There and Back Again

I was a fresh faced tween-ager when I read “The Hobbit” for the first time. My mind was filled with the rapture of Middle Earth. Elves, trolls, dragons and adventure.  And a very relatable hobbit in the Burrow who took an incredible journey to there and back again.

Sunday, I sat at the kitchen table and played Chicken Foot with a couple of my kids.It’s a tradition passed down from my grandparents. One Sunday a month, mom would prepare a nice dinner and load it in a cooler in the back of the green station wagon. Then, as soon as Dad came home from church, we’d share foot space in the backward facing seat of the “green machine” and make the hour long drive around the point of the mountain to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Orem.

After dinner was served and cleared, the domino tiles were dumped on the table and we’d all draw seven.  The double zero was placed in the center and the game began--dominoes branching out like chicken feet in all directions.

Grandma Winnie’s sharp pink fingernails tapped the table, inching their way to the draw pile like a one-handed percussion solo. Once there, she fiddled with the tiles, clandestinely peeking for the perfect play maker to win the round.

Play rotation rounded the table and each of us rapped the table with our knuckles, indicating that our turn was over. This was to help Grandpa, who had long since turned off his hearing aids to silence the rowdy, yet beloved, crowd of his seven grandchildren.

Though his hearing was impaired, Grandpa’s eyesight and focus were sharp. Sometime during play, the game would be stalled with an outburst:

“Dammit Winnie! Stop cheating!”

Grandma would protest in a volume that didn’t need a hearing aid and pull her hand innocently from the tiles she’d been peeking at. Dad tried to calm his parents with flustered reason. Mom stayed safe in the kitchen where no one had the kind thought to help her wash the dishes. And we, as young children, watched with shock and guilty amusement.

Years later, at my own kitchen table, last Sunday night, I placed my last tile and won yet another round. I recorded our scores, just like Grandpa had years ago, in long columns stretching the length of a page. We had played from zero to nine and back again. That’s twenty rounds, if you’re counting.

And I thought about the adventures I share with the people I love, that stretch and play though generations. Dinners and holidays. Illness and aging. Chores and vacations. Summer night games and winter fires. And everything in between. All the leftover bits and pieces.

It’s all a great adventure, isn’t it? Full of danger, doubt and fear. Courage and failure. Wonder and amazement at the journey we travel. And sometimes we cheat. Sometimes we cuss. And there’s no one else I’d rather adventure with--to there and back again. 

SANTIAGO chapter 1

This is my chapter that won 2nd place in Adult General Fiction at the Storymakers Conference contest 2018. I'm very pleased with it and excited to share it with you!

SANTIAGO

Chapter 1       

            Santi pulled his blanket over his shoulder and shrugged it up to his chin. It was October and even in Fairfield, California, the mornings were beginning to chill. The apartment floor provided little comfort, but Santi was too tired to care. With his eyes closed, he turned to lie flat on his back. Careful not to bump any of his cousins sleeping like sardines in the small bedroom, he reached his hands over his head in a long stretch. The rising sun teased the window curtains with the promise of morning.

            Strawberries were the worst to harvest, he decided. Bending at the waist, row after row, was painful, even with the advantage of being nine years old and closer to the ground. Santi and his cousins would often lie down on the dirt between the rows of strawberries just to give their backs a break. But when Mama and Aunt Concha gave the order, they were up and picking again, with barely a siesta in between. Santi didn’t mind the hard work too much though. Being with his cousins was worth it.

            The door opened to the small bedroom where he lay, and a shaft of light slipped past the figure in the doorway. Dust danced around Aunt Concha, stopping at the dark outline of her wide hips and sloping shoulders.

            She tiptoed over sleeping cousins and put her hand on Santi’s leg. Motioning to the door, she reached out to help him from the floor. Aunt Concha was a worker, and a good one. She could have lifted Santi’s nine-year-old body up and carried him across the room with one hand if she’d wanted to. Every fall she and her children worked the harvest in Fairfield for extra money. And every fall she opened her home to Santi’s family to join in too. Santi followed his aunt through the minefield of sleeping bodies into the living room.

            Aunt Concha cupped his face with her hands. “An officer is coming to take you to your grandfather. Don’t worry, Santi. I’ll pack you some food.”

            “What’s wrong?” He pulled back. “Are the officers taking us away?” He was scared. He’d seen enough of his friends and their families deported back to Mexico.

            “No Santi. It’s not immigration. We are legal citizens.” She pulled him into a bear hug. “You are needed at home.”

            Aunt Concha was not an affectionate person, and Santi pulled against this sudden change in behavior. A knock at the ground level apartment door released him from the suffocating hug.

            “Officer,” Aunt Concha greeted.

            “Ma’am.” A police officer stepped through the front door. His hat was in one hand and the other hand was raised to his face where his fingers fiddled with a bushy mustache. He was tall and thin with a pronounced slouch.

            Santi looked around for his mother and then remembered she had gone home during the night to pick up some more clothes and other items they needed. Mama would be home when he got there and everything would be fine. He reached for Aunt Concha’s hand.

            “Santi, this is Officer… What was your name again?” Aunt Concha held Santi’s hand like a kite string in a strong wind. He tried to adjust his pinched fingers.

            “Uh, Officer Roberts.” The policeman traded his hat back and forth between his hands. His skittish eyes darted from Aunt Concha’s to the floor and back.

            “Officer Roberts is here to take you home.” She released her grip on Santi and turned to the kitchen.

            Officer Roberts raised a hand and motioned as if to speak to her as she left. His lips mumbled a silent conversation with himself and he shook his head, his hat still spinning in his hands. Aunt Concha returned with a brown paper bag bulging with the round outline of an apple and a water bottle. If Santi was lucky, she’d have thrown in one of her secret-recipe empanadas. She thrust the bag into Santi’s hands and pushed him toward the officer.

