Driving Bus By: Jenny

I used to drive a 'bus' (a large van) for a small elementary school. It's a private school and there are a little more than 30 students that go there. Many of the children that go to this school  come from a home where addictions to drugs, alcohol or gambling are very common. The children would all talk to each other in the mornings or in the afternoons as I drove them to their destinations. They would share stories about the chaos at home: family members in and out of jail, violent arguments, teenage siblings having babies, court dates, or late night parties. My heart would break for each of these kids as  I got to know them and their own personal story. They carried burdens that I have never had to carry. 

There was one particular second grader who seized my heart. He was spunky and feisty. He was curious and mouthy. He was usually in trouble and he made me laugh with his antics. He drove me crazy, but I grew to love this little man.

One morning he got on the 'bus' and confided to me in a voice that sounded much too grown up for a  seven year old, “My mom moved out of our house, Miss Jenny. She left because I'm so bad.” His mom had left his step-dad, his baby brother and him because....I don't know why. But she left. 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

My eyes filled with tears, “Oh, honey. You're not a bad kid. That isn't why your mom left.” 

My tongue was unable to form the words of comfort that I wanted to convey. What words could I give to this little, tender, rejected second grader? You can't replace a mom with a bus driver. 

The weeks went on, he went back to being the zany, wild little kid, with a band aid plastered over his heart. After  a little more than a month, he got on the bus one morning and he chirped to me, “My mom is meeting me at my bus stop after school today, Miss Jenny!” It was the first time he would see his mom since she left.

My heart leaped and danced and cheered and I said, “That's great!”

That afternoon as we neared his stop, I looked into the rear view mirror. His forehead was pressed up to the window and he was chanting to himself, “Please be there. Please be there. Please be there. Please be there.”

We pulled into his stop. 

She. 

Wasn't. 

There. 

My chest felt like it was going to cave in, my eyeballs burned, my toes curled and grabbed at the bottom of my shoes and my stomach muscles tightened. 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

“She's not here.” His voice was final, solemn, very matter of fact. 

Trying to be hopeful and optimistic, I said, “Maybe she's just running late. We can wait for her.” 

We both knew that wasn't true.

“No, Miss Jenny. She isn't coming.”

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

His shoulders slouched, he stared straight ahead trying to compose himself. The kindergartner sitting next to him timidly patted his shoulder, “It's okay. My parents lie to me all the time too.”

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

*****

In the book The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom, she shares an experience she had with her father when they were traveling on a train together:

“And so seated next to my father in the train compartment, I suddenly asked, "Father, what is sex sin?"
He turned to look at me, as he always did when answering a question, but to my surprise he said nothing. At last he stood up, lifted his traveling case off the floor and set it on the floor.
“Will you carry it off the train, Corrie?" he said.
I stood up and tugged at it. It was crammed with the watches and spare parts he had purchased that morning.
“It's too heavy," I said.
“Yes," he said, "and it would be a pretty poor father who would ask his little girl to carry such a load. It's the same way, Corrie, with knowledge. Some knowledge is too heavy for children. When you are older and stronger, you can bear it. For now you must trust me to carry it for you.” 

*****

There I sat, watching this second grader, a boy, dragging a man-size suitcase of sorrow off the bus. He seemed to be pulling his leaden luggage behind him as he turned and said, “See you Monday, Miss Jenny.” 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

Fortunately, this isn't the end of his story. Unfortunately, I don't know what the end of his story is. I am sure it is full of grace. I am sure it has tears and anger. I am sure there are tender mercies. I am sure there will be triumphs and failures.

I have had plenty of time to think of my little bus passenger and this experience (4 years). I still tear up when I think of his pleading and his little head pressed against the window. Honestly, I still don't have an answer. I can't explain why. 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch

And so this is when I think of all that I do know. I do know Jesus Christ can carry our burdens. I know He does this, not out of obligation or duty, but because of His immense love for us. I know that there is an eternal plan, a perfect plan, His Plan. I know that I am a part of that plan. I know that my little man, my little second grader, whose tough exterior melted my heart has a part in His plan as well. Although I lack understanding, I know that all those hurts can be our strengths through the Atonement. 

I pray and think of my little man often. I pray for guardian angels to help him carry his luggage on his journey. 

During this holiday season, I challenge you to help someone burdened down with baggage. Please share it with us! How have you helped others with their luggage? How has someone helped you?

Beautiful Disaster By: Sarah

When I consider the life and death of Christ I have often tried to place myself in the shoes of those surrounding him.  If I had grown up next to him, would I have joined the crowd that threw him out of Nazareth when he announced his divinity?  Would I have followed, that very moment, if I were hard at work in the Sea of Galilee when Jesus called, “Come, follow me.”  

