Mini Memoirs

Title: You’re communicating loud and clear!

September 13th, 2023
I was a part of a community that was mostly composed of farmers and ranchers. Although we never called our lifestyle or way of living “ranching”. Every family in our community lived a similar lifestyle. Land, cattle, haying, farming was a part of who we were and the way we lived. I often drift back to my own childhood when I drive down the road and I see the farmer spreading the manure across their fields, or when I feel the dirt in between my toes when I am working in my garden, and heaven forbid when I have to drive down a graveled road. (haha!) There is one thing that happened a lot in our home and that was the fact that we had to communicate to get the work done. Interpersonal communication happened time and time again when there were chores to be done. Here are a few phrases I heard often:

Get out and get those cows fed!

Did you shut the gate?

How many heifers calved out tonight?

The cows are out again.

communicating, relaying messages and reporting numbers about how many sick calves needed to be doctored or whom to purchase the hay from were important aspects of our daily lives.

At this time I ran out into the pasture behind our house. I am carefree running through the backyard (which isn’t typically something I do-Run) Haha!) with no shoes on. My sisters and I are racing to jump over the fence and as I sprint a few yards I land my foot right into a temperate brown pile of something that oozed in between all of my toes. I took a moment to revel in the warmth that enveloped my whole foot. I realize I just landed right into a freshly dropped cow-pie. I am not grossed out by the thought that my foot is drenched in crap. I simply thought to myself, “This is nice, I think I’ll stay here for a moment and imagine that this is my first pedicure.”

Without a doubt I enjoy exploring my surroundings and living in the moment. I also enjoy wandering into our outbuildings that are scattered around the back of our home. The calving shed appears like it could have been the first log cabin of the late Colonel Thomas R. “Hamer”, who the town was named after in 1893. I knew it wasn’t. The shed is just old and it is where the new heifers calve out their new born babies. The smell of the straw penetrates my nose as it is scattered on the dirt floor. The straw gives a nice warm bed for new calves and their mama’s to rest. The calf puller’s are hung up on the right side of the wall with a pair of extra long gloves slung over them. A partial bottle of dove dish soap sits in the dark corner of the dark cattle shed.

I wander into the garage that is attached to the front of the shed and I conjure up in my mind what kind of old greasy mechanic used to live in the old garage. Tools are scattered across the workbenches and there are random nuts and bolts that fill the doors that are caked with black grease. This is where I learned about W-D 40. Last week I watched dad spray W-D 40 into some rusty vise grips and it magically started working again. I suddenly became overzealous with squirting it into the spokes in my bike tires, I drenched my chain and my bolts on the pedals down with the grease in the blue spray can. I even considered greasing my own joints in hopes that I could ride faster than my sister. The old and tired garage has a floor that is only partially paved. I am consistently irritated that it is partially surfaced. Who would do a job and not finish it? I can’t stand to walk on the greasy dirt that is on the front half of the garage because I am sure there is a nail or two lurking in the unpacked dusty ground. Oil changes, W-D 40, and mechanic-ing is what this garage looks like and feels like. My sisters and I occasionally play store among the greasy tools but the cleaning and organizing is becoming too much of a hassle and so we decide to move our store to the bunkhouse.

I enjoy lingering in our newly built barn. It has big open dutch doors that closed on the bottom and opened up on the top to the horse corral. It has two more entrances on the north and east side of the barn. I walk into the barn and sometimes I’ll pick up a shovel and scrape the horse manure off of the corrugated cement and throw the manure into the corral. Other times I run my hands along the leather saddles that are sitting up high on the saddle rack. I open the steel galvanized trash can that is in the corner of the barn and smell the oats. I check to see if I should top off the feed as I look for traces of mice. The barn smells of fresh hay that was scattered in the feeding stalls earlier this morning. The half strewn bales located in front of the stables are bales someone brought in from the side of the stack. The barn is built with light toned wood and the big doors allow the light to filter through.

In addition to dawdling around the outbuildings occasionally I would come home after school and the house would smell sour and there would be a sick baby calf on the back porch. The calf would be wrapped up in towels and would have a sick and tired look in his eyes. They were usually sick with scours and dehydration from being out in the wind, cold, and the wet snow. Scours was usually the culprit that ailed the baby calves in the late winter and early spring. When I woke up the next morning the calf was either hauled off to the bone yard or he was paired back up with his mama.

The following afternoon my brother walks into the kitchen and says, “Hey you guys I need some help running the cows through and getting a head count. Could you all come out and help really quick?” I thought as long as I don’t have to doctor baby calves and get run over by the cow, herd bulls, or ride a bucking bronc I’ll pretty much do anything. We all look towards him and nod in agreeance.

We walk out towards the alleyway that is adjacent to the calving shed with a few punches to the arm from my brother and a few jokes cracked in between our stroll out the corrals. My sisters are instructed to round up the cows in the pasture and push them through the wide gate. They yip and holler at the livestock until the cattle start to run through the open gate shoving into the wide alley. I jump up on the fence next to my brother so I can see the heads of the cattle clearly. I am excited to be able to help my brother out because I enjoy being around him. In my mind this counts as a ‘no fear’ task because I can’t get run over, I can’t get head butted, and I can’t get thrown off the top of a horse. This is safe and I am enjoying this time together. My brother yells out and says, “Okay go ahead and start your count as soon as they run through the gate.” The cows push through the alley and we all do what he has instructed us to do. My little sister stands on a fence post across the alley way with my older sister. My younger sister starts yelling her numbers into the air loud and clear, “1-2-3-4.” I am excited as the cows are kicking up the dust and I start counting from my fence post that I am standing on as I watch the cows push through. I shout out, ”1-2-3-4….15.” My brother looks at us with fire in his eyes. “Good hell! Shut up and count in your heads. I can’t get an efficient count with you two calling out your numbers!”

Do you remember the episode when Spike the bulldog in the cartoon ‘Tom and Jerry’ finds Tom in his dog house? The top of the dog house is notoriously painted in black paint with the letters “Killer” written across the top. When Spike realizes Tom is in his dog house he grabs him by the neck and shakes him furiously back and forth until stars and circles form outside of his brains. Spike is clearly sending a message to Tom. Tom is later found writing out his will. I feel like I have just been metaphorically grabbed around the neck and shaken until I understand how to complete this task. I feel like I need to run to safety and maybe write out a declaration that states, “I will never count out loud. I will only count in my head” ten times.

Sometimes the exchange of interpersonal communication can be expressed through yelling, emotions, an accumulation of words and ideas. I personally like the calm instructional version of communicating. I just received my brother’s message loud and clear by the way he specifically articulated his words. My eyes fill with tears and the cows in the alleyway become one big blob of moving hair and shuffling hooves. I pick up my counting where I left off and ever so quietly I count in my head. We gather together by the side of the calving shed after all the cows had pushed through the alleyway to report what number of cows we each had counted. I am about fifteen head off count and my younger sister missed the count by three or four. I guess my older sister understood my brother’s ideas that he earlier communicated to her because she ended up with the same number of cattle as he did.

I seem to be miscommunicating and not understanding others’ ideas while I try to help out. I am not sure if this is the life for me because sometimes it feels unsettling and backwards. Earlier this spring I was riding a horse at the front of the cattle drive while we were trailing cows to the summer range. I was ready to get off and go back to my dad in the pick-up to grab some lunch.

There was one problem:

The only way back to my dad was through a long and narrow procession of cattle with fences on both sides.

It is the tired cattle and me for a long time before I can reach the back where my dad drives behind in his truck. I decide to hop on the fence to work my way back through hundreds of cattle. It is the last day of the trail and the cowboys are pushing hard to move the cows. I quickly assess the situation with the cows moving north and I am going to be moving south. I jump on the fence and work my way to my dad. All of the sudden I hear from the back of the large herd a faint yell coming my way. “Get off of the %$#@$& fence! Your making it hard to push the #$%$*& cows!” I come to a sudden realization that I am the problem of the slow moving cattle. I am causing them to want to slow down and stand still. I don’t know what to do? I start to move my long legs faster over the wooden log fence – left leg over right, slide, slide slide-this is what I will do until I can get to safety (My dad). I finally reach my destination and the shrieking and wailing finally comes to a halt. The cowboys’ communication hits me hard. It not only penetrates my ears but it also sinks into my mind and my heart.

Expressing ideas and communicating didn’t always come across sweet and dripping with honey. Conveying messages needed to be bold and clear because of certain situations. I am here to tell you that I have never since and will never count out loud while others are counting at the same time. The instructions weren’t always cut and dry but there were always a few words of information communicated along with a way to execute the plan. Except when I tried to get back to my Dad. No one had instructed me on how to get back to my dad on the cattle trail. I was simply told to hop off the horse and head back. Yikes! I learned my lesson when I received my instruction mid-stride. When we try to effectively communicate with others we learn to lead constructively and create bonds with other individuals.

Here are three things you can try to be a better communicator:
1. Do not interrupt others.
2. Don’t be a rambler- Be clear and concise in the point you are trying to make.
3. Be gracious and courteous of others’ thoughts and ideas.
Resources:

Origins of Idaho place names

https://www.google.com/search?q=spike+yells+at+tom&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS942US942&oq=spike+yells+at+tom+&aqs=chrome..69i57.7484j0j4&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:46d1bd0a,vid:St5Ad7qLXbU,st:0

https://matterapp.com/resources/interpersonal-communication#:~:text=Effective%20interpersonal%20communication%20skills%20enable,reassurance%20to%20those%20around%20you
Title: Non-verbal communication takes a nosedive

September 6th, 2023
I was born the fourth child in a family of five. Fourth child characteristics fall under the ‘middle child’ category and they are generally characterized as a conversationalist. I must have not checked off the communicator checkbox because as a child I picked up the ‘mute’ gene. I enjoyed bringing a smile to my family’s faces (kind of like a mime would and only within the walls of my home) and I liked to sing harmony around the piano with my siblings. Other than that I stayed pretty quiet and I watched the world around me. I watched the people closest to me and I observed conversations, I easily picked up on others emotions, and I was in tune to others’ body language. So looking back at mini-me I was a good communicator. I just happened to be more non-verbal for the first 20 years of my life. My happy emotions were communicated through funny faces and my pain was visible with the way I held myself. I learned to analyze others, examine people’s emotions, study how they held themselves, and scan their face expressions. Only a very small percentage of what we say is communicated through our words. Body language is a large part in how we communicate effectively with one another.

