You don't "totally get" where I'm coming from

The other day I read a facebook post about "not wishing away" the stages of our children's lives. I'm not a close friend of the woman who said she's enjoyed her babies, toddlers, teens, and adult children. The name of another mom who commented, "I loved it all and now laugh about what used to make me mad" (punctuated by cute pink hearts) is just that. A stranger's name.

I'm happy for them. The world needs mothers who cherish their families. And I try to do the same.

But I don't link motherhood with cute pink hearts.

At the risk of appearing heartless on Facebook (that mecca of mommy mushiness), I commented that parenthood hasn't been a joyful journey for me. My husband and I love the five children who joined our family. We wanted them all and treasure the good times. But dealing with some of their developmental struggles and my own depression continues to create challenges every step of the way.

While acknowledging that nobody likes everything about motherhood, my acquaintance responded that she "totally gets it", then wrapped up her comment with a positive-mental-attitude quote.

Dear mothers who work tirelessly to raise good children and have every right to rejoice in your lives, I admire you. But you don't understand my experience any more than I understand the trials that shape your reality. I'll never presume that I do.

I don't remember a time when I wasn't chronically depressed. I didn't begin to address the cause until after all our children were born. Much as I regret lost opportunities to laugh, connect, and nurture, depression often feels like swimming through jello and I sometimes don't have the energy to do much more than cook dinner and bite my tongue. Too often I don't even do that.

Even though my husband and I wanted children, the joy I hoped to feel was crushed by the weight of responsibility when our first son squirmed on my naked chest. I had to help him latch onto a breast, I had to facilitate bonding within his first few minutes of life while I winced with pain and the doctor stitched up extensive tearing.  The Bradley natural childbirth "bible" had promised that many new mothers could walk out of their delivery rooms. But I fainted from blood loss when my husband tried to help me to the bathroom that night. A nurse inserted a catheter into my nether regions and there I was. Weak. Swollen. Bleeding profusely. And, worst of all, panicked about caring for a helpless child.

Night after night, I rocked and cried and nursed him in the darkness of a tiny room that was already crowded with canned wheat, beans, and powdered milk. The borrowed cradle wouldn't fit by our bed and my husband needed sleep so that he could work and go to school. With no stroller, car, or telephone, I rarely communicated with anyone else or went anywhere. Instead, I tried to rest, do basic chores, and nurse the baby. Then nurse him again and again. I felt inadequate around my mother-in-law who cooed and cuddled him with complete adoration shining in her eyes. The only words I remember my mother saying were, "You need to talk to that baby more."

I couldn't relate to magazine  photos of stylish mothers beaming at their plump little cherubs. Maybe that's why articles about postpartum depression didn't register with my sleep-deprived brain. My doctor never asked me about symptoms. It was 1987.

I felt betrayed by my body that took so long to heal and I couldn't forget the shame of screaming as the doctor's forceps dragged my baby into the world. I loved our son, but in a pattern that spilled into my other babies' lives, that emotion was clouded by extreme anxiety over meeting constant, pressing needs. Months passed before I could laugh.

Yet women at church and the grocery store told me to enjoy him while he was small.

Babies grow up so fast.

For twenty-eight years, I've struggled with physical exhaustion while potty-training unwilling toddlers. Dealing with food issues related to ADHD that eventually affected their growth. Screaming tantrums that escalated into one child's preteen years whenever my husband and I required him to do chores. Every. Time. No matter how much we tried to stay calm. No matter how consistently we refused to cave in.

Several years, disappointments, and thousands of dollars later, we found professional help. By this time the two sons who were having the most challenges were approaching adolescence. One has Asperger's syndrome and the other ADHD. Although we reeled with the lifelong implications, we tried to educate ourselves and their teachers, and to apply solutions. .

It wasn't that simple.

