By Kenya Transtrum
I wish I could say I don't remember, but the thing is, I do. I remember when I'm sitting outside looking at the blood-red roses or at night when the skies turn deep purple. My dreams are filled with shuffling feet, swirling colors and barking orders. "She's not breathing! Turn her over! Suction! Bag her!"
When my father died he slipped away peacefully with all of his family silently weeping around his bed. I was holding his hand. At the very last seconds he opened his eyes. They were bright and alert. He looked at a corner on the ceiling and smiled and his smile was so joyful I looked to see what had caused it. It was nothing my mortal eyes could see. And then he was gone, the hint of that smile still on his face. Although I was heart-broken at his passing, it was satisfying. If he was smiling, I knew he was going to a wonderful place.
A dozen years later I stood in the ER as my mother, surrounded by chaos and confusion and riddled in pain, stopped breathing. Her room was not filled with loved ones hovering near whispering their 'I love yous'. She was alone with no hand to hold. I was alone with no one to look to for comfort. My father's death had been expected for hours; my mother just stopped breathing.
The day before we had been out to lunch together. We sang in the restaurant, quietly of course, laughed at jokes and talked about my children and grandchildren, her beloved treasures. She had errands to run, things to do, so she briefly stopped at my house to pet my dog, Cleo, and then ran out the door at 1 PM to finish her day. Twenty-four hours later I arrived at the hospital right behind the ambulance.
It was a very busy day in the ER. Although my mother was critical, it took nearly 3 hours for the doctor to see her. In that amount of time, things had gone from critical to grave and my mother's worn-out little body could take no more pain. The death rattle was heard, blood came out of her mouth and I knew she was gone.
And then the dream began. I stepped away from my mom. Nurses and doctors filled the tiny enclosure. I watched and listened as if I were a casual observer. Even as I watched, I noticed the numbness, the lack of hysteria, the utter calm I felt. And I wondered about it. What's wrong with me? My mother is now turning purple and I am calm. I watched patiently as they cared for my mother, suctioning blood out of her airway, bagging her for oxygen, checking for pulse and breathing. When a nurse asks for the suction I even step in to hand it to her. And I am back to my job of watching. It only takes minutes from start to finish. My mother begins to breathe again.
It doesn't matter. In my mind, this will always be the day I watched my mother die. It will also be the day that will haunt me for another reason. Why was I so calm? Why did I feel so emotionless as I watched? I have thought of all the reasonable reasons: I was in shock, it hadn't hit me yet, so much was happening, I didn't really believe she was dying. But the truth is, had that been my husband or one of my children, I can tell you my heart would have been all over the place.
So, as many daughters do, this will be another secret I keep from my mother. In her eyes, I was dutiful and loving to stand by her bedside for 12 hours that day. She needn't know that I am not so sure.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Sunday, September 9, 2007
A Shared History with My Mother
By Janie Van Komen
Today I called my mother and said I was on my way to break her out of the joint. Most of my gifts and talents and certainly a great deal of my inspiration and encouragement comes from my mother. Not exactly the mother from my youth but my mother of the “now.”
For fifty years she acquired all aspects of the history of Garland, Utah and its surrounding community. It was time to write the book. Four hundred sixteen pages, one thousand pictures, and many sleepless nights later we did finish the book just in time for the town’s centennial celebration. Not unlike the people in Whoville of Horton Hears a Who, there were many important lives come and gone and still coming that cried out to be preserved in that tiny dot on the map of Utah.
Three weeks after we finished the book while my mother was selling it at the local fair she became dizzy and fell down on the road. After a few trips to various doctors the brain tumor was tediously removed and the life spared. Two years of grueling therapy and several follow-up surgeries restored her from not quite all of the damage and paralysis. She was so excited to regain her driver’s license and her freedom once again. Four months later when she and my father were returning from a day’s work at the Logan temple they were involved in a head on collision. My mother sustained a broken and dislocated ankle, eleven broken ribs, a broken clavicle, and her neck sustained what is known as the hangman’s break or the Christopher Reeve break.
