Walking at 8 a.m. in Winter

Half of a tattered moon clings to southwest sky.
It's the first thing I look for.
It still marks time.
It keeps my eyes off plastic grocery bags
splayed on a barbed-wire fence.

More wind might send them flying

to a gray cottonwood's web.

I'll remember when I lay sleepless,
hearing that first gust shatter the dark.

Unseen sun glazes mesas and mountain
with rose, coral, golden taupe.
Counting each color,
I almost don't see

the boy without a bike helmet

careening downhill.

What started out as a hodgepodge of images from my morning walks turned into a poem, the first I've written for a while. It's not too profound but I view it as more of an exercise that helped me relax and create some metaphors for my emotions and the "gist" of some personal concerns.

This past year has taught me some difficult truths about the complexity of dealing with emotional challenges. I can't "plug" someone into a formula and expect a tidy result. I can't force anyone to heal. At the same time, I don't want to foster chronic dependence or shield anyone from the fallout of choices freely made.

How to achieve balance? I hope I've hit my lowest point and can view others with a greater compassion, especially when natural consequences must take their course. Sometimes I have to walk away from things beyond my control and let desert solitude drain the tension away.

Parenting is a delicate dance.

Copyright Jan. 22, 2012 by Nani Lii S. Furse

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