At this time I untie the back of my dirty white apron and I throw it on top of the laundry basket that has been piled high with used towels and dirty aprons from the use of the day. Chef calls out “Have a good weekend, we will see you on Tuesday.” I walk to another room and I take off my chef’s hat and place it in my locker. I take a well used legal notepad and pen to write down instructions for my next class. I am running late for my first day of design class. Oh well. This is the first week of my last semester on campus. I am going to take my time feeling the sun on my face as I walk around the outskirts of the buildings. I watch the man on the mower cutting the tall thick grass. The fresh cut grass invigorates my senses and it helps me to tackle one last semester. I take in the landscape of the trees and flowers hanging on to the last days of summer. I notice the cracks in the cement as I linger along the sidewalk. My feet ache from the long day in the kitchen and so my desire to rest them outweighs the prolonged walk in the afternoon sun. I pick up my pace and I walk up the long sidewalk to the building. I pull the door open and walk down the wide hallway to my design class.

I stop at the open double doors and look at the students that I will spend the next four months with. I carefully walk around the large portfolios bags and I walk quietly up to the professor’s desk. I look over my art teacher’s posture, clothing, and mannerisms. She sits behind a tall desk on a standard black chair that swivels around. Her hair is colored red and she smiles and says in her thick Slavic accent, “Hi, how can I help you?” I notice how she holds herself and her eyes are meeting mine as she waits for a response. My articulation of words sound very differently than hers, “Hi, my name is Dari, I signed up for this design class. Is this the right room?” She looks up at me with a formal smile and says, “Yes! Go ahead and take a seat wherever you would like to.” I quickly scan the room and find one seat that is empty on the second to last row of long tables.

I sit at my table and I plop all of my stuff down on top of the table. My mixed media drawing pad takes up a lot of space on the long wooden tables. I soundlessly place my personal items underneath my chair. I look around at the different people and ages in the room. They are mostly younger than I am. No one is overly friendly around me and I don’t necessarily offer my friendship either. I am here to learn and gain an understanding of design, placement, and colors. I look to the student on my right and she quietly nods back at me. The student on my left is quiet and keeps to herself. I hold my gaze on her a little longer to see if she will turn and look at me. She stays hunched over her drawing board and her body is turned away from me. As a woman, a mom, and a fellow student I wonder to myself if she has dealt with some unspoken struggles and has suffered in her young life. Her head remains down through all of the class and her body language is closed off. I would offer her a smile but she never looks in my direction.

Our professor continues to give instructions to find an object with holes and design and draw it in a large proportion with organic drawing on the left and geometric on the right side of the paper. I look to the bottom of my purse for an abandoned keychain and I check my ears, wrists, and hands for jewelry. All I have is my watch on my left hand that keeps track of my steps accumulated through my day. I take it off my left hand and decide to draw the band with the holes along with the watch buckle. I open my tin case that holds my graphite pencils and I stare at all the numbers on the pencils and I hesitate to pick the correct sketching pencil. The art teacher makes her rounds to me and asks, “How are you?” I look at her confused and say, “I am not sure what the numbers mean on my pencils? She quickly explains, “the HB pencil is for sketching and the numbers on the pencils are for shading from light to dark.” I say with more confidence than before, ”Oh! Okay. Thank you.” I start to eagerly sketch my ideas out on the large paper now that I comprehend my new graphite pencil kit.

Oftentimes when out in public my husband will catch me staring at other people. I like to configure in my mind what their home looks like, visualize their relationships, and scrutinize their body language. I take all of these puzzle pieces to a passerby’s life and I quickly determine what kind of person they are. Sometimes I get caught probing into their lives. yikes!-Embarrassing. My husband usually taps me on the shoulder, “Are you enjoying the show?” I respond, “Ahh, yes!” Then I give him a recap on the people in front of me on my personal stage.

Besides being in design class I take a little time while I am drawing to scrutinize the characters in the room. Sometimes it’s with harshness and other times it is with empathy. I silently watch the body language of the girls in the front of the class. There is a lot of laughter and chatter and they seem to be very comfortable in the class and comfortable with each other. On the second row I watch how the students hold themselves. Some of them are uncomfortable with who they are and they seem to be fighting a battle within themselves. They are more quiet and reflective with an occasional conversation. On my row the students are all business and they are here to complete their work and then return to where they came from. The last row in the class is very interesting. Their conversation floats into my ears but yet I seldom get to glance behind me. I don’t want to seem rude. Their language and ideas are often offensive but yet they are different from me and they pique my interest for some reason. Every so often I glance behind me to peer at how they hold themselves and the movements of their bodies. It leaves me like a blind person only open to their words and their sounds and I am left with only the pictures in my mind.

Although I am starting to create a friendship with the professor because of her kindness and her encouragement of my own work. Overall I feel a little uncomfortable in my own skin each day as I enter into this class room of budding artists because as I look through my communication lens I feel so different from them. Their choices, their lifestyles, and their upbringings leaves me feeling like I entered a world that I don’t belong in. A world that I have never been in or been a part of. I start to make judgements about the people in my surroundings. I block my ears with headphones so I don’t hear the conversations behind me and I heavily concentrate on the 18×24 space I am allotted to.

Everyday I come to class I mentally separate myself from the other students around me. I start to feel uncomfortable as I sit on the third row back and glance over these strangers that convey differing of opinions, shyness, or oddities. I continue to study their mannerisms. Their lives contrast my own and yet sometimes their gestures still intrigue me.

Finally the last week of the semester is here and we are all presenting a compilation of pieces for our final. I have chosen to show my projects first to get it over with. My project consists of a mural about my ancestry and my children stand on each side of the mural in warm colors. My second piece is a water color of the Twin Falls temple, My third piece is complimentary colors of red and green, and my final piece is drawn in cool colors using pastels. I have worked really hard over this semester to pull together my final pieces with the help of my professor who guided me along the way. I feel accomplished as I stand and talk about my art and what they represent. After my presentation I sit in the front row and listen to the rest of my classmates give their demonstrations.

Design Presentation

Several students get up and talk about how their art represents sexual and verbal abuse. Others speak about anxiety, depression, and loneliness. Some talk about personal experiences with the effects of war and overuse of drugs on the frontlines. A few talk about authoritarian parents who ruled with an iron fist and pushed religion in their faces. One or two display their pieces of art who have struggled with mental disorders and or hospitalizations of a family member. At last some art pieces symbolizes culture, coming to a new country, and overcoming.

I sit here with tears in my eyes, my heart about ready to burst, and a little shame as I sit and listen to and watch each student walk to the front of the room with their art. These people, teenagers, students are all children of God who have suffered with a lot of pain in their lives. Shame and guilt enter my heart like it has so many times before. I ask myself, “why didn’t you ‘read’ their body language differently, why didn’t you analyze them the way Jesus would have analyzed them? Why did you sit back in judgment for three months and not extend a loving or kind word?” The class finishes up their presentation and I walk down the white hall to the exit through the double doors and I can’t stop the tears from falling. My mind goes over and over the pain and the heartache that most of those kids are experiencing. Throughout the semester my brain logged and categorized things about these people that were mostly negative or annoying. Today I saw what God needed me to see. I wasn’t just watching their body language but I saw their tears, I saw them bow their heads in sorrow, I heard their personal struggles, and I saw some of the anguish in their drawings. My tears are not just for those students but they are also for my own guilt that I sunk to a level of debasing and damaging another person on my personal stage in my head.

I am allowing God to teach me and to walk beside me a little bit today. I drive home and I cannot stop thinking about the final design exam. Their stories of hardship and overcoming replays in my mind. I have a desire to be a better human being, I want to love others more deeply, and I want to stop being so overly critical and fault finding. The next time I see a person and I do a quick analysis on them I want the thoughts and feelings inside of me to be positive and kind.

I am grateful for the lessons I learned in my design class. I gained an understanding of important art techniques that I use every day in my life. The most important thing I learned that semester was how to see others through God’s eyes. I acquired a knowledge of quality non-verbal communication. When we try to communicate better we can have a better understanding of a situation and recognize what is happening around us. It will always benefit us if we practice and try to read others non-verbal, verbal cues and also learn how to pick up on context clues.

Here are three things you can try to become better at reading someone’s non-verbal communication:
1. Listen an individuals tone of voice. We can become really good at understanding someone’s emotions when we listen to their pitch in their voice. Their tone of voice can indicate happy and sad moods.
2. Discern an individual’s smile. Their grin can speak volumes: irritation, happy, annoyed, angry, elated, intimidating… etc.
3. Note an individual’s body movements: Fast and uncontrolled movements are usually a sign of anger or tension.
Resources:
https://www.medpsych.net/2021/08/19/what-your-sibling-birth-order-reveals-about-your-personality-traits-even-if-youre-an-only-child/

https://www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-use-the-7-38-55-rule-to-negotiate-effectively

https://www.mindbodygreen.com/articles/how-to-read-people
Title: Miscommunication Mishap

August 30th, 2023
There are lots of ways we convey our messages to each other. Spoken words, tone of voice, and body language are a few ways we speak everyday. We communicate to have our needs and expectations met.

Along with hearing the, “wee-ooh wee-ooh” from a screaming siren passing our small school it always used to send shivers down my spine. Everyone on the playground would stop and stare as the white and red ambulance drove past our school. We all had an imaginary sixth sense that the ambulance was going to transport our moms, our dads, our grandparents, or our closest neighbor (a mile or two down the road) to the hospital 45 minutes away. We would eventually find out what happened after the long eight hours of school had slowly ticked by. We would anxiously hurry home and ask our mothers, “What happened today? We saw the ambulance go by at recess?” Our parents would usually shrug their shoulders and tell us that they didn’t hear anything about it and as soon as it was broadcasted they would let us know.

