I Never Appreciated Cereal

Year after year, night after night, gallon of milk after gallon of milk, I watched my son eat a heaping bowl of soggy cereal, right before dozing to sleep. The dishes would pile on his bedside desk for days. Occasionally, a straggler bowl never made it to the dishwasher for cleansing, but found its demise in the trash can, crusted (or molded, in some cases) beyond sanitizing. Keeping bowls stocked on the shelves was quite the feat. It was not uncommon for him to resort to using salad spinners, Tupperware, or mixing bowls in desperate times.

Admittedly, I do not see the draw in a General Mills night cap. Milk is a slimy liquid that tends to produce an influx of goobers. Cereal is too sweet for settling my night-time stomach, and the grainy texture leaves my inner cheek layers shredded. Although I never esteemed cereal, I did keep a lofty supply in the pantry, which gave my son a variety of options.

I never before appreciated cereal as much as I did while eating that big bowl of Honey Smacks at 11:30 the night he departed for the Caribbean. It was an unforgettable midnight snack; one with a reel of pleasant memories stuck on replay; perhaps a tradition which will evolve into my own mini-ritual over the next two years.

The Needed Call

Eighteen years ago, my first son was born. I remembered hearing earlier from an ultrasound tech that I was going to be having a baby boy. I refused to believe such nonsensical talk because I only had girls to that point. But the second Bradan entered this world, I knew he had a special place in my heart and in this world. He belonged.

Bradan stood as the backbone of priesthood in my home; he remained the sole entertainer and quiet peacemaker the many years I wore the single mother label. His vigorous spirit, coupled with the joy he illuminates, surpassed anything I could have wished for in having a son. His decision to serve a full-time mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has been a solid one the past several years. He has prepared as needed, according to the will of our Heavenly Father.

Waiting at length for the white envelope from Church Headquarters to finally arrive often left me in cold sweats. For many weeks, I wondered, I prayed, I worried where Bradan would be requested to serve. There were many justifiable guesses, and even more random speculation. Yet, as Bradan opened the envelope to read the assignment with nervous excitement, every fear and all worry disappeared. A joyful peace flooded my heart, giving me an assurance that Puerto Rico San Juan is exactly where Bradan belongs. When I consider the responsibilities required and the blessings promised in his patriarchal blessing, combined with his personality, his heritage and lineage, serving there purely made sense.

Bradan's call was clear confirmation that our Heavenly Father knows us individually; he knows our abilities and what we have to offer others; he loves us eternally and has a special place for us. At any given moment and under any specific circumstance, we are needed...where we belong.

Bradan blessed my home beyond measure the past 18 years. Today, as he embarks upon his journey through the Caribbean, he will soon discover how immensely the people of Puerto Rico will bless his life while he faithfully serves them for the next two years.

A Silent Moment

Election Day 2016

It was a monumental experience today, election bonding with my son. His first opportunity to participate was a vital one: tackling the presidential ballot. Americans are divided against God like never before, and the structure of our government quickly crumbles while our Constitution dangles in the balance. The final outcome will determine the fate of our liberty.

It reminds me of Captain Moroni. He
hoisted the Title of Liberty, then rallied all the people to unite and defend God, religion, freedom, peace, and family (Alma 46:12-13). We seem to have gotten away from those core values and desperately need to head back in their direction.

Grateful for my own freedom, I utilized it to fully support the candidate I believe is most fit to run our country.

May God watch over and bless the USA!

Chained at University Hospital

My recent lumbar puncture procedure sparked a distant memory:

I remember years ago being admitted to University Hospital (at University of Utah) in Salt Lake City for neurological testing. The room adjacent to mine housed two male convicts who were chained to their hospital beds. The officer guarding the door outside their room could be seen in the view from my own bed. He occasionally peeked in with a smile, and made sure I recognized my own safety in the circumstance. I trusted that I was in good care.

Occasionally, I would be guided by the nurse to walk the halls so the injections from spinal scans could dissipate through my tissues. On one round of walking, I recall taking a glance into the temporary prison cell. My eyes briefly made contact with both criminals lying in their beds. An overwhelming desire came over me. I should have been afraid, but I wasn't...initially.

At that moment I yearned to sit down next to them and assure each how much their Heavenly Father loves them. I wanted to hear their stories; I wanted to understand what led to their current states of existence, and to ultimately teach them a better way.

But as with most conflict, I waited too long and thought too logically until the opportunity to approach them passed. Instead of acting on my prompting and asking permission to visit the two criminals, I ignored the feeling and turned my gaze away from them. Later, I was discharged and gone.

For many years, I regretted not acting in that moment. Every one of us is a criminal, a sinner in mortality.  Imagine if Christ had turned his gaze from me and, in essence, left me chained to my bed. The thought is unbearable...

Shards of Glass

Daily experiences package themselves in a variety of ways. Some may open to traumatic endings, some may carry endless joy, but most seem to unwrap small elements of surprise in an otherwise predictable life.

