Ghosts of Christmas Past

When I was a girl, church Christmas parties were carefully choreographed events. Leaders of the Primary (our church's organization for children) spent weeks helping active youngsters rehearse the Nativity story. The chorister coached us until we sang "sleep in heavenly pe-eace" without sliding into the high note. One year I was thrilled when the Primary president asked me to be Mary, until the honor caused a rift with my best friend who coveted the role. My co-star proved to be a very reluctant Joseph.

The night of our performance was the highlight of December. I loved dressing up in a red velvet dress, brushing my waist-length curls, then squeezing into our old Pontiac with my parents and seven siblings. People in our small town did not bother with elaborate yard displays, but strings of old-fashioned colored lights along a few porches created a magic glow on snow drifts as we drove to the church.

Upon arrival, we weren't served sliced ham with the proverbial Mormon "funeral potatoes". The children's re-enactment of Luke II was the reason that our local congregation gathered and watched patiently from rows of cold metal chairs. Behind the heavy brown curtains, I waited with a coil of nervous anticipation in my stomach until it was my turn to emerge onto the old wooden stage that smelled faintly of lemon oil.

This year, my husband and I took turns driving twenty miles twice a week so that our youngest son could experience the same thrill in a Dickens Festival theater production. There were plenty of ups and downs during three months of rehearsals for "A Christmas Carol" and "Oliver". At first he was a little disappointed about being given the lead role of the innocent-yet-spunky orphan boy. But as the show progressed he admitted that it was fun. When the cast did the final dress rehearsals in a convention center that had been transformed into Victorian London, our son was hooked.

He's come so far from the shy boy who sang an inhibited rendition of "Consider Yourself" at a vocal recital less than three years ago. Last week his confidence and enthusiasm as an actor were a delight to see.

I love having kids involved in theater and witnessing what the experience can do for everyone involved in a show. But on a ward level I wonder if it's becoming a lost art.

Don't get me wrong. After trying to pull off a party for the Relief Society (my church's women's organization), I'm the first to express appreciation for those who accomplish such a feat year after year. Even a short play is labor-intensive while a white-elephant gift exchange is simple and fun. But if the reason for ward activities is to build friendships, why not put a little extra effort into an occasional production? If all goes well (even with imperfections), some hidden talents might come to light and the rapport between cast members makes it all worthwhile.

I'll never forget the fall of 2003 when I was struggling with a sense of isolation. My prayers were answered when the woman in charge of the Relief Society Christmas program asked me to write a readers' theater about Mary the mother of Jesus.

The project was hard; I hadn't written a play since fifth or sixth grade when I naively assumed the entire school would be entertained by my short holiday dramas. But in a few weeks, I churned out a thirty-page script while immersing myself in the minds of those who lived the real Christmas story. It was an intense process.

Sharing my work with the cast and then the women of the ward was even harder. It's one thing to send manuscripts to editors in distant cities and quite another to expose some of your deepest thoughts to people you see every Sunday at church.

The performance wasn't Broadway-brilliant; since then I've improved the script. But the response from ordinary women like me was overwhelming. I'll never forget when the woman who played Elisabeth confided that she too had been struggling, but was uplifted by her participation in the program.

I felt honored by her trust and willingness to step out of her comfort zone and into the character of a woman who also faced great challenges. Our friendship would have never deepened if we had merely exchanged smiles in the foyer of our chapel.

I remembered this while writing the script for this year's program which centered on Christmas in 19th-century Nauvoo, Illinois--a place and time significant to our church's history. After a non-productive summer, I struggled to create a script will all the elements that first gave me a spark of inspiration. I know it still needs improvement and a better presentation. But there were moments when words and ideas flowed, which hasn't happened for a long time. My research on the lives of women who lived in Nauvoo nourished my soul and helped to dispel doubts that I could make time to write historical fiction. I really need to work on that lifelong dream. Just not 24/7!

Was the extra effort worth it? Even though there were last-minute changes in the program that left me paranoid about answering another phone call, I have to say yes. In spite of busy schedules, so many women graciously donated time and various talents to make Christmas in Nauvoo come to life for a couple of hours. The entire process of everyone working together and becoming better friends still leaves me feeling humbled and awed.

Given a little time to recuperate and regroup, I could do this again.

Empty Chairs

It's 2:07 on Thanksgiving morning and I'm wide awake, counting blessings instead of sheep. At the same time I can't help thinking about empty chairs

This afternoon our daughter will file into a crowded cafeteria at the Missionary Training Center to partake of the annual feast.

Obligated to work on Black Friday, our oldest son will roast a turkey and maybe even bake homemade pies in his apartment to share with other students who couldn't travel to their homes for the holiday.

I ache with the memory of our college-age kids staggering through the front door with overflowing laundry baskets, their jackets smelling of November cold as they greeted us with awkward hugs and huge smiles. This year our hall isn't piled with luggage, no one has complained about hot water turning cold mid-shower, and no one's been demoted to sleeping on the living room floor.

