in memoriam

Back in July I was able to visit the 9/11 Memorial with a group of friends from church. I'd already been to the site twice before, but this was my first time going without my children. The experience was vastly different; instead of trying to coax reverence out of cranky little boys or keep them from throwing the mementos of loved ones into the fountains, I was able to focus my thoughts on the significance of that place and the events that took place there. For a place where tragedy of such magnitude occurred, the experience was remarkably pleasant. It is a beautiful memorial, designed with love and built with care.

A few weeks later, while returning home from dinner at Delmonico's, my friend, Yeenor, recounted the story of her experiences that day. She was inside the first tower when the plane struck and, despite the pandemonium, managed to get out shortly before it came crumbling down. I listened, rapt, as her tale unraveled with the intensity of those buildings as they fell. She spoke casually, which surprised me, since that day for her was clearly anything but casual.

Eleven years have now passed, and while for so many the widening years will not lessen the crater 9/11 has created in their lives, I sense that individuals and the nation as a whole are beginning to heal. For the first time since we came to New York, this day felt to me almost like any other, busy and full of purpose. We of course will never forget, but it's nice to see evidence that where time once stood still, it's starting to move forward.

rising above

Early on the morning of September 11, 2001, I was a sophomore in college heading up the hill to my first class of the day. As I walked past the open windows of the other apartments in my complex, I noticed that the televisions in every single one of them were tuned into the same thing, but I couldn't tell what it was. A few minutes later, as I sat in class waiting for my teacher to arrive, another student rushed in and told us to turn on the TV, a plane had just hit the World Trade Center. We didn't get reception in that basement classroom, so class continued on as usual, but once we were dismissed, my classmates and I found ourselves congregating around one of the many common area televisions on campus glued to the news. It was there that I watched the second tower fall.

A few evenings later I went on a walk with my roommate, Julie. We talked together about the scary, uncertain world we were living in, the world we would eventually raise our families in. We were discouraged and a little fearful about the future. How would we manage to teach our children to chose good in a world that could be so evil?

But we didn't need to be so downhearted. In the aftermath of that day, amid a surge of faith I found myself sharing with my fellow citizens, I accomplished many wonderful things. I completed my formal education, met and married Blake, moved across the country, and brought two darling little boys into the world. While there have been occasional reasons to feel disheartened, there have been so many more causes to be joyful. I've learned, too, that my children have the ability to make good choices, even when they are surrounded by poor ones.

This week I took comfort in the words of our prophet, President Thomas S. Monson, which were published in the Washington Post. It was gentle reminder that, even when it seems that everything is falling down around me, my Heavenly Father does love me, as He loves all of His children, and that "whether it is the best of times or the worst, He is with us." No matter what hard things haunt my past or lie waiting for me in my future, He will be there to comfort me and remind me when I forget that this world was created for me to enjoy.

This afternoon I watched the Music and the Spoken Word special, 9/11: Rising Above. The opening song, "Shenandoah," which was punctuated with scenic shots of the varied American landscape, reminded me further that, despite the tragedies and horrors that have pierced our soil and our souls over the years, this country, with all of its imperfections, is still a beautiful place and it is privilege to live here -- and now. I am blessed indeed.

The tower lights as seen from our roof, sunrise September 12, 2011

piecing the puzzle

Sometimes even the most ordinary, unassuming days can quickly go sour. On Tuesday, for instance, I woke up early and washed, folded, ironed, and put away my weekly loads of laundry, just as I do every Tuesday morning. I got the boys ready for the day, and put Garrett on the school bus. After I saw him off, Caleb and I boarded a train bound for Atlantic Terminal to run a few errands. Everything so far that day had been perfectly normal.

But the winds changed direction on the elevator ride back up to street level when the woman I was riding with didn't hear me say thank you after she held the door open and made a hurtful point of telling me how impolite she thought I was. A few minutes later, just as I'd begun my shopping, I received a phone call from the school nurse, who told me that Garrett had developed a high fever and that I needed to come pick him up. I abandoned my errands, turned myself around, checked Garrett out of school, and, because his eyes had grown gunky and irritated, took him to the doctor. The diagnosis, pinkeye; the eye drops, too torturous, and consequently impossible, to successfully administer. The rest of the day was obsessively, and exhaustively, spent washing hands, disinfecting, and doing everything I could to prevent the spread of conjunctivitis to the rest of the family, especially Caleb.

By the time Blake came home in the late evening, I was spent. I'd managed to get the boys to bed, and then all but crashed on the couch. No doubt following some inspired prompting, Blake took a good, long look at me and asked if I needed a priesthood blessing. My initial reaction was to decline, but in the end I accepted the offer. It turned out that I needed that blessing more than I thought I did. It was beautiful, and exactly what I needed to hear.

As I sat afterward in the rocking chair pondering the things he'd said, Blake asked me what I was thinking. Instead of answering plainly, I started to cry. The part of the blessing that struck me the most, and what I was thinking about when Blake asked, was the firm reminder that my Heavenly Father loves me and was so very pleased with how I am doing as a mother. Some days -- most days, really -- it is hard to remember this. I'm too impatient, and too often selfish in my motives. I get frustrated with and yell at my boys more often than I care to admit. Despite the fact that others often see me as having everything in my life well in control, I usually feel like I'm flying by the seat of my pants, hanging on one crazy day at a time. "I just feel like I'm falling apart," I told Blake through my tears. "Sometimes it's too hard to believe that Heavenly Father thinks I'm doing a good job."

He nodded, more in sympathy than in agreement. "What if it's not so much falling apart as it is trying to build up?" he asked.

