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!

Forty-Eight Part One

Feliz cumpleanos: that's how they say it in Spain.

Now that I serve the women in my ward (local congregation), the children didn't sing to me the Sunday before my birthday. It came anyway and I decided to list positive things that are part of my life right now--one for every year I've lived on this planet.

So, in no particular order, I'm thankful for:

1. Pain-free feet. After visiting a naturopath (for lack of a better term), my heels have healed to the point where I can hike scenic (steep) trails again. Maybe I'll work in some running.

2. Our oldest son who shows concern for others while putting himself through college the old-fashioned way. Crazy marathon runner, he teaches me what accomplishing a goal is all about.

3. A courageous, unselfish daughter who also inspires me. One more year to go on her mission. She's doing great.

4. Our second son who introduced me to live jazz and rock 'n roll. I didn't plan to have a kid who plays electric guitar but it can be fun. (He also turns down his amp when asked.) And how many teenage boys spend successive Saturdays helping a friend's family move and paint their new house?

5. Son number three who blew apart any remaining parental preconceptions. Thanks to him, I'm learning more about valuing people for who they are and I've let my hair down. Way down.

6. My youngest son who has a kind heart and never fails to give me hugs before he runs out the door to school.

7. Hot popcorn with melted butter/olive oil and a sprinkling of salt.

8. The prospect of coral-colored tulips in my backyard.

9. Peach blossoms

10. Stunning views from my front windows: sandstone cliffs dusted with snow and a mountain that looks like a suspended blue-white wave.

11. The fact that my middle-aged eyes can transfer this stunning image to my mostly functioning brain.

12. A selfless husband who is my antithesis. That's a very good thing.

13. Rhodiola rosea. I know from experience that alternative medicines don't work for everyone, but this herb is helping to lift my moods.

14, Peanut butter. I still have one child who would not survive without it.

15. The library. I would not survive without it.

16. German chocolate cake and oreo ice cream: my favorite birthday dessert

17. Benja Thai and Sushi, where my husband and I went for this year's birthday dinner. Two reasons: calm ambiance and curry. Maybe someday I'll choose sushi. Or not.

18. My parents, who celebrated fifty-nine years of marriage this week. They didn't make a reality show out of life with ten kids. They just lived reality with sacrifice and faith.

19. The prospect of buying and planting a peace rose bush

20. The prospect of peaches and cream with buttery whole wheat toast for a late-summer breakfast. (Our peach trees escaped damage from frost this week.)

21. Nonshopping sprees. As in avoiding malls for long periods of time.

22. On the other hand, I'm glad that getting an occasional thrift store fix is a harmless diversion. My husband was the one who refinished the $50.00 entertainment center that barely fit through our door. I merely pulled out a $5.00 bill and the attractive skirt that still sported a $99.00 price tag was mine.

23. I'm also thankful for the minimal effort I recently put into losing 10 pounds. More effort will be required to reach my goal, but I'll be able to wear that cute skirt again.

24. The wonderful women with whom I serve in my church. I think God is trying to nudge me out of an introverted state.

Thanks for reading! If you're still with me, look for part two tomorrow.

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

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.