Some obvious things I've been learning

I just wanted to share a couple of things I’ve been learning while sick this time. They’re kind of stupid because they are so obvious and because I’ve heard them before. It’s just that I’ve never lived them before. So don’t be expecting any new insight here—but it’s newer and truer for me because I have felt them now.

I’ve spoken before about Alma’s “Oh that I were an angel” speech. Personally, I have never been extended a calling that I have struggled with. (Although I have struggled with a release, as I talked about here. But that’s different.) Never until now, that is. Because I have been given a calling to serve in a way that I had never wanted to serve and for which I find myself sadly unqualified. And that is that I am currently serving by giving other people an opportunity to serve. I hate it. I am praying to come to a point where I don’t hate my calling, but it’s hard. I’ve always been so cocky about my health and ability to serve others. And so judgmental about people who didn’t want me to serve them. So I deserve this. But it’s hard. I am trying to apply all the things I’ve heard about how to come to accept and love and magnify a calling to this current calling of mine. It is teaching me a lot about the worth of souls and judgmentalism.

The other thing is this concept of manna. I have slowly come to realize that I must pray for the daily manna instead of the overall deliverance into the promised land (or, at least, in addition to that). But I’ve also had to rethink exactly what manna is. It’s one thing to pray, “Just give me what I need to get my tasks done today,” and then expect the energy to do what I need to do. It’s another thing to be grateful when the manna consists, not of the energy I had hoped for, but of someone showing up to do my work for me. Instead of the energy to cook dinner, someone shows up with dinner. Not what I had hoped for, but manna just the same, and I need to learn to be just as grateful, and to recognize the miracle for what it is.

I am ever more and more grateful to my Lord for all He does for me, and all He is teaching me. Somehow He’s going to find a way to humble me through this, no matter what it costs. I really am glad. Usually.

And speaking of manna showing up in unusual ways, I just have to publicly thank Kathy and Angela, who showed up two days ago out of the blue with their arms full of groceries (I’m saying it took them a few trips to get it all in the house). And they weren’t just any groceries, but several carefully-planned meals that went into the freezer and a whole bunch of stuff my kids can use to pack lunches (the real treasure!). All I could do was cry. It’s a strange feeling to be visited by angels.

Another angel: my mother-in-law, in addition to feeding my family for a few evenings in a row now, came yesterday and mopped my floor. And the day before that she came and textured my stairwell!

Will you please fast for me?

Many of us are fasting this weekend because of General Conference next week. If you are, would you mind adding me to your list of purposes for your fast? Maybe it’s not right for me to ask for it myself, but I am. I know it helps; I know God stands ready to bless me. He has promised me healing, and I’ll get it at some point. I’m going back to the doctor the next week, and I would really like to get an accurate diagnosis. Would you fast for that for me? Thank you so much.

I had a dream this week that’s got to mean something significant. In my dream, I had one of my “attacks,” and it got so bad that I had Roger take me to the hospital. After lots more contractions (and my attacks really do feel like contractions, only in my chest instead of in my uterus) at the hospital, I suddenly delivered a baby! Immediately I felt lots better. On the way home from the hospital, with the new baby in a carseat, I said to Roger, “The only think I can’t figure out is why I was so skinny the whole time.”

So, what does it mean? I asked Roger if it meant that if I have another baby I’ll get all better. (More than one person has suggested that, by the way.) He said, “No, it means that we’ll get the right diagnosis, find the correct cure, and it will be a quick and final healing like being delivered.” Sounds good to me.

Interview

Q. How come you don't update your blog very often lately?
A. Because I am sick, dizzy, depressed. But that doesn't mean I don't check for comments ALL THE TIME.

Q. So what kind of doctor haven't you tried yet for this illness?
A. I have not yet seen an iridologist (hubby wouldn't go for that).

Q. Which means . . .
A. Yes, that means that I HAVE gotten acupuncture. Last week I officially joined the porcupine club and I have to say that I AM A BELIEVER! I actually saw him for some tailbone pain, and not for the illness, but he has done miracles with that. No, he didn't put the needles THERE, but put them in my hand and foot. Amazing. I'll tell you more if you're interested.

Q. So what have you learned in this year (or two)?
A. I've talked a little about that before, but here's what I have to add a year later:
I don't know anything about anything. (Squat about squat.) But comments on my blog sure help.

Q. So have you received any "compensatory blessings"?
A. Yes. And don't use that phrase.

Q. What's wrong with that phrase?
A. I don't like what it implies about God. Like he has to make up to us for letting us go through hard things? Or that he likes to bait and switch: "Aha! You were asking for health but I gave you healthy kids instead! How do you like that?" But-- but-- I can't deny that I have received them. And that I treasure them. But I don't want to think in terms of trades. I don't think God would ever want me to be thinking, "These healthy kids sure are nice, but I would rather have health." Or, "giving up my health is worth it for these healthy kids!" Face it, lots of people have both, darn it! And lots have neither! I don't like looking at them as being connected and--heaven forbid--interdependent.