Undoubtedly communication when I was a young girl was very different than it is today. It was face to face, a phone attached to the wall with a long cord, or we waited until someone got home to catch up on the latest news. When our moms would drop us off at a friend’s house we did not hear from them for hours and there was no communication or code text for, “Help me! I don’t want to be here anymore.” We either happily played while the time ticked by quickly or sometimes we endured the time with our friends until our moms came to pick us up. Most of the time they arrived as expected and other times we knew we were safe until they came to get us 30 minutes later than we anticipated.

Another fun aspect about living in a small community is you knew the sheriff, you knew his wife, his children, and his personal ancestry all the way back to Noah and the flood. The sheriff occasionally stopped down the end of our lane and chatted at the mailbox with my dad as he would sit in his blue striped Chevy and read through the newly delivered mail. If you were an ‘out of towner’ you might assume that my dad was getting ticketed for drunk driving or lingering too long near federal property (the mailbox). This was not the case in our community. The sheriff was usually making his rounds catching up on the news and checking up on families to see how everything was going. I grew up in an era where neighbors occasionally stopped on the road and caught up on how the crops and cattle prices were coming along.

We rarely missed the school bus because we knew there was no one coming to get us. There was no access to a phone because the school doors were locked and the secretary had gone home for the day. The only way home was to get on the long yellow bus. If by chance we were late for the bus in the morning we would run down our lane until our faces were beat red and yell to the top of our lungs. We hoped the bus driver could hear us and see us. Face to face communication was a part of our everyday lives.

Sometimes communication wires get crossed and messages being conveyed are ignored. In fact this reminds me of a time when I got caught in the cross wires of communication in the fall of 1983.

I am shy and timid as I walk from the car to the outdoor classroom on my first day of kindergarten. The steps attached to the long brown single wide are painted with a dark brown paint that is chipping from the direct sunlight. The lilacs that are on the other side of the grassy play area are taller than I am and a little sparse. The green bushes provide a long barrier from the kids that are playing on the other side of the school’s lawn. They offer me a sense of protection from what could be lurking through the bushes. I imagine there are sixth grade boys with giant feet, wearing T-shirts too big for their frame, and sweat trickling down their prepubescent upper lip hair. I also visualize the girls being overly bossy with differing colors of layered socks pushed down to their ankles. Their hair is permed tightly with a button up shirt tucked into their stiff jeans and a popped collar. It is important that I stay on this side of the lilacs and do as my teacher and my mom instructed me to do. I would be terrified if I ran into one of those smelly sixth grade boys. I slowly walk into the trailer and I look around the beige and brown single wide and there are desks lined up neatly for our class.

My teacher is a dream and she is sweet like maple syrup. She is tall, slender, and her dark hair must have had large curlers set neatly because her curls are perfectly placed all around her head. Her voice and her actions remind me of a mother duck guiding her ducklings away from harm. She is wearing a light blue button up shirt that is neatly pressed and her pants are polyester with a stretch waist and a permanent line creased down the middle. Her pants fall perfectly to her old black tennis shoes. The perfect outfit for a perfect teacher. I think she might shop at the same pant store my grandma does? She is calming and reassuring. She makes me feel so good inside and she is always checking on each of us.

Big bold letters are taped around the classroom in the front of the single wide trailer. I stare up at each letter and I think to myself, “I already know those things stuck up on the wall. Maybe I need to be in another class?” Our first recess is in the first bedroom of the trailer. There are plastic tubs of wooden blocks, dolls with dresses, and cars. We all cram in the little playroom with the toys as the teacher is preparing our snacks. I am bored and so I turn to walk back into our classroom and Jill yells out in pain and her tears fall to the floor. I look at her and say, ”what happened? She points at the boy standing and staring down at her, “He hit me on the head with a wooden block!” I am irritated at her crying as I leave to get the teacher. The next hour we eat snacks and take a nap that I am not happy about. What did I get myself into? I am not a napper. I know that I am in the wrong class. Finally the day is over and I smile and wave at mom in the van waiting in the parking lot to pick me up.

The following day I walk up to the long classroom with a little more confidence than the day before. Mom waves goodbye from the car and I cheerfully wave back to her. I walk to the brown faded steps to the classroom and something feels off about today. I push the feeling aside and I reach high to turn the gold doorknob and the doorknob will not turn. I try again and again and then I knock on the aluminum door. There is no one here today. I quickly look over my shoulder to see if mom is still waiting in the parking lot for me to enter the classroom. She is gone. At last, I sit on the steps and my own tears start spilling over. My mom has already driven away! My teacher has abandoned me! My class has deserted me! I sit and think of several scenarios in my mind. Maybe they have locked me out of the classroom or maybe my mom got confused and there is no school today? I am too terrified to walk into the main school building and so I sit in the sun on the brown steps and cry. I sit for a while and stare at the lilacs across the yard that are blurry from my tears. The warm fall sun is heating up the top of my head. I have no solution for my situation and I sit in silence and I wait. I check my surroundings and I find I am in no real danger but I can’t help my tears from falling. All of the big kids on the other side of the lilacs are still in their classes. and as far as I can tell I am safe to sit on the steps until somebody sees me.

My tears have dried up and I wait in the quiet of the late morning . My teacher rounds the corner with her arms outstretched, “Oh Dari! I just took the class to the library. I should have waited for you.” She pulls me into a warm hug as I start to cry again. She continues on, “I had a feeling I should have stayed in the classroom longer in case anybody showed up late to school today.” She looked into my reddened blue eyes and said, “I am so sorry dear.” She embraces me again to make sure I feel that I am loved and safe. She unlocks the door to our classroom and we wait until the librarian brings the rest of the class back to our kindergarten room.

The day goes on as usual. Graham crackers, milk, and a brown scratchy napkin waits on our desks as the rest of the class finishes their library trip. The first recess is in the toy room of the single wide trailer and in the second recess we are able to run through the green grass and play independently of one another. Again my life is a dream full of caring adults and carefree children. I can’t wait until the bell rings so I can tell my mom how brave I was today. Soon moms scattered throughout our town will be waiting at home with a plate full of warm cookies and a loaf of fresh baked bread.

After school is let out I walk down the long lane kicking the rocks in the dirt and the willow trees are shading the driveway in the afternoon. I count how many dips are in the road where the rain puddled up last fall. My back is hot and sweaty from the large backpack strapped on to me. I long to be home and sit in the cool basement. I open the front door with a smile across my face, “Mom, guess what happened to me today? I got to school and no one was there and I sat on the stairs and I cried until Mrs. Hansen came to get me!” I start to tear up again because of the fear of being left alone. Mom wraps me in a hug and says, “Oh sweetheart, I am so sorry. I dropped you off a little late this morning and I didn’t realize your class would be in the library. I should have communicated with the teacher that you were going to be late today. Are you okay?” I stutter, “I am okay now. My teacher found me on the steps and took me inside.”

Lastly, mistakes are made and every parent has dropped their kids off to school a few minutes after the bell has rang. This small mishap of communication left me feeling a little uneasy but we soon corrected the problem and I was able to go about my day. Our small school was set up a little differently than the schools are today. There was no check -in or check-out policy. People were a little more trusting and things were simpler when I was a child.

Of course the problem could have been solved through communicating to the teacher the night before. Communication is important because it helps us feel accomplished. Decision making is at its best when we communicate well and it can also bring both parties peace of mind when we speak clearly and directly.

Try these three things the next time you are in a conversation:
1. Be confident and express yourself.
2. Keep your body open. (good posture and uncrossed arms and legs)
3. Be specific about your message you are trying to convey.
A great place to practice your communication skills is over the dinner table. Here is a delicious recipe that will leave your mouth watering. You can practice by asking questions like these: “Let’s plan a fun activity for winter break. What would you like to do?” or, “Is there a new hobby or skill that you would like to try out?” ‘Would you rather’ questions is also another fun way to engage your family and friends at the dinner table. You will be able to feed anyone this tasty dish and they will be talking about it for days.

Bow ties with Capers and Tomatoes

1 pound uncooked bow-tie pasta

½ pounds cherry tomatoes, halved

⅓ cup fresh basil

½ cup capers, drained and rinsed

⅓ cup olive oil

3 large garlic clove, minced

1 shallot, minced

2 2.25 cans sliced black olives

¾ up grated parmesan cheese

crushed red pepper flakes to taste

salt and pepper to taste

Directions:
1. Cook the pasta according to directions. Drain and drizzle with olive oil to keep pasta from sticking.
2. Meanwhile, slice the tomatoes in half and place them in a large heated sauté pan. Add Capers, olive oil, garlic, shallot, and olives. Sauté your veg. until ingredients are heated through.
3. Combine your cooked pasta with your sautéed vegetables. Heat through and Add your parmesan cheese, red pepper, and S & P to taste.
4. Chiffonade your basil for garnish and sprinkle on top. Drizzle with olive oil and possibly some more parm!
*serve with garlic bread and a caesar salad. Enjoy!!

Resources:

https://www.yourarticlelibrary.com/management/communication/importance-of-communication-in-management-13-importances/64033#:~:text=This%20article%20throws%20light%20on,Industrial%20Peace%2C%20(6)%20Helps
Title: 4-H Failure

August 23rd, 2023
Failure is dotted throughout the map of my life. I have taken random turns, climbed rocky hills, and stopped at unknown destinations. I have tried to learn from my misfires and defeats. Failure has pushed me to see the real me and it has helped me chart my course.