Would I have slept at the gates of Gethsemane as he bled from every pore?  

Christ at Gethsemane By Carl Heinrich Bloch

And when he was taken and crucified would I have believed that all he did was for naught?  Would I have thought that all was lost? 

I can only imagine the prayers of Mary the Mother of Christ.  I can only guess what Mary Magdalene’s heart spoke to God.  

The Pieta' By Michelangelo

I can only speculate at the pleading desires of the apostles, who loved their master deeply, when they saw Him, bloodied and beaten, carrying that cross up to Calvary.  

CHRIST ON THE ROAD TO CALVARY - GIOVANNI BATTISTA TIEPOLO

They must have begged for divine intervention.  They must have wondered if God had forgotten them.  They must have said, “This cannot be.  This cannot happen.”  And yet it did.  Why must have engulfed their minds day and night.

After Miles passed away I spent months in a fog, wondering why.  I had moments of clarity, when the depression would lift and I could feel the spirit speak to me and in one of these moments of clarity I wrote this:

It is as we rise from the most difficult and heartbreaking trials that we finally see, actually experience, that the Lord can make more out of us than we could ever make of ourselves.  If left to ourselves we would always avoid the deep valleys and briars and thorns.  We would never choose the heartbreak and the feelings of intense loss, so the Lord chooses them for us.  And as we fall we question, “Why this?”  “Why now?”  “Why me?” While the Lord keeps quietly, lovingly chanting, “Trust me.  Trust me.  Trust me.  This will be beautiful.”  And as you rise from the ashes of the fire you think, “I never knew I could FEEL like this.  I never knew I could love so deeply.  I never knew, Lord.”  And you are changed.  Eternally.  Not necessarily for the ‘happier’ but for the holier.  Which was the goal all along.

“For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone.  The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes.  To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.” –Cynthia Occelli

 

If the seed didn’t break open and destroy itself, it would never be anything but a seed.  But we weren’t made to only hold potential.  We were made to break open, grow, and become. 

God doesn’t hold us in his hands, commenting on what pretty seeds we are.  He nourishes us with love, blessings, and yes, adversity, and trials.

The fact of the matter remains:

Christ had to suffer to atone.  He had to die to be resurrected.  If the Greatest of All condescended to this, can we not expect a portion of the same for our own mortal existence? 

And if His vast suffering created mercy and His brutal death produced eternal life, then how can we not expect the product of our suffering to not have some portion of radiance, especially if we are His?

Perhaps, like those surrounding Christ during His mortal life, we are not in the middle of a disaster, but instead are witnessing ourselves being saved.

Man-Scaping By: Jaime

Carter and Mom

Carter (practicing his modeling)

Carter is my oldest, he’s 7.  My first baby,  my first true love (sorry, hunny).  When I was pregnant with him I was petrified of being a mother, well, being a terrible mother.  Truly I never thought I wanted kids, but I knew that when you grew up and got married, that was what you did.  I worried my entire pregnancy that I wouldn’t be able to bond with him, since I am sooooo not a kid person.  If you asked my mom what I thought about kids, she would tell you, “Jaime thinks they are smelly, sticky, runny nosed animals belonging in cages.”  Sadly, it’s true.  And, unlike my fantastic sister-in-law Jenny who loves peanut butter kisses…I do not!  

In the process of having Carter all crazy broke loose and I truly have no memory of either seeing or holding him until about day 3, when I was released from ICU back to post-partum. That was our first real night with him in the hospital and while I still felt no attachment to this child, I was all ready to be the best mom I could be and take care of this newborn.  Well, he cried…and cried, and cried, until we cried and asked the nursery to take him.  So, haven’t left the hospital yet and already a failure at mommy-hood.  We took him home, we struggled getting him to transition back to breast by putting a syringe feeding tube through a nipple shield and weaning him off gradually, but he did it!  Then the agony of breast feeding.  Again, he’d cry, then I’d cry…repeat process.  I started to realize that if I could sit there, tears pouring down my face in pain to let this teeny thing nurse, I must really be in this, ya know?  Then one day it happened.  The pain went away, and simultaneously Carter understood just what he was supposed to be doing.  LOVE!  I had never felt such incredible love so forcefully.  True love, and I have never looked back.  Don’t get me wrong, other people’s kids, still smelly and sticky.  But, with my own I just wipe their faces clean and steal my kisses.  Naturally, being the first born, poor Carter has been the test child for every possible avenue of life experience in our household, which leads me to how I have taken that sweet darling little baby boy and turned him into a Top Model, Project Runway, So you Think You Can Dance loving brainiac who talks back like nobody’s business.