The boys balked at implementing school strategies or being singled out for help with study and social skills. Professional advice sometimes fell on deaf ears. Fed by the fires of contention that energized their spirits and often drew me in, I lived a mercurial existence of frustration and despair. Anger over missed assignments, remediation, and high school teachers who thought coaching was more important than honoring our repeated requests for information about failing grades until it was too late. Sadness over our sons' social isolation when moms posted Facebook photos of their teens dressed up for girls' choice dances. Frustration at student athletes and other peers who didn't think about being inclusive, then judged one son for not serving a L.D.S. mission at age 19. Or busy church leaders who listened absently to my husband's concerns, then tried to compensate by saying, "I love that kid. He's really O.K."

I didn't cry at their high school graduations. Exhausted with relief yet smiling, I watched my husband take photos. One son allowed me to offer a quick hug. The other didn't. Then we pressed forward to appropriately help them navigate more complex stages of their lives, while trying to be there for three other children with talents, dreams, and their often-unmet needs.

Long ago, I accepted the fact that these sons wouldn't achieve the usual milestones at the same rate as their peers. In most ways, their paths have been completely different the typical small-town teen.

So has mine.

I'm often stumbled, then stayed huddled on bruised hands and knees, so consumed by my own pain that I failed to offer a hand to a struggling child.  I've never been a fount of wisdom, patience, or unconditional love. That would be easier to bear if I could look back and see personal progress.

Right now I can't.

So motherhood weighs heavily as I try to muster the willpower to dispel depression.  Again.

Circumstances will never be perfect, but by the grace of God, we are starting to heal and connect on some levels. Sometimes I glimpse a time when all of our children gain independence. I hang onto that and feel intensely thankful when they express forgiveness for my past and present mistakes.

I've shed grateful tears when someone reached out and helped our vulnerable sons. When young women leaders modeled happy motherhood for my daughter, lending strength to their convictions that raising families is a divine gift.

I was there once, a young girl who took it all in. But children aren't adorable playthings to dress up and display in baptism white, prom tuxes, or wedding gowns. I'm only beginning to understand the magnitude of patience and love a young adult child still requires, even when he shoves me aside in a quest to deny hard realities of developmental challenges. To be like everyone else.

I gaze at the heights that most children reach at 16, 18, or 25. We've got so far to climb. He's too big to carry or force up the steep slope. The only thing left is to persuade, to encourage. To keep seeking help.

My husband and I never anticipated this kind of journey. Most of the time we're bone-tired. But we won't give up; every stage requires readjusted expectations, then we trudge on.

People don't need to understand our reality. Just realize that it's not the same as yours. And tidy slogans about positive thinking sometimes feel like salt on blistered feet.

In the meantime, I'll try harder to find delight in unexpected moments of love and humor. Or look into the tired eyes of other mothers at church and focus on what they might not express in words. I'll tell them they're doing just fine. Even if they don't love the new-baby or teenage years of their children. Even if they're barely hanging on until the next stage finally arrives.

Sometimes that's all a mother can do. As a believer in Christ's atoning grace, I pray it's enough.

The Best of Times

As pre-teens, my sister and I played a board game called "Mystery Date." I don't remember the rules, but the objective was to prepare for a date by acquiring three matching color-coded cards to assemble an outfit for a specific kind of date. The clothing had to match the outfit of the boy who was waiting at the plastic "mystery" door. My older sister and I inherited the game, along with a Midge doll, from an older cousin. With her plastic case full of threadbare finery and multiple pairs of plastic stilettos, Midge was the only fashion doll we ever owned. And the frivolous "Mystery Date" wasn't the kind of game my parents would have purchased for their young daughters. Yet I loved the glamorous ball gown and accessories for the formal dance date. I often daydreamed about the beautiful dress I would wear to my future high school prom and the young man who would proudly escort me to the dance floor.

Fast forward to April 1981. Now seventeen, I took a deep breath and waited for the last student to amble from the language arts classroom. Through the open windows of the crusty small-town high school, adolescent laughter and conversation laced the soft afternoon air like wispy seeds from the cottonwood trees. I yearned to hurry down the hill and turn corners in a merciful split second, to shut my bedroom door on the news a friend had shared that morning. During my absence on a Spanish club trip the week before, my favorite teacher had told at least one class that I'd rejected her son's  invitation to the upcoming prom. 