            “I’m leaving now? Alone?” Santi looked at his aunt, confused. She bit her lip and nodded.

            “You’ll be okay. Go with the officer, Santi.” She ran her fingers through Santi’s hair and gave him a final squeeze then nodded to the officer. He reached for Santi and directed him out the door. As the police car pulled away, Santi watched his aunt through the back window. She stood in the open door, hands clenched over her chest.

            It was a long drive and the sun burned through the car window. His cousins would be hard at work in the fields by now and Santi envied them. By the time they crossed the Sacramento River, Santi had already seen enough field and asphalt to put him in a scenic coma. Everything looked the same but he knew something had changed. Every dashed line on the road seemed to whisper “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

            When Officer Roberts pulled into his neighborhood, Santi released his seatbelt and sat up next to the window. He pressed his nose and forehead into the glass until it fogged up. He wiped and pressed again. The car slowed to a crawl a couple of houses before Santi’s.

            “My house is further up there.” Santi pointed and knocked on the back of the driver’s seat. They were so close and all he could think about was seeing Mama. Then things would feel right again.

            “Yeah, so, we can’t get too close. I’m just going to park somewhere around here.” Officer Roberts picked up the speed a little and weaved between a few of the neighbors’ cars parked on the street until they were one house away. Then he pulled over and parked behind another police car.

            Santi squinted and stared. There had to be ten other police cars parked all over the street and in his driveway. He opened the door and stepped out, eyes trained on his house. Yellow ‘caution’ tape stretched from the back of his house, across the front and up the driveway on the other side. The house looked like the center of a boxing arena.

            “Hey, kid. You stay here in the car and I’ll be right back.” Officer Roberts walked away, his voice trailing behind him.

            Santi stared through the window like it was a movie screen. A man in a suit greeted Officer Roberts and they both walked into the house through the front door. Santi waited until the door closed and then climbed out of the car and followed the yellow tape up the driveway. At first he didn’t dare walk too closely to it. Stay away, it warned. Danger. But Santi had never been able to stay away from trouble, even when he tried. He reached out and touched the tape, muscles tense. The tape felt like wet plastic and he realized his hands were sweating. He trailed his fingers on the tape as he continued up the driveway.

            Closer to the house now, Santi heard a buzz of activity from inside. It sounded like the hornet nest he had found with his brother in one of the dirt baseball fields last summer. Santi knew what might happen when he threw a tomato at the hive but the air attack that followed was enough to scar him for life. Santi was a fast runner but his younger brother was not. Pushing Luis in front of him, he could not stay ahead of the mass of hornets. By the time they reached home, Santi’s back was a bumpy mass of swelling stings and his breathing was no more than a wheezing gasp. Although he was back to playing baseball with the neighbor boys the next day, he never touched another hive.

            Santi stepped away from the tape, shaking. His breath was quick and shallow. Feeling dizzy he turned away and bent to balance his elbows on his knees. The buzz from the house echoed in his head. Danger.

            “Santiago,” someone whispered.

            Santi looked up and saw his neighbor, motioning for him to come to the far side of the driveway. She was the neighborhood Abuela, hard of hearing and nosy, but always sincere.

            “Santiago. What’s going on? What happened?” Stooped with old age, she was nearly the same height as Santi.

            Santi didn’t know how to answer. Something had happened but he didn’t know what. All he knew was that his house was buzzing like a hornet’s nest and he didn’t want anything to do with it.

            “They will ruin your mother’s flowers. They search all through them. And the noise. They make so much noise.” Abuela clicked her tongue and motioned again for Santi to come closer.

            Just as he stood to move toward her, Officer Roberts appeared at his side and pulled on his elbow. “Come with me, boy,” he said. The officer hustled back to the house, dragging Santi behind. Together, they ducked under the tape and entered through the back door, leaving Abuela shaking her head after them.

            The kitchen was cast in shadow as Santi’s eyes adjusted from the outside morning light. He made out the shape of the dining table through the doorway, in the dining room. The vase of fresh flowers his mother always kept was missing. That made sense though, because she’d been with Aunt Concha and the rest of us for a week. The flowers would have wilted by now. Mama probably tossed them out when she came home last night to pack a few more clothes and things. Where was Mama? Santi rubbed his palms on his pant legs. He looked behind him. Two men in suits were talking, making notes on small pads of paper.

            In place of the flowers were a bunch of grapes and a bundle of asparagus. Two shades of green contrasting with the wooden table. Next to the produce was another pile. Also green. Santi squinted and stepped forward. It was money. Piles of it. Bundles of bills falling off of each other like a landslide. Santi had never seen so much money in his life, except in the movies. Is this why they called for him to come home? Had they found a treasure or won an award? Maybe he had it wrong and this feeling he had, like a bomb ready to explode, was because something good had happened.

            Santi stepped forward. He had touched the tape. He had entered the buzzing house. And he was still standing. He stepped into the dining room and reached for the money. With the next step, his foot slipped and Officer Roberts grabbed him under his arms before he fell to the floor.  Santi looked down to see his foot in a pool of red. He slid his toe back, revealing a streak of linoleum before the blood pooled back together. Instantly the smell hit him. Not the coppery smell, like when he cut his finger helping Abuela with dinner or banged up his knee in a bike crash. It smelled like body odor only worse—rancid and dirty.           

            His stomach turned and he pushed his way through the door into the dining room. His arm burned as he twisted out of Officer Roberts’ grasp. Reaching for the table, he held on with all the strength he had left. The officer followed him. Everyone stopped talking and the hive went silent, noticing him for the first time. Santi focused on the green; the asparagus, the grapes, the money in front of him on the table. But all he could see was red.

            “Jeez, kid. Hold on,” said Officer Roberts.

