Love Languages

There are various philosophies about human communication. One of them suggests that we all have a "love language." And whether that's actually saying "I love you," or leaving notes, taking photographs for someone, sharing a fishing trip, or doing projects/chores for a loved one -- we each feel more loved when our "love language" is spoken (received).
Carrie and I had a nightly ritual as children. It seems like we had a special handshake that ended with, "Goodnight, I love you, sweet dreams." My Grandma Aggie and Great-Aunt Millie would have their daughters dial, and would converse over the phone every day about all the goings on. Sprinkled throughout the discussion would be, "That's the bunk!" That funny phrase was part of their love language -- it showed empathy. Carrie grew up and married a Lea. In the Lea family, they always follow family prayer with a group hug and a rousing chorus of "Surrre love ya!" Mom grew up and looks forward to green skype lights on her computer in Africa, so she can talk with her children every day -- it's part of her love language --
I find that I like it when Star writes me notes. I love to post them and or re-read them at any time. He has become a good little writer over the years. Matt Christmas shops according to adjectives: he heads to the cosmetic department and buys products that say, "lovely," or "stunning" etc. in the title. The item itself does not matter to him.

This week was sandwiched between two funerals. The result was some self-imposed self-reflection. On the back of the funeral program for Ellis Austill, a man two years younger than my Dad, was a poem. On the front was a wedding photo and the words, "Eternally Yours." Many references were made by the speakers and his children about the kind of love he had for his wife. Currently a wife myself, I know that there are times when life does not make marriage easy or blissful. I believe that those that have "good marriages" have made a decision to work at it and treat love as an active verb.

Br. Austill's favorite poem was this:

My Best Friend, My Wife
You placed gold on my finger,
You brought love like I've never known,
You gave life to our children,
And to me a reason to go on.

When I need hope and inspiration,
You're always strong when I'm tired and weak,
I could search this whole world over,
You'd still be everything that I need.

You're my bread when I'm hungry,
You're my shelter from troubled winds,
You're my anchor in life's ocean,
But most of all, You're my best friend.

Now here's the thing that got me: Ellis always carried this poem with him -- in pockets, wallets, on camp outs --everywhere. What does this say about the covenant he made (the love language of our Heavenly Father) to his companion and to the Lord?

I Just Can't Help Myself

I really do try, but sometimes I just can't.

For example, today, when I dropped off Millie for preschool, she forgot to close the door of the car. I rolled down the window and called loudly to her to return and shut it. She was already busy socializing. I called again even louder, "Milllllie." She looked over, startled. "Come and close this door please." She gave me a big grin. She jumped from her teacher's porch and started running before she really finished that awesome leap. Her long handled butterfly book bag had reached the grass just after her feet had, but was unfortunately in their path as she began her spirited sprint. Her entire body hit the grass and her head looked as though it was being suctioned to the ground. She was honestly surprised and said to herself, "that hurted." She got to her feet again, rubbing her ear and hair and looking as though she was deciding if she should cry. As she approached the car, I ducked so that she couldn't see me laughing (she's a little sensitive about people laughing at her these days). She got close enough to hear me. I tried to gain composure, "Oh man, Millie. Are you alright?"

She's still rubbing her ear. My mind is still doing the instant replay of her fall. She does not reply. She only looks at me with some disdain (as though we've had trouble with this sort of thing before and I am hopeless). She pushes against the car door with all her might, and barely keeps her balance. I start laughing all over again. She turns and heads for her teacher who is now on her porch welcoming Millie's classmates. I roll up the windows, but not before Miss Cathie has looked over to see why I am laughing, and Millie has sought comfort in a hug from her.

I drive off, my mind doing slow-motion replays now, I seem to be gaining momentum because I cannot stop and my eyes are watering. I pull over for a minute, attempting to be serious and feel some guilt over my lack of empathy for my own flesh and blood. (Why didn't I just get out and close the silly door myself?) But the remorse doesn't last.

Doing a trick for FHE talent show (Nov.) in a dress-up
I can't help myself. I try, I really do.

A Tween No Longer

Zach at 1 year old --Dec. 1996

My first born son, Zachary, graduated from "childhood" today. It is strange for me. Just as I knew his baptism marked the beginning of something different, and twelve was big, this "teen" stuff starts to make me feel like time is really in a hurry.