In some great miracle she was not paralyzed from this, but the resulting disabilities, pain, and suffering along with the leftovers of the brain tumor left her quite a different person than she was when we wrote the book together. She is still inside the body but the body is not so capable as before. Now in order for her to get out of the house somebody has to take her. So, today I did.
After lunch at The Olive Garden we blinked our eyes and found we had spent and hour and a half in Barnes and Noble sharing our love of books and commentaries to each other of “you should read this one,” or “what do you think of this title?” etc. etc.
We laughed and sighed and shared until I had returned her safely back in her house. She gave me an e-mail on some current political prick of information. And then she shared with me a treasure from her bookshelf she had recently read, the 1916 memorial edition of Elbert Hubbard’s A Little Journey into the Homes of the American Statesmen.
Elbert Hubbard was the most sought after lecturer in the United States from 1905 thru 1915. His writings were in great demand and he was paid handsomely for his work. He interviewed people who had known famous statesmen or who were famous statesmen and among other things he wrote about them. On his way to interview Kaiser Wilhelm Elbert Hubbard was aboard the Lusitania when it was sunk by a German submarine. This particular book was printed after his death. My grandmother had signed her maiden name inside the book. It had belonged to her before she was married. The beautiful leather cover is well worn but still holds it original magnificence.
I knew three of my great-grandparents. And because of two house fires, all three of them, my mother’s parents, and my childhood family all lived in the same house for a short time. All of my great-grandparents were born in the late 1800’s. I was born mid 1900’s, and my grandchildren mostly are born in the 2000’s.
Today as I touched the soft leather of that 1916 book I thought about how close in time this man was to the founding fathers he wrote about. I yearned to read his opinions and ideas about those men who shaped our nation. I thought about me holding hands with people from three centuries and wondered if other people will ever want to know what I have to say about those I have known and written about.
Janie
Today I called my mother and said I was on my way to break her out of the joint. Most of my gifts and talents and certainly a great deal of my inspiration and encouragement comes from my mother. Not exactly the mother from my youth but my mother of the “now.”
For fifty years she acquired all aspects of the history of Garland, Utah and its surrounding community. It was time to write the book. Four hundred sixteen pages, one thousand pictures, and many sleepless nights later we did finish the book just in time for the town’s centennial celebration. Not unlike the people in Whoville of Horton Hears a Who, there were many important lives come and gone and still coming that cried out to be preserved in that tiny dot on the map of Utah.
Three weeks after we finished the book while my mother was selling it at the local fair she became dizzy and fell down on the road. After a few trips to various doctors the brain tumor was tediously removed and the life spared. Two years of grueling therapy and several follow-up surgeries restored her from not quite all of the damage and paralysis. She was so excited to regain her driver’s license and her freedom once again. Four months later when she and my father were returning from a day’s work at the Logan temple they were involved in a head on collision. My mother sustained a broken and dislocated ankle, eleven broken ribs, a broken clavicle, and her neck sustained what is known as the hangman’s break or the Christopher Reeve break.
In some great miracle she was not paralyzed from this, but the resulting disabilities, pain, and suffering along with the leftovers of the brain tumor left her quite a different person than she was when we wrote the book together. She is still inside the body but the body is not so capable as before. Now in order for her to get out of the house somebody has to take her. So, today I did.
After lunch at The Olive Garden we blinked our eyes and found we had spent and hour and a half in Barnes and Noble sharing our love of books and commentaries to each other of “you should read this one,” or “what do you think of this title?” etc. etc.
We laughed and sighed and shared until I had returned her safely back in her house. She gave me an e-mail on some current political prick of information. And then she shared with me a treasure from her bookshelf she had recently read, the 1916 memorial edition of Elbert Hubbard’s A Little Journey into the Homes of the American Statesmen.
