Yesterday's Top 3

Ok. I know. I have loads of things to write about (well not loads, but at least a few brilliant blog posts. But. Non c'e' la faccio, as they say in Italian (which doesn't translate well--but it's one of those brilliant phrases). It's just not in me. You bloggers know how that is.

But I must share yesterday's top 3. After two bits of bad news in the preceeding 12 hours, and loads (yes loads) of the heaviest stuff, and the third trip to Utah since the end of September (out of the frying pan, into the fire), I needed, nay NEEDED, these top 3 things, in this order:

1. A sweet, dear friend drove me all the way to BWI. In the pouring rain and the middle of the day. He arrived, saw I was in the middle of a conversation, didn't say a word, picked up my stuff, loaded his car, turned it to point in the right direction, and sat waiting for me. Then he listened to me talk for a really long time, to the point that he missed that crucial turn and there was recovery time in Anacostia (and yes, we've both lived in DC for years!), then dropped me at the curb with the kindest thoughts and hopes. Bless his heart.

2. When I arrived in Salt Lake City, another friend met me at the curb. She was headed to Mesa for Thanksgiving and needed someone to pick up her car to avoid long-term parking costs. She returns a day after I leave. So I have Sylvie, her car. Can I tell you, my friends, what it is to have a car? I know I'll be working in the sweat shop today (in preparation for Annie's big day tomorrow), and just the thought that I. have. a. car. means the world. Bless her heart.

3. I shared the rabbit room last night with my baby nephew. He was sound asleep in his pac-n-play, and there was no moving anything in that tiny room without him waking up. Plus I love the kid. LOVE the kid. So I climbed into bed and pretty soon he was awake and he climbed into bed with me. He just wanted me to hold him and he wanted to put his head on mine and he had to be touching me. I needed that physical contact. I needed that pat on my cheek and that reassurance that he's there. Bless his heart.

So tomorrow is this one's big day:
And guess what I realized I forgot, hanging from the doorknob of my bedroom in Virginia? Yeah. My camera. Oh well. Better that than my dress or my shoes, I guess.

One of those A-HA moments...

After a week full of those "adventures" (where you do NOT ask what else could happen because it DOES), I saved up Friday night to go visiting teaching (church program, see details here--it WAS, after all, the end of the month!). Julie and I had a nice, cozy visit with Jen, which went slightly longer than anticipated. At 9:45 pm, we realized we still needed to run into Georgetown to visit Karen.

Now, this story will have more meaning for those of you who know Georgetown on a Friday night, particularly the Friday night before Halloween. The traffic is crazy and the parking is crazier. There were folks testing out their costumes and cops all over the place. Julie left a husband and sleeping child and baby at home who may or may not have needed feeding. We brought melting pumpkin ice cream for Karen. Our situation was a teensy bit dire.

In my desperate way, I hurled out a very vocal pleading to God: "Please provide us with a parking spot if you want us to visit Karen!" I was half joking--ready to creep down M Street and Wisconsin, and all the hopeful street parking in between. When what to our wandering eyes should appear, but A PARKING SPOT RIGHT IN FRONT OF KAREN'S SHOP. I'm not kidding. It was there. And the street was lined with cars everywhere else, parked and waiting to park. You know.

We ran in and chatted and laughed with Karen while she took a break from work and admired her kitty hidden away upstairs and hugged her and told her Heavenly Father must love her. Then hightailed it home. Where I found another parking spot right in front of my house.

I believe in visiting teaching miracles.

Candle in the Wind

Last week I had to go to Philadelphia. Twice. For two separate conferences.

Ok. I was cheap. I had a ride up and back on Thursday and I didn't want to pay for a hotel room until my Saturday conference.

I decided that after a couple of intense weeks of research, writing, powerpoint making, and all that other stuff, I deserved a slight detour after my second presentation: the Diana exhibit at the National Constitution Center.Judge me all you want. I admit: Diana was my princess. I am a Diana-lover. My grandparents lived in London when she got married and send us news clippings and books and postcards. When I was on study abroad in London, I lived around the corner from Kensington Palace, and everytime our class was interrupted by the sound of her helicopter flying in or out, we wondered what activity was happening.