Without a doubt being a woman is totally legit. Everyday women around the world slip into our imaginary superhero costumes. We symbolically pull on our blue leotard with the gold belt cinched tight across our waist. We slip into our make believe knee high red boots and try to walk with confidence and determination. The Superwoman symbol projects our awesomeness as we go throughout our day endlessly serving around us. As we move on to our next assignment our bold red cape quietly flaps behind us letting our family, community, and loved ones know that they will be back again real soon to carry on. Sometimes our fictitious suit doesn’t quite fit us and it makes us extremely uncomfortable. There is a quiet reverence that resides within our soul as we partner with God. We know we can make adjustments and become unconquerable. Our blue suit gets stained and dirty from organizing our homes, working to help provide, cooking nutritious meals, rallying around our children’s baseball teams, kneeling to teach our child to pray, rocking a sick grandbaby, mentoring a youth, supporting a friend, teaching children in the community to read, supporting others around us and sometimes we even climb to the top of the 4-H ladder. At night when we are exhausted and our pretend Superwoman suit hits the side of the laundry basket and we pull our red boots off of our sore feet we learn to turn it all over to God.

Looking back to 1988 there are a lot of women who stretch on their red and blue hero suits every morning at the crack of dawn. They share their talents and they often step up to help me and other children in my small community gain a skill. Some teach piano lessons, others teach dance, woodworking, guitar, and singing lessons are a few of the talents sprinkled throughout our small town.

Unbeknownst to me I have signed up to join a 4-H woodworking/painting class. I am over the top excited. For some reason I have an inner pulse that is always beating the word create, create, create. I am not sure what this pulse is exactly directing me to but I cannot wait to learn how to cut wood and paint. I step outside of our front door onto our hot cement pad and I look to the right and I can see the 4-H teachers’ new home sitting on a hill. Looking at her house on the hill the wheat grass in the field is tall and green. It makes waves in the summer breeze as it gently bends with the wind and in a month or so it will be ready to harvest. I am so excited for the upcoming class I almost want to march through the three foot tall grain and wait at the teachers door until the class starts. I love to watch the tall stalks of grain move gracefully from a distance but I know from first hand experience that I would arrive at the top of the hill itching like crazy. I will wait for dad to take me in his blue Chevrolet.

On the short drive to the 4-H class the windows are down and the summer breeze blows through the cab of the pick-up and I think about my teacher and all of her amazing skills. She is a middle aged Superwoman who’s ‘S’ is stamped largely on her chest. She is talented at sewing, cooking, and she bakes homemade bread. The teacher also loves to create. I know that I will be successful with her as my leader. I step up to the front door with my A-game on. I am going to be in the top of the class and everyone will revere my woodworking skills. I just know it.

We sit down in her living room on the floor around her coffee table and I notice a detailed handmade quilt hung over a ladder displayed for everyone to see. Last week I sat in my grandmother’s basement on a cold metal chair and she let me put in a few stitches on her quilt. I thought that was pure torture. I cannot stand the slow progress I made with those older wiser women moving at the pace of snails. They sit on those chairs all day and chat about the latest gossip moving their sharp little silver needles up and down and in and out. If my 4-H teacher did that quilt all by herself I automatically have respect for her but that is not the direction I want to take my own creativity. I am not made for slow, detailed, and painful processes.

Our leader hands us out packets with instructions and talks with a smile pasted on her face for an hour. She directs us to the door where our parents are waiting. Aww shucks! I didn’t think we would be sitting around listening to instructions! I want to be rip roaring my 2×4’s through the saw in the woodshop. I imagined myself completing this project today. I like to start a project, work on it with as little detail and effort as possible, and then race to the finish line with a beautiful finished product. That is what I thought this club would be. I will have to wait one more week and I hope we will be able to at least see the saw. I walk towards my dads pick-up with a little bit of wind taken from my sails. I lay the instructions on the seat of the pick-up and we drive off knowing that I will have to wait another week before any of the magic begins.

The following week we are given strict instructions on using the saw. Our teacher helps us learn the safety guidelines. Then one by one we each get a turn at the saw. I sit on the couch nervous and giddy as I wait for my turn on the saw. She calls my name, “Dari, it’s your turn to come and cut your wood.” I bounce in step behind her as we walk out to her garage. A large upright saw sits in a dark corner of her garage. “Hmmm”, I say to myself, “I imagined the woodshop to look less like a car garage and more like ‘This Old House’s workshop’ on channel 10.” The leader motions to the side of the machine and instructs me to turn the big red switch upwards. I flip the switch and the chain immediately hums through the metal plate. I lay my wood down on the table and I cut out the pencil drawn lines on the wood. I push the wood through the saw and it cuts with ease. I hurry through my straight lines and I lose no time as I come in sliding round my corners. I finish my cuts and I hastily shut off the heavy switch on the side of the machine. My teacher looks at me with surprise and blinks several times at me. I smile widely because I know that I was the quickest ban saw cutter in the group. She pats me on the back and we walk back into the room.

The next week we get to hammer the nails into the sides and connect our support and top altogether. I am so excited to see my boards take the form of a bench. I hammer carelessly into the sides of my wood while some girls are marking and measuring precisely where their nails will enter their wooden bench. I just want to be finished with this ongoing project that should have been completed last week. I am all ready to pour the paint on. I sit and tap my fingers on the side of my cheek as I am slumped over waiting for the ‘slow ones’.

Finally the last week of our 4-H class is here and we get to paint our benches a muted cream color and then stencil a girl on top that slightly resembles an african american cabbage patch kid. I blow on my bench and try to hurry the wet paint so I can slosh down my stencil and dab in the colors with my stencil brush. I secure my stencil to the almost dried wood and I choose my colors for the cut out doll. I love these big blue sponge stencil brushes. There is something exciting about dabbing in your paint and then pushing in the color through the stencil. I pull the beige masking tape from the sides of my stencil. A little paint from the wood comes up from the paint because I didn’t let my bench completely dry. Ooops! I dabbed a little too much paint onto the doll’s face and now she has a bonus cheek on the side of her face. Oh well, I quickly pull the rest of the stencil off of the bench and I am proud to be the owner of this imperfect bench.

I look around at the other benches and some of them look similar to mine and others are gleaming with perfect stencil dabbing. “Wow, the details!” I say as I tell the girl sitting across from me. She smiles and says, “Thanks.” My neighbor’s bench looks slightly worse than mine. I elbow her, “niiiccceeee!” She stares back at me confused at the comment.

Everyone’s benches are finished and it is time for the teacher to make the rounds and evaluate us against a particular standard. She holds mine up and observes that the paint did not get all the way under the bench. The nails are not matching and they are hammered in crooked on both sides. The paint was not carefully stenciled and the final blow to my woodworking career is that my bench wobbles. She tests it on the coffee table in front of the class. It clicks from side to side as she holds pressure on the top of the bench. My face reddens and I want to sink under the table. I want to cry out, “I hate the details! This is just like my Grandmother’s quilts. Too much detail!” My bench is unacceptable, low-grade, and second-rate according to the 4-H standards.

I carry my below average bench home and I swore I would keep it forever. I placed it perfectly at the foot of our blue bathroom vanity in the main level of our house. I want a reminder that I made this imperfect bench. I want to look in the mirror with pride every time I stand on it and teeter back and forth.

Lastly, the bench was imperfect and I kept that off-kelter bench for more than twenty years. It was a reminder to me that I failed. I didn’t understand the lesson as a child. I know God was kindly directing me away from detailed projects. [haha] Through my failed attempts at detailed projects I have found that I have become more of a free-stylist. This pathway has offered me all different kinds of creative avenues. I admire others who are in the details of creating. Failure has opened opportunities for me to take another direction or look at something with a different perspective. I have bumped into my nemesis ‘the detail’ a few times. We have worked a few things out and because I often fail I am Learning to rely on God and let him guide me to what He wants me to be.

Here are three things you could try to help you master a skill set.
1. Try something new. It doesn’t work out? Realize that failure is a part of the process. I love to create but I was looking in the wrong creative department. I found through this process as a young girl that my benches would be freestyle benches and unrestricted by measurement and perfect stencil patterns. {little did I know that off the cuff creativity would become popular.}
2. Progression, practice, and planning can help you be successful in learning a new skill. After I was married I bought a bandsaw and I cut a lot of wood. My pieces had my name written all over them because I created and worked on my own style through practicing.
3. Learn to stop, rest, and re-evaluate. Trying new things can quickly overwhelm us. Learning to take small breaks can rejuvenate us and give us energy to carry on.
https://zapier.com/blog/learning-new-skills/
Title: Putting my dance skills into practice

August 16th, 2023
Sometimes we walk in a specific direction and need to turn around and take a different route. The skills and lessons we learn along the way are never wasted. The lessons we learn follow us when we discover other roads untraveled. We can apply any application that we learn from a skill or an experience that we either achieve or fail at.

I stand on our hot concrete and stare at the monarch butterfly floating through our yard. It carelessly floats through the sky. Its wings are reddish orange with bold black lines running through it. It flutters through the summer air without making a sound. It lands on the large white rock in the middle of our yard and I run to try and catch it and hold it in my hand. It takes flight from the rock and continues to pollinate our flowers and plants. I run after the butterfly and jump in the air when it flies high. I mimic its strong wings by hopping up on one foot and moving my own imaginary wings in succession. The butterfly is quiet yet powerful and bold. It travels thousands of miles and carries pollen to plants and it helps cultivate seeds, food, and beauty in my little world. I watch it for a while knowing that I will never be able to catch this butterfly. Not today anyway but I can try again tomorrow. I sense that I am like this butterfly in a way. I am quiet and I want to fly away when people get too close. I know that God created me for a purpose and for something great but I am still small. This butterfly has a very specific purpose in its life. I have years to figure out who I am and what my specific purpose is. I have not yet traveled to places that the butterfly has seen and experienced. I know that through my own exposure to elements I will one day be able to spread my wings and fly high like this beautiful monarch that came to visit today. The monarch flies off to find another milkweed plant in the heat of the afternoon. Mom calls through the kitchen screen window, “it’s time to come in for lunch.” I forget about the butterfly and run into the cool kitchen to eat.

