyone he met was, "Batman or Superman?  Who's better?"  He told us the reason Batman was better was that Superman was born with all his powers, but Batman had to come up with them on his own and make do with what he had.  That's my son--come up with a way to make what you are given super!

At his funeral, his friend, Pres. Pond told of all of Ian's superpowers and how he used them to touch people.  I know he is still touching and teaching people, but I wish he was here touching me.

We Decide Whether We are Able

At this time of year we all have more to do than usual.  We all have things to make, do and deliver.  We all want to be on top of things and check off everything on our lists.  Setting the holidays aside, and focusing on the other seasons of the year,  I want to declare,  "My abilities do not equal my accomplishments."  Here's the gem:  I don't claim to be "unable" when I drop the ball.

I can't even count the times I've been asked,   "Were you able to do that for me?"   Or the times that,  I've heard,  "Sorry,  I wasn't able to do that."  Or how about when I'm asked if I had time to get to whatever it is.  Responsibilities in the gospel are my personal favorite.  "Did I have time to do my visiting teaching?"  "Yes, but I still didn't do it."  Now let me qualify my remarks by saying I know I have more time than the average person who has a job--but when I don't do something, it's almost never because I wasn't able to or because I didn't have time.  Usually it's because I'm either lazy or stubborn or I put my own priorities ahead of something I was asked to do by someone else--even God. 

Sometimes I don't do things because I don't want to find out that I'm not able.  I still have the illusion that I'm as smart as my doctor or as talented as most fixer-uppers or cooks.  I still have many dreams for myself that I don't pursue because as long as I haven't failed at them, I can still think I would be able to reach them if I tried. 

I  see how others let themselves off  the hook by saying, "I'm not able,"  and I scoff when they use a scripture to justify not running as fast as they can because they don't have the strength.  I say under my breath, "Get the strength!  Win the prize!  Finish the verse!"  I hold myself to that standard too.  Maybe that's the real reason I don't pursue some things.  I don't want to be the thing I hate--weak and unable;  full of excuses.   I guess I'm that anyway.  People just don't know it.  I make the excuses and rationalizations to myself. 

Maybe this blog will eventually help me.  I want to be a writer--I've always wanted to be a writer.

Fresh Start

Another friend told me how long my hair was getting today and asked if I was going to keep it.  So many people comment on it.  They don’t realize that I hate it this long.  I needed a haircut in August.  The plan was to get one for the vacation that didn’t happen.  Then the world stopped.  For a while it was that I didn’t want to sit down with my hairdresser and have her ask all the “how is your family” questions.  We usually have a good visit while I’m there and it takes a long time because I go so seldom.  I didn’t want to make small talk;  I didn’t want to lie ;  and I didn’t want to bawl in the salon. 

Now, it’s a bit different.  When I answered today, I said that I don’t want anyone to think, “Oh, Michelle got her hair cut, she must be feeling better.  I thought about the conversation a lot this afternoon.  I kept wondering, “Do I really care that much about what people think?”  After stewing over it and trying to figure it all out, I came to the conclusion that it isn’t that other people will see a haircut as a fresh start.  It’s that I see it that way and I don’t want a fresh start.  My hair is longer than it has been in 13 years and it’s limp and ugly and I don’t do anything with it.  It’s a symbol for how I feel and I don’t want to tell myself or Ian that I am ready to feel better so I don’t want to look better.  Disheveled is the look I’m comfortable with right now.

Who knows when I’ll feel like cutting my hair.  I won’t ever feel like moving on.  If I could wear all black and a veil over my face I probably would.  It would be nice to have one of those flags that families put in their windows during WWII that signified they’d lost their son or a pin for my lapel that lets people know that they really shouldn’t mess with me because I don’t really feel like I have much to lose.  Like  “My day can’t get any worse, so bring it on!” 

I hope it’s not like the people in the New Testament who want everyone to know they’re fasting so they make themselves look miserable.  I hope I’m not showing with my appearance how sorry I feel for myself—even though I do.    I hope it’s not some pathetic cry for help signaling to people “Hey, I’m mourning.  Aren’t you supposed to be comforting me?  Isn’t that what you signed on for when you became a Christian?”  That would be wrong.  It would be great if I could interpret my own feelings, but for now I just don’t want to look bright and chipper and well-kept until I feel that way.

On a scale from 1-10

 

 

Somebody said the right thing today.  It made me feel good.  It made me feel okay to be where I am.  I know a lot of people care.  They love me.  They want me to feel better.  They say loving things.  They have no reference point for how I feel.  That's a good thing.  I don't want anyone to know  first-hand how I feel.  I wish I didn't know how I felt.

