* Post Edit: I dug this out of the many drafts of things I had written and hadn’t posted. It was written a couple of months ago, but it came to mind again today. Sometimes I write things that I need to reread because I should probably listen to my own advice more often. I find myself again not needing the sun to set later, but an extra shot of perspective for the future. I think the promise still applies…

Bishop Stewart had more spunk in his left index finger than most people have in their whole bodies.

This is probably why God only made him five foot four.

Like most Mormon bishops he volunteered his time, without pay, to preside over a congregation.

Unlike most Mormon bishops, he had a young family, a somewhat new career, and as previously mentioned, a lot of spunk. Which in Mormon terms, means that he didn’t fall asleep on the stand when the Stake High Counsel spoke– among many other of his quality quirks.

I wasn’t sure what to think of this spunky bishop when I first met him. At our first meeting he seemed indifferent to our formal names and started calling “Sister Jarrett”, the Sister I worked with, “J-Dog.”

The entire ward counsel sat in their ties and suits, ready for our missionary report. Without giving any indication that slang was even invited to the meeting, Bishop Stewart called on “J-Dog” to speak. I was the only one surprised by this–apparently the rest of the counsel had grown accustomed.

When Sister Jarrett was transferred and I started training Sister Spjut, he wrinkled his nose in his first attempt, “SpuJut?” and then announced that she would hereby be referred to as, “Sputnick.” (To which the Russian Sister, Sister Ignatova, exclaimed, (with her fist thrusting upward in an dangerously excited way) “I KNOW THIS WORD!!”

My initial impression of this man evolved as the weeks passed.

When the *Elders didn’t show up for a meeting and called apologetically because they were on the other side of town without transportation he taught me, “One person’s lack of planning causes another person’s emergency. Don’t make emergencies.”

This comment was said with seriousness–an effect I mentally noted especially when the consequence of these Elders for their lack of planning was to challenge them to a Sloppy Joe eating contest. Once their mouths were full Bishop Stewart quite simply called them to repentance for their ill-preparedness. He was met with a silent and an agreeable audience.

When one woman in our congregation who was experiencing very difficult times agreed to attend church more often, but confessed that she needed the money her Sunday tips gave her, our meetings with the Bishop were rescheduled for Friday’s in her section while she worked–so that we could leave a generous tip. I suspect other people in the congregation ended up eating more pancakes as well.

I overheard the sweet woman comment afterward, “She has made more money since she started keeping the Sabbath Day holy than she ever did working it…which is funny because Sunday always seemed more busy.”

I made note then from his example, that God is not unable to provide sufficient blessings to those who keep His commandments–but it never hurts to be the one to help administer those blessings.

The Thesis of what I learned from him though, came as a brief testimony in a ward welfare meeting.

At the time the congregation was weighed down with intensive needs from the leadership and the members. Not only was a lot being required of by the bishop and his counselors, but by all the presidencies in the ward. I could see the weariness in the eyes of each person in the room as tasks were delegated and dispersed.

I wondered, as I am sure many others wondered, how it could possibly all get done.

Bishop Stewart paused after delegating the tasks and shared that he had felt weighed down with all that was required of him as a father, husband, and a bishop, but that he had faith that: “When we put the Lord first in our lives, when we do what he needs us to do, no matter how great it is, he makes the sun set a little later in the day for us.

His testimony got a special file in my brain, and every now and then when I am deep cleaning the file opens with his testimony highlighted.

I believed it. I knew that he knew it. I knew it could work for me, but I never REALLY tried it.

This Sunday we had an amazing Relief Society lesson about the Atonement of Christ. The spirit spoke to my heart and humbled me. I saw the never ending spiral of need for Christ’s mercy. The more I need him, the more is expected of me, which makes me need him more. It was beautiful, but overwhelming.

Then the file folder opened and Bishop Stewart’s testimony echoed in my mind, “When we put the Lord first–he makes the sun set a little later in the day for us.”

My problem hasn’t been the sun.

My problem has been my energy.