I loved her dresses. I loved that it took a while for her to find her style, but boy did she find it. I loved that she supported British fashion designers and I loved her sense of class.

I loved her emphasis on humanitarian aid. I loved that she used her station in life to do an incredible amount of good. She didn't shirk away from the difficult situations that were so far removed from her own palaces and royal activity. She jumped in.

Most of all, I loved that she loved people. She touched sick people and held people with crazy diseases. She wasn't afraid of the royal imprimature being polluted in any way. She was brave and fierce.
She obviously struggled privately. And yet she had a grace and a poise that stood strong despite her difficulties.

I remember exactly where I was when I found out about her death. At first I was convinced it was a conspiracy plot by the queen because Diana had stolen her spot light and because of all the troubles with Charles. I watched her funeral and I bought the Elton John cd in support of her, and I listened to it over and over. She was my princess.

The exhibit, by the way, was delightful. If you get the chance, wherever it travels, you should go. I LOVED seeing the dresses I had seen in pictures. The train on that dress? 25 feet long. Incredible. And well worth the $36 parking ticket for being three minutes late to my meter. Take that, Philadelphia. You can't ruin my Diana experience.

And I think I'm going to go to London this year for Christmas. Or to do humanitarian aid somewhere. Is anyone in?

A Misty Moisty Morning

A couple of weeks ago, a friend gave us tickets to the White House garden tour. We braved the rain and chill and metroed in for the biannual event.

I've lived in DC for over three years and have yet to be invited to the White House (I'm still hoping for a Christmas party invite this year... hehehe), so I jumped at the opportunity to come within yards of the famous building.

The Rose Garden

It was beautiful--and exciting to be at the same location where so much happens on the news: the Rose Garden, the Oval Office (I loved that it was literally adjacent to the playground for the OBama kids).

The other thing I loved was the additions from each administration: the magnolia trees planted by Andrew Jackson in memory of his wife Rachel, the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, the Children's Garden (with handprints of many First Children and Grandchildren!). I found it very interesting that the Clintons planted an elm tree. Who loves the elm? Anyone? Isn't it the most common of all weed trees? At least it was at my mom's house in Utah. I loved seeing the Obama playground, but, I'll be honest here, I was a bit perplexed why the famous Michelle Obama kitchen garden was not on display (Could it be in disrepair? Is it a farce? Are they growing unmentionables there, not fit for public view?).After a warm sandwich at Pot Belly, we were on our way. One DC experience richer and a bit wetter... (is that a word?)

Detour

Last week I flew home on Columbus Day. The holiday sort of threw off my travel plans.

(Yes--I didn't know Columbus Day had the power to throw off travel plans. I didn't even know it was a holiday until I moved East. Don't get me wrong--I think Columbus and his travels are worth celebrating. Maybe not the manipulation of the native peoples and the beginnings of American imperialism, but the idea of exploration and expansion. You know.)

Luckily as I boarded the Marc train for BWI a couple of weeks ago, I saw a notice about no train service on Columbus Day. Phew. So glad I saw that and didn't get stuck with a hefty Amtrak ticket on my way home. There's more than one way to get home, right? I planned just to take the metro shuttle to Greenbelt and metro home. Plan B.

Luckily again, I checked the metro website the morning before my flight. Detoured again. The holiday weekend would see scheduled track work on the green and yellow lines, with complete closure from Gallery Place south. Phew again. I mean--that was my direct path. I juggled around the metro map and realized that I could transfer to the red line, then back to the blue line, then catch a bus at the Pentagon and make it home just fine.

Except. The red line is still slow from the horrible train wreck a few weeks ago. And I was tired and that bus would have tacked on another 30 minutes or so home. So I called sweet ME, who agreed to meet me at Farragut North on her way home from work. Perfect. Crisis averted.

My point is this: I think we often make great plans. Fantastic, perfect plans--to ride off into the sunset, or to achieve a certain goal, or to arrive at a certain destination at a specific time. Then something happens. Routes are closed. People fall through. Scheduled track work happens. Columbus arrives back in 1492 and the world celebrates for years after. You get the picture. The exciting, exhilarating part is this: figuring out where you go from here. Rerouting, as the GPS says. Examining your options and making a new plan. Finding a new course to the same destination.