Zach has been, of course, very excited about this birthday. His friends decorated the chalkboard, his mom brought treats, and his teacher announced she was throwing a "Zach's Birthday Party Bash" on Friday afternoon at Liberty Land for the class.
He came home sounding like a teenager. He came home looking like a teenager.
....But lucky for me, he doesn't act a whole lot like one yet. When I went to school to drop off the treats, he jumped out of his seat, ran up and gave me a big hug. He said, "Wow Mom. Thanks so much. I sure love you." (All of this in front of the class)

Zach (4) and his Mom --Dec. 1999

He seemed genuinely pleased about his birthday dinner at Mimi's and the gifts that had a sporty theme. I was genuinely pleased that he was so grateful -- I mean the gifts weren't really big or flashy.

As I tucked him in, he said, "Thanks again for the great day, Mom. It's funny how when you don't get very much, you just feel kind of humble."
No response.
Then my expression must have begun to change because he quickly said, "I mean the presents are just right, and I think they just end up meaning more when there are so few, don't you?"

Ah-- the ever-struggling-back-pedaling-diplomat--Zackie-boy.

Zach at 13! --Dec. 2008 (wearing his new jacket)--Can you see the teen in him?

Signs of the Times

Dr. Wells, the child psychologist and narrative teacher, has often told the story of a time when his son Matt wanted a candy bar from the store. His Dad told him, "I don't have enough money for a candy bar." This concept is a harder one for today's children to learn. The other day I tried to use the same kind of reasoning for a persistent child who then responded with, "Well just use your credit card then." I tried to explain that the card represented money that I had in the bank. My 4 year old impatiently said, "then just use your library card, or your Costco card, or your driver's license." (A card by any other name is just as sweet, right?)

Miek has recently been put into the Young Women's presidency in her ward. She's been informed that she needs to have a cell phone. Texting is the only way to reach the girls. Our stake has had to make a rule that cell phones are not allowed at church -- the youth were texting all through their classes and firesides.

A most recent development at my house: I am brought a digital camera with incriminating evidence. "I asked Sam and Millie to clean up but he just did this... (a picture of a little hand in front of the lens.) Or ..."Is Sam supposed to be playing with this? Didn't you ask him to stop pulling down the Christmas decorations from that really high shelf?"

High-Tech Tattling -- what will we think of next?

Freedom From Earth-Stains

It has felt as though death's sting has been close by lately. And although it no longer leaves it's poison in me -- to fester and agitate (as it did when Gene Dalton passed away), it still stings.

Nov. 21st, the grandfather of one of my PHS classmates died. He had lived a good, long life. But as I thought of the children, grandchildren, and friends left behind, somehow a familiar feeling of death's injustice returned briefly. Maybe it is the recollection of things and relationships that have been changed by time's passing, more than the person's passing --that bites.

Monday was a "blue-sky" day. When I lived in London, a lifetime ago, I counted every day that showed even a glimpse of blue behind the frequent grey clouds. I called them "blue-sky days." It seemed fake that my calendar read December 1st. It was so warm, the scenery was so sharp and clear, that I found myself trying to place it (like I do with a melody or actor's face in a movie). What did it remind me of? As I drove up the hill and turned the corner, I realized it was an "Autumn Dixie day." The colors of the air, grass, and sky matched the mental file I've created for my childhood St. George Thanksgiving pilgrimages. All of the memories are blurred together: the huge tree in her back yard, the coffee table with Uno cards, the Almond Roca hidden (not well enough) in the back porch pantry. The smell of warm food, her piano, hiking with Wells cousins, visiting Uncle Scott's Vet clinic just through the yard --all of it--now gone--passed. And Grandma. She has passed as well. All of a sudden, I missed her terribly.

Tuesday I opened my email inbox and saw from Jed: "Elder Wirthlin ." I knew that it was Joseph Wirthlin's turn. I dutifully, almost reverently, pressed the link and saw his face. He'd lived, much like Elder Haight, I'm guessing, a more simple life than I would. I mourned some for the passing of a tech-free world. I pretend it is more possible to be a focused disciple without those distractions.

Wednesday there is a note from my Mother -- continents removed, informing her children that her Grandview neighbor had died that morning. My mind wandered to Sheldon's presence at summer picnics, Sunday dinners, piano recitals, and the family gathering where we opened my parent's mission call. Tears came easily to Sheldon. He was a man full of spirit and passion, and was given a life-long calling: to care for a troubled wife. When he was able to get away for a few minutes we used to see him roaming the perimeter of the hill, by himself, with a bag full of other people's litter he'd retrieved. He magnified his calling and endured well.

