Patience is Becoming a Virtue

As I think about the different hurdles in my life and the different ways in which they have come I can't help but think that some of the most difficult ones to face, let alone jump, are the ones that come because of decisions other people in my life have made. It seems like when I have caused the problem it is easier to fix, or at least easier to accept. I can look at the situation and think about what I need to learn from it, what I will do different next time, and what I need to do to make it better. But when the trials come because someone I am close to has made a life decision that affects me it makes it much harder for me to adjust to, mostly because I don't get to control how or when it is fixed.

I once heard someone say that our biggest trials in our lives we either married or gave birth to. Anyone who is married with children can probably relate to that philosophy. As much as I love my family, learning to live with other people and accept the fact that they have their own opinions and way of doing things is a big life lesson, especially when their choices or priorities are different from my own. I think I must be a little bit of a control freak, or maybe it is human nature. But I know I have a tendency to want to push my husband and my children to do the things I want them to do, at the time I want them to do them. But when I step back and think about it, I realize that my Father in Heaven does not handle me in that way, and it must be disappointing to Him when I try to handle His other children in that way.

The only person I can change is me. The only actions I can change are mine. And the only attitude I can improve is my own. I have to allow other people that same opportunity. I have to let them make their own bad decisions and allow them to fix their own problems in their own way. Sometimes it is quite challenging, a big hurdle, to stand back and watch someone I care about suffer through a learning experience without trying to fix it for them. But how else will they learn? How else will they grow?

When I was younger my mother would always remind me that “Patience is a Virtue”, to which I always retorted, “But not one of mine!” But I really am trying to learn patience, to trust that when trials come through no decision of my own that there is a learning opportunity there even for me. Even if it is only to learn how to have patience with the trial, or to trust that God has a hand in it, and be patient with His timetable.

One of my favorite quotes is by Neal A. Maxwell. He says, “Patience is tied very closely to faith in our Heavenly Father. Actually, when we are unduly impatient, we are suggesting that we know what is best--better than does God. Or, at least, we are asserting that our timetable is better than His. We can grow in faith only if we are willing to wait patiently for God's purposes and pattern to unfold in our lives, on His timetable."

I think the most important thing I have learned with trials in my life, no matter the trial, our doing or because of someone else, God knows what we are going through. He knows and He cares. He always sees a bigger picture than we do. He knows what we need to learn and how we need to grow, and He patiently waits as we learn and grow. And if it is a trial that someone close to us needs to go through, He will comfort us while we wait. He is always there for us! I am so grateful for that knowledge, it makes the hurdles in life so much easier to face, no matter where they come from.

I was up until 2am reading about this...

I was up until 2 am last night.

Why?

I somehow got connected with this blog and began reading and reading and reading:

Perhaps if I lived in Utah I would have heard this story.  But I haven't.  And I was so touched.  This blog is about a young woman by the name of Stephanie.  Her blogging name is "Nie Nie."  Stephanie and her husband were involved in a near fatal airplane crash.  How they survived is a miracle.  The strength that she exhibits is inspiring.  The strength her family has given her is beyond words.

This young woman and her family ARE the Oak Tree!!

I ended reading with her yesterday's post.  I cried.  I was so moved.  I want to be a better person after reading her blog.  I want to be a better mother.  I think tomorrow, I'll hug my kids a little bit more.  I think I'll make breakfast for my sweet husband.  I think I will be more grateful in my prayers.  And my prayers?  I think I'll be having more.

There was a point in her blog when she describes mildly how much pain she feels during the night.  And yet after looking at her unrecognizable face in the mirror her one desire is around wanting to fix dinner for her family.  The love that is so evident between her husband and children moved me to tears.  

I need to be more grateful in my life.  

I don't know why this particular entry touched me so.  Perhaps it was the frozen chicken nuggets I quickly threw in the microwave to feed my kids without a moments thought.  Or perhaps it was the way I sat on the couch too tired to tell my husband I love him and resenting having to cook when I was "so" tired!  And really it has less to do with dinner than with the love that is behind wanting to serve my family.  Even in as little as something as a daily meal.

But I wasn't tired enough to check my email.  Which I somehow started reading with her sister's blog (cjanerun).  CJane took in Stephanie's 4 children while nursing a newborn baby of her own.   Her sister has a gift with words.  She has written about Stephanie's recovery.  This is where I began my late night reading at:

CJanerun August 2008

I am so inspired by the strength that took and is taking place between not only this amazing young woman but those of her family and people all over the world.

I'm grateful they shared their journey.  I am a better person from hearing about it.  My prayers go out to them.  

Now, tonight?  I think I'll be fixing dinner for my precious family.

Thanks Nie Nie and God continue to strengthen and bless you and your loved ones.