But today, after pretending to be fine at a wedding celebration, (thinking about how my son won't ever have one) I went to visit someone in the hospital.  That's a hard thing.  That’s a psych myself up thing.  Standing in the room, one of the other visitors asked how I was doing--quietly and discreetly so nobody else would hear the question or my answer.  "I'm doing."  That's my general answer if I'm actually paying attention, otherwise I cough out a good or a fine.  It was obvious she’d spent a lot  of time in hospitals lately because she next said,  "on a pain scale from 1-10 you're not even on the scale, right?"  I nodded and thought that's the best way it's been put by anybody in the past 3 months.

I wanted to add a photo of my Ian with my thoughts and all I can think is this isn’t the perfect picture.  It’s not exactly what I want, but I can’t be picky because I can’t ever take another picture of him.  I have to use and love all the ones we have even if they are not super because there won’t be any more.  We took so few photos this summer because Ian gained and lost so much weight and felt so lousy.  I remember calling him “Angelina Jolie Lips” when  he was puffy and telling him he could try out for America’s Next Top Model when he was gaunt.  I  called him “Linebacker Neck” on the day he left me.  I hope none of those words hurt.  I love him, but I didn’t know what to say.  I was trying to make him laugh.  I hope he wasn’t waiting for somebody to say the right thing to make him feel better.  I wonder where he was on the pain scale.

Turkey Day

I can't seem to get Thanksgiving out of my head.  It's fast approaching and I am refusing to commemorate this year.  The more pressure I get from those who mean well, the more I want to run away from a day set aside to be thankful.  I'm told that if I don't celebrate, my two children that are with me will feel unloved and that I still have so much to be thankful for.  While I understand those two arguments and agree with the latter, here are my thoughts:

"IT'S JUST A DAY!"

If I were to believe that this was the only day that my gratitude was expected or appreciated by God then I could accept the argument.  However, I feel very differently.  I am thankful everyday to live in this nation of freedom which was founded by and through God's direction.  I am thankful everyday to have a husband who loves me and provides a great life for me.  I am thankful everyday that I have the luxuries of a home and an abundance of material things that are unknown to many around the world.  I am thankful that God still talks to men on earth and allows those men to act in his name on my behalf.  And  yes, I am very thankful for my children--all three of them and it is bittersweet to be thankful for them right now, so what.
I think Thanksgiving is like Christmas and Easter.  Those are days--special days, but we aren't supposed to just remember that a Savior was born one day a year and we aren't only to repent for our sins on the one day commemorating that Savior's atonement for us.  Just as we aren't only to feel God's love and blessings for us on a particular day while eating a big turkey. 
Almost every year our family has made a "thankful book" and we've all drawn and written down things that we are thankful for.  Silly as it may sounds, the one that sticks in my mind is when we drew "big boy underwear" for Ian.  He would be embarrassed by that, but it's such a good memory.  One year we included the extended family in the book-making and we had a page for each letter of the alphabet.  My teenage nephews wrote some very colorful things that we left out of the aloud reading.  This is a good tradition and I will find a way to continue it this year in some form or fashion--at least I think I will.
The scriptures mention thanksgiving with relation to sacrifice, prayer, and even mourning.  They also say we should live in thanksgiving daily.  This year I choose that over the expense and hassles of  "the day."
How must Heavenly Father feel when we set aside only one day a year to focus on gratitude?   And we spend it eating.  I can only guess that he's disappointed.  Maybe that's my convenient rationalization for this difficult year.  Maybe that's my way of shutting up those who think they know what I should do.  Probably. 

