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!

Book Review: The War That Saved My Life

Ada and her brother, Jamie, have lived in London all their lives, but they don't know how long that's been. You see, they don't know when they were born. 

Born with a club foot, Ada is trapped in their run-down apartment by her emotionally and physically abusive mother. she watches the world through her small apartment window, as other children, including her brother, play in the street, go to school and live a life of freedom and mobility.

The War That Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley is set during WW II and is appropriately written for middle grade readers. Full of insecurities and flaws, Ada is a relatable and endearing character. When the children are evacuated from London to a small town in the country, to keep them safe from bombing, she determines that she and Jamie will go, even without their mother's blessing. 

It is there that they meet Susan Smith, a single woman, a little rough around the edges and not accustomed to children, tasked with keeping the siblings safe. But she becomes much more than a simple guardian.

Bradley does a fantastic job of getting to the core emotional issues of the characters, delving into the anxiety of fitting into a new place and not understanding much of anything in their new surroundings. Because of the abuse Ada has suffered all her life, she pushes back against every attempt to nurture or love. Its heart-breaking and honest and beautiful and the readers takes the journey with her in discovering her individual worth and identity. 

This is a great story for elementary age kids to introduce WW II from a different perspective (as opposed to hiding Jews and concentration camps). But more importantly, its a story about finding your own value and standing up for yourself, learning who you are and learning to trust other people. 

(cautious parent warning: there is reference to Susan Smith having a female friend that she lived with and was very close to. This relationship caused a rift between her father, who is a preacher, and causes her to be uncomfortable or unwelcome at church. So take that for what its worth. Its not a significant part of the book and not important to the main story line)

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.

Power of Moms Ebook Giveaway!

I have raved about the amazing website "Power of Moms" before. It is run by some amazing women who are all focused on being Deliberate Mothers. Daily essays and articles are so inspirational and motivating to help me be a better, more focused, more deliberate mom. They also have awesomely helpful programs. 

I love Power of Moms. This website helped me through some pretty rough times in my parenting and personal development. And they have also published several of my essays, which is so kind and validating. And now, one of my articles has been included in their new ebook:



What I love about this book is that yearly events are categorized so its just a quick look into the table of contents to find the help, inspiration and motivation you need for whatever event is coming up. Its genius. 

As a contributing author, I can giveaway 10 free copies. YAY for you. Seriously - YAY FOR YOU!!! The first 10 people to leave a comment and their email address on this blog post will get a free copy. (Don't forget to leave your email address. That is how I will send you the ebook.)

Also, if you don't win an ebook, you can still purchase for 50% off on their website.Click here for the link!