            Santi turned to stare at the officer. He screamed in his head. Why did you bring me here? Officer Roberts avoided eye contact and stood over him, like a sorry excuse for shelter. He glanced at the wall next to the doorway. Santi followed his gaze and saw two names written on the wall in fat, black marker. Rosa and Maria. Mama and Abuela. Beneath the names the wall was streaked with blood. The room spun and Santi stood still, fixated on the wall. Nothing made sense.

            “Roberts!” A man in a suit stood between Santi and the officer, blocking the view of the wall. “What in the…” he glanced at Santi and cut his curse words short. “When I said bring the boy in, I meant to the office where his grandfather is waiting. Get out of here!” He shoved Officer Roberts toward the door then kneeled in front of Santi.

            “What’s your name, young man?” he asked.

            “Santi. Santiago Juarez, sir.” Santi looked around to see who else might be talking because the voice that came out of his mouth did not sound like his own. It warbled and echoed in his ears.

            “Santiago, I’m Detective Allred. You should not be here. I’m going to send you to see your grandfather.” He waved a hand in the air and another policeman rushed over. “This officer will drive you.”

            Santi nodded. “What about Officer Roberts?”

            “Officer Roberts is no longer working this case.” The detective shook his head and stood. He placed a heavy hand on Santi’s shoulder. “Let’s get you back with family.”

            “What about my mom?” As Santi said the words his stomach turned and his throat went tight like he was choking. “And my dad?”

            The new officer looked at the detective, his mouth stretched across his face so tight it might break. Detective Allred knelt again and stared at Santiago. “This officer is going to take you to the station. You should ask your grandfather these questions.”

            At the police station, Santi walked past cubicles like he was on parade. On-looking officers stood to see him and whispered behind their hands. He lowered his eyes and trudged ahead. Grandfather stood in the middle of a glass room at the end of the hall, rigid as a brick wall with his back to the door. Mama’s two brothers were sitting around a table. One held Santi’s little sister on his lap and the other had his arm around Santi’s brother, Luis.

            The officer stood in the doorway and cleared his throat.

            “Mr. Juarez…”

            Grandfather turned and looked at the officer. His eyes were wet and swollen. “Any more news?” He held his hands out as if to receive something and they shook.

            “No.” The officer shook his head. “Santiago is here.”

            Santi took one step forward, hoping his legs would carry him all the way to his Grandfather’s arms before he fell. He scanned the room, trying to make eye contact but all eyes were on the officer and Grandfather. It was like no one knew he was there.

            “Santiago Juarez is no longer my family.” Spit laced Grandfather’s words and his eyes bore into the officer.

            The officer raised one hand to calm the old man and clarify. “I’ve brought your grandson, Santi.” Santi walked into the room and his brother and sister surrounded him with hugs. His uncles sat at the table, thrumming fingers and watching through lowered eyes.

            “Thank you, officer,” Grandfather said.

            When the siblings finished hugging, Santi turned to his Grandfather. ”Where is my dad?”

            “You won’t ever see him again.” The blood vessels on Grandfather’s neck bulged and pulsed. “He’s dead.”

            Santi’s face flushed and the room swung around him like a giant bell. “And Mama and Abuela?”  He knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it. As his Grandfather ranted about death, hell and Santiago Juarez, Santi covered his ears and crawled under the table with his siblings. He held his brother and sister on either side and rocked as his. 

Why write?

I enjoy writing. I really do. 

But sometimes I get burned out. 

I lose inspiration

and direction

and confidence.

Getting started again is the hardest!

But I've had some stones in my shoe, 

spurs in my boot, 

kicks in the rear.

For starters, I've decided to create a special writing space for myself. 

Here is what it currently looks like:

Its going to take a litte lot of work. :)

But look at all those books!

HEAVEN!

Another motivation is this cute poster my daughter and her friend put together for me. 

"For the MOTHER" 

(hahaha!)

I just love that they recap the writing process for me and then tell me "Mom your AWESOME Believe in YOURSELF!!!!!"

I needed to hear that. Thank you!

Motivation #3:

Bryce wrote this awesome story in class. 

"Jack was in his bed. The doll had blue and red cracks all over. A bucket of blood and it was from people. The dolls eyes turned blood red. the doll started running at Jack. He raced out of his room. He saw blood eyes, red and blue..." (I took a little editorial privilege)

Ok, so maybe weaving a tale runs in the family and maybe someone wants to hear it. 

And that brings me to my final motivation - 
hoping that people want to hear what I write.

Whether its fiction or nonfiction, I write because I want to tell a story, but I also write because I want to be heard. 

I love the song "You Matter To Me" from the broadway show "Waitress." 

"Its addictive the minute you let yourself think,
the things that I say just might matter to someone."

So, its time to get serious about writing again. I need to clear thoughts and experiences from my mind so I can make sense of them, grow from them and be heard. I also need to finished a couple of middle-grade stories for my children before they aren't children anymore. 

MindGames

Look what's in my hot little hands!!!

I am so excited to be included in this anthology from the LDS Beta Readers. It has been such a fun experience. 
Here's the back cover blurb:

Sometimes the mind does more than play tricks on you--it plays twisted games. In this collaboration, wrap your brains around 25 stories ranging from soul-bending and heartbreaking to enchanting and sublime.
Follow a teacher trapped at a mysterious convention, a man whose only chance at survival is a finicky love potion, a student who sees the monsters in others, a syrian boy coming to grips with a new reality, and many more.
This collection features award-winning offerings from established and up-and-coming authors from the LDS Beta Readers group. Are you ready to play?

With so many stories, there's bound to be something you like, a little something in almost every genre. And they're short, which is perfect for busy moms, like me. Or people with short attention spans, like me. 

My story, "Strings", is the first in this collection of 25 short mind-bending stories. 

Cora wants to leave her past behind her but she can't let go of her music. When she decides to buy a piano, she finds it has strings attached. 