Oprah and And My Aha

Oprah comes at a good time of the day for me.  I have the big project of the day as finished as it's going to be and I don't have to fix dinner yet.  It's a good mind-numbing time and I usually fall asleep for 10 minutes or so.  I have kind of a love/hate relationship with Oprah.  I'd love to be in the audience to collect on her favorite things.  I'd love to met the people she meets.  Mostly I love that when she was asked why she didn't have children she freely admitted that her career is too important to her and she wouldn't be a good mother.   She chose herself and put it out there. That is brave, even if it is supremely selfish--at least she knows herself. 
I hate that she thinks marriage is unnecessary--also a good reason to not have children.  I hate that she has bought into her one publicity and thinks she runs the world.  And here's the thing I  hate the most:  She has snowed a whole generation of women, maybe 2,  into thinking that they should  put themselves first.
I don't know how many times in the last 10 years I have heard the airplane analogy.  "Put your own mask on first and then help small children and those around you."  That may sound like something that can be broadly applied, but real life isn't some motivational, feel-good-about-yourself seminar.  I've heard it referenced when talking about marriage--"You have to tell him what you need."  I've heard it used when speaking about parenting--"I'm so much better for my children when I'm fulfilled."  You here it all the time about careers--"Find what you love doing.  Don't let your job be your life."  Do real people have that option?  Or are they responsible for meeting the needs of those who depend on them?
I don't buy the premise that I am the most important thing in my universe.  I'm lucky--my husband  has always put my needs first.  I think I owe it to  him and our children to do the same.  It may be shocking that I don't find putting others' needs before my own as drudgery either.  I remember hearing Teri Hatcher (maybe on the Oprah show) talk about her book, Burnt Toast.  She said she thought it was awful that her mother always took the burnt toast and gave her family the ones that weren't burned.  What is wrong with that?  That's the kind of mother I have and it's the kind of mother I want to be.  Sacrifice is a virtue isn't it?
The "you can't fill anyone else's bucket unless yours is already full principle" is a great tease  for a magazine article.  Who doesn't want to hear how great it is to be pampered?  It just seems contrary to me, especially if applied in any sort of gospel sense.  I see it as Satan's way of warping  "lose yourself in the service of others."  It's absolutely the opposite of what the Savior taught.  He didn't even know where He would sleep or where His next meal would come from.  He was busy teaching and healing and serving.  Is that not the job of women?  Mothers?  Wives?  I think it's such a waste to teach millions of women that they aren't enough unless they focus on themselves.  How can we expect those in our lives to think of our needs if we aren't thinking of theirs?      We--I am fulfilled because I love other people, not because I love myself.

Watch With Me One Hour

I had the worst time yet making myself go to church this week.  It was Halloween--supposed to be the happiest day in the Gleason house.  I sat in my pajamas watching a vampire movie until 10:00am.  (Church starts at 11.)   If it hadn't been for the fact that Keith was already there and I knew it wasn't easy for him either, I probably would've just gone back to bed.  I got it together and got the kids ready--even made it in time.  I looked around, did the usual once over in the chapel to see whose here, whose not.  Funny how there are so many fewer people than the night before at the Halloween party.  Keith was busy shaking hands.
When the meeting started,  I asked Lucy to sing--told her how beautiful her voice is and that she inherited it from both of her grandmothers and she should use it.  We whispered for a second about how Grandma Sherry used to sing on the radio.  I don't remember the opening song because I was already crying.  There it is, the reason I don't like going to church.  I cry.  There's no TV and I have to be still.  It's crying time.  It was even worse this time because I was weighing whether we had to go have chili with the extended family--Halloween tradition.  I had a million thoughts. 
During the sacrament I bounced back and forth between wishing Ian was blessing the sacrament and the big brown stain on the back the new deacon's pants. He was the one going up in front and I remember thinking, "Wow, that would be so embarrassing."  I thought when I took the bread that it was cheap store-bought white bread instead of the delicious homemade we usually have.  I saw a mentally challenged lady waving at Keith up front and him smiling and waving back.  I had a million more thoughts--like a pinball machine--back and forth, back and forth.
Some of the things I was thinking about during the rest of the service were not only off-topic, they weren't very nice.  I was pretty closed-off and just waiting for it to be over.  It was really just about being obedient enough to show up and fill the bench this day anyway right? 
Before I left the church that day, it occurred to me, that I couldn't watch one hour with the Savior.  Peter, James and John couldn't stay awake.  I couldn't (can't) stay focused.  I should be more focused on the atonement now than ever before in my life.  I need the Savior now more than ever.  In fact, that verse from the New Testament where he asks the apostles why they couldn't be there for him, is the very one to show me that he has felt as alone as I do.  I should want to go to church and take of the sacrament and feel close to the One who can ease my burden. 
Next week, maybe I can hold to that verse and to the Savior.

