Somehow this winter has seemed a bit colder and a bit harder to endure for me. I've worn more fleece and warm socks around the house. I've lit (or rather turned on) the fire more often. I've huddled under more blankets. I've whined more.
Ever notice how during the winter the ambient air temperature may be tolerable, but objects in the room can be downright freezing? Like the bathroom's tile floor under your bare feet during your 2 a.m. potty run? Or like the diaper wipes you are about to use to clean your daughter (or yourself after your daughter's diaper has leaked on you)?
A week or so ago I was whining to my wife about this particular winter discomfort. I said something like, "Why is it that in winter even though the air is warm, things get cold, like the sheets in our bed--or the toilet seat?" (Both of those have been particularly troublesome cold items on cold nights...)
Lizzy, who was sitting nearby doing something else and not entirely paying attention to the conversation, overheard that comment--but she misheard it and found it very silly. Laughing, she asked, "Why did you say the sheep in your bed get cold on the toilet seat?"
We all laughed at the misunderstanding, and Lizzy took great delight in repeating it. Like the next morning when I was waking her up and getting her moving she said, "That was funny when I thought you said the sheep in your bed get cold on the toilet seat." And then she laughed again. And she laughed so hard that stuff came out her nose, which made it even more funny and which then became part of the requisite retelling of this funny event. Like a few days later when we had a book group gathering at our house and Lizzy felt compelled to tell one grandmotherly figure, without providing any explanation or context, that the other day she had said "the sheep in mommy and daddy's bed get cold on the toilet seat" and she had laughed so hard "that snot came out of my nose." And she laughed again.
Fortunately, this grandmother has had 7-year-old grandchildren.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Rub al-Khali
This is a message I wrote recently for our church congregation newsletter.
The southern portion of the Arabian Peninsula is dominated by the vast Rub al-Khali—the Empty Quarter. The name is fitting. The size of Utah, Nevada, and southern Idaho, this desert is filled with mountainous sand dunes, rising and falling hundreds of feet in temperatures that top 120 degrees and under skies that can go years without dispensing a single drop of rain.
Few people live in or travel through the forbidding Empty Quarter. But at the close of their overland journey away from Jerusalem, Lehi and his family turned their course in this direction. Nephi records that after traveling southeast along the coast of the Red Sea, their caravan veered east, taking a trail that likely led near or into the Rub al-Khali. In describing this next portion of their journey, Nephi says they “did travel and wade through much affliction in the wilderness” (1 Ne. 17:1).
Family travel in any wilderness would be a challenge; for that matter, driving an air-conditioned car across Nevada with small children is not always a pleasant picnic. But a family trip through the Rub al-Khali, hundreds of miles across an undulating terrain of hot, blowing sand, with pregnant women and infants, precious little water, and no rest stops or fast-food joints—Nephi’s statement that they faced “much difficulty, yea, even so much that we cannot write them all” (1 Ne. 17:6) begins to gather new meaning.
But then comes the miracle. “Great were the blessings of the Lord upon us,” Nephi declares (1 Ne. 17:2). The mothers were sufficiently healthy to care for the children. They were nourished and strengthened by God. The Lord “did provide means” (1 Ne. 17:3), and they made it. It took a long time—perhaps even years—but with the help of God they finally reached a haven in the midst of the desert: A lush oasis on the coast of Arabia, nourished by periodic monsoons that created a place where fruit and trees and honey could flourish. “We were exceedingly rejoiced when we came to the seashore;” Nephi says, “and we called the place Bountiful” (1 Ne. 17:6).
At times, our lives may seem like the Rub al-Khali. We may feel like we are the children of Lehi wading through much affliction in deep, heavy, hot sands. Water may seem scarce. The incessant wind may blow sand in our eyes. And we may climb dune after dune after endless dune with no relief in sight. At times like these Nephi’s testimony speaks to us: “And thus we see . . . if it so be that the children of men keep the commandments of God he doth nourish them, and strengthen them, and provide means whereby they can accomplish the thing which he has commanded them” (1 Ne. 17:3).
When you face such a formidable journey, when you wonder if the desert will ever end, when you feel exhausted from the effort, worn down from the heat and wind, and unable to take another step, remember two lessons Nephi learned in the wilderness: First, God is right there with you in the journey, even when you doubt his presence; and second, for you, as for Nephi, there is a Bountiful waiting somewhere on the other side and if you trust in God and put your hand in his, he will lead you there.