Last night my kids wanted to have an Applebee's steak dinner, then play a round of miniature golf for our Family Home Evening (FHE) activity. But, since we had a couple Texas Roadhouse gift cards burning a hole in the pocket, we made arrangements for call-ahead seating and settled on dining at the Roadhouse instead.

When we arrived at the restaurant, we were immediately given a cozy booth. I motioned my husband to scoot in, so I could be on the end to assist my son, who was sitting in a high chair. Greg introduced himself as our server, then introduced Jacob as a recent hire and a server-in-training. We exchanged pleasantries as the young men took our drink orders and gave us time to review the menu.

Within a few moments, Jacob-in-training returned, balancing a large tray of glasses filled with soda on his left hand. While he reached across me with his right hand to set a cherry limeade in front of my husband, a lady passed by our table. As Jacob-in-training simultaneously leaned in to get out of her way, he instantly lost grip of the tray, a loud SHATTER! rang through the building, and I was instantly drenched with soda. In a wave of ice cold shock, I yelped...then busted up giggling! Everyone around me giggled. The empty tray left a long trail of sopping wet evidence from the soft, brown hair on my head, through my crotch, and down to my cherry red toenails. Shivering in sloshing pools of soda, I proclaimed, "That was the ultimate ice bucket challenge!"

Needless to say, the shards of glass that scathed my clothing and sliced my fingers paid for our entire meal. We left a generous tip on the table, alongside my daughter's hand-written napkin note (which thanked Greg and Jacob for a great evening).

If we had dined at Applebee's, as originally planned, this mis-hap may have been missed happening. And what a shame that would have been. When any element of surprise presents itself, I choose to bask in whatever experience it offers. This incident produced a lasting memory for my family, and renewed gratitude that I write with my left hand. My only hope here is that Jacob-in-training remains on the payroll to become Jacob-the-server...

Beach Therapy

I never realized how much I would miss going to the beach when I moved a great distance away from it. A day trip to the ocean was often a necessity during my years at Fresno State. When preparations for difficult tests overwhelmed me, or when unpleasant life situations weighed me down, an afternoon relaxing on a soft, sandy beach--drowning in negative ions during rain or shine--cleansed my thoughts and reminded me of the significant role my existence plays in an often insignificant world.

Physiologically speaking, iron carries oxygen to each cell of the body. Both are imperative elements to survival. The core of the earth is made of iron. It has been noted that ocean waves are the heartbeat of the earth, which are controlled by the position of the moon. Negative ions, which are generated by the ocean surf, naturally cleanse the air while boosting oxygen levels. Thus, enhancing mood and stabilizing emotional/mental focus. 

It only stands to reason (with nearly 5000 scientific proofs circulating) that my recent visit to Marina State Beach was a beautifully grand therapeutic session.

[Taking a deep breath of refreshing sea air]

Ahhh! Monterey Bay, until we meet again...

Beyond the Sometimes

One day, Kristin questioned, "Mommy, do you love me?"

I immediately replied, "Sometimes."

Her wide smile shrunk and her big brown eyes drooped. She stopped in her tracks, with a shock in her expression that would have absorbed the worst of fears.

After a stark moment of silence, I continued to explain, "Sometimes I love you more than you could ever imagine; sometimes I love you for the person you are becoming; sometimes I love you for the person you are creating within me, sometimes I love you for your strengths; sometimes I love you for facing your weaknesses; sometimes I love you just because I do. But, never forget that I will always love you, forever...beyond the sometimes."

My MS Roller Coaster

The happenings of life are often likened to the twists and turns of a wild roller coaster, which invite a continual rush of breathtakingly frightening excitement at every shift. As a seasoned veteran of thrill-ride appreciation, I much prefer that my coasters host a certain flair of mixed leverage, combining slow, giant climbs with short, quick revolutions. Luckily (or unfortunately--depending on the angle), the events of 2015 surpassed my imagination of unexpected thrill, and left me dangling with intense curiosity as to what awaits me over the next twelve months.

Lit with the fast-paced highs of reuniting with my only true love, renewing my spiritual lease, and happily moving back to my hometown in Idaho, my coaster the past year also experienced the lows of a major mechanical glitch--an irresolute glitch, to boot. It temporarily derailed when the diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis obstructed my course near the end of April.

 After a series of shock waves, contemplation, and research, the ride is now back on track, but requires constant adjustments to maintain its proper function.

Multiple Sclerosis (MS) is probably the scariest, most unpredictable ride I have experienced in life. Like the original Space Mountain attraction at Disneyland, it is a blind-faith amusement ride. Encased in the throws of outer darkness, the seemingly invisible track provides only a warped sense of direction. Most days, the best I can do to survive is silently cry, outwardly giggle, and enjoy the ride!

My main goal for 2016 is to enhance my own dynamic understanding of MS by launching a new blog specific to this disease. It is a blog for me to cope with me. I titled it MStryMe.blogspot.com because I have become my own personal spectator on this wildly mysterious ride. And when I behold how the mystery encompasses me, I bravely declare, "MS, try me!"