Even I am sick of hearing myself complain about the heat, but it makes my skin constrict on my entrails and suffocates the drive and motivation right out of me. Then the  heat spurs my first trimester nausea. After a bout at the porcelain that leaves my throat aching, my face bloated and pressurized, and my heart racing, I feel ready to call it quits–RIGHT THEN AND THERE.

I also expect a lot of myself and get disappointed that so much of my energy goes to wishing I was helping others, rather than being able to do it.

But Sunday’s lesson really touched me and I began this week with more faith– that Christ would help me serve others.

Tonight as I walked and thought my prayers, I gratefully thanked Heavenly Father for the help I had gotten today. I didn’t do anything miraculous, but I made it through–and in good spirits.

I watched the sun set as I pushed Belle around the block and as I glanced at my watch I noted that the sun had set at the very same time as it did yesterday.

But I still had energy.

And I felt happy.

And I got two days worth of stuff done.

So I see why the Bishop promised, “If you put the Lord first, he will make the sun set a little later for you.”

*Elders: Male Missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. They are usually 19-27 years old. The term “Elder” is a title and doesn’t indicate that they are  “elderly” but refers to a calling within the Priesthood.

Cjane wrote this today about how being a mom is like Groundhog day.

At first, I was set to agree, but then I remembered:

Yesterday we turned our sidewalk into a zoo. The giraffe went blind (too close to the sun up there…so he has to wear glasses.)

The Elephant is going through a rebellious phase and keeps getting parts pierced.

The Octopus….Well…I distinctly remember asking, “Jace…how many legs does an Octopus have?”

He said, “I don’t know. With a name like OCTOpus its hard to remember.”

Yet this one still has only six legs!?!

And last of all, this Croc likes chap-stick about as much as Noelle does. Except she wears it instead of eating it.

Today we
a. Rehearsed, “Preschool, the Musical,” During breakfast. (Its a little ditty I am thinking about making into a film that will turn us into superstars).
b. Played “boys” (little people) in Belle’s tent).
c. Showered and sang “Santa Clause” using the shower head as a microphone.
d. Ran out in the rain with our underwear on. (Both of us were wearing underwear. I was wearing additional clothing.)
e. Practiced the alphabet while swinging in the hammock.
f. Walked to story time.
g. Ate lunch.
h. Read books in Belle’s tent.
i. Nap time.

I’m thinking the forecast for tomorrow will be different as well.

So uh, mothering is not Groundhog Day– in my opinion. You just have to be willing to put red lips on the Croc and change things up a bit.

*Previously Posted here

“You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit!”–a five year old once told me, and a seriously underpaid kindergarten teacher once told him.

Catchy isn’t it? You may want to remember it next time you are divvying out fruit snacks amongst four year old’s who only want the red ones. It is also a good mantra to sing to yourself when you are fed up with your jealousy map.

Remember the jealousy map? I needed a refresher this week. I found myself justifying, and therefore blocking myself, by blaming my inability to progress on the wretched fact: life was just not fair.

Ok, ok, ok, so maybe being jealous of someone helps me to really pinpoint a direction I should be headed in my life, but honestly–was it fair that some people had been ushered in that direction? Pampered with support and loving kindness? Given money? Given opportunities? Had more time?  Can’t I still not like them since obviously life isn’t nearly as hard for them as it is for me?

Pretend for a minute that you have thought the same thing so that I don’t feel like the only clod.

Has it ever bothered you that a camera you worked really hard for was just gifted to a friend? Has it ever just itched at those unreachable irritable places that someone got that scholarship, that opportunity, that hand up, the constant support, the financial backing, the talent that came out of no where?

(Stamp your feet and yell YEAH! with me).

Now I have riled you up and taken you back a few paces I want to share a modern dance memory with you. Before I proceed, you must know that modern dance memories are gems, so you really need to feel privileged in the next couple of moments.

Brace yourself, there will be some improvisation, but no one will be asked to pretend to be a tree.

Have I told you before that I am a dancer? Oh yea, I bring it up all the time. But did I tell you about my first run-in with modern dance? It started at a dance tryout where I was told to dance like I was “peanut butter” and then proceeded throughout my degree at BYU where I did everything from improvising for fifteen minutes only using my toes, to a painful and awkward touch improvisation where I was paired with a boy (yeck) and we had to touch each other and move together (double weird and yeck).