The southern portion of the Arabian Peninsula is dominated by the vast Rub al-Khali—the Empty Quarter. The name is fitting. The size of Utah, Nevada, and southern Idaho, this desert is filled with mountainous sand dunes, rising and falling hundreds of feet in temperatures that top 120 degrees and under skies that can go years without dispensing a single drop of rain.
Few people live in or travel through the forbidding Empty Quarter. But at the close of their overland journey away from Jerusalem, Lehi and his family turned their course in this direction. Nephi records that after traveling southeast along the coast of the Red Sea, their caravan veered east, taking a trail that likely led near or into the Rub al-Khali. In describing this next portion of their journey, Nephi says they “did travel and wade through much affliction in the wilderness” (1 Ne. 17:1).
Family travel in any wilderness would be a challenge; for that matter, driving an air-conditioned car across Nevada with small children is not always a pleasant picnic. But a family trip through the Rub al-Khali, hundreds of miles across an undulating terrain of hot, blowing sand, with pregnant women and infants, precious little water, and no rest stops or fast-food joints—Nephi’s statement that they faced “much difficulty, yea, even so much that we cannot write them all” (1 Ne. 17:6) begins to gather new meaning.
But then comes the miracle. “Great were the blessings of the Lord upon us,” Nephi declares (1 Ne. 17:2). The mothers were sufficiently healthy to care for the children. They were nourished and strengthened by God. The Lord “did provide means” (1 Ne. 17:3), and they made it. It took a long time—perhaps even years—but with the help of God they finally reached a haven in the midst of the desert: A lush oasis on the coast of Arabia, nourished by periodic monsoons that created a place where fruit and trees and honey could flourish. “We were exceedingly rejoiced when we came to the seashore;” Nephi says, “and we called the place Bountiful” (1 Ne. 17:6).
At times, our lives may seem like the Rub al-Khali. We may feel like we are the children of Lehi wading through much affliction in deep, heavy, hot sands. Water may seem scarce. The incessant wind may blow sand in our eyes. And we may climb dune after dune after endless dune with no relief in sight. At times like these Nephi’s testimony speaks to us: “And thus we see . . . if it so be that the children of men keep the commandments of God he doth nourish them, and strengthen them, and provide means whereby they can accomplish the thing which he has commanded them” (1 Ne. 17:3).
When you face such a formidable journey, when you wonder if the desert will ever end, when you feel exhausted from the effort, worn down from the heat and wind, and unable to take another step, remember two lessons Nephi learned in the wilderness: First, God is right there with you in the journey, even when you doubt his presence; and second, for you, as for Nephi, there is a Bountiful waiting somewhere on the other side and if you trust in God and put your hand in his, he will lead you there.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
God Gave Us Families
At the moment, I'm up with Caroline, who woke up about 20 minutes ago--from a seizure, I think. (I had been soundly asleep, so I'm a bit fuzzy on the details, but I think she was making seizure sounds.) As I slowly pulled myself to consciousness and looked at the clock, my first thought was, "How does she do that?!?"
For many of the last several nights, Caroline has woken up between 2 and 3 a.m. As I pulled on my fleece and made my way to her room through the dark, I wondered at possible causes. Does the white noise CD we play every night (precisely to prevent such awakenings) repeat itself or skip or make some other disturbing noise at about that time? Does something happen in her body six hours after a feeding that wakes her? She eats between 8 and 9 p.m., and during the day she eats every four hours; by 2 a.m., she's probably getting pretty hungry (even as I type this, she is making smacking noises with her mouth, as she is prone to do, especially around feeding time). Is there some noise outside at about this time of night that wakes her? Some neighbor leaving for an early morning shift at work?
Whatever it is, it's surprisingly--and annoyingly--regular, this 2 a.m. wake-up call from the next room. If I had somewhere to be at 3:30 a.m., I'd appreciate this reliable alarm clock, but as my only mid-night appointment is with my pillow...