How did life shift so fast, propelling our children into the world?

I am thankful that they'll miss us as much as we'll miss them when we gather with my parents, some of my ten siblings and their families for a laughter-filled dinner served on styrofoam plates. Two chairs will be empty because our son has a job and both of our adult children are choosing to serve others in a culture that's often colored by self-indulgence. I'm grateful that they freely embrace their obligations to a God who can never be repaid for blessings He pours upon us.

The winter of 1620 left many empty seats in the pilgrims' first hovels. They still thanked God for deliverance from "perils and miseries".

There will be plenty of reasons for empty chairs today as Americans likewise reserve a time to celebrate thanksgiving.


Copyright Nov. 24, 2011 by Nani Lii S. Furse

The Man Within the Veteran

As a young girl, I didn't view my father as a veteran. He never joined The American Legion or marched in front of an audience on the Fourth of July. I never saw his army uniform or his World War II photos. The few stories that he shared held the gloss of legends.

During one late-night family discussion, I heard about the unusually calm day in far-off Europe when an unidentified voice prompted my father to leave the protection of his foxhole. Against the grain of battlefield logic, he obeyed. Moments later, morter shells were fired from the German lines. One exploded inside the trench.

Lost in a sleepy haze, I vaguely rejoiced that my father had lived to tell the tale. Yet I missed the tragic fact that his buddy died in the blast.

When my father reminisced about the winter he spent in a German prison camp, I shivered with imagined cold. Yes, I felt troubled as I learned how he and other POWs were forced to sleep naked after guards collected their ragged clothes each night. Yet his voice seemed almost jovial as he described nocturnal air raids when everyone was rousted from the barracks and compelled to wait outside in snowy trenches until the planes departed. He joked about eating nothing but black bread and watery stock beet soup. I cleaned my plate at mealtimes, never considering the possibility that he might have endured even more.

Veteran's Day came and went each year without parades or school assemblies. Sometimes one of my older siblings bought small red tissue poppies from former servicemen in our small town.

I grew up feeling proud of my father and deeply patriotic. But I didn't give much thought to the fact that he was someone besides my dad and a friendly postmaster who could find the right mailbox for letters addressed to "Grandma Hunt" in a first-grade scrawl.

Thanks to my husband, this myopic perspective began to change. An avid student of World War II, he sometimes drew my father into conversations about his experiences as a soldier on the front lines in Europe. I then realized that my dad was assigned to the Fourth Armored Spearhead Division of General George S. Patton's famous Third Army which turned the tide of Germany's last major offensive in the Battle of the Bulge.

Since then, my mother has recorded his detailed accounts that breathe life into history and portray a resolute yet vulnerable young man who maintained hope and faith in the midst of circumstances that were usually beyond his control.

Saying good-bye to his youth in southern Utah, he watched the Statue of Liberty recede into the horizon as the Equitania carried him and 4,000 troops to war-torn Europe in 1944. He walked through the wreckage of Omaha Beach where a life-long friend had been killed during the D-Day invasion only a few weeks before. He assisted in capturing a machine-gun "nest", only to discover that it was manned by twelve-year-old German boys who cried for their mothers as they surrendered. A short time later, he too was compelled to raise both hands in the air as enemy captors declared, "The war is over for you."

A few years ago, my mother asked my dad about the three weeks of interrogation he endured while being held in a German castle during the Christmas season in 1944. Like the rest of us, she had always assumed that he was spared the harsh treatment that other POWs endured.

My heart breaks even as I respect his answer: "No one will ever know what happened there."

We'll never know all the horrors he witnessed or the full extent of deprivation that he suffered in Stalag 4-B. Yet we do know that, when he walked through open prison gates in May of 1945, he had gained not only physical freedom but also forgiveness and compassion towards ordinary people who had been subjected to the power of an evil minority.

My father is quick to acknowledge the dignity and refinement of the German people even as he recalls how their children laughed and sang as they dragged Christmas trees home on their sleds. He'll never forget the prison guards who showed photos of family members and sweethearts to the POWs when their superiors weren't watching. One of them occasionally gave him a few extra rations. And he's still grateful for a Czech family who chose to feed him and his newly-liberated companions their first decent meal as they traveled south to the American lines.

Sixty-five years later, my parents visited places in Germany that evoked memories and deep emotion. They also walked through the Saar Valley in France where my father had been captured at age nineteen.

People in the nearby village remember who made their liberation possible so long ago. They lay flowers on the graves of the dead. They also thanked my father--one of the dwindling number of World War II soldiers who still lives.

Last summer he wore his uniform and joined other hometown veterans who were honored by cheering crowds in the Fourth of July parade. For the first time, our younger sons saw him as someone besides their grandpa who prefers western shirts.

Every Veteran's Day, I picture him leaning on his cane as he and my mother make their way to the local schools for patriotic assemblies. He's grown thin and tired and late-autumn sun highlights the silver in his hair. Still, he's there to listen as his grandchildren and other students sing about how freedom isn't free.