Elbert Hubbard was the most sought after lecturer in the United States from 1905 thru 1915. His writings were in great demand and he was paid handsomely for his work. He interviewed people who had known famous statesmen or who were famous statesmen and among other things he wrote about them. On his way to interview Kaiser Wilhelm Elbert Hubbard was aboard the Lusitania when it was sunk by a German submarine. This particular book was printed after his death. My grandmother had signed her maiden name inside the book. It had belonged to her before she was married. The beautiful leather cover is well worn but still holds it original magnificence.
I knew three of my great-grandparents. And because of two house fires, all three of them, my mother’s parents, and my childhood family all lived in the same house for a short time. All of my great-grandparents were born in the late 1800’s. I was born mid 1900’s, and my grandchildren mostly are born in the 2000’s.
Today as I touched the soft leather of that 1916 book I thought about how close in time this man was to the founding fathers he wrote about. I yearned to read his opinions and ideas about those men who shaped our nation. I thought about me holding hands with people from three centuries and wondered if other people will ever want to know what I have to say about those I have known and written about.
Janie
Saturday, September 8, 2007
The Memory Jar
By Janet Jensen 
After a major loss in my life, I attended a grieving class. One concept I learned is that it's normal to be forgetful and distracted when you've experienced grief, even when you're not thinking about your loss. And that gave me hope that sooner or later ordinary aspects of my life would settle down. And they did.
Then I happened to read a magazine article about a woman who gave her mother, "the woman who has everything" a unique gift. She took 365 small slips of paper and wrote memories of her mother on each. Then she put them in a pretty jar with a ribbon and presented it to her mother. "Read one each day," she told her mother, who promptly reached in, took out one slip, read it, and smiled. They reminisced about the event on the paper. Then, after the daughter left, the mother read each of the remaining 364 papers! She just couldn't ration herself to one a day, she enjoyed them so much.
I returned to my grieving class the next evening and one member said that her familiy was gathering in a couple of months to honor the life of her brother, who had taken his own life. They couldn't afford to do anything expensive or elaborate, but they wanted to do something significant that would bring them closer and help them heal. I thought of the "memory jar" in the magazine article, and told her about it.
Her face lit up. She said it was a great idea; she would ask family members to write favorite memories of her brother and bring them. They'd put them in a jar and take turns reading them. I later heard that it was a great success. They pulled the memories out of the jar and they laughed and they cried and they began to heal.
From simple ideas great things can happen. And in this case, I had the privilege of passing on a story, one that helped a family deal with their grief.
After a major loss in my life, I attended a grieving class. One concept I learned is that it's normal to be forgetful and distracted when you've experienced grief, even when you're not thinking about your loss. And that gave me hope that sooner or later ordinary aspects of my life would settle down. And they did.
Then I happened to read a magazine article about a woman who gave her mother, "the woman who has everything" a unique gift. She took 365 small slips of paper and wrote memories of her mother on each. Then she put them in a pretty jar with a ribbon and presented it to her mother. "Read one each day," she told her mother, who promptly reached in, took out one slip, read it, and smiled. They reminisced about the event on the paper. Then, after the daughter left, the mother read each of the remaining 364 papers! She just couldn't ration herself to one a day, she enjoyed them so much.
I returned to my grieving class the next evening and one member said that her familiy was gathering in a couple of months to honor the life of her brother, who had taken his own life. They couldn't afford to do anything expensive or elaborate, but they wanted to do something significant that would bring them closer and help them heal. I thought of the "memory jar" in the magazine article, and told her about it.
Her face lit up. She said it was a great idea; she would ask family members to write favorite memories of her brother and bring them. They'd put them in a jar and take turns reading them. I later heard that it was a great success. They pulled the memories out of the jar and they laughed and they cried and they began to heal.
From simple ideas great things can happen. And in this case, I had the privilege of passing on a story, one that helped a family deal with their grief.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Blessings
One summer. Two scares with my health.