But once you see Caroline--even at 2 a.m.--it's hard to maintain your frustration. She's so adorable, and she smiles big when you lift her out of the bean bag she sleeps in, looking around curiously with those big, innocent eyes, unsure what to make of the world in the middle of the night. And then you change her diaper (which is most often very wet, and likely leaking by this time), and she kicks and lifts her head and gets all excited like this cleaning ritual is some sort of game we play. So you smile and you talk to her and kiss her cheeks and she smiles some more.
As I was changing her diaper just now, I was absent mindedly singing one of the songs that Lizzy has declared we shall now sing for bedtime every night. It's the new Primary song for this year: The Family Is of God (here's an mp3 of it). It has a catchy melody--one that sticks in your head and makes you sing it again several hours later... in the middle of the night.
So there I was, wiping and changing wet clothes and putting on a clean diaper and singing, "God gave us families to help us become what he wants us to be." And I looked at Caroline and suddenly the words came to the forefront of my consciousness, an unexpected intersection between poetry and the reality of my life in that moment. God gave me a family--including this 2 a.m. waker--to help me become what he wants me to be. And what is he teaching me at 2 a.m.? Certainly love. More? Not sure exactly. But there was a spirit to that song and to that moment that told me he is definitely teaching me something, shaping me into what he wants me to be. "This is how he shares his love," the chorus continues, "for the family is of God."
This moving, retrospective moment--wondering how God is shaping me and what he is teaching me--was quickly followed by another, more pragmatic, thought: "Whatever it is, I wish I'd hurry up and learn it so I can stop getting up at 2 a.m. every morning."
Well, she's back to sleep now, all curled up in the navy blue recliner we keep in her room. That's a recent blessing. We've discovered that the recliner cradles her just right and she will often fall back asleep by herself in the chair. This saves us from holding her until she falls asleep--which is often problematic when you try to put her back in her bed and she wakes up again... Anyway, I'm going to creep quietly back to my own bed now.
For many of the last several nights, Caroline has woken up between 2 and 3 a.m. As I pulled on my fleece and made my way to her room through the dark, I wondered at possible causes. Does the white noise CD we play every night (precisely to prevent such awakenings) repeat itself or skip or make some other disturbing noise at about that time? Does something happen in her body six hours after a feeding that wakes her? She eats between 8 and 9 p.m., and during the day she eats every four hours; by 2 a.m., she's probably getting pretty hungry (even as I type this, she is making smacking noises with her mouth, as she is prone to do, especially around feeding time). Is there some noise outside at about this time of night that wakes her? Some neighbor leaving for an early morning shift at work?
Whatever it is, it's surprisingly--and annoyingly--regular, this 2 a.m. wake-up call from the next room. If I had somewhere to be at 3:30 a.m., I'd appreciate this reliable alarm clock, but as my only mid-night appointment is with my pillow...
But once you see Caroline--even at 2 a.m.--it's hard to maintain your frustration. She's so adorable, and she smiles big when you lift her out of the bean bag she sleeps in, looking around curiously with those big, innocent eyes, unsure what to make of the world in the middle of the night. And then you change her diaper (which is most often very wet, and likely leaking by this time), and she kicks and lifts her head and gets all excited like this cleaning ritual is some sort of game we play. So you smile and you talk to her and kiss her cheeks and she smiles some more.
As I was changing her diaper just now, I was absent mindedly singing one of the songs that Lizzy has declared we shall now sing for bedtime every night. It's the new Primary song for this year: The Family Is of God (here's an mp3 of it). It has a catchy melody--one that sticks in your head and makes you sing it again several hours later... in the middle of the night.
So there I was, wiping and changing wet clothes and putting on a clean diaper and singing, "God gave us families to help us become what he wants us to be." And I looked at Caroline and suddenly the words came to the forefront of my consciousness, an unexpected intersection between poetry and the reality of my life in that moment. God gave me a family--including this 2 a.m. waker--to help me become what he wants me to be. And what is he teaching me at 2 a.m.? Certainly love. More? Not sure exactly. But there was a spirit to that song and to that moment that told me he is definitely teaching me something, shaping me into what he wants me to be. "This is how he shares his love," the chorus continues, "for the family is of God."
This moving, retrospective moment--wondering how God is shaping me and what he is teaching me--was quickly followed by another, more pragmatic, thought: "Whatever it is, I wish I'd hurry up and learn it so I can stop getting up at 2 a.m. every morning."