Later, he'll call his buddy from Patton's Fourth Armored Division.

They paid the price.


Copyright Nov. 15, 2011 by Nani Lii S. Furse

Daughter, Teacher, Friend

She was born in the wake of late-summer rain and a night of intermittent labor. I had dreaded the possibility of another forceps delivery but she came after only a few minutes of pushing, a blessed conclusion to an uncertain pregnancy.

More than twenty-two years have passed since we first held our newborn daughter. We've delighted in her first impish smiles, her princess fantasies and desires to emulate all things good and beautiful.

Yes, she took part in childhood squabbles. We had to enforce expectations that she complete schoolwork on time and her tendency to daydream once resulted in a wrecked car. But she walked away with minor injuries and we're grateful that she could enter a new phase of life.

One month ago we traveled to Provo where she was scheduled to enter the Missionary Training Center. She'd packed cardigans, skirts and blouses along with a few personal items. She'd posted a witty Facebook farewell. She'd printed her unfinished novel, tucked it away and placed her books on my bedroom shelf.

Autumn rain swept over the Wasatch mountains as we hurried through one last errand at the University Mall and our final meal together. We joked and laughed, trying to lighten the reality that she would be leaving for eighteen months. Then we crowded into our car and headed west with a steady flow of noon-hour traffic.

Unfamiliar with this area, I didn't expect to see the Utah Valley Regional Medical Center as my husband changed lanes and prepared to turn south. But the sight of the large hospital triggered memories and emotions that were impossible to check.

I remembered a frigid winter morning in 1989. As a young mother living in Midway, Utah I'd told my husband good-bye before he headed to another day of teaching school in neighboring Heber City. Then my spontaneous decision to read to our two-year-old son turned terribly wrong. One moment I was enjoying his clever comments as I basked in my happiness at being pregnant again. Everything changed as I felt something pop deep inside and a gush of fluid that turned out to be blood.

After a series of frantic phone calls and a trip over icy roads to the clinic, my husband and I sat, stunned, as our doctor said that I had probably lost the baby. Trying to comfort us, he mentioned that this wasn't uncommon in the first trimester. Then he sent us to Provo for an ultrasound.

A few days before, my younger brother had traveled up the snowy canyon from BYU to assist my husband in giving me a priesthood blessing. It's a tradition that we started when we learned that I was carrying our first child. But the comforting assurance I had received concerning this second pregnancy didn't seem to make sense. I tearfully voiced my doubts as we circled the half-frozen waters of Deer Creek Reservoir. My husband squeezed my hand and said, "Remember what we were promised."

It wasn't the first time I'd leaned on his faith. Nor the last.

Half-an-hour later I lay in a stark room as the ultrasound technician spread icy gel on my still-flat stomach. I hardly dared to look up at the dark screen, but we soon watched in amazement as the small yet perfect image of a baby kicked and wriggled into view. At last I felt the warm confirmation my husband had known all along: this child was meant to live and I would do everything in my power to make it so.

After weeks of bed rest, prayers, and plenty of red raspberry tea, the bleeding eventually subsided. I had to limit my activities for the rest of the pregnancy but, considering the seriousness of a partially ruptured placenta, our doctor said my recovery was remarkable indeed.

Twenty-six years into our marriage, my husband and I are dealing with different challenges. Some require high levels of patience (which I frequently fail to practice). They can't cured with a physical remedy or prayed away.

But the last backward glimpse of our daughter smiling as she walked down a rain-washed sidewalk towards another turn in her young life reaffirmed my determination to meet the unknown with faith.

I continue to feel amazement at her growth and the insights she shares in weekly letters or emails. Learning a new language (in her case, Spanish) in a limited amount of time is hard and other aspects of life at the Missionary Training Center are intense is ways that I don't understand. Her words express hope and optimism, however, and I don't worry. She's learned what it means to pray with intent--the intent to do her part--and she's beginning to reap the blessings, even if they are as simple as a quiet assurance that she can press on.

That alone is a reminder that I need on a regular basis. I'm thankful that, in spite of my weaknesses and mistakes, our children are growing into some of my greatest teachers and friends.

Of Marathons and NaNoWriMo

He'd posted an enthusiastic status on Facebook about running the St. George Marathon. We knew he'd trained hard. His goal: cross the finish line in 2 1/2 hours or less.

Our oldest son, Joe, is great at meeting goals. I learned that years before he attempted his first marathon on this course in 2008. When he first joined the high school track team, he seemed to have average ability. But he worked hard, won the region championship in cross country his senior year, and continues to progress.

Fast forward six years.

October 1, 2011 dawned with perfect marathon conditions: mild temperatures and a wide arc of calm blue sky. We arrived at Vernon Worthen Park by 8:30 a.m., a good half-hour before we expected to see Joe pouring his heart and soul into the home stretch. I felt a little concerned about his lack of rest (he'd arrived home late the night before after a stressful 9-hour drive), but he'd pushed through fatigue before.