That's it, my friends. Detours are GREAT.

Sing like your shoes are on fire!

Last Saturday evening I flew from Denver to Salt Lake City, where I hugged my cousin Barbara at the airport on her way back to California. Then Janiece picked me up and we headed down to UVU just in time for the Snow Patrol concert. It was fabulous. Great music. Good crowd. My favorite quote of the night was an encouragement to sing along: "Sing like your shoes are on fire!"

What does that mean? It must have something to do with urgency and passion--as if your life depended on it.

When was the last time you sang like your shoes were on fire?

I don't know.

But I do know what it's like to be in the hot seat. In fact, I've got a paper for a conference that I must turn in tomorrow. The great news is that I've found some incredible stuff that makes all the difference to prove my ideas. I'm so super delighted with some stuff that GoogleBooks turned up for me, and that I could interlibrary loan a very rare book from the Newberry Library in Chicago (it's the only extant book from the Salt Lake City Ladies' Literary Club's contribution to the 1893 Chicago World's Fair). I owe the interlibrary loan office some cookies for pulling that one off for me. Plus the archivist at BYU let me take digital pictures of the entire book, Songs and Flowers of the Wasatch. I have such perfect research for this paper.

But.

But I only have two days to get it all together.

Granted--it's only a paper, and this will actually be a chapter in my dissertation, so I have more time.

In the meanwhile, though, I'm singing as if my shoes were on fire. I'm so excited about what I'm doing and yet I've got to get this thing rolling!

Hide and Seek

I love playing hide and seek with a three-year-old. This is how Savannah wanted me to play with her last week:

"I'm going to hide in the cupboard. You go over there and say 'one and two and three; ready or not.' Ok?"

It was so easy that way. It didn't take long and it didn't last long. Only two hides.
If only all the other things that are hiding from me could appear at such command: my dissertation, my husband, a new spare tire that I don't seem to have the time to go find and buy. Sheesh, I'd even take a normal date and a chapter at this point!

But I guess there must be something in the seeking process. Something about recognizing needs and limitations, measuring distances and time and expectations, studying and working through options, testing out possibilities, researching and writing and editing, and asking for help. And sometimes, just waiting. And NOT counting. That's the hardest part for me.

Then again, maybe there are more lessons to be learned from those kids.

• After helping herself to a giant piece of birthday cake, then spilling it all over the floor, little Savvy immediately responded by singing, "I'll go to time out!" Maybe I need to sequester myself into my own time out and really separate myself when I recognize trouble.
• After putting Vicks vapor rub on poor Sierra, who was coughing up a lung (did you know they don't make kids' cough medicine anymore?), Savvy said, "I'm sick, too. I need medicine!" Maybe I need to recognize and ask for a healing balm--and believe mightily in it.
• When I sat Luke down on the gravel playground, he put his hands down to push himself up to his feet. He didn't really like the feel of the sharp little rocks, but he just kept trying. And he never got discouraged--he had the biggest smile on his face. He was so excited to be outside and he wasn't going to let some little rocks stop him from enjoying the playground with the big kids!

Man, I love those kids. I love how I can feel my heart expanding to love them.

The One Who Finishes... or Lessons Learned in St. George...

My quads have calmed down enough for me to tell you a little tale.

Once there was a crazy graduate student who thought it would be fun to train for and run the St. George marathon. She had never done that one before, and her sister and sister-in-law all registered together. What a time for some good old-fashioned family bonding.

Well, then the training part came. And it was very very hot and humid in Virginia. And then she rolled her ankle helping someone move and the swelling never really went down. And even she never seemed to get enough sleep and enough to eat (TRANSLATION: she had a ginormous appetite and ate everything in front of her but just didn't seem to be burning all those calories). She made it through the long runs, even though her running friend suffered a very serious injury and she found some great guys to run with (and they pushed her and pulled her and made her run much faster than she ever thought she could).

And then the day came. All were settled snugly in their beds for the night at the Courtyard Marriott, when what to their sleeping ears should hear but a wake-up call at 3:30 instead of 4:30! Someone at the front desk made a little mistake (TRANSLATION: I don't know how to talk about that without some not very nice words except they gave us a nice credit on our bill).