I thought about that, and as I did the image of a jigsaw puzzle, the kind with a thousand tiny pieces, came to mind. Maybe he was right. Maybe I am just trying to piece myself together. I'm generally not very good at putting together puzzles like this. They make me dizzy, and I'm too impatient. The puzzle of myself was, I imagined, filled with missing pieces and empty spaces. But as slow and difficult as the process is to put it together, I am somehow managing to do just that, with, of course, lots of help from others along the way. I'm not taking it apart; I'm slowly, very slowly, trying to piece it together. Someday, a long time from now, the puzzle will be finished, and I maybe won't feel like such a mess all the time. But in the meantime it'd be wise for me to remember that my Heavenly Father is pleased with my efforts to keep at it.

remembering from our rooftop

This evening we put the boys to bed, watched Clijsters win the U.S. Open (go Clijsters!), and then went out onto the roof of our building for the very first time (I know -- it only took us three years to finally go explore up there). Turns out we have a pretty decent view of Lower Manhattan.

defining me

For the last few months I've been slowly working on formatting my original blog in order to print and bind it in book form. As I've read through my old posts, I've watched a time-lapsed version of me grow and change. As much fun as it's been to reacquaint myself with former versions of me, it's also been startling to see how different I am now than I was four and a half years ago when I first started blogging. My circumstances have changed, and as such, the topics I write on and the style in which I write them have also changed. My purpose for writing has evolved, and the time which I can allot to blogging has been altered.

Things which once so staunchly defined me no longer do. While I'm not yet an old hat, I'm also not defined anymore by new motherhood. I've lived in Brooklyn for three solid years now, and while there will always be new city adventures, I feel that I have acclimated. I still like to call myself a writer, but I don't have the time or energy very often these days to devote to writing creatively. My life has fallen into a pretty predictable routine, which on the one hand is fine -- I love routine! -- but on the other, the fervor I once felt has died down.

These realizations have been a little disconcerting. Has all this change led to something better? Or have I let certain aspects of myself fall unnecessarily by the wayside? In an effort to ward off a minor identity crisis, I've garnered a list of some of the things that make me who I am today. Some are silly, some are serious, but collectively they help define me.

• I am Blake's wife, and Garrett and Caleb's mother.
• I live in Brooklyn, and, at the rate things are going, will probably live in Brooklyn for a long time.
• I don't own a car.
• I love eating chocolate chip cookie dough.
• My house is clean because I'm constantly cleaning it.
• I hate being late.
• I would be fine if I never went to the Natural History Museum again.
• I like to cook.
• I am no good at making small talk.
• I am not a night owl.
• Even though I don't have much time for it (and what I produce, I'm realizing as I read through my old blog posts, is mediocre at best), I still love to write. I think like a writer, and revise like a writer, and let words consume me like a writer.
  
• I am not a big fan of playing board games.
• I'd much rather read a book.
• I am the Bishop's wife, and sometimes that is really hard.
• I like to make things, and enjoy simple sewing projects.
• I collect dishes and other kitchen things.
• I do my very best to keep my promises.
• I love the smell of rain-soaked sidewalks.
• I am always doing something. If I'm sitting still, I'm probably sick or completely exhausted.
• I like it when the bright full moon shines right through my bedroom window when I go to sleep.
• I am happy. And I'm happy with the direction my life is going.
  

Even though I am naturally resistant to change, it's nice to be able to look back and see how everything has fallen so neatly into place. And even if it feels like parts of me have been lost as I've grown, that is no reason to think that I'm in a lesser place now. Life will keep moving forward, circumstances will continue to evolve, but the things which have defined me in the past and those which define me in the present will never truly disappear. They are all, and always will be, what define me.

thoughts on three

This morning I took three big bags of baby boy clothes to my very good friend, Emily. As many of you already know, Emily is currently expecting triplets, two of which are boys. Her need for blue baby things is greater than mine, and I was happy to pare down our collection to hand off. After unloading the goods at their new apartment (which is so close to ours, it makes me giddy just to think about), I lathered our children in sunscreen and whisked them all off to a nearby park so that Emily could follow her doctor's latest orders to avoid pre-term labor by putting her feet up.

As I walked our collective three children (Caleb in the stroller, Garrett and Elizabeth holding on to each side) down the street to the park, I started thinking about the number three -- how this morning's episode of Sesame Street was brought to me today by the number three; how in a little over three more weeks, Garrett will be three years old and will be getting three really great presents from his parents; how Emily will soon be giving birth to three sweet babies and how, because of that, I was now taking three small children to the playground. Three might not seem on the surface to be a big number, but for me (and, obviously, Emily, too), it lately has become one.

But small or big, three is a good number. Three is company. Three is magical. And three is really cute walking to the park.

thursday afternoon

On the afternoon of Thursday, February 4th, my sister-in-law, Kimberly, delivered a healthy 8 lb 2 oz baby girl -- our first niece! -- named Lydia. As it always is with the birth of a child, and especially when it is the child that pushes you into parenthood, her arrival was nothing short of a beautiful miracle. From what I hear, everyone is doing fine, and we are all excited to someday meet her in person.


Meanwhile, also on Thursday afternoon, the husband of a very dear friend of mine from Muncie passed away after a 9 month battle with brain cancer. The news of his death was not unexpected, and was in many ways seen as a blessing and a direct answer to requested prayers. As I followed the updates on his health that he and his family shared, I was inspired by their undeterred faith, hope and courage. And I was touched with how selflessly they let him go. "What a miracle," his family stated, that the prayers of loved ones were answered in just the way that they had hoped. He will be missed most deeply, and my heart aches for the loss his family is now experiencing, but what a miracle, too, to know that he can continue to do great things in the next life.

In life or in death, Thursday afternoon was indeed an afternoon of miracles.