We cheered wildly for the winner as he sprinted by. Then I started counting the next few runners, keeping an eye on their respective times. At 2:27, we leaned forward, peering down the street, trying to distinguish an athlete wearing bright red racing shoes. The tenth competitor finished to more wild applause.

Still no sign of Joe.

As the clock sped past 2:38, we wondered if Joe had experienced some kind of setback. That was his record time at the Top of Utah Marathon last year.

The runners passed the bleachers in irregular clusters, some stronger than others. I watched for Joe among the top twenty, then the top twenty-five. Huge speakers blared "We are the Champions" and we were swept into another wave of cheers.

His red shoes pounding the pavement, Joe was struggling but he maintained a steady pace. His face wore an expression of pure determination as he finished in 2 hours 43 minutes. He placed twenty-ninth overall and second in his division: quite respectable, since the race now attracts over 7,000 runners.

Camara-ready, we hurried to find Joe. He was in no mood for photos. "That wasn't a good race," he groaned as he leaned on the fence that separated marathoners from non-masochists. He mumbled something about nausea and losing the ability to breathe adequately at mile 18. Then he limped off to commiserate with a friend and fellow runner who'd had to drop out altogether.

Years ago, Joe would have brooded about his performance. I'm sure he felt more disappointment than he expressed as we talked it over that weekend. Still, he's grateful for the ability to run and he'll soon be hitting the trails and/or pavement. I know he'll try again.

I thought about Joe as I read a recent blog post about National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. During November, writers can participate in the grand-daddy of cerebral marathons, trying to crank out an entire novel (50,000-word minimum) in one month. Participants can find writing buddies online, in libraries or bookstores. It's a global phenomenon for anyone possessed with writing ambition.

I'm not up to a marathon at the keyboard or otherwise. Yes, the hype is heady ("Accept the challenge! You CAN do this!!"). I'd love to find some "pacers" to cheer me on. People succeed in NaNoWriMo every November, although I sometimes wonder if they resemble Scrooge or someone who gleefully posts Facebook stati about finishing Christmas shopping in September.

Who decided that November is National Novel Writing Month anyway? January, the month of optimism and lofty resolutions, would suit me just fine. Of course, sitting at a computer with a stack of Oreos to stave off writer's block is not conducive to losing post-holiday poundage. The health-and-fitness folks might protest. They've got way too much at stake.

So things aren't likely to change and this isn't the time to pump myself up for a writing marathon. Between my daughter's missionary call, new church responsibilities, continued family needs and a forced remodeling of our home (who knew that a broken water pipe could wreak such havok?) I'll be satisfied with meeting attainable writing goals, one step at a time.

I've been writing long enough to experience rejection and frustration. But people like Joe continually inspire me to press on.

So bah, humbug to early Christmas shopping. I've got a short story to polish and submit for publication.

It's kind of like running a 5k. I can do this.

Letting Go: Hiking the Observation Point Trail

For several weeks I pushed aside the fact that our daughter would be leaving. Her decision was no surprise; in her methodical way, our daughter spent much of this past year contemplating the option of serving a full-time mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. For eighteen months, she will live in another part of the country and devote her life to serving others, regardless of their beliefs. She will also teach
a Christ-centered message to any who choose to listen.

In late September, we dismissed the busyness of family life, work, and our daughter's mission preparations. She wanted to say good-bye to the majestic red-rock landscape that means home. We drove once more to Zion Canyon.

As we started up the trail towards Observation Point, my husband commented on how he felt the tension melt away. I too felt freed from daily concerns as I paused to show a cascade of maidenhair ferns and wildflowers to our daughter and youngest son. In this oasis from scorching summer heat, the hanging gardens near Weeping Rock had once again survived.

Watching my daughter pause to take photos or contemplate the scenery, I felt impressed by her courage mingled with acceptance of her vulnerability in the face of unknown challenges. Living in the southeast, she'll encounter coastal beaches instead of cacti and the tallest objects in the landscape will consist of skyscrapers and a freeway overpass. I smile, remembering how our oldest son described Houston and Louisiana while serving his mission.

After her return, our daughter hopes to visit Europe--especially Germany-- a place abounding in mountainside castles and a cradle of classical music. But she knows that this mission isn't about collecting souveneirs, visiting landmarks or making lists of tourist attractions. She is going forth to serve.

Knowing that we wouldn't have time to reach Observation Point, we lingered at several places, enjoying the scent of pinon pines, dramatic patterns cast by evening shadows and the fascinating shapes and textures of Echo Canyon.

It was nearly dark when we returned to the trailhead. Under the canopy of cottonwoods that were just beginning to turn gold, we sat in silence waiting for the next shuttle to arrive. It came, but our daughter asked if we could stay for just a few more minutes. It felt good to wait while the first stars pierced the narrow slice of cobalt sky far overhead.