I tried to figure out what in my life to throw overboard as I battened the hatches for an anticipated storm. Long abandoned were several time-consuming habits and hobbies, like watching daytime television or nighttime dramas. The cable had been disconnected for years. Gone, too, were hours spent shopping with friends. Those had been replaced with mom-and-daughter bonding time that occasionally took us to the mall. I did, however, continue to spend too much time at local garden centers admiring yard décor and perennials. If indeed I were gravely ill those excursions would need to cease, as would time spent fussing with my yard. I wanted to spend every minute possible with my family.
I tried to figure out what in my life to throw overboard as I battened the hatches for an anticipated storm. Long abandoned were several time-consuming habits and hobbies, like watching daytime television or nighttime dramas. The cable had been disconnected for years. Gone, too, were hours spent shopping with friends. Those had been replaced with mom-and-daughter bonding time that occasionally took us to the mall. I did, however, continue to spend too much time at local garden centers admiring yard décor and perennials. If indeed I were gravely ill those excursions would need to cease, as would time spent fussing with my yard. I wanted to spend every minute possible with my family.
.
In order to make the most of the precious time I had left, there would be no more long phone conversations with friends pursuing idle chitchat. Lunches and movies with friends would have to be cut. My frequent, obsessive visits to the library would need to stop. Except for projects I’d committed to finish for the magazines and publishers I worked with, time spent on art and illustration would come to a halt. And, writing…what would I do about writing? It consumed so much of my time, so much of me. Could I really bind up my laptop, my journals, my pens and pencils, and my writing tablets and toss them out of my life?
One more afternoon. One more test. I waited to see a lab technician with cold hands and an austere demeanor. As I sat, I took in the faces and emotions around me. All of us suspended in the act of waiting for the unknown seemed engulfed in our own trials yet we managed, from time to time, to exchange brief smiles of compassion and understanding. I mentally jotted down the experience and the feelings that coursed through me. I had neglected to bring a notebook. How I missed it!
Something in my stomach caught as I realized writing was the backbone of my existence. A good fifty percent of what I wrote I’d never share or attempt to publish but it truly kept me sane and focused.
From a strong warning from an invisible messenger I ignored that instructed me not to weed with my bare hands -- right before I got stung by a hornet -- to unseen help in locating my grandmother’s lost necklace, my M.O.M., Mindful of Me Journal, was a place to record all life’s moments when I knew Heavenly Father was watching over me. My gratitude journal held accounts of sweet moments spent with my family and descriptions of things sacred and dear. My daily journal tracked events that were both funny and heart wrenching. I drew in a deep breath. I knew had to continue to write in my journals.
I had to.
My short stories were my way of reaching out. My way of sharing what I viewed as good, valuable, and wonderful in the world, an attempt to help others travel the rocky paths I had already crossed. I couldn’t give those up either.
Another day, another test result. Everything was fine. I was okay. I’d envisioned spending my last few moments, pencil in hand, scrawling out my innermost feelings, as well as what I wanted to impart to future generations and a last few stories I’d forgotten to tell. Thankfully, I didn’t have to face that yet.
I looked into the faces of my family. I had time -- more time to spend with those I loved. And, a trickle of guilt seeped in, time to write.
.
Now, it was back to the balancing act which ruled my life. My family came first. No question. I balanced time with them with moments stolen in the tender light of early dawn or the darkness of late evening. Moments found in the cracks and crevices of my life that allowed me to write. It was a process that was often exhausting, sometimes frustrating, but always an adventure.
Always a blessing.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
By Kelly Martinez
Wow! I've never contributed to a blog before. Is it like an instantaneous news article? Is it a journal entry? Hmmm...I will need to swim around a bit to get accustomed to the water.