The following week I start dance lessons. I am excited to try something new. Maybe this will be my big moment and I will be amazing at dancing. I have never had dance lessons before. I start the first dance with excitement. My dads sister is the dance teacher. I know everyone in my class. My neighbor down the road is sitting on the bench putting her shoes on and getting ready for the class. My cousin and my other friends from school are also in this class. I feel a little superior because I am the teacher’s niece and I am sure my dancing ability will be impeccable because of my family relation. I am placed on the dusty wooden dance floor to the left of my Aunt. I try to catch her eye and have her pay special attention to me. Our eyes never connect because she is concentrating on teaching the steps to a dozen of other seven year old children.

I continue to go to dance lessons and I start to realize every step is named something. Today we learned about ‘shuffle ball change’. During lessons I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shuffle the ball and then change or bounce the ball and then shuffle? What was Patty talking about? We repeatedly work on different dance steps. I finally understand what she is saying but I am constantly getting the timing wrong. She counts out loud, “Dari, one, two, three, four and again one, two, three, four.” She audibly counts while holding my attention and trying to help me listen to the music and move my feet correctly. I am struggling to feel the rhythm of the music. The one, two, three, four, does not transfer from my brain to my toes. I think maybe God took out my timing belt when I was born or he possibly tightened it too tight. I feel like my ‘dancing’ engine keeps misfiring and there are times when I can’t even fire up my own engine. Yikes! I am not the dance prized pupil I thought I would be. I try over and over again and I still am not able to get the counting in sync with the steps. Maybe I should just slink back into the far corner where I can make up my own choreography. You know one of those kids who beat to their own drum. Well I probably couldn’t stay on beat but I could definitely hit the drum.

The next lesson I start to feel uncomfortable in my own body and I am questioning my ability to dance. Maybe I am not in shape enough or maybe I need to be more flexible. I have always wanted a pair of leg warmers that scrunch up around my ankles. It is possible that I don’t have the right clothing and that is why things aren’t clicking for me. I look up at the picture hung high on the other side of the dance room and there is a framed ballerina. She is wearing a pink tutu bent over tying her ribbons around her left leg on her pointe shoes. She looks so beautiful with her hair pulled up and so graceful as she bends her body forward to knot her pink ribbons high around her ankle. I don’t think I could ever be as refined as the girl in the picture is. After class I am going to check to see if I can even touch my toes. I wonder why I am taking this class? I feel like I am the ugly duckling amongst the elegant dancing swans.

My friend’s mom brings in a pile of costumes into one of the bedrooms adjacent to the dance floor. Today we get to try on our costumes for the upcoming performance. Maybe my costume will help me be a more poised dancer. I take my turn in the bedroom trying on my black, white, and yellow contraption. I pull on my black tights first and my legs are too long for the size someone purchased for me. I can barely pull the itchy tights half way up my thighs. I pull and tug and I am careful not to rip a hole in the constricting nylons. I finally get them to barely hold on to my waist as I shimmy into the costume. The costume is tight on my ribs and my upper thighs are squeezing out of the leg holes. At least it is holding my tights up that are barely hanging around my mid thighs. I bend to the left and then to the right to get my shoulders under the white starched lace that is supposed to sit daintily over my shoulders. I jump up and down pulling hard while the lace scrapes my skin and moves grudgingly into place. I don’t want to come out of this room and show anyone what I look like. I resemble a lady of the night stuffed in a bee costume.

Finally it is picture week and our performance is next week so we need to be in our costumes and have our hair fixed nicely. I am grateful for a mom who is a beautician. She can at least make my hair and face look stylish and elegant. We lined up in the corner of the dance floor. I am placed in the back because of my height. I itch all over and I am pulling at my costume for over an hour. I could not wait to take the stupid bee costume off. I complain to my mom, “I can’t pull the front up high enough. I think I might be showing something I shouldn’t show.” My mom said, “Maybe we can tuck some lace down the front of your costume.” I complain, “Oh no, mom, no more rough lace.” She directs me over to the corner to get my picture taken. I stand in the back with my left leg stretched out and my right arm pointing to the back corner. The photographer looks at me and says you need to have long limber arms. I tried hard to stretch my arms out so I could perfectly frame the other dancers. The picture taker comes over and adjusts my long leg just how she wants it. Every time someone positions me to lengthen my arm or my leg a stitch pops in my costume.

At last it was time for our performance. I still don’t know the timing very well and the steps are almost there in my mind and in my feet. If only I had six more months to practice or some private tutoring I could have possibly mastered the dance. Flailing around in the back row under the bright lights is a perfect place to hide my long bee body. I can easily mimic the person in front of me. Step, ball change, heel toe, heel toe, turn, clap. One and two and…. Oops, no “and” it is just a simple one, two, three, four. Eeek! Oh well. I have about 40 more seconds on this grand stage and they are going to close those heavy red curtains. I can hold out a few more seconds.

Although I was not the next ‘Ginger Rogers’ I could still probably teach anyone the “step-ball-change dance move”. I learned valuable lessons because I made mistakes and failed. One of the lessons that I can apply today is to have a growth mindset. I am able to pick up things that I did/did not like about my dancing and experience and grow. It also taught me to change my perspective. I will never be a professional clogger but I could possibly take lessons in freestyle or contemporary dance and be successful. This experience taught me to change my perspective. I also learned to conquer hard things and to be a finisher. Here are a few things that I learned to apply in my own life.
1. I have tried multiple things to find out what is right for me. I am not going to be good at everything. It took me a lot of wrong directions to find the right direction. Once I found my passion and talents I moved in those directions.
2. I have learned to change my perspective. I still struggle with timing. That’s okay- Maybe contemporary dance would’ve been more my thing if it was available to me.
3. Sometimes it’s not who you know…It’s who God intended me to be. Just because I was blood related to someone does not mean that I am going to be good at what they’re good at. I had to find my own path.
4. I had to be willing to make changes in my life. It has taken me a lifetime to learn that if something doesn’t work out, I need to realize that God is trying to move me in another direction. I’ve learned to let go of some things and have a little faith in Heavenly Father’s plan.
5. I learned to pray for talents that I would be good at. Dancing was never an answer to any of those prayers. (haha)
I didn’t dance very much longer. It’s a possibility that my mom and dad got together because of sheer embarrassment and banned me from the sport. There could have possibly been a family counsel and they decided that I was shaming the family name. Overall I am glad I had the experience because it helped guide me to where I needed to be. The skills and applications I learned over and over in my youth have helped me to build the person I am today.

Here are three things you can try:
1. Be disciplined: I finished what I started. I could have hid in my aunt’s basement and never shown my face in the dance class again. I chose to stay and complete all the classes and also dance at the spring concert. I chose to finish something even when I knew at a young age that this was not the talent for me.
2. Failure is an essential part of life: I felt like I failed every week in class. That was okay because it was a soft place to land. I was in a basement of a home that I was very familiar with. I learned at an early age that I had weaknesses and strengths. I crossed dancing off the list early and moved onto something that brought me more joy and fulfillment.
3. Be resilient: I am continuing to learn how to be resilient and bounce back. I am understanding more and more how God is shaping and molding me.
Resources:

https://www.nature.org/en-us/what-we-do/our-priorities/tackle-climate-change/climate-change-stories/monarch-butterflies-us-mexico/#:~:text=As%20pollinators%2C%20the%20monarch%20butterfly,enjoy%2C%20like%20squash%20and%20blueberries.

https://www.indeed.com/career-advice/career-development/life-skills

https://www.betterup.com/blog/learning-from-failure#:~:text=Failures%20teach%20us%20flexibility%2C%20adaptability,us%20adopt%20that%20growth%20mindset.
Title: Learning to dedicate myself

August 9th, 2023
Sometimes dedication comes in waves. I have felt super dedicated and focused for a period of time and then I slump down the hill to loafing around and inactivity. Being a mother has taught me many things. One of the aspects of motherhood that has moved me in the right direction is how to be dedicated.

I sit at the large second hand kitchen table. The top wooden veneer is chipping in the center extension of the large wooden surface. I look at the table and realize that it is too large for my oblong seating area adjacent to the kitchen. This is where we eat, study, craft, talk, and gather. I look out at the new windows my husband installed last fall and I notice the snow is huddled up in the shade of the trees trying to hold on to the chill of last winter. My scriptures are open and I am desperately trying to find answers to the direction we should take in our lives. My husband will complete his program at the two year college and he needs to move to a University to finish his degree. He also has a job at UPS that he needs to transfer to for work. I fumble through the pages of first Nephi in the Book of Mormon. I find myself drawn to Lehi moving his family to a foreign land. I come to verse 13 in chapter 17 it reads, “And I will also be your light in the wilderness’ and I will prepare the way before you, if it so be that ye shall keep my commandments; wherefore, inasmuch as ye shall keep my commandments ye shall be led towards the promised land; and ye shall know that it is by me that ye are led.” I have an overwhelming feeling that Moscow, Idaho will be our promised land. Peace surrounds me and I write in the column of my scriptures, “I know the Lord will lead our family to where we need to be. To our own “Promised” land.” Fear creeps in immediately after this feeling of peace and I have a list of worries a mile long: selling the house, moving, cleaning everything, finances, leaving our family and parents, pulling the kids away from their cousins and grandparents, leaving everyone we know and all of our resources, leaving our ward that we have been mentored and loved in, finding a new place to live, and finally being completely on our own and living nine hours from our family.

Besides feeling scared to death, overwhelmed, and stepping forward in a new direction, we start making preparations to move to a new area. I feel determined to set the wheels in motion. I call a trusted realtor in the area and he looks the house over and we seal the deal.

Finally our house is sold and we move our family of five into my moms house for a month. We are storing all of our household items in a trailer my husband borrowed. It feels weird not to have a home anymore. We are kind of in limbo for a while and although this decision feels right to move to complete Alan’s education I am terrified of the unknown.

Lastly, the time has come for us to transfer our boxes, furniture, and beds from one trailer to the large Uhaul van. How in the world did we acquire so much stuff in the last fourteen years of our marriage. I am about ready to just light a match to it all. I tend to teeter on the minimalist side of life.