Another shuttle arrived, heading down-canyon. We heard the folding doors creak open. Our daughter stood and said, "O.K."

We've said good-bye to another missionary, our oldest son. We've felt the same aching joy.

We can do it again.


Copyright 2011 by Nani Lii S. Furse

September Metaphor

My favorite season is barely apparent, but I relish my early-morning walks when it's possible to feel a subtle change in the air. Summer finally relented to cooler temperatures and this past week we received rain nearly every day. It won't be long before the mellowing light transforms our back yard into a shrine of gold-green splendor .

Whenever possible, I'll enjoy the desert's slow-moving shift to autumn. It's been a difficult summer, full of emotionally-charged change. My daughter will soon be leaving to serve an eighteen-month mission for our church. Life with children who have ADD and Asperger syndrome continues to present new parental challenges. A close relative endured another bout of depression and anxiety, requiring us to balance her needs with those of our family.

Such conditions force me to peel away more layers of pretense and denial about the effects of my past. It's necessary but often painful to discover the raw truth of who I really am. For months I've neglected this blog and other writing projects, feeling overwhelmed by relationship issues and failure to deal with them in an appropriate manner. Too often I've felt resentful about the emotional toll, then so guilty about the resentment that creative impulses shut down. More often, I've given in to apathy as stifling as August heat. Breaking free of self-defeating behavior seemed impossible. I told myself I no longer cared.

Somehow I need to commit to writing regardless of personal circumstances. To close the door on memories of past mistakes or concerns about the future for a designated time each day. To allow a degree of artistic playfulness into my life. To realize the possibilities inherent in imperfection.

Someone once said that she writes to identify her deepest thoughts; even when I'm working on something unrelated to my experience, I've found this to be true. Writing is one vital key to understanding my emotions, relationships and, ultimately, to gain a degree of healing.

In that respect, September is the perfect metaphor for embracing change and moving to another phase of life. With thoughtful work and the grace of God, I can turn it into something beautiful.

The Closet Effect

When discouragement stymies my efforts to write, I usually gain a surge of motivation from The Closet Effect. Maybe it's like The Bureau Effect on Emily Dickinsen's poems. Or The Wardrobe Effect on four children in The Chronicles of Narnia.

Here's how the magic works: if no deadline is pending, I set aside a rough draft or even a polished project in the file that sits on the floor of my walk-in closet. (Yes, I believe the process works better if a story or poem is printed on paper.  I came of age when a self-correcting typewriter was The Mother of All Inventions.)

But I digress.

While writing, I often feel that my work is cheesy/dull/uninspired. Pick your adjective. Then a miracle occurs within the depths of my closet. The longer a project vegetates, the better. Maybe it has something to do with mystic dust bunny rituals.

This would be a good place to insert a photo of vintage typewritten pages because this is a tutorial of sorts, right? And I'm a blogger who's been writing long enough to have her share of yellowed pages. The real deal.

At any rate, when I revisit a writing project that's survived the test of time, at least one of the following things has occurred:

• It still seems cheesy/dull/uninspired. Time to salvage a good line or scene and move on to something else.
• I suddenly see what needs revision and have a better idea of how to proceed.
• The words flow a little better than I remember, giving me the courage to share my work with someone else.

The result sometimes includes two or more of the above points but it never fails to help me progress as a writer.

Now if only The Closet Effect would work a transformation when I attempt to zip up a dress that I haven't worn for a while.

Landscape of Early Spring

I usually don't mind winter in our relatively mild climate. Snow is rare, a spun-sugar delicacy that softens cliffs and mesas for a few hours or days. Clouds on the northern mountain portend frigid winds, but they're also short-lived. Even on the coldest days, spring never seems far away.

Seasons of personal dormancy can linger much
longer, like arctic Decembers that smother the light of day. At such times it's hard to do anything that leads to a sense of progression and change. Instead, I tell myself that if I can't turn life into a perpetually flawless performance it's better to withdraw with a shred of dignity. Then I subconsciously stifle dreams and positive emotions until my inner landscape resembles Narnia under the White Witch's spell.

A few months ago I realized how much I needed to find every-day metaphors to banish mental fog, to spark compassion and creativity, to validate the recurring possibility of change. Maybe that is why I suddenly wanted to to see the first hint of green wash through weathered cottonwoods. The rush of river and waterfalls beckoned me to Zion National Park.

During Spring break my husband and I hiked in the canyon with our two youngest sons. Although I didn't expect to spend any time in blissful meditation, this family outing was surprisingly congenial. No one lagged too far behind and our teenager made sporadic efforts to curb his impatience so that he could drive home. Between fragments of conversation, I studied my surroundings with new eyes.

The cottonwoods seemed lifeless at first glance. Ghosts of last year's leaves had drifted over the sand bars near the river and I realized that millions of tight new buds wouldn't open for at least a week.