I love writing. I don't do as much of it these days as I used to, but the love is still there. I don't think I feel more at home anywhere else (except my own home, of course) than I do in front of a keyboard, tapping out what comes to mind, trying to make sense of the thoughts that populate my mind. Writing, for me, is empowering, therapeutic, and cleansing.
For many years, writing has been a hobby to me. I've earned some money from freelancing, but nothing that could ever pay the bills. If I had my way, I'd make a full-time living from my writing. But, reality presides in my world as I continue to graphically design for a living.
Sports has been the focus of the writing I've let out into the public. However, I have found more satisfaction and a truer expression of who I am and what it is that I am thinking and feeling through other writing projects.
For instance, I have a work of fiction on my hard drive that has a sports setting, but is a love story. A story that explores the inner souls of characters who find their true selves in areas they never thought they would. A romantic, familial, and societal love story that follows the life of an athlete who, after the lights have dimmed and the fans have gone home, struggles to find his place in the world. Instinctively, he seeks to recapture the limelight in the only forum he knows: the sporting world. During a series of tragic events, he is forced to eventually prioritize all that truly matters to him and to let go of the superficial things that really don't.
I've found joy in writing about music, television, and general interest topics. While interning at the Deseret Morning News, I wrote about the rock band U2, about corporate groundbreaking ceremonies, and about an LDS musician who is wheelchair bound, to name a few. For Meridian Magazine, I've written about a newsanchorman in Los Angeles who is a convert to the Church. I've also interviewed and written about LDS recording artist Cherie Call for Meridian. I thoroughly enjoyed these writing projects.
It's funny, but 20 years ago, I thought sports was all that would ever interest me enough to write about. For a long time, I adhered to that belief and honed a sports-writing craft that now interests me far less than other aspects of entertainment and life.
Our drive and desire to write, I believe, is God-given and is something we should put time and effort into developing. In the sporting world, an athlete or team cannot expect to improve if they do not practice. So it is with writing. If God has given you the gift of writing, do not waste it away like the foolish in the parable of the ten talents.
Once again, writing has shown me something I didn't expect it to! I am feeling a deeper commitment to developing my writing skills and putting them to good use. I am hereby committing to write more.
How about you?
Wow! I've never contributed to a blog before. Is it like an instantaneous news article? Is it a journal entry? Hmmm...I will need to swim around a bit to get accustomed to the water.
I love writing. I don't do as much of it these days as I used to, but the love is still there. I don't think I feel more at home anywhere else (except my own home, of course) than I do in front of a keyboard, tapping out what comes to mind, trying to make sense of the thoughts that populate my mind. Writing, for me, is empowering, therapeutic, and cleansing.
For many years, writing has been a hobby to me. I've earned some money from freelancing, but nothing that could ever pay the bills. If I had my way, I'd make a full-time living from my writing. But, reality presides in my world as I continue to graphically design for a living.
Sports has been the focus of the writing I've let out into the public. However, I have found more satisfaction and a truer expression of who I am and what it is that I am thinking and feeling through other writing projects.
For instance, I have a work of fiction on my hard drive that has a sports setting, but is a love story. A story that explores the inner souls of characters who find their true selves in areas they never thought they would. A romantic, familial, and societal love story that follows the life of an athlete who, after the lights have dimmed and the fans have gone home, struggles to find his place in the world. Instinctively, he seeks to recapture the limelight in the only forum he knows: the sporting world. During a series of tragic events, he is forced to eventually prioritize all that truly matters to him and to let go of the superficial things that really don't.
I've found joy in writing about music, television, and general interest topics. While interning at the Deseret Morning News, I wrote about the rock band U2, about corporate groundbreaking ceremonies, and about an LDS musician who is wheelchair bound, to name a few. For Meridian Magazine, I've written about a newsanchorman in Los Angeles who is a convert to the Church. I've also interviewed and written about LDS recording artist Cherie Call for Meridian. I thoroughly enjoyed these writing projects.