In Spite of all the boxes hauling back and forth and then driving 10 hours in a family convoy. We run into a small snow storm going through Montana and the roads are covered with ice. I grip the wheels and silently pray for our slow moving procession. I turn and check on the children and they are smiling with excitement. We finally made it to our home for the next four years. We are so tired but there is no time to rest. We have to get some boxes and mattresses out of the Uhaul so we can sleep in the house tonight.

The following morning Alan walks through the backdoor and into the kitchen holding my black heavy kitchen aid in his hands and says, “Dari, We have some extra visitors that came in the Uhaul with us. Their family has built a home inside of your mixer. Do you still want to keep it?” “Is it mice?” I say with disgust?” He nods his head and stares at me in the doorway waiting for me to make my decision. I cover my mouth to keep myself from throwing up. I turn away from him, “Please Alan, take it outside and clean and disinfect it. I can’t throw that expensive kitchen aid away.” I think to myself I have to make use of what I have because these next four years are going to be financially difficult. I purposefully keep unloading the boxes in the kitchen to keep my mind off of our new acquired friends that my husband is evicting from their home.

Alan starts his job the following Tuesday and he is nervous to be in a strange place and I am nervous to be left alone at night. I look outside my backdoor and we have a shared yard with three other houses. I question if it is safe for my children? I am determined to make this work for our family. This is our first for a lot of things in our life and I am almost panic-stricken. I walk up the narrow staircase to our room and I hear noises outside down in the yard. I carefully pull a dusty shade down and stare at the yard below me. There are college girls renting the house next to us and they must be having a graduation party. They are loud and drinking and Alan just left me for his job. I am not sure this is going to work for my family? Were we really supposed to move to this place? Maybe I was wrong about my earlier inspiration from the spirit.

In addition to the anxiety I have felt moving to a new place we are beginning to get into a routine. Alan has started his classes and is starting to become familiar with the campus and his work. The holidays are approaching and it looks like we will be making little benches out of some scrap wood Alan has in our small attached garage. We brought some paint and craft supplies from SE Idaho. I will be able to paint them and make them look cute. Alan comes home late after work and asks, “Do you think I should work the ‘eve’s’ for the upcoming holidays? I will get paid extra if I work them.” I respond with a little trepidation in my voice, “yes. I will do something with the kids on Christmas eve and we can pop some popcorn and watch a movie on New Year’s eve. We need the extra money so you should go ahead and pick up the extra shifts.”

Christmas eve approaches and my children are used to going to their grandparents and seeing their lit up Christmas tree and playing with their cousins. This Christmas there are no lights and there is no sparkling green evergreen sitting in the corner with presents under it. I sit at my table and I want to throw a tantrum the size of a giant hurricane. What has happened? I am sitting here hours away from anyone I know and I have no resources, no friends, no family, and no Christmas and my husband is in another town working. I am so upset I want to throw something, scream, and curse this day away. I am in my mid thirties and things are still really difficult. It’s like I started back to ground zero again and I am going to have to build it all back up. I am angry at my situation. My oldest looks at me from the floor and says, “mom, what’s wrong? It’s Christmas eve!” I want to roll my eyes at the words coming out of her innocent mouth. “What’s wrong?” I repeat the words even louder, “What’s wrong? Everything!” I say in disgust. I mentally make a list of all of my problems and I want to share the list of woes with my children. Something stops me. A voice drifts into my consciousness. “Dari, you are their mother. You create the feeling in the home. Be creative and show them what Christmas is all about.” The thought leaves me speechless. A tear rolls down my cheek and determination immediately stomps all over my self-pity. I check my bank account and there is $20 left in my checking. It is almost eight o’clock and my husband will be working until eleven o’clock tonight. I call every pizza place from Moscow to Pullman and one finally picks up the phone. “Pizza hut. Just so you know we are closing in fifteen minutes.” I quickly ramble, “please could you help me out? Could you make me a medium canadian bacon pizza? I will be there in 12 minutes.” They respond with a sigh, “I guess. Don’t be late.” and they hung up the phone. I excitedly shout, “kids, get your coats and get in the car we are going on an adventure. Their faces light up like the missing Christmas lights that should be happily hanging from our porch. I push down the gas pedal to our car and pray that we will have enough gas to make it to the next paycheck. I don’t care anyway I am going to make this night unforgettable for my family. I pull into the UPS yard and call my husband. “We are outside and we brought Christmas Eve to you!” He walks out of the building with a smile on his face and as he opens the driver side door. The kids chant UPS in the backseat as their dad jumps in the car and smells the hot pizza. I realized for the first time in my life that my attitude as a mother has the ability to elevate the mood in our home and change the way my children look at life.

One week later I find myself in the same slump as Alan walks out the door to work his night shift on New Year’s eve. He says, “Oh by the way there’s a lot of packages tonight and so I won’t be home until one or two in the morning.” He leaves and I close the front door with more force than usual. What am I going to do tonight? It’s four in the afternoon and I have nothing planned and I am homebound in the middle of the winter with no money. I sit and sulk as I rock my three year old on my lap. The girls come up to the recliner and want to know what we are doing for New year’s eve? I am curt as I say, “nothing! We are all doing nothing.” I remember that little voice from last week and I think and I pray in my head for help. I search pinterest for New year’s eve ideas and Minute to Win it games appear all over my board. I found some things in the house that I could use for the games. I decide to do games every hour and pop a balloon for each hour on the clock. All I need are balloons and cups. I set my son down and I go to search for some extra change. I make a quick trip down to the dollar store and pick up the two items. When I get home I make a list of games to entertain us throughout the night:
- 7:00 Yahtzee
- 8:00 Hide ‘n Seek
- 9:00 Keep the balloons up in the air
- 10:00 Uno
- 11:00 Stack cups
- 12:00 Write down goals
We are all so excited to write the times on the white balloons in black marker and hang them on the columns that separate the dining room from the living room. We have never done anything like this before and we can’t wait for seven o’clock! I am set-on this being a happy joyous night for my children to remember forever. The games begin and we are laughing and smiling and celebrating the new year.

Plato, an ancient Greek philosopher said, “Necessity is the mother of invention.” It was necessary for me to grow and learn how to be a better mother. My inventions didn’t stop world hunger or bring peace to war-torn countries. On a large scale I was one mother on a dot on a map in the northern part of the United States. I hope my miniscule ‘inventions’ changed the world and the minds of my own children for the better.

Finally, motherhood taught me dedication, work ethic, and to sacrifice for the greater good. The next four years in Northern Idaho were built on me being a creative and happy mother. Northern Idaho became our ‘promised land’. It was a place where we learned foundational tools for our future. I learned to have greater faith, I learned to love people who were different than me, I learned how to be a Christian, I learned to serve.

Here are three things you can try to help you be more dedicated in whatever you choose to do:
1. Pray: Pray for strength and ideas. Put God in your life and let him guide and help your efforts.
2. Plan: Make lists, outlines, and Drafts of what you want to accomplish.
3. Be positive: I found that when I was wallowing in my own self-pity my mind was not in creative mode. I had to believe in myself and change my thinking.
Resources:

https://quotefancy.com/quote/26544/Plato-Necessity-is-the-mother-of-invention

https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/scriptures/bofm/1-ne/17?lang=eng
Title: Persisting against all odds

August 2nd, 2023
Perseverance, determination and being constant are three words that would describe my dad perfectly. At the end of his mortal life there was not a pot waiting at the end of the rainbow for him or a million dollars directly deposited into his banking account. He left this world with an abundance of silent lessons and experiences that he passed onto his five children. I am sure there were a few others sprinkled around him that learned from his steadiness. When we try to persevere in our lives and push forward with determination we will find joy and success.

  J. Golden Kimball (1853-1938) was a leader of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (LDS Church). He served as a member of the first council of the seventy. Our family would read his narratives and laugh loudly at his profanity over the pulpit. “I won’t go to hell for swearing because I repent too damn fast!” He boldly stated. He had a way with words and cursing was how he got his point across. I enjoyed his strategy of directing the early saints. He was comical yet stern and direct. I never missed the emphasis on his words.

At this time I have not said my first swear word. I hear lots of different curse words. I am almost 11 years old and I don’t think my time has come to speak a little vulgarity. I hear plenty of words when we are running the cattle through the chute, herding cows, or looking for strays. There are some words [I guess you call them that?] that I have never heard before. I try to conjure up in my mind what my brother is talking about but I just dismiss the words and trail behind him. When we gather with my cousins and grandparents, ‘damn’ and ‘hell’ are just apart of most of the adults’ speech. It feels normal and natural when it rolls off of my Grandpa’s tongue. It feels like.…home.

Although some curse words don’t phase me too much. Other vulgar words almost wound my soul. There is one person I have never heard swear in all of my ten years. My dad. Sometimes I wonder why he doesn’t curse because I have never seen him stand up straight, had him walk by my side, or run to me when I needed help because he is handicapped and has been since before I was born. My dad should have been given a personal ticket tucked in his diaper from heaven that said, “‘swearing approved”.

With this in mind I need to give you a few more context clues on why he should have had this ‘personal ticket’. He slept in a basement with a dirt floor [insert curse word here] next to his dads hired men [whom he loved]. A hay bale fell on the back of his neck when he was newly married with three young children. [insert curse word here] He was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and the hot summers drained a lot of his energy. He continued to walk with one crutch and then to two crutches. Eventually he was wheelchair bound. [more cursing] He owned land and cattle and had to feed on his hands and knees, [I would add a little more profanity here] dig out ditches to irrigate on his knees, dig post holes on his knees, [maybe some here too] fix fences on his knees, fix electrical problems, service pivots, and at last he used those knees for praying. He would slowly walk with crutches through the frozen backyard in the winter to the corrals to feed. There were times when there were imprints of his body in the snow where he had fallen and gotten back up to carry on. When dad played with us in the backyard he was on his knees playing baseball in the catcher’s position. He would sit in a lawn chair and watch our family play volleyball and basketball and run the football all over the yard.