(haha. do you get it? strings attached?)

Here's a sneak peak:

If you would like to purchase "MindGames"-- send me an email, comment or message me and I'll get you one. 

$3 - ebook

$10 - paperback

$11 - ebook AND paperback

So fun to add this anthology to my collection of published works. 

("Lesson From My Parents" {essay}, "why i don't hide my freckles anymore" {essay}, "MindGames" {short story})

Book Launch: MiNdGaMeS

Yay for book launches! 

I will write more about this experience on Wednesday, but for now- I'm prepping for my 10 minutes of fame at the Online Book Launch PARTY  at 8:50pm over on Facebook! See you there!

To Be Perfect

To Be Perfect

Bryce waved a wrinkled piece of paper clutched in his dirty, toddler hand. In the center of the paper was a large circle with two straight lines extending from the bottom. Inside the circle were two large dots.

“This is a really neat picture, sweetheart. Tell me about it.” I picked him up and he settled into my lap.

“This is you, Mom,” he said, his eyes shone with pride. Together, we identified the parts of the picture I recognized - the head, legs and eyes.

“But where are my arms?” I teased, giving him a tight squeeze.

“Right here.” He pointed to either side of the circle. Although I couldn’t see them, he knew exactly where they were.

“And, where is my hair?” I was curious now about the different way we saw the picture. He pointed to the top of the circle, as if my short, blond hair was obviously visible. To anyone else, this simple drawing would be lacking key elements—incomplete and unfinished. To my son, his picture was perfect. He saw more than just lines—he saw me.

Time has passed since that discussion and his portrait has found a permanent place on the fridge. Nearly every day, I pause for a few minutes and look at my own personalized picture of perfection.

As elusive as perfection is, the world has many outlets that would have me believe they know how to find or create the perfect mom. Pinterest tells me I can find her in the elaborate planning of themed parties. Facebook tells me I can find her by showing off my awesome family dance party or over-the-top fun trip to an exotic location. Instagram and Twitter lead me to believe she’s found in witty words and sarcastic observations.

There are plenty of days when I believe them and add their pictures to the perfect mom image I’ve created all on my own. The one I’ve pieced together from social media, television, magazines, church and seminary lessons and lusting after the perceived perfection of others. Running at full speed, I try to juggle responsibilities, switching hats like a skilled magician and do my best to rise to the expectations.

A few years ago, my teenage daughter snapped a picture of me in the middle of the chase. The scene unfolds as I stand in the kitchen with my back to the camera. Vigorously stirring something on the stove, I am making dinner, healthy and colorful. The kind of dinner my children will eat one bite of and then sneak toast later on when I’m not looking. The phone is strategically balanced between my ear and shoulder as I talk with one of my visiting teaching sisters arranging for appointments for later in the week. So far so good. Perfection in the making.

The cord of the phone is stretched behind me across a pile of dirty dishes ready to be hand washed with homemade detergent. My effort to be earth friendly and environmentally aware. Behind the dishes, up against the wall are zucchini from our home grown garden, ready to be made into bread for the widow down the street. Under the dishes is a notebook filled with ideas for a new chore system that I will unveil at Family Home Evening that night.

The first time I saw that picture I was sitting at the computer, keeping up our family history by blogging. Still chasing the image. I leaned back in my chair and took a big breath. So much of my life was captured in one clear picture. Over and around the stove and the phone, under and behind dishes, I was working so hard to ‘be ye therefore perfect.’ What was missing in the picture were my children.

In my efforts to meet the expectation of all the picture-perfect mothering obligations, I couldn’t remember if I took the time to actually connect with my children. The most important and defining part of mothering. I volunteered in the school, cleaned a bathroom and mended a blouse. I helped the children finish homework, do chores and get to practice but I can’t remember if I stopped chasing perfection long enough to look my children in the eyes and say “I love you.”

Considering all the things that were left out of my son’s portrait of me, the eyes were not missing. In fact, they were front and center—the window to the soul. I love looking into my son’s eyes when he talks. His expressions are contagious as he opens his eyes wide with excitement or squints and his whole face puckers with a question. They sparkle with a joke and tear up when he is sad. I get more than words when I look my child in his eyes as we talk. It is when we are eye to eye, that we truly connect. When I take the time to look into the eyes of my children and really see them, the exhausting activity level of my grade-schooler becomes enthusiasm and the tireless mess-making of my toddler becomes curiosity.  Those moments of connection and love are where I find perfection.

My son’s perfect portrait of me, drawn with simple lines, will eventually be tucked away in a special place to be treasured for years to come. As he grows and matures, he will draw other pictures and they will be different than the first. Surely in later pictures, missing parts will be added as he includes arms, hair and a smile among other attributes.  It is mercifully reassuring to know that my image of perfection can grow and mature as well, line upon line, precept upon precept.

It is tempting to make my image of perfection complicated, with expectations above and beyond my reach. What I have learned through my son’s artwork is that perfection can really be quite simple because it begins with where I already am, with the people I love most, and grows with me.

Church Services

I walked into the chapel with a frown on my face. I’m not sure I’m up for this, I thought. Sitting through an hour plus of Sacrament Meeting with 5 kids and then wrangling other people’s kids in nursery for 2 more hours seemed like more than I could handle. Especially after the morning I’d had. Yet, here I was, walking into the chapel, practically asking for it.

I unloaded my bag and children onto the pew and listened to the prelude music. Now that’s a cushy calling, I thought, if I had someone to sit with my kids. I wouldn’t mind that calling. I noticed a friend walk in with her four very young children. She serves in the sunbeams. I’m sure she feels the same way I do, I guess. And that sister over there, I tell myself, is going through some pretty intense trials right now. I wouldn’t trade my calling for what she’s going through. Just then my good friend who is Young Women’s President walked down the aisle. There’s no way I would trade for her calling, I thought. Come to think of it, I continued my private dialog in my head, I’m not sure there is a calling I would trade for. If all the callings were laid out in front of me today, I’m not sure I would pick any of them. I’m pretty much just tired of serving. How about no callings? I cheered to myself. I shook my head, feeling mildly sacrilegious and guilty for my train of thought as the prelude music came to a close.