It's funny, but 20 years ago, I thought sports was all that would ever interest me enough to write about. For a long time, I adhered to that belief and honed a sports-writing craft that now interests me far less than other aspects of entertainment and life.
Our drive and desire to write, I believe, is God-given and is something we should put time and effort into developing. In the sporting world, an athlete or team cannot expect to improve if they do not practice. So it is with writing. If God has given you the gift of writing, do not waste it away like the foolish in the parable of the ten talents.
Once again, writing has shown me something I didn't expect it to! I am feeling a deeper commitment to developing my writing skills and putting them to good use. I am hereby committing to write more.
How about you?
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Genealogy and Writers
I've been doing the FamilySearch indexing for quite some time now. This involves taking records, such as the 1900 census, and putting them into forms that will later be put online free. When I started, the training said each record takes 30-60 minutes to complete. I've yet to complete a census record of 50 names in an hour. I suspect they didn't beta test on writers.
"Wow, look at this. Ten children in the family, all born in different states. I wonder why they moved so much? I'll bet..." and my imagination is off and running, creating a complete bio and plot line for this family. Twenty minutes later, I come to and remember I'm supposed to be extracting, not plotting.
One day I found a family on a 1900 census which listed the woman as head of household and her husband as "husband." This being 1900, there was a story in there somewhere. This being in an area near where my own ancestors lived, where many of the surnames were familiar to me, there was a really good story in there somewhere. I do not come from boring stock. I knew that if the census taker found no one at home, he sometimes got the information from neighbors. I pictured the scene. "That's my cousin. Let me tell you something. She wears the pants in that family. Put her down as head." The census taker, also being a cousin of some sort, would laugh and know it was probably true. (In the hillls of my family, they're all cousins and the women in my family were strong survivors.) Then he'd tell the story all over town as a really good joke to anyone who would listen...until that head of household dumped this week's batch of whiskey over his head.
I start each session by looking over the country of origin, occupations, and educations of my week's list. We don't record some of that information, but I want to know about the neighborhood I'm in. Then I scan the records to see if they might be kin. Only then am I ready to record. I hold my breath as I reach the part of the form that tells me how many children a woman had and how many died. I pause to mourn for the women who have eleven children and only three living. How did they cope with so much death?
I wonder about the homes with grandparents, parents, children and grandchildren, a niece and nephew or two, siblings of the homeowner, all in one home, some of the adults young and widowed. Were they happy? What was such a crowded, busy home like to grow up in, so much family right there in your own home, but so much hardship that made it happen?
There's a story in every seemingly dull record on that list. I am peeking into a moment in the lives of these people and I wish I knew more. I like stories. That is, maybe, why I'm a writer.
"Wow, look at this. Ten children in the family, all born in different states. I wonder why they moved so much? I'll bet..." and my imagination is off and running, creating a complete bio and plot line for this family. Twenty minutes later, I come to and remember I'm supposed to be extracting, not plotting.
One day I found a family on a 1900 census which listed the woman as head of household and her husband as "husband." This being 1900, there was a story in there somewhere. This being in an area near where my own ancestors lived, where many of the surnames were familiar to me, there was a really good story in there somewhere. I do not come from boring stock. I knew that if the census taker found no one at home, he sometimes got the information from neighbors. I pictured the scene. "That's my cousin. Let me tell you something. She wears the pants in that family. Put her down as head." The census taker, also being a cousin of some sort, would laugh and know it was probably true. (In the hillls of my family, they're all cousins and the women in my family were strong survivors.) Then he'd tell the story all over town as a really good joke to anyone who would listen...until that head of household dumped this week's batch of whiskey over his head.
I start each session by looking over the country of origin, occupations, and educations of my week's list. We don't record some of that information, but I want to know about the neighborhood I'm in. Then I scan the records to see if they might be kin. Only then am I ready to record. I hold my breath as I reach the part of the form that tells me how many children a woman had and how many died. I pause to mourn for the women who have eleven children and only three living. How did they cope with so much death?