In fifth grade, I'd envied him because his mom reportedly paid him $5.00 every time he read a book. In eighth grade, I nurtured a brief crush on him before I made the conscious decision to avoid teenage romance. (Not that any boys noticed.) Since we started high school, he hadn't talked to me about anything except yearbook photos or assignments for the school newspaper. 

More hurt than angry, I walked to Mrs. R.*'s desk and struggled to maintain eye contact as I set the story straight. Few students dared ignite her temper; one of the few professional women who'd grown up in our southern Utah town, she governed her students with a firm hand and lightning-sharp flashes of humor. I had blossomed from her encouragement of my attempts at writing and had willingly spent countless hours working as assistant newspaper editor. How she could believe I had turned down her son because he wasn't a practicing Mormon? I was religious, but not a prude.

After a long pause, she said, "I owe you an apology. When Darren* was trying to decide who to ask to the dance, I suggested you. Because--forgive me--I thought you might be one who'd be left out."

This painful truth didn't sink in as I smiled, said things were O.K., and walked a wind-blown mile to my home on the north end of town. It didn't penetrate my fog of anxiety as I slipped into ratty jeans and a t-shirt to paint a mural of an elegant garden for the prom. The large butcher-paper masterpiece taped to my bedroom wall would be hung as a backdrop for photographs of smiling couples during the dance. During the early stages of painting, the head cheerleader and her best friend came to see how much progress I'd made. Smiling and laughing, they returned to their decorating duties at the school, where they told other classmates the mural looked terrible. Even though their cattiness left me fuming, I doggedly painted a graceful tree loaded with blossoms that my untrained hand tried to accent with illusions of light.

A formal dress hung in my closet, but it wasn't the peach-colored Gunne Sax confection that had caught my eye during a shopping trip in St. George. Instead, I had conceded to my mom's sweet-voiced preference for an ivory gown with a three-tiered skirt that washed out my pale complexion. But the dress didn't make any difference. My left hand ached from hours of wielding a paintbrush. My hair, face, and clothes were smeared with a garish display of colors. As junior class president, I felt like a dependable work-horse who would attend the dance just long enough to endure the traditional class promenade and coronation of the prom royalty. Then I planned to drive home, fall into bed, and sleep.

Two nights before the big event, my mom called me downstairs to answer the phone. It was a Rob*, a young man who had recently returned from a L.D.S. mission. (In our town, returned missionaries sometimes dated high school girls.) In a hesitant voice, he asked if I would go with him to the dance. Surprised, yet ecstatic, I said yes.

The evening of the prom washed the high desert hills with layers of lavender sunset. After removing the cooled electric rollers from my naturally straight hair, I tried to brush layers of curls into Farrah Fawcett perfection. At last I was primped, painted, and hair-sprayed for my mystery date. When I walked downstairs in the ivory dress, my oldest sister's fiancee gaped in admiration and exclaimed, "Here comes the bride!" 

I blushed in discomfort and wobbled as fast as my high heels allowed to the living room to wait.

Wearing a dark brown suit leftover from his missionary days, Rob finally knocked on the front door. He was shorter than I expected and wouldn't look me in the eye as I invited him inside. Finally, he shifted his feet and held out a large corsage of deep red roses.

Beaming with pride, my mom volunteered to pin the corsage on the crocheted lace ruffle that accented the neckline of my dress. But my hands shook as I tried to secure a boutonniere on the lapel of Rob's suit coat. This young man was a complete stranger whose shyness aroused my sympathy when he spoke in our church meeting months before.  He didn't want to be here. What would we say to each other for the next three hours?