The 1^st counselor in the bishopric stood to begin the meeting. “I’m Brother Finken. Bishop Brown is presiding at this meeting.” My eyes filled with tears. This is just too much. This burden is just too heavy. My husband presides over this meeting. He presides over this ward. And it’s been a long time and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of it all. Can’t we just take a break? Why are we doing this? Why do we stretch ourselves so thin sometimes in church callings? What’s the purpose of all these callings? Why not come for the sacrament and leave? Isn’t that the main point? Why all the extra work?

Lost in my doubtful thoughts, I was startled when the organist began playing the introduction to the sacrament hymn. I mechanically pulled the hymnbook from the back of the pew in front of me, although I didn’t feel like singing. “Oh how lovely was the morning. Radiant beamed the sun above.” But I knew these words. I didn’t need to open the book. “Humbly kneeling, sweet appealing- T’was the boy’s first uttered prayer-” Had I uttered a prayer this morning? I wondered. Could my doubts and discouragement be considered a prayer? Did Heavenly Father hear me, today, in this chapel? “Suddenly a light descended, brighter far than noon day sun.” I was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. Though offered with intention or not, God had heard me and answered my prayer. He responded in full Spirit to my faltering faith and determination. He did hear me in the middle of this chapel, lost in the middle of my doubt.

“Joseph, this is my Beloved. Hear Him!” Oh, how sweet the word.” My doubt dissipated like ash into the night sky, leaving only the burning embers of faith. This is why we serve. Because God hears and answers prayers. We have living prophets on the earth and Joseph was the first of this dispensation. He restored the true and full gospel to the earth. This is why we serve, and I knew it with my whole heart. I serve because He asks me to. Because I love Him. Because it’s true. The Bible, the Book of Mormon, the First Vision, the Priesthood, the Harvest Hills 2^nd Ward. It’s all true and it all matters. It matters so much that it moves me to action and service in the church, even when it’s hard – especially when it’s hard.

“Oh, what rapture filled his bosom, for he saw the living God.”

Wandering Inn Keeper

It was the night before Christmas Eve and the atmosphere in the house was electric. Like pulling untethered helium balloons from the ceiling at the same time, I finally gathered my family at the kitchen table for dinner. After the meal, the children helped clean up dinner, making the kitchen feel like a bustling metropolis of busy elves. And they were happy to do it. They knew that for each service they performed, we would add a link to our paper service chain. The colorful chain now stretched across the kitchen and almost touched the Christmas tree in the adjoining room.

I rested on the couch, reading to my one-year-old, and admired the service chain. A content sigh involuntarily escaped my chest. Our family focus for this year’s holiday season was service. I had been praying all month to find ways to serve those around me. Some days, the opportunities naturally presented themselves. Other times, I had to work a little harder to search out ways to serve. Day by day, the chain grew to be a colorful and beautiful reminder of our efforts.

When the kitchen was clean, the family gathered around the Christmas tree to hear the traditional, nightly Christmas story. Turning the lights off, the room still warm and glowing with the colored lights of the tree and the reflection of shiny ornaments, we settled into our places. My husband, Sterling, started the story, lying on the carpet with a pillow under his head. Slowly, each of the children made their way to the floor next to him, nestling into his shoulder or laying their head on his stomach.

My breath caught in my throat with emotion. I wondered at the comfort and blessings I enjoyed with my family, most of which were stolen moments like this when we were all together and getting along. In my heart I repeated the same prayer I’d been offering all season. “Lord, please help me extend my blessings to those around me. Help me find ways for my family to serve.” A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.  I motioned for Sterling to keep reading.

I pulled the door open, shuddering as the frigid night air slipped into the house. Standing in the yellow porch light was a woman whom, though we were not acquainted, I immediately determined to be a young mother. She wore a colorful knit hat and a nondescript coat buttoned to the collar. A warm scarf was wrapped around her neck. In her gloved hands she held a cookie sheet full of fresh cookies and breads.

“I’m selling homemade goods,” she said simply. “Would you be interested in buying anything?” She looked at her tray, surveying her offering with pride. “I made them all myself.”

I quickly scanned the well-presented tray. The breads looked full and moist, the cookies perfectly browned, some topped with chocolate treats. I looked back at the woman. Her cheeks and nose were rosy pink with the cold, her eyes hopeful. Curls of brown hair escaped her hat and framed her face. I looked at the tray again, knowing that my kitchen counters were already over flowing with treats from neighbors and co-workers. I really had no need or room for what she was offering, so I shook my head.

“Thank you but we really don’t need anything tonight.”

She smiled but her eyes looked down. She whispered a subdued, “Merry Christmas,” and left. I quickly closed the door on the cold air that had seeped into the house and returned to my family.

Resuming my place on the couch, the image of the woman’s face haunted my mind. I pondered what had just happened and my heart began to race. “Who was that woman?” I thought. “Why was she selling her goods door to door so late at night? Where was her family? Her children? Maybe she really needed help.” I shifted anxiously in my seat, vaguely aware of my family and the story being read. I raised a hand to my chest in an effort to calm my runaway heart and my inner dialogue continued. “Couldn’t I have purchased something? Why didn’t I invite her in? She could have warmed up or had a cup of hot chocolate. I could have purchased her whole tray and sent her home to be with her family!” The thoughts piled on like a rolling avalanche until I couldn’t stand it. And then the realization came. That was the answer to my prayer. She was the answer. She was standing on my porch and I turned her away.