On the day Grandma was buried, I looked around at the relatives gathered in the St. George cemetery. My father's white head was bowed, --with respect, reverence, perhaps with the weight of responsibility of being a patriarch. We marked a milestone that day. The baton had been passed. We were now the torch bearers. As adults, we would need to be determined disciples of Christ...or not.

All of my grandparents, Uncle Scott, Pres. Faust, Gene Dalton, Aunt Millie, Elder Maxwell, Pres. Hinckley, Elder Haight, Bro. Evans, Elder Wirthlin, Sheldon Nicholaysen... They are all now free from "earth-stains."

Where will I find joy in the present before it has passed?

Precocious

Millie always greets me after her two-hour/3day/week preschool as though we've been apart for weeks. Such excitement and devotion.

I always look forward to our conversations as we drive home. Lately her pictures (and white board, and chalk board(she colors for several hours every day)) are covered with letters --usually a wide variety, but always a B-A-L-L and C-A-T. Today she had added an M after CAT.

I said, "Millie, your pictures are sure looking lovely. And there are those words again, 'ball and cat."
She replied, "yeah, but what does it say when there's a M on cat?"
"Um... catum."
"Is that really a word?"
"Well, not really." (I always feel guilty when I have to admit that (is it because I'm a blue personality?)
"But," I say, " what would happen if the M were at the beginning of the word, and it was M-A-T?"
"That would be mat."
"Good Millie. How would you spell...pat?
"P-A-T."
"Right. How about um...bat?"
"B-A-T."
"Millie, you are doing so great!" (I say with recognition and pride that she is my first child to really understand all of this prior to kindergarten.)
"What about...sat?"
"P-E-O-S."
"Hmm-- If M-A-T spells mat, and that sounds like sat...I know, what makes an sssss sound, like snake?"
"S!"
"Right. Now what would come next --for at?"
"O-Q-P!"
"Well, I can tell you're doing some good thinking."

Silence for the next couple of minutes.
Then she says while looking out the window,"But I can't spell hippopotamus."

Ah Ha. --She belongs in our family after all.

We Gather Together

What happens when cousins with suitcases and dress-ups, Uncles with turkey tips and doorknob tricks, Aunts with killer salads and green bean casseroles, Grandmas with amazing pies, a football, and a chilly wind ---convene on the 4th Thursday of November?

A memorable Thanksgiving Holiday Week.

And before the world and all the Halls move on to the next big occasion (the no-Christmas music ban has been lifted now that Dec. has come)...just a loving glance back to the magic of family:

Miek arrived early Wed., brought out my boxes of untouched fall decor, and set a beautiful table. Henry and Aggie ran to and from the playroom showcasing a variety of "dress-ups by Abbie", and Sam and Millie were delighted. Miek stayed and fed all the little people lunch while supervising playdoh creations. And I played taxi driver for Zach and classmates to a party.

Jed and Jayne stopped in to announce plans for an outing, but when our Thanksgiving bird was noticed just sitting on the counter---I was given detailed instruction on "the proper care and basting of a turkey." (And thank goodness since it turned out most delicious). Aggie slept, everyone snacked, and I felt loved.

Carrie, Eric, and crew arrived safely by midnight, and I was reminded of our late night arrivals in St. George all those many Thanksgivings of my childhood. The excitement and anticipation was palpable. The linen closet was emptied and make-shift, happy resting spots were made for all.

Pre-dawn Thursday brought Star and I down to massage and rub the bird with seasonings Jed had left for me. In my uncertainty, I placed a phone call to the sleepy chef, but he was very good-natured about the whole thing. By 10am the "handy men" (Star and Eric) were scheming about household fix-ups to be conquered, and the children were entertaining themselves in the land of make-believe.

By 1pm the magnificent meat was being carved, the table was laden with more food than we would be able to eat. The children's table was set up by the piano, and on top of as many plastic coverings as I could find. Conversation turned to Pumpkin Man and Iron Man races, as well as traditions past. The women were then dismissed and the men did a wonderful job of cleaning up and taking down.

The evening began with a table FULL of pies. The men and most of the children headed across the street to the park for some football, and then we played games, watched a movie, laughed, and snacked.

As we gathered in a circle and knelt in family prayer, each of us voiced some things we were grateful for. It's interesting how words can't really do what they ought to for strong emotions. I am most filled by recognizing my titles and what they mean: I am a Wife, Mother, Daughter, Sister, and Friend. Truly blessed.