Once we arrived at the school multipurpose room, the throbbing beat of the live band solved most of the dilemma. Neither of us knew how to dance. But in that crepe paper palace of the early 1980s, we merely blended into the adolescent herd, exchanging forced smiles as we rocked from one foot to another or endured slow-song shuffles under a suspended disco ball.  Between songs, our attempts to prop up conversation dissolved into the surrounding hum of scattered phrases and a haze of musk aftershave mingled Jean Nate cologne. The last vestiges of my pre-date excitement vanished like careful bites of anemic sheet cake slathered with frosting that tasted too much like shortening. 

Rob never asked the photographers to take our picture in front of my painted garden. My mom snapped a Polaroid photo of my dad dancing with me after the promenade, while a duo of classmates sang a strained imitation of the Styx hit single, "The Best of Times." Then the head cheerleader was crowned prom queen, with her best friend as one of the attendants. All of the royalty smiled for Darren's yearbook camera in front of my blossoming tree.

Rob and I didn't say much during the drive home. But he shook my hand on the front porch and said, "Hey, we'll have to do this again some time."

He never called and it's just as well. On Monday, my friend admitted that Rob had asked me to dance as a kind of service project. His plan to double-date had fallen through. Eventually my corsage was shoved to the back of our fridge where it wilted behind gallons of milk and a five-pound block of Brooklawn cheese.

*Names have been changed. 

One Word

The other day, I turned fifty. It was just another day, but I'm glad my two oldest children remembered to call. Maybe my husband and I will think of something fun to do this weekend. Instead of expecting birthday flowers or eating out, which I no longer enjoy, I told him I would like his help planting something permanent and attractive in an ugly area of our front yard. Last week, we chose some plants and estimated the cost. After we know about our financial situation, we'll decide whether or not to splurge a bit on the project.

During my last year in the forties decade, the pace of life took my breath away. Last April, our daughter returned from eighteen months of service on an L.D.S. mission. A week later, our third child left to serve a mission. Two months later, our oldest son married a wonderful girl. I didn't document any of these major events in words, except in my personal journal. The rest of the year? It's been loaded with church service and daily life with extended family, a husband, and our three children who remained at home. I also completed a freelance editing project (400-page novel) and wrote two Christmas novelettes that I submitted to publishers. (All of them rejected the manuscripts. Oh, well.)

I've outlined the big events, but not their emotional impact. But I felt that I finally progressed in the following ways:

•  Although we've lived in our town for decades and contributed to our church and schools, I learned that we are not very important after all. At first, it was a painful lesson as a rather small fraction of invited guests trickled into our son's wedding open house. But the happy couple didn't care. Why should I? Afterwards, I made a list of what we'll do differently next time one of our children gets married. I was glad we'd lived within our means, keeping this event a modest affair. I felt gratitude for those who helped. I also reassessed my negative emotions that were really hurt feelings left over from junior high. So what if we're not the "cool kids" in town? Social status doesn't matter. How liberating to renew that affirmation in a different stage of life.

• I'm beginning to believe in miracles again.  After years of trying to honestly deal with hard realities, I've often felt cynical and pessimistic. It's been hard to pray or muster enough faith to believe in divine help. It's taken some time to regain perspective, but I can't deny evidence of God's help through people who have touched my life and the lives of others in my family, especially one son. He wouldn't be where he is without it.

• The best way for me to confront writer's block is to . . . write! Just write through the fear of what others might think and the fear that what I produce isn't good enough. Write through the falsehood that words have to be polished perfection in the first draft. That's how I finally felt the joy of creating something again, even though it was difficult. Like giving birth, it's worth the pain of hard labor.

I've been blessed with physical health and am taking steps to optimize it so I can accomplish goals I've set for coming decades. But all of my goals depend on one word that I want to forge into a strength: mindfulness.

It's hard to achieve when so much has to be done. Too often it gets smothered by the details of life. Take this past year, for example. Good things happened, but I experienced them while on emotional autopilot. I know it's a hallmark of depression, but it's not how I want to live and I'm sure it's not what God intends for us. 