There was a point that the weirdness of improvisation caught on in my mind and I found myself enjoying the uncharted land of my imagination and movement. I started to see the organic truth in vulnerable moments as I danced–not trying to be right, or pretty, but purely bent on discovery.

I could stop right here and sell you all sorts of truthful propaganda about how modern dance is therapeutic, and self revealing, and spiritual, and …, but I would have to bring in refrigerator lights and neon dance pants as props and then we might all get distracted.

Instead I will tell you about a particular project we were assigned for a choreography class. We were exploring ( dancer’s don’t learn–they explore…) the fundamentals of dance: time, space, and energy.

Our teacher randomly assigned topics, and then had the gall to impose some serious restrictions! Some were limited in the space they could use, others were allowed the entirety of the room. Some were limited in body parts they were allowed to dance with. One was told she could not get off the floor. Half were told they could only move quickly, the other half were informed that they could only move slow. The restrictions were very particular for each dancer and were suspiciously catered towards our weaknesses. (Since I was always in a hurry to “be done” with performing in front of my peers I was not surprised to be told I had to dance r e a l l y slow and cover the entirety of the room.)

We were given ten minutes to “create”. That, is not a lot of time to pull something magical out of a hat. I began this project feeling overwhelmed, and slightly annoyed by my non-conformist modern dance teachers. Why couldn’t we just put on some pretty music and dance? Yet I persisted as I knew that as awkward as just standing their doing nothing would feel, the more awkward and unusual my movement was would actually earn me a better grade.

Our time to create trickled by.

We dimmed the lights and watched each creation.

A fiery folk dancer, practically famous for her Irish footwork, did an entire dance standing on one leg.

A poised ballerina, army-crawled, and crab-walked a quirky, comical solo.

I embarrassed myself. But I also accomplished said mission of dancing r e a l l y slow across the whole floor, and it was r e a l l y painful. Yet, oh so poignant.

Why? Because we had all mustered up movement that our bodies had never done before. These weren’t steps we had been taught, or routines that we had memorized.  With our limitations we found new paths. We abandoned our tried and true methods  of performing and discovered that even in our weaknesses we could create. Our professor summed up the experience. “Restrictions are Miracle Grow to creativity.”

If you are reading this you are breathing, and if you are breathing you have life, and if you have life, then you have dreams. Oh that we could all rub a lamp and have a genie appear and hand us some help on a silver platter. But a five year old told me once, and an underpaid teacher told him, “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit!”

Instead, explore the space of your restrictions. You may not have the money, but what do you have? Resources? You may not have as much time, but what do you have? Focus? You may just have things really hard, but what do you have? Strength?

Sometimes what we wish we had, what we think we need, what everyone else has, is too much. Having nothing may initially feel kind of crappy, but restrictions–and crap, are the Miracle Grow to creativity.

You’ve heard me whining about how hot it is in Hawaii.

Nod head yes.

One of my complaints has been that most clothing I have needs some sort of extra coverage somewhere. I am not just talking about modesty here. Who wants to see the deep depths of my armpits? No one.

So layering happened. Everyone thought layering was the greatest. I bought into it and bought all kinds of “layering” shirts and we lived happily ever after.

Until I realized that wearing a shirt, on top of a bra, on top of…..dedicates….just so that I could wear a shirt was dumb.

Enter these:

That I found here:

I was so excited about them I wrote a little comment on their website, and the owner actually emailed me back.

So yeah, I don’t do advertising here because advertisers prefer to advertise somewhere where the blogger can spell.

But I am someone who is a total pushover for good customer service. So here I go. I am going to go buy some of these shirts, and then, I am going to recommend them to you.

Because my pregnant belly is claustrophobic.

See, the turkey timer say's "I'm done!" This belly wants out!

Because I am tired of looking like Gus Gus when my “layering” shirts get all riled up and start wrestling each other until this happens:

uhhhh gus gus

Because these are going to make nursing easier, when that time comes.

