The younger Timothy and I spent a lot of time each year picking out the perfect Halloween costume. Now, we spend time searching out the perfect color of tie and suit; we sift for the right fit for a shirt, and I have learned many elements of his signature style. He is wearing Mark’s shoes in these pictures because at the last minute, something about them called to his sensibilities, “dancing shoes.” Timothy is all about the details.
In recent years, I have measured success in projects completed and books read, people visited and words written. By most of these measures, I failed this summer, seriously failed. However, the days were full. I did what I thought I should do each day. I put aside some things to do the invisible and unnamed. Some days I wasted time, other days I did too much. I learned that my goal to read one book a week is not a good goal. The goal should be to keep reading.
So, the lesson of summer 2019 is to keep going, even when it seems like it doesn’t make a dent. Eventually, I will finish that 900-page book, and hope to see that these days of unremarkable tasks were the making of me.
(Photos are from our Labor Day hike to Twin Lakes, which took us past Solitude Lake and Silver Lake)
Just as I was surprised last year by a serendipitous sunflower at Daniel’s departure, another one popped up in the garden on time for his one year mark. It brought me to my knees right there on the lawn. God knows our days.
Our boys performed at a piano recital on Monday night. Timothy played a Debussy piece and Mark played a Beethoven. We took them out for Chinese food and someone asked if Timothy was on his way to a mission. Aaack! Not yet! Mark pushed his food around his plate. He is full of cares.
I walked into the middle school with Mark this week, and through the halls of the elementary school to visit my friend’s Harry Potter themed classroom. I did not walk into the high school, but corresponded with one of Tim’s teachers. Still, I am in denial that they will be in school again on Monday. My homeschool memories clutch my heart and make me cry a little each August. Was I really so bad for my kids?
Tim invited a girl over to watch a movie and we all felt awkward and I found myself baking brownies as a bridge. Even their fudgy goodness couldn’t span the gap, but they were delicious.
This summer, the lawn care and landscaping business run by Tim and his friends has kept him outdoors all day, six days a week sometimes. This week, in addition to mowing, they decided to offer a garbage can washing service. Tim was in charge of transportation of the cans, just emptied by the garbage truck, to a new location where another boy pressure washed them. I have texts from happy customers about their sweet smelling cans. This is life with Timothy: unpredictable, but excellent.
Paige moves home tomorrow for a few weeks before her semester begins. There will be three “children” home for the next few weeks, with only one abroad.
Backpacking nearby, Richard is able to send me photos of the evening with Mark. What a blessing.
I remember the last night at girls camp in Arizona, I moved to a new tent by myself to make space for the Bishop’s wife to stay. That night, I noticed that there was cell service in this isolated tent, and Richard and I were able to have a precious conversation that I needed so much.
That was seven years ago, just before our move to Utah. Many miles and experiences later, the highlights of my summer are still moments of connection with Richard, whether on long walks or during fleeting calls from campsites with spotty service.
As I wrote the last paragraph, Richard called from his hammock, somewhere near Brighton. All is well there.
We were busy at the Weber, my sisters’ families had gone home, and we were running out of time to do the Virginia Reel. My mom and I debated whether we had the energy to play Turkey in the Straw 200 times, but if you look at the faces of the dancers, I think you can see why we do this each year.
Tim came home from high adventure with MANY beautiful photos of landscapes. He climbs every rock face he sees, so his perspective on hikes is unique. The photo taken high above the camp is typical of him. In the wilderness, you see Timothy as a silhouette against the bright sky as you look up to find him.
Letter from Elder Daniel Ross, serving in Chile, July 2, 2019
When I was younger I was a pretty picky eater. Broccoli soup was the wrong color, texture, flavor, and I just couldn’t do it. My mom tried serving it with crackers, goldfish, I took small bites with big drinks, hot or cold, it didn’t matter. I was quite sure I wanted nothing to do with it and was firmly set in my ways. Patiently my parents explained that it can take as many as 12 tries to learn to eat a food and that I had to keep trying it. Over the course of several years I did, though I didn’t notice a change for a long time.
Another statistic (I heard this a few years ago, I don’t know how accurate it is now) is that the average person who joins the Church of Jesus Christ through full-time or member missionary efforts has had at least 7 distinct/separate experiences with missionaries. In the winters here in Chile (And everywhere else in the world, I imagine) the work slows down a lot. Very few people answer the door, and rejection is much more common. We’ve been working hard as a companionship to find ways to finish every contact well so that no matter how the person acts, we can walk away at the end and they will remember us as friendly and professional. Sometimes we harvest here, but a lot of the time we’re just planting seeds. We’re continuing in faith, hoping that some of the results come during our time here.
Does it work?
(A huge thanks to a nice sister in the ward that learned in a past lunch that I have fond memories of my mom’s soups and had her husband deliver some broccoli soup to us at 10:00 one night. My favorite meal this week.) -Elder Ross
The relief map of our life right now shows new valleys, a consistent plateau, and several mountains. I move into different landscapes as I am needed and retreat to the backcountry when I must be silent and wait. In my solitude, I assume the role of observer and record keeper.
From a familiar point, I watch our daughter, taking steps on her own path, which is marked by shadow and speckled with obstacles. Frustrated by the turns and boulders, I wonder if she knows that she is still ascending.
A son careens forward on a path without looking one way or the other. Does he actually want to climb that trail? I am not sure he has paused enough to know.
Another son has a blind curve ahead, but has a lift in his steps. I predict the path beyond this curve will be good for him because of his optimism.
And the remaining son, well, I am still close enough to remind him to look at the vistas, and not worry about the details so much.
I am no sage on the hill, but I do know about blind corners, and have skinned my knees when racing too fast. I know the mire of worry from overthinking, and how to escape. I remember what it is like to move beyond easy marks of success, deferring talents and ideas. In such vulnerable times, growth feels a lot like defeat.
I squirm in the solitude in this life season and wonder if a record is worth keeping. I felt inspired to read A Midwife’s Tale this week and it validated my writing of everyday things more than I can say. Our walk continues, and my writing provides a relief map of where we have been.
Connection and progress happen in the undercurrents of the to do lists and during transit between appointments. The on stage, public displays are a pinnacle, not the mountain we have climbed. They don’t call attention to themselves, but tiny, daily actions are life. Today I elevate some of these menial and plain things and dress them up as headlines:
Late night conversation keeps parenting goals on track.
Work at home issues forth connection and order.
Meal preparation: a rock in the fortress of home, every day
She waited weeks for a convenient time to ask family to move furniture.
A child is struggling? Pray with him.
Camping gear is well traveled.
Mother makes another trip to the store for gear and marshmallows.
Reconciliation evident in non-verbal ways
He often works from home at night to balance high demands of employer and others.
To avoid criticizing someone, mother pulls weeds outside.
Foregoing personal hobbies and family time, Scoutmaster pushes on.
Despite past failures, additional attempts are planned for family spirituality.
Dead, maggot-filled animal buried early this morning in the backyard
Stranded motorist helped by a kind stranger
She kept paper for taking notes.
Entire family commits to watching together a movie only one person will enjoy.
They sat down together at the table.
They took the time they needed to make a plan.
He changed the station again and again without hearing frustration from the driver.
Strength to do dishes and laundry is a blessing.
After years of being too busy, mother helps organize son’s collections.
He remembered to text his mom to let her know where he was.
She smiled instead of criticized.
He practiced each day.
He let his brother stick an earbud in his ear to hear a funny song.
They kept praying together.