What You Can See from the Front Door

I've always thought I had the perfect system.  Since it isn't possible to have every nook and cranny of my house clean all at the same time, I prioritize.  The first thing that gets attention is what you can see from the front door.  I wouldn't want to be embarrassed if somebody just dropped by.  If somebody came in for a short visit or I had to open the door for a salesman, it would look like I was the perfect housekeeper.  The front room we seldom use except for company, so if I keep it dusted and vacuum occasionally, I'm good.  I have to pick up a backpack or a wet pair of shoes once in a while and push in the piano bench from the practices that get interrupted.
I work my way in from the front door.  Family room, Kitchen, then whatever is piled on the steps.  If I have a lot of errands to run, or projects to finish, then my system keeps my reputation intact.  Who is ever going to see my master bath or closet?  Shut the door and get to it the next day. . .or the next.  After all, those are my spaces.  It's unselfish right--making sure the common areas of the house get clean first.  Even in the kitchen,  if the counters and the table are cleaned off, what difference does it make if there are a few dishes in the sink or if the pantry is organized?  It's like making sure the table is set even if dinner still has 45 minutes to go, just because it makes me look like I'm on the ball.
I  remember  one time that using my system backfired.  We lived in a very small two bedroom apartment.  Some friends came over for dinner.  What would they need to see my bedroom for?    There was only so much time, so the clean laundry was piled  high on our bed--not folded of course.   It didn't cross my mind that she would need a private spot to nurse her baby.  It was pretty mortifying.  Generally though, it has served me well for many years and made me appear to be quite tidy.
Here's the rub.  When you sit back and ponder, everything you do or don't do has a rub.  My system makes me a Pharisee.  My inner vessels get neglected and I put all my energy on the outside of the cup--the  parts that other people might see.  I think if I really let myself analyze my life, that philosophy applies to more than just the way I clean my house.  I only say bad words in front of my husband and a couple close friends.  I only yell at my kids inside our home.  I'm only unkind to anonymous strangers that I don't think I'll ever see again.  There are many other weaknesses and sins I keep to myself.  No reason for anyone to know what's behind that door.
I rationalize and say to myself,  "it's much harder and more time-consuming to scrub the spot off the floor that only I can see, than it is to keep the clutter off the steps.  How important can it be if only I would notice it?"  Well only I know that my prayers don't get said.  Only I know that I hardly feel the Spirit.  Only I can see the spots that need to be scrubbed off my soul, but I keep up the reputation for the people who aren't exposed to the private moments.  This isn't my only Pharisee characteristic.  I've often thought how much easier things would be if an ancient law told me how many steps to walk.  And for that matter, it could tell me which room to clean and exactly how much time to spend on each project.  But I guess that's why I am supposed to live a higher law--so it will be up to me.  My mistakes.  My sins.  My successes.  I need to decide that the inner things deserve as much attention as the outer.  I need to realize that God can see in that room.  I can't hide my unfolded messes in a room he won't see.  I can't make up for those messes with pretty rooms out in the open.

Why the Title?

Many years ago I was sitting in a class at church when the teacher asked,  "What's the most important lesson you've learned in life?"  Like always, the standard Sunday school answers were given.  I don't remember exactly what they were except that they were easily given without much thought.  I raised my hand and said,  "I've learned that I'm not in charge."  The teacher was stunned.  She actually asked me to explain what I meant and sat down.  I was uncomfortable telling the room what I meant, but I think after this much time and many experiences, I can share it with some level of ease.  God is always in charge.  In every breath.
He's the one who blessed me with the goodness in my life.  Every good thing comes from him and if I think that I earned the good in my life then I am not confessing His hand in all things.
Let me claify.  I fully believe in moral agency.  I believe in choice.  I just also believe that He's in charge of what choices are presented to me.  He's in charge of the consequences that come from the choices I make.  Only He knows what I am strong enough to handle and what I will do with the choices I am given.
He's the one who gave my husband his gorgeous red hair.  I could believe that genetics did that, but whose in charge of genetics?  He's the one who decided my friend  shouldn't be able to bear her own children.  He's the one who allowed cancer to take her soon after the adoption of her two daughters was final. 
Someone asked me recently why I couldn't decide whether or not to bring a lawsuit against the doctors involved in my son's death.  My response was based on this simple truth of not being in charge--"How do I take God out of it?"  If he was supposed to live, the doctors couldn't have overruled God's decision.  My miracle son had already spent 16 years proving to doctors that they weren't in charge.
I'm not mad at God that bad things happen to me and those I care about.  I submit (interesting word choice, even to me.)  that I don't understand, but being mad at a God who loves me, who knows all, and is in charge of the universe really serves no purpose.  The "big picture" is too big for me to be in charge of.  So I give that to him willingly.  He's the only possible choice when thinking of who could decide when a city will be flooded or who will be there when someone's agency brings heartache to seemingly random people.  Only He is qualified to decide who should be born where, under what conditions and into which family.  He's the one I want to decide what I need.  He loves me beyond human capacity.  How can I pass on that?