I didn't know what to do differently. Faced with the necessity of feeding crowds of people at our family events and cobbling together a wedding open house on a nonexistent budget (we had to pay hundreds in taxes instead of getting the refund I was counting on), I just shut down. Yes, I acted like biblical Martha's clone, but hiring a caterer was not an option. I didn't have a fairy godmother to wave food, formal clothing, or even minimal wedding decor into existence. So, with the help of family and friends, we "rolled up our sleeves" and did it ourselves.

I truly despise focusing on what I view as superficial aspects of my life that is now at least half-way over. I don't want to spend much time or thought on the practicalities or mere survival. I'm sure plenty of others feel the same. But, unlike Henry David Thoreau, most of us can't spend years in solitude. At this stage of life, a significant portion of my energy must be devoted to feeding, clothing, and caring for my family. God has been so good to me that I feel obligated to do my best serving the women in my ward (congregation) by planning social and service-oriented activities. As a compromise, I'll try to capture some moments of silence and wonder through the course of each day. Still, some extended time at Walden Pond sounds like the perfect birthday present in my book!

New Year's Day 2013: looking forward, looking back

Wrapped in a fluorescent green blanket, I'm sitting by our wood-burning stove resolved to write.  Not a Facebook status.  Not a glowing recap of our Christmas holiday.  Not even a list of New Year's resolutions.

I'm tired.  Taking a college class pulled me out of an emotional rut that had deepened by summertime, but I never figured out how to do Christmas with teenage and young adult sons.  It's been wonderful to have all four of them home for over a week, but I miss our daughter, who's been serving an L.D.S. mission for almost 15 months.

Only our youngest showed much interest in a few traditions we've maintained over the years.  He sang/danced in a half-dozen venues that motivated me to try to maintain a calm atmosphere.  I didn't always succeed.  Think last-minute quests for a lost choir t-shirt and digging through boxes for a pair of slacks that were once part of a suit I'd bought new for an older son.  No luck.  He ended up wearing different shades of formal black when he sang a solo in a local performance of the Messiah. It worked, but I wonder how we managed when Christmas concerts were multiplied by three kids.

With ADHD and Asperger's added to the holiday mix, frequent moments of chaos inevitably ensued.  I've tempered my expectations about peaceful Christmas Eve programs or elaborate service projects.  Embracing the humor of situations works much better instead and we enjoyed plenty of laughs.  
Besides splurging to see The Hobbit, it was hard to think of something that everyone (with their vastly different personalities and interests) would enjoy.  Mandatory participation defeats the purpose of activities, in my book.  (Exception:  attending family Christmas parties.  Now in their seventies and eighties, our parents won't be around long.)

In light of recent publicity about the Connecticut school shooter who had Asperger's, I hope our high-schooler's peers are kind.   I've read a couple of blog posts by other moms with kids on the autism spectrum.  Many of their thoughts echo mine. I hope society and future employers value our son's gifts, which surpass his challenges.  There's got to be a place for him in this world.

I am tired.  But 2013 is here and I have noticed the hand of the Lord in my life.  Because of Him, I'm stronger and better-prepared to face the future than I was twelve months ago.

Let the new year begin one day at a time.    





      

    d

Tribute to a Modern Pioneer

A few weeks ago, my mom was asked to represent her local chapter of the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers.  Women in this organization are descendants of the first members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (also known as Mormons) who settled Utah territory in the nineteenth century.  They currently work to preserve histories, artifacts and pioneer traditions.

As part of this honor, my mom requested that I write and present a short history during a program on Pioneer Day in my hometown.  This state holiday commemorates the arrival of the first Mormon pioneers in the Salt Lake Valley on July 24, 1847. 

I enjoyed hearing my mom share several stories and feel that I know her a little better as a person.

After reading this sketch of her life, you might appreciate her more too.

Tribute for Charlene Staheli

 July 24, 2012

My mom and I waving at hometown crowds during the parade.
My 87-year-old dad (right) felt well enough that day to drive
the horses.

Charlene Yvonne Peacock Staheli was born into the family of Byron and Leona Peacock on Feb. 22, 1935 in Emery, Utah. The youngest of six children, she often wished her parents had named her Georgia instead, since she shared a birthday with George Washington.