Which reminds me of a funny story when I wore a turtle neck dress to church. In the middle of a meeting I slipped out to the very busy nursing room only to awkwardly discover I would have to lift my WHOLE DRESS to make lunch time happen. I ended up in the bathroom stall half naked, balancing a newborn, wishing that nursery kids would stop peeking through the cracks in the door.

Because I am going to pretend my abs look like this when I wear them.

This is me...probably, three weeks after baby. (Chuckle chuckle).

"Break lights"

My mother called me this week and in between some serious news, and some light chatter, she slipped in a little, “And by the way, you spelled break wrong.”

Hmmmmm. Maybe that is why I get very few comments here. People are sitting on their twitching fingers wanting to tactfully tell me that I can’t spell. Sadly, it’s funny when it is done here, but not nearly as funny when it is unintentional unintelligence.

No worries mom, friends, blog stalkers, and friends alike. Memo received!

Not only can I now spell Break, I can also spell Brake, but if you knew how my day was going you would see why break is preferable to brake anyway.

Confused?

Try on 130,000 miles on your car for size and then you tell me how your brakes are feeling. Then we will talk about struts and alignments and all that other mumbo jumbo that I don’t understand but I know means $$$$. Oh, did I mention my husband is home from work today because we only have one car that did try on 130,000 miles for size? The same husband wasn’t super excited when I told him he could borrow my stroller. (I’ve got wheels too! I just don’t have to pay insurance on them!! Ha!)

Enough about Maximus Arrilius. (That’s the car’s name BTW, but it makes him sound all muscly and strong when in reality he is probable some wrinkly old man in car years.)

Lets talk about my grammar some more.

It all started….Well, first I would like to point out I am a voracious reader. Not only do I read a lot, but I read fast. Like really fast. Which is probably why grammar doesn’t matter much to me. The words are a blur anyway…..zm zm. (That was a zoom zoom whizzing by in case you needed me to slow it down for you).

Dd yu knw tht if I lft out mst of the vwles in a sntace you wld stll be abl to read it?

So you would think with all the reading that I do I would be able to spell.

Not so.

In ninth grade I decided to write a book for my mother for Mother’s Day. It was entitled “I Survived the Ninth Grade”. It was about how…..wait for it.…I survived the ninth grade. Survived, and passed actually, which is miraculous seeing as how I spelled “gorgeous” like “gorges” all throughout the book.

Come on! Just a few vowels were missing. And it makes a lot more sense to be drop dead gorges instead of drop dead gorgeous because I am pretty sure you’re more likely to drop dead in a gorge rather than from being gorgeous.

Agreed?

Then there was that time I had just finished serving a 18 month mission. So I had been out of school–hold on let me calculate–for 18 months. I was sitting at the computer stressing out because I had to cram two semesters worth of classes into one semester all because this one boy had asked me to marry him with his next sentence being, “And then we are going to move out of state so we can put 130,000 miles on our car.”

So, in my best stressed out voice I was explaining to my family how imperative it was that I finish my schooling pronto since no other school would accept my credits. I was simultaneously doing an internet search trying to find other universities that might actually have “Ballroom Dance” as a major. Yet my search for “collage, dance, ballroom” wasn’t yielding what I wanted.
In a rage I yelled, “Education is really important to me! How the heck do you spell college?”

My parents should have staged an intervention, because they probably thought I was going to end up living in a van down by the river.

My most prize grammatical moment happened on my family blog. I had shyly posted a paragraph from a short story I was writing. This is the paragraph:

It was for that reason that he patiently dealt with the four other judges, that he spoke great elucidations to the pubic, and that he wrote meaningless propaganda in the scrolls. The time was nearing. He could almost taste it, like a bat about to feast, blind, but senses inclined towards things that others could not see.

Notice any problems with it? I didn’t either, until the eighth commenter finally pointed it out. (Thanks again Monique!)

So in summary, I would just like to thank you for sticking around even though, try as I may, I don’t always write whats right.

My mom needs an editor!

See this whale swim.

My mind has been surging forward lately.  Mentally I have broken through the dense haze that could have been the heat spell, could have been the hormones, and could have just been life.