Q. You sound ornery. Don't you have anything nice to say?
A. I still believe in the blessings I've received that I will get well. I am just very, very discouraged. I still need everyone's prayers. Please.

A little quiz.

Well, since the return of the unknown malady (it-which-cannot-be-named, of course), I’ve been thinking a lot more about being in God’s carseat. And when I think that phrase, “in God’s carseat,” I can’t help hearing it to the tune of a little ditty I used to listen to very often. Try this:

Sleep comes; I will trust
in God’s carseat.

He knows where we’re going
in God’s carseat.

So here’s the quiz for the day: do you know which song I have rearranged the words to? Do you know the group that sings it? Here’s a hint: today is St. Patrick’s Day. (Think Irish.) And for double points, quote the actual words. Good luck!

Relapse

Well, I went to St. George for a few days in there and really enjoyed getting some sun. (Right now as I type it is SNOWING. SNOWING, I tell you! YECK, YECK, YECK! I am SICK OF THIS STUFF.) We squeezed ourselves into a little dinky slot canyon and hiked some red cliffs and swam and played with cousins.

Also, some of us got sick. Oldest is very, very sick, which is deeply satisfying to me in a weird way because suddenly he his cuddly again (all 12 years of him) and I really like feeling so deeply needed and appreciated. It continues to be miraculous to me that my body—my touch and my smell and my voice—are so deeply comforting to my children. It is one of the sweetest joys of my life, a gift that comes with all the trials of motherhood as a tender mercy (or—and I always wince when I hear or say this phrase, and maybe I’ll have to blog about why sometime—as “compensatory blessing”). But while I am enjoying loving this little guy back to health I am also getting sick myself. Some or most of it is, hopefully, a little taste of what he has. But some, at least, is a relapse of my same old nemesis that I have been battling for—oh, going on two years now? I won’t go into the details except to say that the weather outside mirrors my sadness about this.

And yet—

And yet spring really is just around the corner. And I was definitely seeing lots of improvement before this little relapse (and it really will be little, right, God?). My hope is not gone. And I have to say that God has been abundantly blessing me in lots of other ways (not going to say that compensatory phrase again), particularly by making things significantly better for three or four people near me that I have been praying intently about. I’m very grateful for that. Also, all of the things that Roger said in his beginning-of-the-year blessings to me and my children have come to pass—even the ones I had a hard time believing at first—EXCEPT for my complete healing. So I know that my healing will come, too, in time.

I’m learning so slowly that prayer is for asking for help to endure the trial, not just for asking that the trial end. I see my life being like the Israelites in the wilderness: I am entitled to ask for manna, nothing more. And I have been getting manna daily, I admit. I am very grateful for that, too.

And now let’s all join hands and sway back and forth and sing together the chorus of Michael McLean’s (wince) famous EFY anthem!

Hold on!
Hold on!
The light
Will come!

(Never been a fan of his, but how that chorus has stuck with me since my youth conference days . . . along with scenes of the very mean bully-girls in my ward with fake-ish tears streaming down their faces and oh-so-sincere-sounding testimonies during the mass testimony meeting . . . Yeah, I’m ornery today. Sorry. I think I was trying to improve my relationship with God just now and got off on a snarky and uncharitable track with that song . . .)

AML-Fest

Yes, yesterday was another of those semi-annual highlights of my life, AML meetings. I don’t have the time or energy to give you a minute-by-minute rundown (sorry), so I’m going to skip over the clandestine political strategizing by Utah County legislators-to-be (not mentioning names, Boyd), the hostile takeover of the AML leadership, the swarm of angry househusbands chasing down their Segullah wives, the mission-statement-destroying revolutionary speech by our president, the highly questionable standards (someone actually said “boob job”!!!!) at the reading, and the underhanded food-stealing by perpetrators from my own table who brazenly went back to the buffet line after being asked not to.

Nor will I mention how Brandon Sanderson swept the awards show; how Mark managed to use the word palimpsest in his paper without blinking; how Harlow Clark managed to discuss everything under the sun (as usual) and somehow tie together the works of O. S. Card, Margaret Young, Scott Bronson, C. S. Lewis, J. K. Rowling and Dave Wolverton; Marilyn Brown’s discussion of her epic struggle to understand just one line of a Clinton Larson poem (and finally getting it in the middle of the night); my desperate plea to Jim Faulconer to read his entire paper one more time so I could really get it; the mysterious spy (from Deseret Book?) masquerading as Chris Bigelow’s son (yeah, sure he’s only thirteen); and the way people kept insisting on jawing on about the Scriptures as Literature while I was trying to schmooze.

Nay, I will leave all of that unmentioned. Instead I will just say that once again I returned home refreshed and ready to hit the trenches. I love all those guys and can never overemphasize the ways that AML has enriched my life. Particularly this weekend I was grateful for Harlow Clark, who first dared to publish my very beginning-level poetry in Irreantum. His support encouraged me to keep on trying. When I write, I write for my AML friends (and now my Segullah friends). Without them, I would have produced nothing. Thanks, guys!