My dad was also a man of routine. Before he came to the dinner table he washed his hands and combed his hair. He sat at the same place at every meal. He never ate too much food. He also never wasted anything on his plate. After each meal he drank a big glass of water. His breakfasts’ consisted mostly of eggs and rye toast. He consistently watched the six o’clock news. He was up early every morning and sat in his large open closet and slowly put one arm in his ironed snap button shirt. Then he carefully put on his pants. He reached for his white socks and picked up his leg and he steadily pulled on his socks. He inserted his feet that struggled to move and point into his stiff leather ankle boots and he zipped up the sides. He unsteadily stood up and made sure his shirt was tucked in neatly and his belt was fastened. As he maneuvered out of his closet ‘nick’ was embossed on the back of his leather belt. He walked slowly to the den that was adjacent to my parents bedroom. He sat at the desk and read his scriptures, wrote in his journal, and started the day with prayer. He was meticulous in his financing and budgeting. Every church calling he was given he showed up early and stayed late to complete the task. Everything he did took longer than normal, it was harder and more complicated, and he chose to persevere and complete every task given to him without a complaint.

In the light of all the previous curse words I walk out the back door in the hot afternoon sun to see if I can find dad. I left my shoes on the back porch and I felt the cool green grass between my toes. I get to the edge of the lawn and I see dad’s blue chevy parked by the irrigation pump. I stopped to see the best pathway to take. I could go along the fencepost and the sand filled ditch where the tumbleweeds loved to play and roll around. There are sometimes cactuses and other weeds that could poke my bare feet. I also could go over by the horse corral and the barn but that was too far out of my way. I just as well follow the sandy road that dad followed in his pick-up. The sun is beating down on my head and there is no breeze to roll the weeds around the sand today. They are all balled up against the fence. I hate those big ugly weeds. I don’t even know where they come from or when they will blow away. My feet have never been callused or hardened from walking barefoot. I feel like they are as sensitive now as they were when I first started walking on them. I almost curse myself for not putting on my shoes. I hold back. I shut my eyes tightly as I hobble across the stretch of road that has small rocks that jab at my feet with every step. As I slowly and painfully make my way across the jagged small rocks I finally land on the sand. The heat quickly penetrates from the hot sand to my bare feet and I painstakingly look around for a green flat weed to stand on to help cool my burning feet. I don’t see one and so I jump from foot to foot and find my way to the little shade the pickup is lending me. Dad is on his knees about 25 feet to the left of me. Sweat pours down his wrinkled forehead. Dads forehead always makes visible lines when he is either angry at the boys, surprised, or enthusiastically smiling at a small child. I always like to look at his head and count the wrinkles. His glasses are slid down his nose and I can tell he has been working for a long time near the pump. The big irrigation pump irrigates about 75 acres of our land and pushes out a large amount of water. The pump is protected by cinder blocks and there is a small manhole with a rickety ladder that you could climb down in if you wanted to be eaten by spiders, mice, badgers and snakes. I always walk as far away from the dark pit as I possibly can. I can tell from here that he has been working on the irrigation system for a while now. I sit and watch in silence and I move my feet to find another cool spot for my feet to rest. Dad never sees me standing by the rear view mirror of his Chevy. I have been here for about 20 minutes in the heat and I am starting to get thirsty and my shade is disappearing. I finally see dad crawl down from the mound the pump is on and onto the hot sand on his hands and knees. His felt hat has sweat stains around the brim from lots of long days in the sun. Today’s sweat is just adding to the soiled band around his head. His shirt has long sleeves snapped down to his wrist. His pants have grease stains and he is moving more slowly than usual. His steady movements come to a halt as he stops and he sits up on the back of his legs to rest. He sighs heavily in disgust. I still don’t think he sees me standing and staring at him. I don’t say a word because I want him to see me first. Even though he is not feeling his best and he has had a long afternoon in the heat I wait for him to look up and smile at me. The sweat keeps pouring down into his eyes and around his head. I can tell his breathing is labored and he needs to get out of the direct sunlight. He looks past me and stares for a moment. I wonder if he is okay? I start to get a little concerned by the way he is acting. I turn around and look behind me. I hear him say one word…a word my ears have never heard coming from his mouth…he blatantly says, ‘SHIT!” My mouth opens in awe at the curse word that traveled from his mouth to my ears. I look around for something that might be wrong. I finally notice that his rear driver’s side tire is flat. I put together the problems he has been dealing with all afternoon. The electrical problem on the pump combined with the flat tire and the heat that is wearing him down. I want to jump up and down and cheer him on! I have never been so proud of my dad. He has finally let out a little bit of profanity that has probably been bottled up in him since he was a teenager sleeping on the dirt floor. I am elated to hear that one singular word fly out of his mouth. In fact I want to jump out of my hiding place in the disappearing shade and shout, “Say it again Dad! In fact-we can say it together!”

Dad crawls slowly to where I am and says with a slanted smile, “Hello Dari, I guess I need to get that tire fixed.” We sit in the shade together as he cools down in the shade and his breathing normalizes. He gets on his knees and struggles to pull himself into the seat of the pick-up. I stand behind him in case he falls. I know I am too small to hold his weight if he falls backwards. I know one thing, If he can curse like that…I am willing to break his fall.

Of course you might say that this man couldn’t have done all he did. It’s a myth. Some might suggest that he has become a legend and that he has been made larger than life. He really did run a cow/calf operation, feed cattle on his hands and knees, irrigate with a shovel, and raise a family by his quiet examples of perseverance. He is a legend that helps me to carry on when my own life gets complicated, messy, and hard. He has since passed away and now he stands tall guiding his family with from another place. A place that is filled with peace, understanding, love, and true grit.

Watching my dad push forward with determination and perseverance has helped me throughout my life. It has helped me get through a trial, to be more accomplished, and to work harder.

Here are three things you can try that could help you find determination in your life:

1. Be positive. Anytime my dad was hurt, exhausted, or had a lot of work to do he never responded with a complaint or a negative remark.

2. Stay focused. There are always going to be ups and downs in our lives. Keep reminders around you (sticky notes or an object) that will remind you of where you want to be in the next couple of years. Move steadily towards your goals.

3. Don’t get overwhelmed. Learn to rest and relax and then hit it hard again. My dad taught us how to rest and then get right back on task. When you pace yourself one day you will look back and see how far you have moved. If you take consistent small steps you will be able to achieve greatness. Keep going!

In loving Memory of Nick R. Mickelsen 1948-2016

Nutritious meals like Rye toast and eggs, pot roast and veg., and hamburger stew were dishes we ate a lot of growing up. The right nutrients help us to focus and have more energy. These are things we need in our body when we want to be at our best physically, mentally, and spiritually.

One key ingredient in the following recipe is eggs. Eggs have 6g of protein. They are a low carb food and they contain healthy fats. They have nutrients and minerals that help turn fat into energy.

Another interesting fact about eggs is they promote healthy eyes and brain development.

Enjoy this recipe any time of day.

Recipe:

Pan Germans

Mix in a separate bowl

1 ¾ 219g cup all purpose flour

¼ tsp nutmeg

½ tsp. cinnamon

½ tsp salt

Mix in a separate bowl

1 ½ cup milk (room temperature)

6 eggs (room Temperature)

1 tsp. vanilla

1 tsp. almond extract

3 Tablespoons honey

Melt in an oven-safe lg. frying pan

4 Tbls. Butter
1. Mix the first four ingredients into a separate bowl and combine altogether.
2. Mix the next five ingredients into a large bowl and whisk the ingredients together until they are well blended.
3. Then add the flour mixture to the eggs/milk mixture and whisk until all the lumps are removed.
4. Heat a large frying pan (that can also go into the oven) on the stove top with four tablespoons of butter until melted.
5. Pour the batter over the butter and into the pan and insert into a cold oven
6. Turn the oven to 375 degrees and cook for 30-35 minutes.
The german pancakes should rise on the edges and the tips of the edges should be golden brown. Serve with apples and caramel sauce, fruit syrups, maple syrup, or fruit and whipped cream. To add more nutrients to this recipe you could also do a 50/50 mixture on the flour. Whole wheat/All purpose flour. Enjoy!

Resources:

https://quotefancy.com/j-golden-kimball-quotes

https://www.betterup.com/blog/characteristics-of-a-determined-person#:~:text=Becoming%20a%20determined%20person,-By%20now%2C%20you&text=They%20require%20hard%20work%2C%20focus,you’re%20working%20so%20hard.

https://www.verywellfit.com/hard-boiled-egg-calories-and-fat-3495628
Title: Rescued by my neighbor

July 26th, 2023
Have you ever been so low in the darkest place? One of my lowest points in my life I found myself pregnant with my fourth child, nine hours away from my family, and living in the northern tip of Idaho. By some miracle and by God’s grace someone came to rescue me. God inspired my neighbor and friend to lift me and to love me through serving me.

“I got called into the Bishop’s office for a calling today.” I say with a hint of a tone in my voice. My husband replies, “what did they call….?” I cut him off, “They had the flipping nerve to call me to be the teacher of the three year olds! I am seven months pregnant! I don’t want to sit with those rambunctious kids every Sunday. My gag reflex is stronger when I am pregnant and what if one of them has a snotty nose? I can’t take it! Do they expect me to get on the ground with them? I am NOT doing it! They gag on their graham crackers and spit runs down their mouth. Disgusting! Just talking about it makes me want to dry heave. I can’t take it right now. I can’t stand their little faces and their poopy diaper smells! The combination of poop and wet crackers together will send me to the ER with an early delivery. This is so inconsiderate of the primary to do this to me? The smell of the sunbeam room leaves me faint and their toys are covered in snot and all kinds of diseases. I h-a-t-e them!” My husband looks at me with concern and slightly wondering if I recently contracted the rabies virus. He calmly says, “Dari, it’s just the Sunbeam class. You’re going to be okay. I can come in and help you if you need me to.” I sit in our computer chair surrendering myself to my hateful thoughts. I am having a hard time controlling my temper and my feelings right now. My husband slides the keyboard over and clicks down the keys on the keyboard. Instantly the song, “I am a child of God” softly sings through the speakers. I take a few breaths in and out and I am able to relinquish my dark thoughts.