Carter and his sister McKinley

The other day while getting the kids ready for school, I told Carter he needed to zip up his sweatshirt.  His response to this was, “Instead of zipping it, I could just flip it up like this (demonstrates) and turn it into a scarf, that way its more fashion forward.”  Whoa…what?!  Not sure how to respond to this other than giggle.  However Lincoln (the husband), did not giggle, but stared blamingly at me, while shaking his head.  

This was not the first of “interesting remarks” from Carter.  A few months back I overheard Carter and Nixon playing in the basement and Carter was trying to convince Nixon that they should play “Brother Husbands,” like that show Sister Wives that Mommy watches.  YES!  Okay, it is all my fault!  I have been told by many while witnessing his remarks, that I need to severely cut down on my reality tv watching, especially around the boy.  Pretty sure the show that truly needs to be cut out is America’s Next Top Model...While friends were over recently, Carter struck up a conversation with my BFF, Kacey, about “Man-scaping!”  For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it is simply the word for when a man does any type of hair removal other than facial.  Kacey looking shocked and horrified, none-the-less laughing came to me to talk to me about it, and I explained to her that in no more than one episode I heard these 3 comments…”Mom, why do the boys have to rip out all their hair?  Shouldn’t Daddy do that then?”  “Why are those 2 boys kissing?  Gross” and, “That girl used to be a boy?  Why would he wanna do that?”  

So, yes…while I am an idiot for not changing the channel, I would like to publicly thank Americas Next Top Model for helping to open ad nauseam cans of worms for me to discuss with my 7 year old.  Don’t get me wrong, these are topics I expect to discuss with him sometime which will I’m sure come too soon for any parent, and I will always love and respect the decisions Carter will make in his lifetime, I believe a serious change will need to be made on my behalf to help keep him my sweet little baby boy for as long as possible.  So, from here on out I pledge to turn the tv off when he enters, and tell him to go punch his brother and the go talk to Daddy about guns.

Carter (aka Harry Potter) decided to grow his hair long to donate to locks of love

Nature Vs. Nurture By: Jenny

I firmly believe it is my calling in life to try to perfect the art of shenanigans that my ancestors started. Generations of deception flow through my veins. I am dedicated to carrying on the traditions of trickery of those who came before me---for my posterity’s sake.

When James (now 16 years old) was younger, my husband, Jason, and I were out running errands. We realized that we would be getting home about 10 minutes after the bus dropped him off. We decided to call him on the phone to make sure he would be ok and to reassure him that we would be home soon. That is truly what my intentions were as I dialed the phone, but years of ingrained training kicked in.

James picked up the phone, and said in his sweet 2nd grade little boy voice, “Hello?” Trying to disguise my voice, I growled into the phone, “Is my goat on your roof?” There was a pause. “Ummm, uh….no,” James voice sounded hesitant. I rumbled into the phone, “I’ve lost my goat! I think it’s on your roof!” Another pause, James irresolute answer came slowly, “Ummmm….I don’t think so.” I sounded irritated as I said, “Can you at least go and check?” There was a moment of silence. “O.K. I’ll be back.” I heard some shuffling, and then his tentative voice, “There’s nothing on our roof.” I growled, “I thought for sure it was on your roof!” Gruffly I said, “Goodbye!”


As we drove into the driveway, I giggled the entire time, thinking about how to stretch out this prank. My husband, my comrade in parenting, was one step ahead of me. James was sitting on the couch watching T.V. and Jason asked, “James! What is a goat doing on our roof??!!”

What happened next is one of the proudest moments in my life. James turned and looked at me, realizing what had just happened and he said very calmly, “Mom. You. Are. Pathetic.”

What he didn’t understand is that this desire, this need, to ‘prank’ is beyond my control. It is the age-old debate of Nature VS Nurture. Years and years of predecessors in my family have cursed me with this: pretending wet dog food is fudge, bowls of water above the door, telling my sister that she was adopted (with my dad’s help of course! Or else it would have never been believable!), green food coloring in the milk, countless phone calls to Santa Clause, having a clown walk into my 8th graders school for his birthday, slowly shoving the tire pressure gauge up my nose (or so it appears), telling my kids that Aunt Sarah used to be Uncle Sarah, food coloring in chicken noodle soup (we were eating brains for dinner) and many other things that aren’t appropriate to share publicly. I blame all of this on my ancestors.

Other families pass down a propensity for courage, faith or skills that are actually useful. My family passes down whoopee cushions.

My family is chaotic, messy, outspoken, passionate, and flawed. We laugh until we snort, we cry on each other’s shoulders, and we share recipes. Think what you may, but I love my family and for all that they stand for: Joy. Oh, and goats.