A really great outing

On Friday, I had the perfect outing. First, I hit up grandma to take the wonder-buddy so that I could have my hands free for anything that might come along. Then, I invited my dear friend and already-famous author, Angela Hallstrom to head out with me. What’s a road trip without a fellow chic? And we headed south, because that’s where the sun shines. (I’m skipping over a little part here where I was desperately late because of a defective photo kiosk at Wal-Mart and made Angela fear I wasn’t going to show up at all. Because, well, that part is better left unmentioned.)

So we finally get into the roadster of choice (minivan deluxe). It was perfect except that I had forgotten decent roadtrip snacks and, being starving, had to dig out some petrified peanut-butter crackers from the emergency food supply under the back seat. But no one could beat the fascinating conversation on the way down. I don’t remember what it was, but with Angela you can bet it was fascinating. (I think mostly I griped about said photo kiosk.)

Luck and the wind were with us and we found a great parking spot just south of campus (it’s BYU we’re talking about—where else would a couple of happenin’ chicks end up?). In fact, we were only yards away from where I spent my last semester at BYU (telling my sophomore roommates to please, please be quiet so I could sleep). Oh, the memories.

We trucked up to campus. Actually, Angela trucked. I had to dash back down to get my Billy Collins books, which I had left in the car. Then I had to huff and puff back up that loooooonnnng ramp to get to the JSB—only campus looks so different now and I accidentally sort of got myself into the Eyring Science Building instead. (Did you know it’s been redone?) But I finally got myself into the right place, where I found Angela saving me a place by another really cool person, Emily M. The whole room was full of cool people, actually, because this was a poetry reading by Billy Collins! Yes, THE Billy Collins. As in National Poet Laureate Billy Collins. As in my favorite poet.

Now, let’s backtrack for a minute. That morning, as I was getting ready for the day, I wondered to myself what I should wear to meet Billy Collins. What was my poet-like outfit? What could I wear that would shout, when I shook Billy’s hand, “Hey, I’m a poet just like you!” Because, after all, I am a prize-winning poet now. (Did I mention that?) I never did feel like I got the right clothes (not enough black or something). But I did have a good time preparing. “What do you think?” I asked my husband. “I bet Billy Collins has never won the Mary Lythgoe Bradley award for any of HIS poems. I bet he’d be dying right now if he knew he was going to shake the hand with a prize-winning poet today. I bet I could say something to him about that,” I said.

“Like what?” Mr. Very-Supportive-Husband-who-is-still-enjoying-the-fact-that-he-gets-to-sleep-with-a-prize-winning-poet-every-night asked.

“I could say, ‘Hey, Billy, I understand you’ve never won the Mary Lythgoe Bradley award. Well, I just wanted to let you know that you probably could, if you tried. Take it from a veteran. I’m sure that with patience and hard work, you just might have a chance at it someday. Also, a good critique group helps.’ Do you think he would like to hear some encouragement like that from a fellow poet? I’m sure he would.”

Mr. Supportive Husband didn’t answer because he had turned the shower on and couldn’t hear me.

So, anyway, I was all prepared to meet Mr. Collins after the reading. I clutched his books tightly in my hands. The crowd was big but probably all those college kids hadn’t bought any of his books yet and they’d have to go to the other line to buy books first and I could run up and get a signature lickety-split after the last ovation.

Billy read two of my favorite poems, “The Trouble with Poetry” and “The Lanyard.” He also read “Forgetfulness,” which is famous. He did not, however, read my all-time favorite, “The Introduction.” That’s OK, because I had my books with me and could sneak a peek at that one so it didn’t feel left out. Yes, I did stoop to the very corny action of reading along with him sometimes. It was interesting because sometimes he added a tiny word here and there or swapped words around. It gave me some good ideas for when I have my own reading someday. (Maybe I’ll invite my new friend Billy Collins when I do.)

So after it was over I got all ready to race up there and get a signature and a handshake—only all those students weren’t so dumb after all and had already bought their books and made a really long line. I looked at that line and decided that my books probably didn’t need a signature after all. In the end, Billy had to make do with a friendly wave from me and not the precious advice I had planned for him after all. I think he’ll get over it.

But our fantastic outing was not done—no, not at all. Because we were on BYU campus, one of my most favorite places on earth. Of COURSE we had to visit the bookstore to see if Angela’s book was in (not yet but soon!) and to buy chocolate-covered almonds (oops). And of COURSE we had to eat in the Cougareat, which bears no resemblance at all to the Cougareat I remember but that doesn’t matter since back then I could never afford to eat there anyway. So Ang and I sat there and tried to feel the intellectual vibes. I don’t know if we were pretending we were students or faculty (both of which we would enjoy), but it didn’t matter. We were there and I had my Navajo taco and all was right with the world.

I returned very happy and very tired from my big day. Poor husband had to be subjected to his own Billy Collins reading that night but he survived the ordeal very well. That’s the thing about Billy Collins—everyone can enjoy him. I hope my poetry can bring people joy like that, too.

P.S. I'm told that if you click on every single link in this post, after 30 days you'll get a check in the mail for $2000. But if you don't, a yak will dig up your tulip bulbs and your youngest child will forget he is toilet trained. I'm just passing along what I heard.