Here are the highlights of the whole experience:

• There is a great sense of victory that comes with finishing. Sometimes it's not the finish you had imagined--there was no finish-line flourish here (TRANSLATION: The finish-line flourish is when you have this euphoric burst of energy that comes out of nowhere and suddenly your legs are pounding the pavement and you cross that line with this immense amount of energy and strength and pride). There was just the ability to cross the finish line. Period. It was crossed. And there was something both humbling and powerful about submitting to the idea of finishing. Not winning, not PRing, not breaking any record, not qualifying, but finishing. That's it. It's a beautiful concept, friends.
• There is a power in running with a sister. I thought I ran faster than Lisa, and she had really banged up her knee on her last long run. But I'll tell you what, more than I needed to run fast and strong like I did with my guys in training, I needed to run with my sister. I needed her. She needed me. We pushed each other and laughed and told each other stories and listened to our Ipods and danced and sang and waited for each other to go to the bathroom and get Icy Hot rub-downs at the aid stations. She walked with me when I didn't think I was going to make it up the Veyo hill at mile 7, and I kept her going. At the end, Lisa had a lot more energy than I did, and I wanted her to finish strong, so she went ahead. But then, right before the finish line, she turned around and waited for me so we could cross together. That meant the world to me.
• There is something about making something so huge and seemingly impossible into something more manageable. Lisa and I utilized the Galloway method this time, where you run a mile and walk a minute. Something like that. We learned to conserve our energy and rest our aching muscles. And even though near the end we took more frequent and longer walking breaks, and it was hard to push those aching quads back into running mode, it sustained us throughout the race. My favorite part, though, was the big, silver star balloons at ever mile marker. You could see them from far away--and we knew we just had to make it to that balloon and we could walk. I LOVED those balloons (TRANSLATION: I would have married one if I could).
  
• There is something about being surrounded by runners. A marathon becomes a group effort. My great bishop was running as was my cousin John and my sister-in-law Jill. There were signs along the route that made us laugh and keep going. And the crowds near the end were energizing. I loved it.

That's all. I don't know if there's anything left in me to do another one. I do want to beat my time, but my body feels old and tired. And I've got to take good care of it. I've got miles to go and this body needs to see me through, because I'm a finisher.

Home

Last Wednesday I came home. My Utah home, that is. I haven't been home since Christmas last year. That's a long time. What can I say? I've been busy. And living on an ever-decreasing poor student budget.

I've decided I have a couple of homes. I love love love the rolling green hills of Virginia, the thick trees, the brilliant greens and fall and spring colors, the rivers and the history and the age. I love the East Coast culture and I love the incredible people here. This, to me, fuels me and gives me direction and compels me to action. Oh I love that I have found a place to call home that quickens my inner being.

But there was something in the air when I got off that plane at Salt Lake International Airport that I hadn't felt in a long time. A sense of familiarity and deep, long personal history. My history. And the history of the people that I love and that I have made my study and passion. This, too, is home.

I woke up on Thursday to the sprinkling of snow on Timpanogos with the dusting of fall color creeping down the mountain. Oh I love the majestic rocky peaks. I did some research at the new Church History museum in Salt Lake City--looking at old, familiar records in a beautiful new location. That new library is breathtaking--from the bronze friezes to the rich carpet to the warm afternoon sun. I have loved catching up with dear old friends, spending time with family, and even catching a General Conference session Sunday afternoon.And yet... after a couple of days here (well and a sojourn in St. George, details pending the healing of my throbbing quads), I find myself anxious. I feel in-between. I have papers to grade, a paper to write, more research to do, planes to catch, a conference to attend in Denver.
Basically, I've come to the conclusion that time marches on. I remember on my mission after five long, hard, rewarding months in Bari, I was inevitably transferred to Foggia. As I rode the train and looked out the window at the fleeting city scenes that had become my own through a lot of pavement pounding and hard work, I felt like Bari had become a part of me--a part of my very being. I had laughed and cried and withered of exhaustion and thrived with love there. I had give myself to Bari and I took that city into my own self. And I was leaving it behind. But I was also taking a part of it with me. Bari had enveloped itself into my soul.