I wonder about the homes with grandparents, parents, children and grandchildren, a niece and nephew or two, siblings of the homeowner, all in one home, some of the adults young and widowed. Were they happy? What was such a crowded, busy home like to grow up in, so much family right there in your own home, but so much hardship that made it happen?
There's a story in every seemingly dull record on that list. I am peeking into a moment in the lives of these people and I wish I knew more. I like stories. That is, maybe, why I'm a writer.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
What of the Children?
I'm going to be a bit vulnerable here. I can't tell you the amount of times I've felt guilty for sitting at the computer and writing. My children, it seemed, knew the back of my head better than they knew my face.
Project after project demanded my time. For you see, years ago I was the Stake Cultural Arts Director. This meant that my days overflowed with time spent writing productions for stake and regional settings.
Don't get me wrong. It was flattering to see my imaginings on stage, playing before hundreds of audience members. In fact, it was more than exciting to see one of my productions in regional committee discussions to become the "Hill Cumorah pageant-of-the-south."
But when your church calling demands so much time...what of the children? What of my children?
This question, "What of the children?", has haunted me at times. For nothing can compare with the quiet moments of looking into the exquisite eyes of my daughter. Her eyes speak of eternity to me, if I look in them long enough.
Nothing can compare with hearing my youngest son's peals of laughter when we get into a tickle fest. His chuckles move me like nothing else can.
Nothing compares with the deep discussions my eldest son and I are wont to engage in. His insights inspire me and aid me on my darkest days.
Thus years later, I've changed my pace. It's been a hard thing to do -- for in truth, I love nothing better than sitting at the computer creating stories and events, articles and book chapters. Those activities, along with my music compositions, have been rewarding.
But -- in truth -- nothing can compare with irreplaceable moments with my children. Therefore, I determined I would shift my priorities. Surely the Lord could help me work more efficiently and complete my projects more swiftly.
As a result, I soon learned the potency of delegation. I also witnessed that reducing perfectionism speeded completion. "Over-the-top" efforts were not required -- not when my children were present and deserved my love (which they seem to spell "a-t-t-e-n-t-i-o-n").
In truth, I may not have three books a year to show for my writing efforts, but at least my children are much more familiar with "Mommy's face!"
Project after project demanded my time. For you see, years ago I was the Stake Cultural Arts Director. This meant that my days overflowed with time spent writing productions for stake and regional settings.
Don't get me wrong. It was flattering to see my imaginings on stage, playing before hundreds of audience members. In fact, it was more than exciting to see one of my productions in regional committee discussions to become the "Hill Cumorah pageant-of-the-south."
But when your church calling demands so much time...what of the children? What of my children?
This question, "What of the children?", has haunted me at times. For nothing can compare with the quiet moments of looking into the exquisite eyes of my daughter. Her eyes speak of eternity to me, if I look in them long enough.
Nothing can compare with hearing my youngest son's peals of laughter when we get into a tickle fest. His chuckles move me like nothing else can.
Nothing compares with the deep discussions my eldest son and I are wont to engage in. His insights inspire me and aid me on my darkest days.
Thus years later, I've changed my pace. It's been a hard thing to do -- for in truth, I love nothing better than sitting at the computer creating stories and events, articles and book chapters. Those activities, along with my music compositions, have been rewarding.
But -- in truth -- nothing can compare with irreplaceable moments with my children. Therefore, I determined I would shift my priorities. Surely the Lord could help me work more efficiently and complete my projects more swiftly.
As a result, I soon learned the potency of delegation. I also witnessed that reducing perfectionism speeded completion. "Over-the-top" efforts were not required -- not when my children were present and deserved my love (which they seem to spell "a-t-t-e-n-t-i-o-n").
In truth, I may not have three books a year to show for my writing efforts, but at least my children are much more familiar with "Mommy's face!"
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