In spite of a girlish distaste for her given name, Charlene appreciated her family with its rich pioneer heritage. Her Danish and English ancestors had settled Sanpete County, establishing homes and proving their faith through difficult times. Carrying on with their values, Charlene and her siblings worked together on their father's farm, performing additional chores in his dairy and beekeeping business. Charlene also learned homemaking skills, but she always preferred to drive a truck or tractor for her dad out in the fields.

News of the Pearl Harbor attack shocked the nation in 1941. Although she was only six years old, Charlene felt and witnessed some effects of World War II on her small hometown. Three older brothers enlisted in the armed forces, serving on both the Pacific and European fronts. Her older sister moved to  California where jobs were plentiful. This left only Charlene and her brother Perry at home to help their parents the best that they could. In their spare time, they joined other school-children who gathered scrap metal that was sent to munitions factories and milk weed pods with silky threads that were used to make parachutes. They took great pride in their volunteer efforts.

The strain and uncertainty took a toll on their family.  Still, their workload was lightened by plenty of homespun fun. Like pioneer children from the past, Charlene enjoyed Easter picnics at the nearby cliffs and winter sledding down chalk hills. She also viewed herself as an expert in aquatic technique because she could always touch the bottom while “swimming” in the irrigation canal.

When her father served as bishop of the Emery ward*, Charlene rang the church bell before meetings every Sunday. This ritual marked each passing week until the war ended and her brothers came home.  For a few more years, life settled into a more predictable routine.

As Charlene prepared for her senior year in high school, her parents decided to move to Oregon. They agreed to let her move in with relatives in Emery so that she could serve as yearbook editor and graduate with lifelong friends.

A summertime visit to a small community in southern Utah changed most of her plans. While staying with her brother Carlyle Peacock and his wife Elsie, Charlene made new friends and decided to transfer to the local high school. Undeterred by her status as a new girl in town, Charlene met with the principal and volunteered to serve as editor if he would allow a yearbook to be published every year. He agreed. She fulfilled her end of the bargain with characteristic flair, but her life soon took another unexpected turn.

Weeks before that fateful Halloween dance, Elsie Peacock told Stan Staheli, a local bachelor, that her “cute little niece” had come to live with them. But she hastened to add that Charlene was much too young for him. Still, he felt compelled to ask this attractive young lady for a dance. Something magical happened as they twirled across the wooden gym floor; before the night was over, he proposed.

After giving the matter some thought and prayer, Charlene consented. She and Stan were married on March 21, 1953 in the St. George temple. A short time later, she was honored as valedictorian at her high school graduation.

True to the spirit of her pioneer ancestors, Charlene continued learning and pushing forward through the joys and trials of lovingly raising a large family. Creative and resourceful, she often altered or sewed clothes for us girls and others. She could also share decades of experience on thrifting, crafting, gardening, and home decorating on blogs and that newest craze called Pinterest. She was a women ahead of her time. And who could forget her beautiful quilts? Each one is a labor of love that will be treasured by her children, grandchildren and a new generation of great-grandchildren.

In their later years, Charlene and Stan were thrilled to serve three missions** at Martin's Cove in central Wyoming. They cherished these opportunities to walk in the footsteps of valiant pioneers who sacrificed everything for their testimonies of the gospel of Jesus Christ. More importantly, they opened

their hearts to new friends and thousands of visitors—especially the youth—who traveled long distances to feel the spirit of that sacred place. As Stan and Charlene shared stories of the Willie and Martin handcart companies, downcast people felt new hope to face their own trials. Countless lives have changed.

Mom and all four of us sisters riding in a surrey with
a fringe on the top!

Today we pay tribute to our mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, neighbor, and friend. She would never presume to stand on the same level as the pioneer women whom she loves and admires, but her faith, service, and dedication surely equal theirs. Thank you for devoting your life to nurturing each member of our family, for teaching us by example to cherish our heritage and our present relationships even as we reach out to others as we journey through life. Charlene Staheli is truly a modern-day pioneer. 