Before Italy and since then, I've added a lot of homes to my soul: magical London with its enchantment and European delights at every turn, sunny Arizona with its delightful orange blossoms and breathtaking sunsets, dynamic New York City with its mad craziness and breathtaking life all rolled up together, and of course, Washington DC and Utah.

We create homes and we take them with us. They blend together to make us who we are. And we carry them with us everywhere. And we can find home all over again.

In a Good Place

A couple of weeks ago on a 20-mile run, a friend and I chatted about what it meant to be "in a good place."

What does that mean to you?

One definition says: "a state of well-being in which the individual reaches his or her own abilities, can cope with the normal stresses of life, can work productively and fruitfully, and is able to make a contribution to his or her community."

Today, I'm in a good place. I love the subtle changes in seasons--the way the sun shines at a slant now, the breeze and threat of rain, the fresh intermittent quiet pop of leaves here and there. I have some great new music on my Ipod; I have an awesome pair of red heels and some new lip gloss. I'm in a good place.

But to me, being in a good place is not just a matter of new possessions. It's a matter of being comfortable in my skin. It means feeling confident--not necessarily that my situation has changed, but that I feel the ability--the capability--to handle it. And not just to handle it, but to thrive.

Yesterday at church we talked about what it means to blossom in the desert, to build up our waste places. I've been feeling pretty barren lately. My flowers haven't bloomed this summer--but that's probably because I didn't plant as well as I did last year, nor did I water them as carefully. I love what Kate said yesterday--that sometimes we don't immediately see the blossoms of our planting. Sometimes they come years later. But--and here's the important thing--they come. They do.

The other thing about being in a good place is that it sometimes takes a lot of effort. Sometimes it's a fight to be in a good place. Sometimes it means recognizing multiple ways to blossom and bloom. It means finding contentment with an allotted acreage. It means working hard and thinking big and finding a way. And finding some light and color and hope in the process.

And that's why I'm in a good place.

Oh dear, leave it!

When my nephew Grant was little, he came up with this phrase, "Oh dear, leave it!" We figure out that he heard us say, "I can't believe it!" and sort of made it his own. So we say it all the time. I can't believe it! Oh dear, leave it!

I had one of those experiences last Friday. Oh dear, leave it! I was pulling out of the parking garage at Mason and I heard a strange pop, but didn't think much of it. I was mostly just excited that it wasn't raining anymore and I was planning a little weekend get-away to Tappahannock, Virginia (LONG story that I'm still trying to figure out). I popped open my sunroof and drove along Braddock Road.

Suddenly, my super-sensitive nose smelled something burning. I looked around but didn't see anything, until i noticed smoke pouring in through my sunroof. Um, weird.

So I pulled over. I found smoke coming out of the bottom back of my car, and I popped the trunk, with smoke billowing out of my trunk. I was just about to call Triple A (um, hello... wouldn't 911 have been more apropos?), when a car pulled up and asked if I needed help. Um, yes.

The guy popped out--turns out he's an Alexandria fireman (wearing his fire station polo shirt), and he pulled out my spare tire, which was on fire.... he quickly stomped on it and put it out with a canvas bag I had in the trunk. Then he figured out the cause: live speaker wires. Apparently the previous owners of my car had installed a sound system, then removed it before selling the car to me. Only they left the live wires there carefully tucked away under the spare tire. We even found some duct tape in my fancy Eddie Bauer Car Emergency Care Kit (yes, I bought it 2 1/2 years ago on sale for $20, regularly $75, and I've never opened it). The fireman was impressed that I had tape. And he kept repeating, over and over again, "You are so lucky."

Thank goodness for no more rain... so I could open my sunroof.

Thank goodness for my sensitive nose, sniffing out smoke before the flames reached my gas tank. My car reeks like burned rubber, but I have a car!

Thank goodness that the man who stopped was a fireman. And the same thing had happened to him on the New Jersey Turnpike. WHO DOES THIS HAPPEN TO?

Thank goodness that all I need to do is replace my spare tire and remove the wires. Yes there is a small hole in the panel under my spare tire, but I think it should be ok.

Oh dear, leave it!

Familiar

Grammy and Savvy on the Stewart Falls trail. Wish I could have been there...