My disappointment turned to wonder as we started up the trail to the Emerald Pools. Here was a chance to fill my senses with the essence of things: an arabesque of branches, a pine-tinged breeze and the touch of rough sandstone that hoarded winter cold. Squishing through mud under shimmering falls at the lower pool, I caught a half-hidden grin on our older son's face as he secretly enjoyed this childlike pleasure. And if there was an image that could capture our youngest son's laughter, it would look something like this:

Climbing to an amphitheater carved from ancient sand dunes, we were surrounded by echoes of cascading water, an ovation to spring. Our youngest son clambered over the boulders, excited to explore before he paused for a photo near a tattered shroud of snow. When my daughter and I returned a few weeks later, it would be nothing but a memory of winter's last hold.

I could only imagine the moment when this waterfall burst over the cliff, shattering silence along with the ice that might have glazed the upper pool. In reality I felt cleansed by the fluid music that graced canyon walls as it stripped my illusions and resistance to hope. I needed to feel small in this immensity of stone. It was one way to sense my importance to God.

In a matter of weeks, the falls would diminish to half-hidden springs that feed lush ferns and columbine near the Emerald Pools. My husband and I would walk under a canopy of leaves that greet summer with an oasis from blistering heat.

But I'll always remember Zion Canyon that cool March morning. Stark and beautiful, it turned metaphors into a promise as it became my landscape of spring.

Where do you go to gain perspective or peace?
How do you find renewal and meaning in the tasks of daily life?

Copyright by Nani Lii S. Furse

I

Memorial Day Poem: Noon Hour

This past week I revised a couple of poems, resulting in a resurrection of some poignant memories. Although it wasn't something I consciously planned, posting "Noon Hour" seemed an appropriate way to acknowledge Memorial Day. As a college student, I wrote this poem after attending the funeral of a troubled friend who was close to my age when an accident took her life.

She was a single mother in her early twenties, trying to create a better life for herself and her son.

Phrases of our teenage conversations on my front lawn on summer nights have been drifting through my mind this past week. Maybe I was too simplistic or preachy or too absorbed in my own struggles. Maybe I could have done more to reach out, to find words that might have eased the frustration she must have felt when confronted with small-town expectations and cliques.

One thing is certain: I'll always be haunted by the image of my friend dressed in denim shorts as she bounced a ball back and forth behind her curly-haired, pinafored peers who were singing a sentimental ditty for some Young Women program. She paid dearly for her refusal to fit into well-intentioned molds.

I dedicated the poem to my friend's youngest brother.



Noon Hour
for Edward

South wind clipped the prayer word-thin;
I heard only syllables
but you, child, watched from the other side
of dusty carnations
blown over your sister's casket.

Wind twisted my full skirt
and melted transparent scarves
over older women's bouffant hair.

I couldn't hear you circle those dark angles
scissored at our feet
until our hands crushed together
and your head pressed my thigh.

Then scanty grass crept under your Sunday shoes,
not waiting for amens
or petals to lower out of the wind.

Copyright 2011 Nani Lii S. Furse

Who's Afraid of a Midlife Crash?

This past month, I turned forty-seven. One hairstylist informed me that your body starts to fall apart during this infamous decade. Some people indulge in various forms of a midlife crisis. The teenage sons of one acquaintance decorated their front lawn with black balloons when she reached the Big 4-0.

Maybe there's a reason for mourning middle age. Yes, I need reading glasses. My dedication to step aerobics, running and uphill power walks resulted in achilles bursitis. The doctor said no more of that kind of exercise until until my aching heels heal. That was four months ago. I finally sneaked into JC Penney and bought a budget version of Spanx.

Still, I wouldn't trade middle-age angst for adolescence. My journal provides ample reasons for making peace with my current stage of life. At fourteen, I bemoaned the fact that I couldn't invite a gaggle of popular girls to celebrate my birthday. It just wasn't done. Unlike my attractive sister and studentbody-president brothers, I merely orbited the small-town cliques that were well-established in kindergarten. Sure, kids respected me for being artistic and smart. I edited the school newspaper, served as Junior class president and got an award for being Most Dependable Girl. These minor triumphs juxtaposed with emotional struggles that surpassed typical teenage insecurity.

Twenty years later, I turned to my journals in an effort to face the truth of my depression. This was exacerbated by a stressful pregnancy and the birth of our last child. The numbness, self-loathing and mental fog that had reached critical levels were articulated in meticulous penmanship from my past. It was almost exhausting to read how I busied myself with schoolwork, writing and extracurricular activities. Yet I had found plenty of ways to translate perfectionism to my present life as a stay-at-home mom. It was a twisted way of avoiding the tsunami of pain that eventually swept away all pretense and left me gasping for breath.

Since then I've confronted hard realities, accepting the fact that dealing with them is a lifelong quest. Some problems have no easy answers and I'm far from perfect. Yet my direction is true. I'm less inclined to judge, realizing that everyone carries unseen burdens. After years of losing the desire and energy to write, the process is a struggle but I'm trying to achieve more honesty and compassion in poetry and fiction. Most important, I no longer view life or raising a family as an Olympic competition. Success has many definitions and there's room in God's heart for all.