*The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is composed of thousands of local units called wards. Each ward is led by a bishop who supports himself and his family while he serves his congregation for several years without additional pay.

**In our church, thousands of young people and senior couples volunteer to serve full-time missions.  Young men and women usually concentrate on spreading a message of Jesus Christ and what we believe to be his restored gospel.  Senior couples serve in various ways, including work in our temples, teaching in church-supported schools, and acting as tour guides at historical sites that are significant to our religion.

Night at the Library

She sprang to life as everything I wasn't in seventh grade: slender, vivacious, with delicate features, warm brown eyes, and abundant auburn curls. Gracefully drifting through aristocratic circles in nineteenth-century Austria, my fictional heroine wore lovely gowns, danced to Strauss waltzes, and won the heart of a handsome hero when they met on a dark and stormy night.

He had a thing for brunettes.

My first attempt at writing a novel was shamelessly melodramatic, but I'd just read Gone With the Wind in furtive solitude (mostly when my mom thought I was cleaning my room). I was hooked on historical fiction, which fueled my interest in writing and shaped some of my early notions about romantic love.

During high school, I fell for a couple of boys but realized that I was no beau-catching Scarlett O'Hara. Quite the opposite, as Elizabeth Bennett once said. Instead of filling the role of wallflower at weekend dances, I made a conscious decision to focus on reading and writing.

The idyllic heroine stayed with me, finally "consenting" to climb down from her pedestal and get real. She evolved into a girl with emotional baggage who learned to love and trust over a long period of time. The premise of my masterpiece was hardly original and some scenes still oozed cheese, but I scribbled nearly three hundred pages before young adulthood changed my perspective again.

Two weeks after high school graduation, I left home to get a head start on college. The unfinished tale stayed behind in a series of spiral notebooks that I hid in a bedroom drawer.

A mostly studious English major, I tried to dissect sonnets and delve for deep interpretations of literary prose. Romance was relegated to the rare novel that I read over lunch when I needed a break from T.S. Eliot or John Donne (as in deceased poets, not prospective dates).

Just before spring break in 1984, I was studying for finals at the campus library. I'd noticed a tall dark stranger among the fourth floor regulars but when he stopped at my table that night, something clicked. We ended up discussing art history, our families, and milking cows until a pregnant lady from the front desk trekked upstairs to inform us that it was closing time.

Maybe I hadn't driven my car that night because it was low on gas. More likely, I'd left its headlights on and the battery had died. At any rate, the hour was late and March evenings still chilly. When this young man realized that I was shivering/bereft of transportation, he offered his jacket and joined me on the long walk to my apartment.

I could take the easy route and say that the rest of our story is ordinary, middle-class, peanut-butter-and-jam history. It's certainly not the stuff of a bestseller, destined for the big screen. But, unlike a formulaic romance, real-life narratives aren't peopled with Barbie-and-Ken characters who jump through predestined hoops to happy endings that hardly begin to explore the complexities of love.

(I'm not looking down my nose at those who decompress by reading fantasy or "literature lite". The Sound and the Fury when you're raising toddlers or teenagers? Ha.)

Sometimes my husband and I happen to be out walking when the spring sunset mellows to a pastel glow. I remember how it brightened new cottonwood leaves as we strolled across campus twenty-eight years ago. But I don't color that season with shades of nostalgic bliss. Astounding as it was to realize that someone loved me unconditionally, I shared some emotional baggage with my fictional heroine. It spilled into happy moments and deep-set fears, hindering my ability to reciprocate. To trust.

When we married, I was ready to embrace the peace I had felt after he proposed a full year before. It was a leap of faith made with incredible naivete and joy. Like most young couples, we couldn't feel the aching fatigue of prolonged responsibility. We didn't foresee challenges that stripped remaining pretense like lightning on living wood, exposing inner layers. Leaving us vulnerable. Raw.