Without a word and hardly a glance at my husband, I grabbed my winter coat and raced out the door. I needed to find the woman. A quick glance around told me that she was no longer on my street. She had to be somewhere. I started to run down the cold, dark street, lit only by sparse streetlamps. At the opening of the cul-de-sac I looked both ways and pled with God, “Please help me know where to go!” Hopeful, I turned left and started walking at a brisk pace. I scanned each door step for her shadow, getting more discouraged with each empty street. All the things I wished I would have done or said raced through my mind like a cold wind of regret.

Rounding a corner, I saw the tail lights of a truck ahead and a glimmer of hope surged. Maybe that was her. The truck was several homes ahead of me when I started running. I didn’t know what I would do when I caught up with the truck. I was just consumed with the desire to find her and somehow make up for my mistake in turning her away. I pushed myself to run as fast as I could but my sprint ended too soon as the truck turned onto an empty street leading out of the neighborhood and quickly out-distanced me. Out of breath, I stopped and watched the tail lights fade to darkness.

I bent over, resting my hands on my knees to support myself. I tried to catch my breath but disappointment caught in my throat, lending itself to a ragged sob. I turned slowly and looked around me. Brightly lit houses lined the streets. Christmas lights sparkled, outlining the eaves of houses, and decorated trees glittered in the windows. Inside, families were together, warm and comfortable. It was a stark contrast to the empty hollow I felt inside.

As I walked the silent streets back home, the weight of my failure hung heavy on my shoulders and swirled around me with the cold mist of my breath. With each step, the reality of my new identity became clear. Tonight, I was the innkeeper. Tonight, I was the one who said, “No.”

Suddenly, I considered the innkeeper as I never had before. Had I been in Bethlehem that night, would I have seen the innkeeper wandering the streets, searching for the couple he had turned away? Perhaps he had also run into the night chasing shadows, hoping for the chance to say, “I’m sorry.” I hope the humble innkeeper found the lonesome couple and asked forgiveness as he led them back to a warm stable. I hope it was he who tidied the barn and quieted the animals as he piled warm sweet hay in the manger that sacred night.

I pressed my fingers into my eyes and wiped the tears pooling at my chin. I was returning home empty handed, nothing to show for my search but a humbled heart and a contrite spirit. But the burning in my chest convinced me I had not wandered the streets alone. Part of the miracle of the baby Jesus is that He is also our Redeeming Lord. I considered that God loved me enough to send the woman to my door in the beginning. He knew me and loved me enough to allow me this journey of steps in the dark and cold, to find deeper understanding of the worth of souls, both mine and hers. And He walked with me through the empty streets, teaching me along the way until I was safely home.

The future may cast me as the remorseful innkeeper again and God’s grace allows for that inevitable occurrence in each of our lives. But there is one door that must be tended with the utmost care. Jesus Christ tells us, “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me” (Rev. 3:20). As the keeper of this door, I must not fail to open my heart, might, mind and strength to His love and grace that makes my offering, though meager and flawed, sufficient.

Being Awesome on a Quarter Tank of Gas

It’s hard to be awesome all the time. I should know. I’m a mom. And I live in the middle of a chaotic kind of awesome every day. First, let’s clarify. I’m not talking about being a perfect mom. Perfection is laced with stress, guilt and expectation. Being awesome is different and more appealing because it can be defined so many different ways. There is the sarcastic kind of awesome, as in, watching a full gallon of chocolate milk slip from your toddlers hands and cover the freshly mopped floor. That’s just awesome. The sweet relief kind of awesome when you tuck your kids in to bed and enjoy a pint of your favorite ice cream all by yourself. And especially those moments when you catch your breath because you just realized how amazing your children are and how lucky you are to be their mother. 

The thing is, motherhood can be exhausting. The expectations are overwhelming to do everything and be everything to everyone all at the same time. It’s challenging to be awesome when you’re running on empty. Or almost empty, as was the case when I took my five kids on a summer outing to the mountains. It had been a long week for everyone and by the time Friday rolled around, everyone was ready for a break. The beautiful fall colors and cool mountain air were the perfect escape.

Making our way to American Fork canyon was a breeze. Majestic trees lined the road like sentries as it wove through the forest like a ribbon playing peek-a-boo with the river.

Twenty minutes into the drive, my son asked, “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yep. We follow this road all the way to the Springs,” I said, hugging a narrow turn like a pro. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing, I’m a mom and I’m pretty much awesome all the time!” Parker rolled his eyes at the familiar phrase I repeated over and over, hoping to brainwash my children. I didn’t look behind me but I’m sure Parker wasn’t the only one rolling his eyes. I smiled and glanced at my dashboard just as the red light near the fuel gauge lit up. Adrenaline shot through my veins like a tsunami.

I was in the middle of the mountains on a narrow road, riding the edge of a cliff like a dare-devil and I was about to run out of gas. Oh my sweet children. Forgive me now. Reluctantly, I pressed my foot on the gas pedal to climb another hill. What kind of mother does this? A pretty much awesome one, said my snarkiest inner voice.

Running on what I knew was fumes, we finally pulled into the parking lot at the Springs. I pulled the key out of the ignition and released a deep breath. This is it. We find help here or we don’t. I should have brought more granola bars.

I followed my children on the dirt path to a pavilion occupied by an elderly couple and a young, female park ranger. Angels sang faintly in the background as an aura of light descended around the ranger’s head. This is awesome! I thought. Surely she will know what to do.

I introduced my family and answered a few questions. Where are you from? Have you been here before? Are these children all yours? With the pleasantries behind us, I began to explain my predicament with a complete lack of volume control. I lectured myself silently even as I rattled on. Dial it down! Press the mute!  