I was on call yesterday. My friend Catherine was scheduled to be induced, but it had been a busy labor night and all beds were full. But after little Andrew went down for his nap, a bed opened up and I was over in a flash while excited parents bustled off to the hospital.

I worked away for a few hours, and then Andrew woke up. The little guy was quite disoriented... his mother was always there, every time he woke up, and now there was this strange woman he'd only seen at the swimming pool or at church. What up? He cried dramatically, with big crocodile tears. And who can blame him?

I tried my best to comfort him but quickly realized a bigger distraction was needed. So we headed outside to look for Mama. Then I mentioned that Grandpa and Grandma were on their way, that they were at the airport. Andrew said, in his little 2-year-old way, "Grandpa. Airplane. Thursday." I said, "Yes! Today is Thursday! Grandpa is coming today!"

We rode his scooter down to the corner and waited, checking out every single car that passed to see if it was Grandpa, and noticing all the buses and dogs and trees. Soon he was chattering away, until Aunt Susan's car turned the corner. And there, in the front seat, was Grandpa! with Grandma tucked safely away in the back.

Andrew exploded with joy. This kid. Even though he had found comfort and ease with me, he found a very welcome, familiar face. Family. Familiar. I love how they come from the same root. I love how good it feels to put on a familiar pair of old jeans, or to walk a familiar route in a chaotic scene, or to create a home. But there's nothing like family. Familiar family.

Sometime today Andrew will probably find the familiar face of his mom at the hospital. And he'll meet his new little brother, and that probably won't feel so familiar at first. But it will. Oh it will.

Starting Right

You know it's going to be a good one when you start out at a 6 am body pump class at the gym (after a very late night of great food and conversation), and you come straight home and make a Texas Sheet Cake for a funeral luncheon at church. There is nothing like the early morning light filtering in through the window, wearing slightly sweaty workout clothes with your grandmother's apron, stirring up some Ghiradelli cocoa frosting and crushing pecans. And then swooping up the leftover frosting on some french bread for breakfast.

It's got to be a good day.

What to Do at the Beach in the Rain...

We had one glorious day of pure sun. Well plus the half-travel day on Friday and the somewhat overcast day on Sunday. And boy oh boy was that a glorious day--all day long on the beach, soaking in the sun, soaking in every drop, storing up for darker days. Oh my. I love the Outer Banks. I also love the friends and the food, the games and the hours of laughing and chatting and playing. I love it.

So when Monday rolled around with pouring rain and wind, we knew we were in for adventure. First we ventured out on the tandem bike. My favorite part was waving at everyone we saw--they must have thought we were nuts but they all (mostly) smiled and waved back and honked. We drove straight through every puddle head on, and veered around corners and under those dune bushes. When we got back and I climbed off the bike, I started to say something about not getting as wet as I thought we would when I saw Gregory's completely soaked t-shirt. He certainly took the brunt of it!

Then we headed to the beach. I'm waiting for Jen to send her pictures to prove our strategic moves with an air mattress and the angry waves. We boogie boarded and jumped and dove and played to our hearts' content. The water was warm and we forgot it was raining. The last wave ride was the best--with the four of us anchored on that air mattress, we really caught air and wave and we almost died in the process, but the exhilaration was well worth it.

There were like 20 more people, but we were the last ones left...

Then we stomped off the sand and climbed in the hot tub under the protection of the back porch. And we talked and laughed and ate orange bell peppers and the more daring jumped into the pool while the chickens (yes that's me) climbed into a warm shower.

And home again home again jiggety jig. Only with some great beach memories and sunshine AND rain.

Mine Arm is Lengthened Out All the Day Long

An odd title, but it pretty much describes an idea that I really like.

It's been a week of bad health news. My dear grandmother's doctor discovered gout in her thumb and after an emergency surgery, she's still waiting to know how much of her thumb was removed and if the infection has spread anywhere else. A friend--my age--just found out she has MS. I attended a funeral on Monday for a woman from church who died of surgery complications. And I rolled my measly ankle a couple of weeks ago smack dab in the middle of marathon training. I feel like a total whiner.

There's so much I wish I could do. But with GranNomi in Missouri and my friend in Utah, and my ankle wrapped and iced and elevated, there's not much I can do. Besides pray.

