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.