My Life as an Oak

I’d never read The Oak Tree a week ago. Honestly, though I consider myself reasonable well-read, I’d never even heard of it. Little did I know the part this poem was about to play in my life. I was in my carefully constructed world of chaos, blissfully unaware of the plans that my friend, and soul-sister, Mamma Mia was making for me.

Then the email came. “Would you contribute to a blog that my friend and I have created?” Of course, at first I think she’s joking. Just a few months before this, she had been chastising me about my infrequent writing on my own blog. She had added the comment, “You are the worst blogger in blogging history.” Sounds mean, I know, except if you knew Mamma Mia you would also know how she can make you feel like Queen of the Universe while laughing at you. It’s a fabulous talent of hers. Also, that I didn’t even know she had added the comment until a good two months after the fact didn’t help my defense.

So I logged on to this site, read the poem several times, and have spent the last week agonizing over what to write. The truth is, some days I do feel like an oak. Some days I don’t. It turns out this wasn’t a good week for being an oak. Two huge problems at work collided on the same day. The first was my boss, a new principal of ours, who increased tension at our school by tenfold when he accused a coworker (and friend of mine) of being “toxic.” This roughly translated means “a woman who isn’t afraid to speak her mind.” Secondly, I lost my favorite novel to teach. How does one lose a book? The district took it. They had decided that To Kill a Mockingbird would be best taught in 10th grade.

Of course, several of us junior high teachers (9th grade is taught in junior high in our district) objected and the decision was made that we would each be able to present a case for keeping it. However, in the end, it came down to mixed messages, secret meetings, and a decision that was already made long before our opinions were asked. Of course, to add to it, my husband has been working out of town for months, leaving me all alone with three young children nine days out of fourteen. Am I whining? I’m sorry. Mamma Mia was clear that this was to be a blog about hopeful things, uplifting things. Keep reading. I promise it’s coming.

Please don’t get me wrong. Most of my adult life I have felt like an oak. It’s that strength that comes from somewhere deep underneath the surface. Many times you forget that it is even there. You see the wind coming and brace yourself for the hard smack against the ground. But then the wind subsides and drifts away and you unclench your eyes to see that you’re still standing. By the grace of God, everything is okay.

I was 14 when I first became aware of how deep my roots stretched. When I was 12, my mother was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She battled it for 2 years. I wouldn’t say that I dealt with the situation well. I dealt with it like a confused, self-centered teenager. Throughout her willful war against cancer, I was most concerned with how MY life was affected. In my 9th grade year, she passed away. Suddenly I couldn’t be mad at her anymore for being “sick.” I was still angry. Even though I knew it was wrong, I couldn’t stop thinking that she had given up, had left her 4 daughters behind. But the effectiveness of being angry was lost in mourning.

There was the funeral, lots of family, and little time to think. Eventually it was time to go back to school. What a surreal feeling to look around and wonder how many of my classmates were going to leave school, go home, and find a mother waiting with open arms. It didn’t seem fair at all. Then less than a month later, my beloved grandmother passed away. Another kick, and I hadn’t even had the chance to stand up yet.

The death of my mother and grandmother wasn’t just a wind blowing leaves and branches; it was an earthquake. The entire landscape changed that year. Everything looked upside down: mountains perched precariously on their snow-covered peaks, rivers pouring from gaping holes in the sky. I was entering a new world where death played an important part. For the first time, I had to make a choice about who I was. Would I blame God, hate the world? Would I give up home, withdraw myself into a world of darkness? Would I ever truly be happy again?

This week, as I thought about that pivotal point in my life, I had my first epiphany about oaks:

If you are an oak, you can’t pretend to be something else.

Believe me, I tried. I tried to lie down and wilt like a spent blossom in the fall. I tried to give up myself like the grass and just blow wherever the wind wanted me to go, no feeling, just movement. In the end, when the wind stopped blowing and the earth congealed and hardened, I was still standing tall and strong.

Upon hearing my story, people often remark to me, “I don’t know how you dealt with losing your mother at such a young age.” It’s a funny comment to me. It’s not like I had any choice. No one asked me if I wanted to lose her. How did I “deal” with it? That’s part of what is means to be an oak, I guess. In times where I felt like giving up, something larger than myself kept me going. Even now, as I tell you my victory story of making it through, deep inside I know it wasn’t me. It was my Father in Heaven. Somehow, through all of the heartbreak and anger and confusion, I still knew that He loved me, that He knew my sorrow. Those are the roots that held me up during that time. They have names: Faith, God’s Love, and Peace. They’ve only grown stronger since.

So back to this week; I’m having trouble at work. I survived losing my mother at age fourteen; this should be no big deal, but it is. This has been the most disheartening experience of my teaching career. On Wednesday, I was talking to my fellow English teachers who are also dear friends about losing our favorite book. My conversation starter went something like this, “I am not asking any of you to go farther with this, but personally I have to. I have to go to the district office with this. I have to feel like my voice is heard. If I don’t, it will eat me up.”