Except.

Except, you see, there is a woman from church here who is dying of cancer. She has no family. She is in her last weeks. And she needs people to stop by. Yesterday Julie and I dropped off her kids at a friend's and headed to McDonalds for some milkshakes. After all, they are the medicine my Grandad always brought me. I also towed along a bag full of tricks--dominoes, crossword & sudoku, some random DVDs, and my new Eliza R. Snow book. Just in case.

Holly didn't answer the door. Julie and I freaked out--we could just imagine her, unconscious, on the floor, unable to answer the phone. We knocked and tried talking to her through the door with no answer. We tried to look into the windows, but they were like seven feet above the ground. We chatted it up with her Latin neighbors, who didn't even know she lived there. We called everyone we could think of--friends in Utah, a co-worker at the Smithsonian who was out in the field that day, people from Church. Finally, after hearing baby Bronco crying on the phone, we took our dripping milkshakes and left.

Of course we got a text that Holly was out on some errands with a kind friend. When we returned, she was just getting out of the car and needed help unlocking the door. Confused and hot, sweaty, tired, she was grateful for the melting strawberry milkshake-turned-milk. I gave her a hug and we left.

There was so much I wish I could have done. I wish I could have comforted her and taken away her pain and frustration. I wish I could have given her a foot rub or helped clean up or made her laugh. I wish I could have heard stories about her childhood or about her career or her conversion. Instead I felt her sharp shoulder bones in her grateful hug and left her sugar. I wish I could visit with my grandmother and tell her stories about Eliza R. Snow and play dominoes (she seems to always win).

Holly is now in the hospital, unconscious, her body fighting infection and pnemonia. At least she has no pain.
And at least I know that I do the best I can to help my family by helping the people around me. And I see in the process that in a strange way, there is an arm lengthened out all the day. And beyond.

Bookends to a Week (literally)

It's been an exam week. Hopefully my last one. Oh I hope.

And it's been a week bookended (literally) with two pretty incredible tender mercies. Like some of the biggest I've ever seen. The kind that get me through these kinds of exams.

Last Saturday, after one of my worst runs ever (oh! the humidity! the August heat! the miles!), as I was eating my well-deserved breakfast, Fed Ex knocked at my door with a giant 70-lb. box from a woman for whom I do contract work. Bless her heart. She sent me her collection of the Woman's Exponent, from when she wrote her own dissertation on Utah women's suffrage. She said this collection saw here through her dissertation and she hoped it would see me through mine.
Now let me tell you about this gem. I discovered the Exponent when I worked as a research assistant at BYU. Published between 1872 to 1914 by Utah women, the newspaper covered everything from Relief Society minutes to correspondence with national suffrage leaders to fiction and poetry and biographies and editorials. Very progressive editorials, I might add. And oh! My favorite women! Emmeline B. Wells, Eliza R. Snow, the list goes on and on.


I love these women. I love feeling the raised print on the pages. I love the handwritten names at the tops of the papers--who they belonged to. I love them because I know them. I love Jane Snyder Richards, who was the Relief Society president in Ogden. It was her idea to create stake Relief Society organizations, and under the direction of Brigham Young, right before he died, she was the first. Her husband, Franklin, gave the most beautiful lecture on women and marriage and the sharing of priesthood that I've ever read. And now I've got them here with me. Their words will provide fodder for my research, and their spirits will accompany me on this process.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. After another horrible run (oh! the humidity! the August heat! the miles!), I found another package on my doorstep. This one was from another woman for whom I worked before I started graduate school. I was her research assistant on several projects--namely early Relief Society documents and Eliza R. Snow poetry. Well the poetry book just came out. And I'm happy to present it to you here:

Over 500 poems, each of them carefully annotated and introduced, present snapshots of a beautiful early Mormon trajectory, filled with personal relationships, development, editorials, theology, history, and faith. They are the stories of an amazing journey. I loved getting to know Eliza on a very personal level--pouring over her journals and letters, tracking down her speeches, experiencing her travels and newspaper publications. I loved researching and writing, organizing and formating, discovering the mysteries of people referred to only by their initials based on clues in the poems, understanding the social, cultural, political, economic, literary, and religious implications of her references. I loved it all.