Well, she's back to sleep now, all curled up in the navy blue recliner we keep in her room. That's a recent blessing. We've discovered that the recliner cradles her just right and she will often fall back asleep by herself in the chair. This saves us from holding her until she falls asleep--which is often problematic when you try to put her back in her bed and she wakes up again... Anyway, I'm going to creep quietly back to my own bed now.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Make a Mark... or Buy a Harley
I just watched as Urban Meyer coached his second national championship team. He is all of 44 years old. He was first a national champion coach at age 42. Four years ago, when he was 40, he coached the University of Utah in an undefeated season, breaking into the BCS and winning the Fiesta Bowl.
Reading about Meyer's accomplishments reminded me of something: I'm running out of time to make my splash in the world. I turn 39 in just over two months.
Thomas Jefferson penned the Declaration of Independence at age 33. George Washington was 43 when he led the Continental Army against the British. Jeffrey R. Holland and Dallin H. Oaks were each 39 when they were named president of Brigham Young University. Joseph Smith was 38 and a half when he was killed. Barak Obama was 43 when he was elected the junior senator from Illinois. JFK was 44 when he was elected president.
I wonder if this is what motivates mid-life crises. Somewhere around age 40, men realize that they haven't yet made their mark in the world, so they begin casting about for things to do. When they can't find anything, they cover up their lack of accomplishment with a really cool motorcycle.
So anyway, I figure I've got about five years to do something cool--either that or visit the local Harley dealer.
Reading about Meyer's accomplishments reminded me of something: I'm running out of time to make my splash in the world. I turn 39 in just over two months.
Thomas Jefferson penned the Declaration of Independence at age 33. George Washington was 43 when he led the Continental Army against the British. Jeffrey R. Holland and Dallin H. Oaks were each 39 when they were named president of Brigham Young University. Joseph Smith was 38 and a half when he was killed. Barak Obama was 43 when he was elected the junior senator from Illinois. JFK was 44 when he was elected president.
I wonder if this is what motivates mid-life crises. Somewhere around age 40, men realize that they haven't yet made their mark in the world, so they begin casting about for things to do. When they can't find anything, they cover up their lack of accomplishment with a really cool motorcycle.
So anyway, I figure I've got about five years to do something cool--either that or visit the local Harley dealer.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Rewarding Consequences...
Recently a key part of our door knob fell to pieces. Christine gathered up the pieces and placed them on the counter in case I could repair the knob. But before I got the chance, Lizzy found the pieces and--noticing the air vent holes in the front of the dishwasher--decided to send them on a trip.
So tonight I was kneeling next to the dishwasher with a screwdriver in hand when Lizzy came from her room and asked what I was doing.
"I'm taking apart the dishwasher to get the spring out that you put in there," I said with as much appropriate sternness as I could muster. And then in a burst of inspiration, I added, "And the next time you put something in the dishwasher, you're going to be the one taking apart the dishwasher to get the thing out."
Feeling I had just come up with a clever consequence that would act as an effective deterrent, I went smugly back to spinning my screwdriver and extracting screws. Behind me, a small voice, however, responded to my pronouncement with a surprising declaration: "Cool."
"Cool?" I questioned. "Cool that I'm taking apart the dishwasher?"
"Cool that I could be the one to take it apart next time."
Um, ok. Maybe that wasn't the best consequence. Scratch that. No taking apart of dishwashers by 7-year-olds allowed.
Gotta think through these things better.
So tonight I was kneeling next to the dishwasher with a screwdriver in hand when Lizzy came from her room and asked what I was doing.
"I'm taking apart the dishwasher to get the spring out that you put in there," I said with as much appropriate sternness as I could muster. And then in a burst of inspiration, I added, "And the next time you put something in the dishwasher, you're going to be the one taking apart the dishwasher to get the thing out."
Feeling I had just come up with a clever consequence that would act as an effective deterrent, I went smugly back to spinning my screwdriver and extracting screws. Behind me, a small voice, however, responded to my pronouncement with a surprising declaration: "Cool."
"Cool?" I questioned. "Cool that I'm taking apart the dishwasher?"
"Cool that I could be the one to take it apart next time."
Um, ok. Maybe that wasn't the best consequence. Scratch that. No taking apart of dishwashers by 7-year-olds allowed.
Gotta think through these things better.
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