Pity and concern oozed from the ranger’s face. “Gosh. What’re you going to do?” The angels sputtered and choked on the final chorus. “I’ll be leaving in an hour,” she offered. “I could follow you out if you want to wait that long.”  

 A long hour later, my children huddled around me, staring at each other in ominous silence as we contemplated our dire situation.

“Maybe we should say a prayer,” Camille said.

“I already did,” said Parker, “twice.”

 “We’re going to be just fine,” I said and forced the most comforting mommy smile I could pull out of the pit in my stomach.

When the ranger pulled out of the parking lot, we were in close pursuit. Each hill we climbed toward the summit seemed to suck gas like a toddler with a popsicle. I pleaded to heaven for forgiveness, making deals like a race track bookie. If I get out of this canyon, I will always check my gas tank before a trip. I will never yell at my innocent, patient, sweet little angels again. I will stop sneaking the kids’ candy from their hiding spots in their bedrooms. I promise, whatever it takes.

Not daring to touch the gas and barely touching the brakes we finally birthed out of the mouth of the canyon like a bat out of hell. At this point, the van was practically floating on faith. From the backseat Bryce chanted, “I love Jesus, I love Jesus.”

The children erupted in cheers as we pulled in to the gas station. The ranger, who parked at the pump in front of us, walked back, smiling at the raucous celebratory noise.

“I don’t know how but you made it,” she said.

“I’m a mom and I’m pretty much awesome all the time. Moms are cool like that,” I bragged.

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Cascade Falls or Bust

CASCADE FALLS or BUST

Heat waves assaulted our bodies as we made our way from the house to the mini-van. Five children scrambled over and around each other, trying to get the coveted seats, which were anything but the back bench.

“Turn on the A.C.!,” yelled Rachel. Being the fourth of five children and only six years old, she assumed her usual spot in the back.

“Where are we going?” Parker asked, making sure all the front vents were open and adjusted to blow directly on his face.

 “Cascade Springs,” I said. I felt a drop in the temperature just saying the words. “Do we have everything we need? Water, treats?”

I checked the rearview mirror and saw Sydney push her way through seatbelts to join Rachel on the back bench. Shotgun lost to her younger brother, again. I was confident once we got to our mountain destination all would be forgiven. I turned up the rear air conditioning for good measure.

Making our way to American Fork canyon was a breeze. The ranger at the pay station took our money and gave us a map in return.

“Here, Parker. Look for the Springs,” I said. I marveled at the majestic trees lining the road like sentries guarding a hidden treasure. The river rushed by on the left, alive and untamed. We pulled away from the station and I felt the shackles of suburban life fall off me. The road wove through the forest like a ribbon, playing peek-a-boo with the river. Twenty minutes into the canyon, the noise of the car muffled for a bit until my ears popped and I knew we had to be getting close.

“Look at the drop-off,” Sydney said from the back, her eyes glued to the window.

“Don’t remind me,” said Parker. His eyes focused straight ahead. “Are we going to be ok?”

“Of course,” I said, flexing my fingers on the steering wheel so the blood could flow again.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he ventured.

“Yep. We follow this road all the way to the Springs,” I said. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing, I’m a mom and I’m pretty much awesome all the time!” Parker rolled his eyes at the familiar phrase I repeated over and over, hoping to brainwash my children. I didn’t look behind me but I’m sure Parker wasn’t the only one rolling his eyes. I smiled, took a deep breath and glanced at my dashboard then looked again. Less than a quarter of a tank. Adrenaline shot through my veins like an earthquake.

I was pretty sure when we left it was closer to half a tank. But now I didn’t know. Did I even check? I had no freaking idea! I grasped the steering wheel with a death grip. Holy crap! I was in the middle of the mountains on a narrow road, riding the edge of a cliff like a dare-devil and I was approaching the summit. The summit-and we weren’t there yet! I didn’t know we had to cross the summit. How much further after the summit? Oh, my sweet children. Forgive me now.

How much gas did I start with? No idea.

How much further to the Springs? No idea

How much more gas will I need to get there AND get back? No freaking idea!

We’re screwed.

My breath came out in a stutter. I turned on the radio, static. I asked Parker to check my cellphone, no reception.

“Seriously, Mom. Do you really know where we are going?” Parker asked again. He was staring me down. Sweat trickled down my cleavage and I couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Against my better judgment, the words vomited out of my mouth, “Getting there isn’t the problem. I’m just praying we have enough gas to get back out!” My voice was hysterically high by the time I finished. I tried to cover up with an awkward laugh. It was acknowledged by complete silence.

“We don’t have enough gas?” Sydney said, her voice slow and penetrating, like a disappointed parent.

“I don’t know, I didn’t check, I’m hoping that…” I tried to explain.

“This is just great!” She folded her arms and sat back into the bench. The two middle girls sat silent, with big eyes and open mouths. Stunned, nervous, shocked, worried, scared. Check your thesaurus for terrified and that was it.

“We’ll be ok, girls,” I said and smiled in the rear-view mirror at their frozen faces. “We’ll get there just fine and then figure things out. There are plenty of nice people around these parts.”

“We’ve only seen one car this whole time,” Parker challenged.

“I’m sure there are other people at Cascade Springs.”

 “Yeah, sure, Mom,” he mumbled and turned away. He reclined his chair and closed his eyes, his lips working in silent, prayerful words.

I reluctantly pressed my foot on the gas pedal to climb another hill. What kind of mother does this to her children? A pretty much awesome one, I said to myself in my snarkiest inner voice. I dug deep and pulled out my awesome self and started talking about how beautiful the mountains were and how nice the water would feel when we got to the springs. At first I talked to myself but eventually everyone joined in the commentary. The first road sign I'd seen for miles gave me hope.

CASCADE SPRINGS: UPPER PARKING LOT

We rounded the corner and the lot was large. It was also empty. BING. The dummy light. Time to fill the tank, Mrs. Brown, the red light flashed. My heart sank below the fill line.