At the same time, we couldn't fully comprehend the power of committing to promises made before God, family, and friends. Granted, there are times when it is necessary to leave an abusive or unfaithful spouse. But through conflicts, mistakes, and inevitable growing pains, neither of us is going anywhere. The intensity of early attraction was beautiful and valid. So is honest acceptance of a well-known human being in this complex, often frenetic phase of middle-aged love.

In Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote, "When you love someone you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity, when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity--in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern."

My fictional heroine still exists in spiral notebooks that now sit on an open shelf as reminders of how it felt to write with joyful abandon. If I ever revisit her story, it won't include duels and abductions. But there is a place for romance in the real world.

copyright March 30, 2012 by Nani Lii S. Furse

Forty-Eight Part Two

Are you still with me? I shared the first half of this post yesterday. Because I recently celebrated another birthday, here are more things that I'm thankful for at this moment (one for every year of my life):

25. The miracle of forgiveness. Forgetting isn't part of the equation. Releasing bitterness is.

26. A steaming bowl of soup for dinner on still-chilly evenings.

27. The process of baking bread, which synchronizes all of my senses.

28. Poetry. A short time ago, I nabbed a thick volume by Leslie Norris (another thrift store find). His work is a "concentration and distillation" of everyday experience. Thanks to the internet I'm discovering some more current poets as well.

29. Segullah literary journal. I love the honest-yet-faithful writings by L.D.S. women. One of my poems will appear in an issue which is coming out soon.

29. Facebook. Laugh in my face or strike me with lightning but I'm thankful for this connection with friends, relatives, and adult children who live far from home.

30. A new journal. It was a thoughtful birthday gift from a new friend; I see it as a reminder that I still have something to say.

31. Old notebooks. I used to carry them with me everywhere because I couldn't wait to write, Now they're a concrete reminder that I can feel that way again.

32. Blogs. I'm fairly new to this world but it's opened up some possibilities to share and read others' thoughts.

33. A comfortable home. That's the thing about middle age. I'm learning to be more content.

34. Sibling harmony. It's what I most enjoy when my brothers and sisters get together and what I hope for with my children. My in-laws treat me like family too.

35. Secure employment. We've been less-affected by economic woes; living modestly is nothing new.

36. Caring teachers. I'm overwhelmed by the impact of dedicated coaches, church leaders, and educators in my children's lives. I still remember teachers who mentored and encouraged me.

37. Books. This differs from #15 because I'm talking about the volumes I've collected over the years. They're faithful friends.

38. Music. Technology allows us to enjoy music with the click of a button although my waistline would be slimmer if I had to walk long distances to a live concert (a la Bach).

39. Memories of a few trips we've taken. I loved the Oregon coast, live oaks in Louisiana, and sampling Texas barbecue.

40. A caring community. We have different views but there is always an outpouring of love when someone experiences tragedy or an urgent need.

41. Unfinished projects. Admittedly, boxes of fabric and decor fill my closet and clutter our room. It's been months since I sent anything to publishers as well. But the potential to improve my life, our home, and my wardrobe is there. I have plenty reasons to get up each day.

42. Scriptures. Reading daily is hard right now but I remember times when I've been filled with peace and insight. I'll keep trying and trust that I'll regain that feeling again.

43. The chartreuse green of new leaves. Right now the willows add a blaze of color to our stark desert landscape.

44. Joseph Smith. He was human and never claimed to be perfect. But he was also a courageous witness of Christ. I'm grateful that he restored the church that is my spiritual anchor here on earth.

45. Visual art. We recently enjoyed a free exhibit at a nearby college. There's nothing like seeing skillfully-rendered paintings or sculptures up close. It's food for the soul.

47. Prayer. Like scripture study, this habit has sometimes been hard for me to maintain. Remembering times when I've felt close to God helps me feel like He's still there.

48. My Savior, Jesus Christ. I love the Easter season and can't deny the power of His atonement. He lived and died for us individually. I hope my life this coming year will more clearly reflect this truth.

Thanks for enduring to the end of this post!