And I loved working with two master historians and writers. I loved our day-long writing sessions, get-aways at Karen's cabin or Jill's cabin. I loved laughing our heads off at the antics we imagined in this nineteenth-century life. I loved pulling together the threads and now, finally, seeing the finished product.
Two bookends. Some of Eliza's poems even appear in those Woman's Exponent copies. From primary sources to adept analysis and interpretation... these two packages have reminded me why I'm here in the Washington DC summer dog days, why I'm plugging through minor fields. I need to gain the tools, to learn the trade, to sharpen my ability.

But I also need to remember and to fuel myself and to refreshen my passion. And these two packages have done just that.

2 More City Blocks, or A-Treking We Go, or Pioneer Children Sang as They Walked and Walked and Walked

When I was a young girls' camper, Ray Baird would take us on hikes throughout the mountains of Camp Shalom and the Uintahs. As young girls are wont to do, we would complain and ask how much longer. "Two more city blocks!" Ray would always reply. Every time it was the same answer. It always baffled us how those two city blocks stretched into many, many more miles.

Last night I was asked to speak at our stake youth conference pioneer trek. I even made my own little pioneer skirt and apron to really get into the theme of things. I studied up on my pioneer stories. I worried, because I was scheduled to take my second minor field exam this week, plus a myriad of other responsibilities falling into my lap made for a very full plate. One thing at a time, I thought. Two more city blocks.

Well things fell into place, as they always do. My exam was pushed back to next week, and I was able to concentrate on the task at hand. Virginia and I drove down through the rolling hills of Virginia, had dinner at a greasy little diner in Marshall, Virginia, then pranced into camp just as the sun was setting, where the kids were constructing makeshift tents and regaling stories of thier long trek pushing and pulling, fording streams and making jokes, sweating and falling and getting back up again.
It was a delightful evening. Only dinner wasn't cooking very quickly in the Dutch ovens (darn thick potatoes). Dan and Virginia and I started the group off, singing some old Eliza R. Snow trail hymns, but we didn't know the tune too well. It fizzled out. And dinner still wasn't ready yet. Kids were starving and tired. But I started telling them stories around the campfire under a full moon. I love how Eliza wrote about it:

“Many, yes many were the star and moonlight evenings, when, as we circled around the blazing fire and sang our hymns of devotion and songs of praise to Him who knows the secrets of all hearts—when with sublime union of hearts, the sound of united voices reverberated from hill to hill; and echoing through the silent expanse, apparently filled the vast concave above, while the glory of God seemed to rest on all around us."

And pretty soon everyone was listening. Intrigued. Enraptured by the stories of yesteryear. Interested because they'd just walked a bunch of miles in their shoes. They loved hearing how Margaret McNeil Ballard was too short to cross the rivers, so she held on to her cow's tail and made it. Or John Stucki, whose father put a piece of buffalo meat in the back of the handcart for safekeeping for Sunday's meal, but as John pushed that cart, hungry, he would cut off a sliver every day. When his father found the evidence, instead of punishing him, he put his arm around his son and cried, grateful that he could somehow provide for his growing boy. Or little Agnes Caldwell, who ran alongside the rescue wagon in the snow, wondering why they wouldn't pick her up, later to discover that her running kept her blood circulating and saved her legs from frostbite and possible amputation like those lying in the wagon.

Two more city blocks, guys. Keep going.

My favorite story, though, was this:

“I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hillslope, and I have said, ‘I can go only that far and there I must give up for I cannot pull the load through it.’ … I have gone on to that sand and when I reached it, the cart began pushing me. I have looked back many times to see who was pushing my cart, but my eyes saw no one. I knew then that the angels of God were there.”


If I can just make it to that hill, or that spot ahead on the horizon. If I can just get through this one more exam, and then that dissertation. If I can make it through this week. The thing is, there's always another two more city blocks--another hill, another valley, another item on my list. But that's what keeps me moving. It keeps my blood circulating and prevents my own frostbite. And I look back at where I've been,and I realize the hands that have pushed and pulled, the energy that has come in such small, beautiful ways.

Two more city blocks.

R.I.P. Ray Baird. We still love you and think of you and sing your praises. And Oh! Pioneers! You, too.