“If you’re in, I’m in,” Bethany responded. “If you fight, I fight. That’s the way it is.” It was that statement, that unconditional support, which gave me the second epiphany about oak trees, even if it doesn’t quite fit the poem:

Where you find an oak, you will find a forest.

I didn’t become an oak all on my own. I have always been and continue to be surrounded by strong people who try to do what is right. Each one has been an inspiration to me, a root that delves deep below the surface. They all have names: My mother, Ella, who taught me to make hard decisions. My father, Daniel, who taught me to weather life’s storms with patience. My step-mother, Deborah, who taught me to have confidence in myself and what I can do. My grandmother, Evelyn, who taught me the power of laughter. Mamma Mia taught me the power of a good friend and most recently, “Quiet women don’t make history.” My children have taught me that love IS sacrifice. My darling sweetheart has taught me that I have unique gifts to offer the world. My Savior has taught me that I am of great worth and that life is a gift. Each one, a core, winding between rocks, maintaining a firm hold to the ground. Each one a crucial part of my stability.

I am still standing.

Each Life That Touches Ours for Good

"...I know that you
can break each branch of mine in two,
carry every leaf away,

shake my limbs, and make me sway.

But I have roots stretched in the earth,
growing stronger since my birth.
You'll never touch them, for you see,
they are the deepest part of me..."

I have very few memories of my father. Every day those memories lose a bit of life so I'm left with still pictures of moments I know I had. Being only six at the time I don't remember a lot of what happened. It was sudden and it caused quite a wave in my family, as I'm sure you can imagine. This event, as tragic as it was, is a defining trial in my life. The pain I felt, and will always feel, reinforces a strength in my roots that nothing can touch.

Despite the impact the death of my father has on my life, it is not the trial I'd like to describe in this post. It was the death of my step-father, Irwin, that "...[carried] every leaf away, [shook] my limbs and made me sway."

My mom married Irwin shortly after my dad died. Being a widow with 8 children (2 under the age of six) I can't say that I blame her. Despite her haste, we really lucked out with Irwin. He was a great father to my little brother and I. I can't speak for the older siblings, but over the course of 11 years he eventually made a space for himself in all of our hearts.

Irwin was 11 years older than my mom, a professor at a nearby college, and actually knew my father. From my point of view he brought stability, love, and laughter to a family who, at the time, was in shambles.

It took time. At first I was completely embarrassed by him. He exuded so much energy and quirkiness that when I wasn't laughing at him I was hiding in humiliation. He was the loudest cheerleader on the soccer-field, the worst dancer at the 4th grade hoe-down, and everyone thought he was my grandpa! Looking back, I'd give anything to be embarrassed by him again.

Six years into my parents marriage, Irwin was diagnosed with cancer. I don't recall many of the details, all I know is that my life and attitude toward my step-father changed. He became someone I could lose. A feeling that was all too familiar.

Irwin would struggle off and on with cancer for the next 5 years. Those five years were the years I spent strengthening my roots with Irwin by my side. He would greet me every morning with "Good morning, Tallulah, isn't it a beautiful morning!?" There were days when I'd answer with a forced smile because I didn't want to add to his burdens. I just wanted to spend as much time around him as possible. I didn't take any moment for granted. As a result I have so many rich and warm memories to look back on. Something I yearned for with my father.

I was at girl's camp when I heard he had slipped into a coma. I was in a daze until I started packing and then realized the dreadful day had come. Luckily I had an amazing friends with me when I no longer kept my composure. I'll never forget the two sets of arms that held me as I cried my first of many heartfelt cries.

When I got home he was in and out of consciousness, lying on an unfamiliar bed that came with the hospice nurse. He beckoned for me, and as I came to him he said jokingly, "Do you like my bed?" His words were so weak and strained, as if he'd been holding on to tell me one last joke. The last thing I said to him before he was lost to unconsciousness was "I love you." The Sunday before I left to camp I knew I needed to open up and tell Irwin thank you for being such a great father to me. He told me he considered me his daughter. With that conversation in mind, I left his bedside without regret.

It was a long night. We were ushering in family that lived out of town. It was busy but peaceful. Tired and weary, I retired to bed, knowing that he would be gone when I awoke. I had said my goodbyes. I was ready for a new day.

I've never felt anger toward God for the death of my fathers. I've always trusted that this was what I was suppose to go through. That these events would define the person I was to become. It was through the lives and deaths of these great men that I truly found my character.

When the "winds of unpredictability" blow I know where to turn. It doesn't always make it easier, but I know in the end I'll be okay. I just try to remember Irwin's struggle and realize that every morning can be beautiful.