Edging closer to fifty, I feel the interplay of paradox. The delicate balance of confidence and humility is more apparent now; I'm learning to face difficulties that once seemed beyond my strength yet I'm more aware of my need for God's inspiration. I feel more vulnerable to tragedy and loss but I also feel a greater desire to love and to share.

I'll take these hard-won triumphs over a trim waist any day of the week.

Finding Cumorah

In the summer of 1983, I had the opportunity to be in the cast of The Hill Cumorah Pageant. I was a wicked Nephite woman who followed the crowd in condemning Abinadi and my "missionary companion" was one of Kind Noah's concubines. (That was my wild fling!) Incidentally, a few of the college-age girls harbored secret crushes on the ,single male actors. They were fairly evenly divided between Team Abinadi and Team Captain Moroni. :)

I kept a journal faithfully back then and enjoyed touring many historic sites in the area. Being in the pageant was a spiritual experience as well since it depicts many of the Book of Mormon prophets who testified of Christ and His appearance to the Nephites.

I hated to leave New York when it was time to return home, but I wrote a poem about the Hill Cumorah. A few years and many drafts later, the poem was published in a contest issue of The New Era.

When the LDS Church celebrated Joseph Smith's 200th birthday in 2005, I pulled out the magazine and read the poem again. It had a couple of good lines but most of it was too obscure. Also, my perspective on Joseph Smith and what had occurred at the Hill Cumorah had changed. My oldest son was close to the same age as Joseph Smith when he first saw the ancient record of the Nephite people. In fact, my son had just received his mission call and was preparing to testify of The Book of Mormon and other truths of the restored gospel.

I changed the title and decided to rewrite the poem; the result is more cohesive as it focuses on the seasons of Joseph Smith's burgeoning faith. As a mother, I was struck by how vulnerable he must have felt in his youth as he learned of his life's mission. I used many natural images to evoke those emotions, especially the in first stanzas. While reworking the poem, I also gained a greater appreciation of Joseph's courage in spite of adversity and his lack of education or experience. I hope the last stanza in this poem expresses my gratitude for all that he accomplished.



Finding Cumorah
Manchester County, New York, 1823

Late September
washes a season's green
beyond field and village
and age seventeen.
only leaves
rinsed in afterglow
stir at Joseph's homespun
passing.

He once knelt
in April grove,
drenched with that glory
of Father and Son.
Then summer wove roots
through his harrowed soul
as those parched by mockery
claimed the heavens
closed.

Autumn wind
shimmers into the trees,
quickening vision
of his pending task:
these hands will
lift voices
silenced by stone,
fullness like morning
tide gathering
home.



Since this ended up being a completely different poem, I submitted it to the Ensign and then to the New Era where it was published in the September 2009 issue. A pdf of it is available online.

Two poems for February (and they aren't about love)

Here are two more poems from college days. If anything, I hope they show that there is something interesting about the monochromatic high desert landscape. Both were published in contest issues of the New Era magazine in the 1980s.

The title of the first poem should be read as its first line. That was one way of dealing with the fact that I don't like coming up with titles. :)



In February

wind wears the ice
hoarded by hills and stone
spins sagebrush into gray phrases
thins like needles
of ponderosa shadow




February Solstice

Fog strays into predawn sage,
Stratum of night unshaping.

Crone-hands uncurl the revelation
of cottonwoods' naked grasp.

Her fingers thin into wind,
Groping for transparent spring.

Late Winter

'Most people probably hope that winter is nearly over; before the season's change, I decided to share a simple description of sunset over a snow-covered landscape. "Late Winter" was one of the first poems I wrote in college. It was published years later in the December 2004 New Era.


Late Winter

Soft fire melts into blue embers
that speak of snow.
Winter breathes its dialogue
with latent earth, white phrases
contoured by prisoned shadow--
a slow sweep, a pulse
molding the rhythm of star and moon
as they spin towards dawn.



I'll never forget how my creative writing professor challenged students to look at the world with new eyes, to tune into our senses as we tried to create images that could evoke emotions. Life wasn't easy then, but I sometimes achieved greater awareness and recognized the beauty of familiar faces and the surroundings that I had often taken for granted.

Thinking about the past, I am reminded to slow down and pay more attention to unique people and simple things that shape my life now. It's vital to creativity which in turn yields joy and gratitude. It's vital to the life most of us hope for as we reach out with love.

Thoughts on Valentine's Eve

Older kids can complain all they want about how hard they had it compared to their younger siblings but I keep telling our young adult children that we used to have lots more fun on holidays.

It's true. When our kids were little,  I decorated our kitchen/dining area with dozens of construction paper hearts before they woke up. (It was a fun spin on the term "heart attack".) We made pink heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast, even if Valentines fell on a school day and I created all manner of heart-themed dishes for dinner.

