Category: Missionary

Last week of summer break

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.

Our place

The Weber property has power over memory and time. Nowhere else can I feel my grandparents’ presence and influence greater. It’s here that I feel the tangibles of my childhood so well, but also slip easily into my place in the continuum of family roles. I’m the older aunt in the kitchen now, the one on the shore and bridge watching the children float down the river. I have been the child in the river and the teen lingering on the edges of traditional family games and songs. I have been the young mother chasing children and playing in the river with them. Now I am the older mother, no longer trying to get my children to eat something new, with a heart stretched by distance between us. The balance has shifted a little during these midlife years, and I find that I look ahead a little less than I recall the past. In childhood, everything lay ahead. In the quiet of this phase of life, I feel ancestors about me, and see that they continue to shape my life, my expectations for my children, and my definition of the good life. It is a beautiful legacy to visit each summer at the cabin.

I have this letter taped to the inside of my recipe cabinet.

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

In and Out of Shadow

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.

Our Teens

photo by Heather Smith

Here is how our teens look this week. One is a little sick, and another thanked me for not grounding him for the rest of his life. I thought he had been killed in a car accident for about 20 minutes. It turned out that there was no car accident, just a vague message and misunderstanding. I was so frantic to find him that I drove around town looking for emergency vehicles, expecting the worst. One son is taking care of pigeons for a couple of days for our neighbor and friend. One is off to Pioneer Trek this morning.

I asked Daniel this week, “What have you learned about obedience?” He wrote, “The last 1% in our obedience brings the majority of the blessings. We’ve seen the difference between good days and not so good days.”

I asked Timothy what he learned this week. “Don’t park illegally, ever.”

Mark taught us what he learned from studying in John. “Jesus prayed that our temptations wouldn’t be too much for us and that Heavenly Father would send help.”

I have a firm belief in the power of parents to bring down blessings on their children. These are good boys, and I see the enemy stalks them relentlessly. It feels like we are at war with outside influence. We pray, we teach, remind, use a timer, let them go, and we are here when they come back. This warrior mom has earned a purple heart this week. Two things have helped: reading the Book of Mormon in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, and watching a Hallmark Christmas DVD.

I love my sons. They are amazing. It’s a heavy time, nevertheless.

Sights and Sounds this Week

We did some things. We saw some things. We read some things. I put correction tape over some ugly words. Blah, blah. I’ve been writing this blog for ten years, running out on a stage with my best words, my cutest people, and biggest achievements and the audience is mostly silent, kind of like when I play violin in church. The absence of applause screams doubt in my mind sometimes. Writing here is loneliness, multiplied by ten years. Writing here is also sanity, multiplied by ten years. This is how I feel on this tenth anniversary week.

Just little happy experiences

There are just little happy experiences that writing about doesn’t do justice. Pictures or videos don’t capture it. Memory isn’t exact enough. But there’s an eternity of those ahead… -Elder Daniel Ross

This is something Daniel expressed to me via text this week and I have thought about it again and again. Tiny interactions and connections, the evidence of humanity and goodness, can cut through differences and keep us afloat.

I walked several steps behind a little Muslim family into a store this week. The five or six-year-old son stayed behind to hold the door open for me. They weren’t speaking English, so I just smiled and gave a small wave to the boy, who had thrown his might into keeping the door open as a kindness to me. My thoughts about this family’s differences as I walked behind them in the parking lot just seconds before this interaction felt so shallow.

A different day, during school and work hours, a young father, with a daughter and a son, no older than ten years old looked at a wall of religious art. The daughter had taken an expensive framed print off the display wall and was cradling it until her arms. This was the one she loved. Later, at the cash register, I stood behind the family, the father now holding a few inexpensive prints similar to the expensive framed edition. He offered to buy a piece of candy for each child, but the children seemed content with the slips-of-paper-Jesus hugging someone. When it was my turn to step up to the register, I couldn’t speak or see clearly for a few seconds for what I had just witnessed.

The middle school kids swarmed the entrance to the public library as Mark and I drove into the parking lot after school. I offered to stay in the car as Mark found some books, since our path was through a sea of peers. He said no way. If somebody had a problem with his mom, he’d beat them up. He figured he was taller than most of them, so he had the advantage. In other words, he knew that walking with me would take courage, and he was up for it. You will be relieved to know that no violence ensued during the walk, and there were just a few loud hellos. The strong empathy in my personality made me feel insecure along with the preteens, but Mark and I made the walk together. I loved him for it.

Yesterday Tim went out to take photos of the sunset. He said he was trying to take more pictures like Daniel did. Then he mentioned that he wished he could look at Daniel’s photos of our vacations last summer, thinking there was no way he could see them. In covert sentences and expressions, Tim lets me know he misses Daniel. I pulled up Daniel’s albums on my computer and Tim was delighted, and in his understated, earnest way he enjoyed every one.

With a Smile

I think when I look back on this time in my life, I will be thankful that I was present when Tim came home from Frisbee practice, muddy and smiling. I will not regret being home and available to video chat with Daniel for the first time since Christmas. I will smile when I think of the jokes I made with Mark about the DWISBA as I drove him home from school. I will remember the texture of each boy’s hair in my fingers as I gave haircuts and the smell of starch while ironing shirts. I will smile at the memory of the beautiful home I worked to create. I will remember the souls I loved and the ones who loved me. I will remember that this was a sweet time. Sometimes I feel weary, unwanted, and stagnant, too, but that will not be the melody when I look back at this time with the perspective of age. I can see myself looking back with a smile. These little moments make me smile today.

A Baptism Here and There

A few weeks ago we studied as a family about being born of water and the spirit. While offering our family prayer after sharing what we learned, I felt I should thank our Heavenly Father for baptism. In an instant, I felt what this ordinance, along with confirmation, have meant to our family. Immense, personal, empowering, enhancing, clarifying, cleansing, gathering, unifying, and sanctifying, these gifts are something to cherish. Our Father is generous, and because of the sacrifice of his Son, we can be baptized. The Holy Ghost fills us and leaves its elevating effects without fanfare. The influence and power of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost seem to come together at important days like baptism, not just at the Jordan River, but for little David, Maria, and each of us. At baptism, we are gathered, and we find where we belong.