I am seeing, enjoying, feeling, laughing more.

Somehow, my body has been left miserably behind.

Is it really possible, that I am growing something inside me? We had an ultrasound this week. The technician showed me our child’s brain.

I commented out loud, “Here I think I am just doing the dishes, and picking up toys, and yet my body is busy growing brain cells that will someday make something think and move. Whoa.”

So I am growing something. But I feel like the really sad potted basil on my back porch that I spent all summer watering, and then abandoned to this “cooler weather.” (cough cough…still 80’s).

We went for a hike today, per my request to “see the whales.” We climbed a familiar path straddling ocean views, and mountain views to get to our perch. It seemed, we weren’t the only ones with the idea. Like lemmings we herded ourselves with other hopefuls who carried camera’s, binoculars, and small children.

We walk a good clip, Jace and I. Even with Belle in the backpack and me with the baby bump we passed quite a few groups. Each surged a bit as I passed. (Can’t let a pregnant woman pass us!) I don’t know why, but I wore a shirt that said, “Army.” People couldn’t help but stare at the pregnant army.

They also stared at the girls who hiked the whole trail in bikini’s three sizes too small.

I thought of asking one of them if my stomach was as flat as theirs–you know, as a joke. But, I knew my husband would be embarrassed if I engaged them in conversation.

In the end, the crowds were bearable because the weather was so sublime. Overcast. Windy. Cool. ish.

We found a spot along the path and watched for evidence of whale play.

The impact of water on rocks, the wind through the trees, the surf, the spray–the perfect calming and relaxing combination. I tuned out tourists, pretended to watch for whales, and pressed “RECORD” in my mind. It seemed the perfect soundtrack to play back to myself when I go into labor.

“Now, why are the whales here now?” I asked.

“Its the warm calm waves. The lack of predators. It is a safe place to have their babies,” said Jace.

How fitting.

I mentally filed the audio soundtrack under “Good Birthing Conditions.”

We took our time on the way back.

I passed another pregnant woman, on her way up. She was not passing people. I smiled at her for encouragement.

The house, when we got home, was stuffy, and hot. I cringed as I opened windows. I didn’t feeling like passing people anymore.

I felt like passing out.

And that’s what I mean, about my body feeling like it is decaying–aging.

I am a twenty six year old who feels eighty. My back aches. I waddle. There is a constant throb in my ankles. Muscle fatigue. I can hardly stand feeling so …unwieldy…

Is it the dancer in me? Confined to a leaded encasement and forced to deal with the officer of gravity?

Is it because I’ve never been known as the “pretty girl” or the “smart girl” but have always seen myself as the “strong girl” ?

They do tell tales, farm girl folklore, of how I was hired by farmers to haul hay because I could load two bales at once, and if I could do it, the useless city boys, suddenly, could do it.

There was a time, I carried my backpack loaded with scriptures and faith, along with my companions backpack loaded with scriptures….and….bricks?, and while she rested on unanswered porches, I reminded myself that being built like a pack horse was a blessing.

Is it because, the next four months, and events…

-two weeks without a husband. (Japan without me. The punk).

-Dr’s visits

-Delivering a baby: finding someone to watch Belle, praying there isn’t bad traffic, praying that all goes well…

-recovery. Two kids. recovery.

-Fly 16 hours there and back to find a house. Leave Belle with someone. (ohhhh. leave Belle with someone. Can I do it?)

-Organize house. Organize life. Clean house. Pack house.

-Send car across the ocean.

-Juggle newborn and toddler without a house.

-Fly to the mainland. Fly with two kids.

-Stop. Visit family.Cram a  years worth of “I miss you’s” into three weeks. Recover. Two kids.

-Fly to “home?!?!”

-unpack house.

-Breathe.

Would not be so hard to handle if I could, see my toes? Carry the toddler? Not need a nap? Pee less then six times a night? Not feel like I am decaying? Feel strong?

Stop.

Search for file.

Play.

Wind and Waves………..

Breathe. (in….out….)

I’ll be ok as long as my body doesn’t have to move.