Things have changed.

Late Saturday night I realized that V-day is Monday. I forgot to send care packages to our college kids. I didn't buy a gift for my husband. I've got to show up for jury duty in a neighboring city by 8 a.m.; thank goodness there's plenty of leftover french toast for breakfast. Yesterday we were so rushed to make it to a niece's wedding festivities and to prepare for Sunday (including a sacrament meeting musical number) that I forgot to buy candy and valentines for our youngest son to distribute at school. Also, this IS the year that he didn't make a generic valentine box or bag in class. Instead, students were invited to participate in a best-decorated Valentine box contest. He had a major audition this past week and is preparing for another in a few days so today is his only chance to create a cardboard robot to receive valentines. It's covered with tinfoil and scotch tape. One arm keeps flopping down. I can only imagine the cute creations other kids are going to show off tomorrow but the boxes are supposed to be the kids' work, right? My husband and I were busy preparing dinner anyway and visiting his mother who isn't well.

So . . . I've spent a lot of time showing love in other ways. It's enough.

In the meantime, I'll stop writing and see what we can do about the Valentine robot's arm.

To Anne Katrine, Ancestor

One of my sisters is just seventeen months older than I. We shared a bedroom, imaginative games, clothes and curling irons but, like most siblings, we also endured plenty of spats.

In an effort to help us learn the importance of getting along, our mom used to tell us about her grandmother who emigrated from Denmark to Utah when she was five years old with her eleven-year-old sister for company. Recently converted to the LDS church, their family was too poor to travel together to Zion. Instead, their parents sent the children one by one or in pairs, as finances permitted. An older sister had already settled in Ephraim, Utah and two sister missionaries agreed to watch over the little girls during the long journey. But they were often left to themselves on the ship and food was sometimes scanty. When the girls finally reached Utah, life with their sister and her family was sometimes less-than-ideal. My great-grandmother grew up, eventually married and moved to Emery, Utah. I'm grateful for her family's sacrifices that provided me with so many blessings.

As a parent, I find it hard to imagine the pain of sending such young daughters on an uncertain journey. But persecution of Danish converts was often severe, sometimes to the point where the safety of girls was threatened. I don't know if this was the case in my ancestors' family, but I tried to capture what my great-great-grandmother might have felt in the following poem, "To Anne Katrine, Ancestor".  I first wrote it when our daughter was small. After a decade of receiving rejection slips and revising, I was happy when the poem finally appeared on the pages of Irreantum, a LDS literary journal. By that time, our daughter had graduated from high school. Cheers for the virtue of perserverence.

To Anne Katrine, Ancestor
Aarhus, Denmark

Perhaps you never remembered
slipping that last coin into
safe-keeping--
only an evening,
counting everything out,
when your husband whispered
"We'll send them now."

You knew to not
watch by your little girls' bed
as he smoothed their curls
away from closed eyes.
A window must be latched
against the dark rain,
another satchel packed
for their passage
to Zion.

At the harbor,
he stepped aside
to buy a gift of oranges
while you wondered if
the salty wind
would wear into hunger
that could not let
these children sleep.

Sails and a mist
drew them from view:
your last-born
almost mindful
of oceans and years,
her sister solemnly bearing
their untasted fruit.

Likening the Miracle

I read "Likening the Miracle" at the annual LDS church cultural arts presentation. This rare opportunity to mingle with other poets, composers and musicians left me feeling energized and motivated to keep writing. Best of all, I felt connected to them with a common purpose: to create something that is "lovely, praiseworthy and of good report".

This poem resulted from some personal struggles. One particularly difficult Sunday, I listened to an inspired Gospel Doctrine teacher discuss the story of the woman who exercised faith to be healed by touching Christ's garment. The teacher shared several historical details: how the woman might have been shunned because her illness made her "unclean", how she had most likely never married or even felt the comfort of human touch for twelve years. After living so long with shame, the woman could have been reluctant to ask the Savior to bless her with the laying on of hands. But she found enough faith to reach out and touch the fringe of his garment.

I'd heard the story countless times but was stunned by how it became a metaphor for what I was experiencing. After being unable to write poetry, I was happy to feel motivated again and a theme about the atonement gradually emerged.

Most people experience a kind of Gethsemane at least once in their lives. I hope those who read this poem come away with a reverence for the reality of the atonement--how our Savior's willingness to endure excruciating spiritual pain enabled Him to understand and heal our "unseen wounds".


Likening the Miracle

"For she said within herself,
if I may but touch his garment,
I shall be whole." Matthew 9:21

I never hovered
outside village crowds--
unclean in my bleeding,
banned from even a dream
of touch
or embrace.

My hand never drew healing
through rough-woven folds
that clothed the Messiah
as carpenter's son.

Yet my living is spent
in search
of prescription;
wearing the dust
of windburned journey,
I finally kneel
then reach
for a reddened robe.

And He who bore
Gethsemane's unseen wounds
will yet pronounce me
whole.