“Well, we’ll just keep going a little bit here,” I sang to no one in particular.

The next bend in the road revealed a smaller parking lot, covered with a canopy of leaves and a big sign: CASCADE SPRINGS. This lot had other cars. Parking the van, I released a deep breath as I pulled the key out of the ignition. That’s it. We find help here or we don’t. Two motorcyclists pulled in behind us. I wondered if they were camped nearby with a huge tank of extra gas for emergencies just like this. Maybe they had a tank with my name on it. I studied them as my children piled out of the car. The men were dirty and rough looking, like they were on an extended ride, not a day trip.

“Biker-dudes!” Bryce said and dashed into the parking, back around the car and into the forest. Four-year-old attention deficit at its finest. Chasing Bryce, I worked up my nerve to approach the “biker-dudes.”  When I looked back, they were gone. Awesome. I pulled Bryce back to the car, grabbed the backpack and locked the doors. I laughed. Even if someone stole the car, they wouldn’t get far.

My lungs swelled with sweet, pure air, perfumed by the towering pines. Quaking aspen whispered a fond greeting. Despite the unsettling situation we were in, I finally felt like I could breathe again. I followed my children on the dirt path to a pavilion which was occupied by an elderly couple and a park ranger. Angels sang faintly in the background as an aura of light descended around the ranger’s head. Surely she would know what to do.

I introduced my family and answered a few questions. Where are you from? Have you been here before? Are these children all yours? With the pleasantries behind us, I began to explain my predicament with a complete lack of volume control. I lectured myself silently even as I rattled on. Dial it down! Press the mute! Nothing worked.

“Gosh. What’re you going to do?” the young ranger responded and the angels sputtered and choked on the final chorus.

“We usually carry an extra gas can with us, but we don’t have it today,” offered the older gentleman. His wife nodded with a “tsk.”

“Let’s go look at the map and see if we can find the shortest road out of here,” the ranger said. She led me to a board covered in posters and maps. We both hmm’d and haw’d over it for a while. I wasn’t sure if she knew what she was looking at but I couldn’t make any sense out it. Stupid geographical mountain maps have too many lines. The older gentleman approached.

“We’re taking off. We could follow you out if you want to go now.” His wife nodded in the background. I paused. Did I seriously drive all this way only to turn around and go back? What stupid kind of awesome is that?

“I’ll be leaving in an hour,” the ranger piped in. “I could follow you out if you want to wait that long.”

“Let’s do that,” I said. We waved goodbye to the elderly couple and turned toward Cascade Springs.

Cold, mountain water tumbled over rocks, between bright yellow flowers and fragrant vegetation. The water sparkled, holding on to the light as bounced over the low, terraced falls. We started across a well-kept wooden walkway extended over the running water and I asked, “Can we play in the water or do we just follow the path?”

“Stay on the path and enjoy the scenery,” the ranger said. She pulled out her binoculars and turned her attention to more distant views. I turned to my children and pressed my fingers to my lips to silence the complaints I knew were coming. We were hot, the water was cold and staying on the path was boring. I didn’t need words to tell me that much.

I pointed out the signs for plants, animals and geological formations as a distraction. When we saw the sign for poison ivy, everyone nodded in the respectful fear only known by those with intimate experience. The sun beat on our bare necks and arms as we travelled back and forth across the paths over the enticing yet forbidden water.

We walked slowly, separating into small groups. Rachel stayed with me. The rest divided by gender. It was a quiet path disrupted only by the friendly babbling of the Springs and the occasional rustle of something hidden the brush.

“Bryce! Over here!” Parker stepped onto a rock urging his four-year-old brother to do the same. He looked at me with an unapologetic smile. “I’m not actually in the water,” he said. He shuffled his feet, splashing the water that ran around the rock. Bryce did not hesitate to follow him to the rocks, not caring a bit about getting his feet wet. As is true with children and with spoonfuls of ice cream, where one dares to tread, the rest are sure to follow. I let them frolic along the bank and mostly on the rocks. I made sure to pull them out before they were ready to leave though, to maintain my meanest-mom-on-the-block title.

We made it back to the pavilion early and waited for the ranger. The smell of the microwave popcorn snack I brought clashed with the pine scented trees. We sat in silence, jaws working over half-popped kernels. The peaceful walk around the Springs quickly dissipated as I considered the ominous drive before us.

“Maybe we should say a prayer,” Camille said.

“I already did,” said Parker, “twice.”

“I just want to look at something before we leave,” Sydney said and walked back down the path, her arms folded.

“We’re going to be just fine,” I said and forced the most comforting mommy smile I could pull out of the pit in my stomach.

When the ranger pulled out of the parking lot, we were in close pursuit. Each hill we climbed toward the summit seemed to suck gas like a wasted addict taking his last drag on an old cigarette. I pleaded to heaven for forgiveness. If I get out of this canyon, I will always check my gas tank before a trip. I will never yell at my innocent, patient, sweet little angels again. I will read scriptures every day and dedicate my life to good deeds forever. I will stop sneaking the kids’ candy from their hiding spots in their bedrooms. I promise, whatever it takes. Crossing over the summit, I put the car in neutral and started to coast where I could. I didn’t know if that even made a difference and I didn’t care.

Not daring to touch the gas and barely touching the brakes we finally birthed out of the mouth of the canyon like a bat out of hell, the ranger’s car always one car length in front. At this point, the car was practically floating on faith. From the backseat Bryce chanted, “I love Jesus, I love Jesus.”

 The children erupted in cheers as we pulled in next to the gas pump. The ranger, who parked at the pump in front of us, walked back, smiling at the raucous celebratory noise.

“I don’t know how but you made it,” she said.

“I’m pretty much awesome all the time. I’m cool like that,” I bragged.