The following Sunday, feelings of hatred hit me full force. I can’t pin down why I am feeling these strong emotions towards certain people and I notice the emotions are also moving inward. A friend stops me in the hallway and says, “Dari, don’t you know that stripes and pregnancy don’t go together? I am aware I look like a walking whale at seven months pregnant. I have a very strong desire to rip her hair out and push her to the ground while I have a fake smile pasted on my face. I walk outside and breathe in the cool spring air. I walk back in the glass doors and decide to linger in the foyer because I am struggling with the mere sight of other people. I prop myself on the turquoise flowered couch. My green and white striped dress stretches over my swelling abdomen and the extra fabric falls to the floor. As I sit here I imagine targets drawn on a white sheet of paper pinned to the backs of collared shirts and flowery dresses. I see myself as a pregnant heroine holding a large bow and arrow sitting in the back row of the chapel. If you look at me wrong, you speak the wrong words, or you smell funny, I am willing and able to take you out of this world. I sit and seethe as I compile the list of members who are on my hit list.

Church is over and we make the quick drive around the corner and up the hill to our home. I move unsteadily from side to side as I work my way up our purple painted steps and move onto the weathered wood of the front porch. The large white boxy columns stand straight and tall as the red hammocks swing from side to side. The spring wind tunnels through the covered porch and I hurry to grab the old screen door. I walk through the door without a care for my children’s needs. I plop myself on our couch that sits right below the old front windows that are painted shut. Dinner can wait. I don’t care today. I sit and I think about swallowing a bottle of pills. I want to cry out for help but this unseen vice has got me so filled with malice that I can’t cry or speak. I only have one emotion lately and that is ‘hatred’. I desperately want this feeling to go away. I lay here and I close my eyes attempting to feel something other than abhorrence for myself. The hours tick by and Alan touches my shoulder, “Dari, what did you want to fix for dinner? Did you have a plan?” I pretend not to hear him as I lay quietly on the couch. He asks again, “Dari, what did you have planned for dinner?” I brush his hand away from me and say, “I don’t care. Do whatever you want to do.” I lay here as a solitary tear falls from my face. I can’t get this feeling of distaste for myself to go away. I ache inside of me and I want to slip away and never come back.

The following morning I have a little more bounce in my step and the sun is shining a little brighter through my metaphorical clouds. I don’t know why today is any different than any other day. I just feel better today. Maybe today is the day that the darkness will be gone for good.

Unfortunately, I realize I am suffering from Perinatal Depression. I wrestled with this in my second pregnancy. The ugly claws of depression are digging into me again with this pregnancy. It sits differently with me this time. Before it was a boxed in feeling. I would sit on the couch for hours and not want to leave my house for fear of something, nothing, just plain old fear. Talking became a burden and my personality moved inward. I became somewhat of an emotional mute. I was a robot mom only functioning on autopilot. This time the angle of depression hits differently. I am often filled with rage. I breathe hatred for others and for myself. I have never had thoughts of suicide in my life. Now I struggle to want to live. Day after day and night after night I ache to die. It is not just a solitary thought about death. It is an actual pain I have in my body and it constantly whispers about death in my ears. I want to run from it but I know it will follow me. I want to sleep it off but I know it will show up in my dreams. I want to journal happy thoughts but my raw feelings are mimicked in my writing. Everywhere I turn there is no escaping myself.

I feel without a doubt the days are shorter in Northern Idaho than in any other part of the United States. The light seeps out of my windows and darkness creeps in way too early in the afternoon. I abhor the long dark filled nights. I struggle with the rainy cloudy days and the long nights are especially difficult. Maybe this feeling is a foreshadowing of what’s to come.

Finally I made it to Tuesday and it is a particularly dark day. Yuck, who loves a Tuesday? I sit at the table and write out a grocery list and a meal plan for the week. My desire to have a ‘meal plan’ has walked out on me. I sit at my kitchen table and try to think of different varieties of food that will bring me some happiness. I decide on a few items and I gather the children to go to the store.

We arrive back at home just in time to see Alan before he goes to work at his night job. I look to my left and see a kitchen full of dishes and grocery bags. I look to my right and I watch the one dependable adult person in my life just walk out the door. I start to feed on the negativity building in my head and I start to shout at my children to put the groceries away. They look at me like I am a sick monster. My oldest daughter was born with a sixth sense and she has the ability to perceive when I am struggling. She quickly organizes the other children and each of them start helping with the chores. She stands by my side and carefully listens to the instructions of making dinner. She pulls out the cutting board and slices the bread for sandwiches. She plops the canned chicken into a bowl and mixes it with mayo, chopped grapes and apples. She adds a few more ingredients under my instructions. My body is aching with dread again. I watch the mess in my kitchen get moved around. I stand in the corner as darkness engulfs me. I hear muted noises as the grocery bags are emptied and the sink is filled with soapy water. My back touches the corner wall in my kitchen. I want to leave this dark mess and never come back. The mundane of my life is constant and sickening. I have hit an all time low. I start to slide down the wall to the floor and then I hear a faint knocking sound. Almost like it is coming from another place in my head. The irritating sound is coming from the front of my house. The sound bangs again. I look up and I see ‘hope’ standing on my front porch.

I motion my neighbor to come in. I am afraid she can see inside my scrambled head and she will discover my inner torment. She looks at me standing shamelessly in the corner. She assesses the disheveled kitchen with the crumb filled cutting board teetering on the edge of the counter top. She doesn’t ask how I am doing because I get the impression that she knows I need help. She says to me directly, “Come to my house in thirty minutes. I am feeding you and your children dinner.” I soberly decline while my inner thoughts are beating me up and screaming at me, GO..GO! She pauses only for a moment, “I am not taking no for an answer. We are feeding you tonight and we have a movie and popcorn after dinner. We will have fun together.” “I can’t.” I declare, “I already have dinner being prepped.” She looks me in the eye, “Put it in the fridge and eat it tomorrow. I will see you in thirty minutes.” She smiles at me and turns and walks out my door leaving me no choice but to join her family.

The door closes and I fall to my knees and tears cascade down my face. I pray to Heavenly Father, “You saved me tonight. You brought me a friend that knew how to help me. Thank you, Thank you.”

We walk in the dark crossing the road and down the gravel driveway. I am filled with guilt and shame because she is a witness to my struggles. Showing my vulnerabilities leaves me feeling uncomfortable and defenseless. A part of me wants to send my kids to dinner as I sprint across her yard and hide in the dark shadows of my own home. I pretend to be the responsible one in my little group and I knock on her door.

What is it about baked chicken that just heals the soul? The dinner table is set and the aromas of rosemary chicken fill the house. Her moms mismatched chairs and old wooden table adds to the warmth of the kitchen. The kids run upstairs to play and I am left to make small talk with my neighbors. Dread immediately lifts from my body and I find myself feeling loved and at home. I look past the table and I see an adjacent room that is illuminated in light. The light carpet is freshly vacuumed, the couches are covered in beautiful white duvets and the walls are a brilliant white batten board. The small comfortable round table in the corner has a small pot of white flowers sitting beautifully in the center. The polished windows are tall and wide and my eyes wander into their charming eclectic mix of gardens.

Dinner and company is exactly what I need tonight to help bring a little bit of happiness back into my souless life. My eyes are drawn to the white room and I long to be in light. I yearn to sit on her couch and let the whiteness of the room envelop my soul. I don’t dare ask to go into such a manicured area. My friend suddenly says after the dinner is cleaned up, “Kids come downstairs, it’s time to watch a movie.” I look around to see where she is directing everyone. I look at her with questioning eyes and she motions us to the ‘white room’. I ask, “Are you sure? You want me and my kids to go in there and watch a movie?” “Yes!” She says emphatically. “There are a few rules but we want to share this with you.” My tears were ready to salt my popcorn as I sat carefully on the charming white couch. I sit here with my friends surrounding me on a white couch in a white room with my feet touching her elegant floors. I think I am as close to heaven as I can possibly get.

As we get ready to leave I try to convey my appreciation as best as I can. I felt so much better and the ache inside of my body left me the moment when I inhaled the smell of baked chicken. Being around my friend and her family, eating dinner, and spending time with my wonderful neighbors gives me courage to go home and fight my own inner conflict. I breathe in the cool night air and I walk confidently across the road to the two story green house with the boxy white columns standing tall in the darkness.

Without a doubt my friend was a beacon in my dark night. She was inspired by God to help lift me and love me. She came to my family’s rescue when I had no fight left in me. Even Though she had her own challenges she reached out to me and served me.

Here are a few ideas that you can try when others are serving you
1. Accept others small acts of kindness because it can be healing. You never really know the impact you will have on another person’s life (unless they write about it! haha).
1. Be open to someone who wants to help you (a ministering sister, a neighbor, or a family member). God uses each of us to bless his children. I was blessed and gained courage to fight my own battles because someone cared enough to check on me.
1. ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself’: The second great commandment. I probably wouldn’t have gone into some stranger’s house and devoured their chicken okay? My friend loved me first and then she was able to help lift me in my circumstance.
Resources:

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/compassion-matters/202110/how-let-people-help-you

How to Accept Help

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/perinatal-depression
Title: Leaving on an impression

July 19th, 2023
Serving with a willing heart and a smile pasted on your face is the right way to serve right? I have probably gone to serve more times with a grudge than with a smile. I always come out with a lesson learned and I am usually served with a big slice of humble pie. God is always teaching me because I will forever be imperfect in this life. This is a story of service when my heart wasn’t in the right place. I took a leap of faith and followed an impression to help someone in need.

At this time my Dad has M.S. and he is currently living on his own. I help him shower and take care of his basic needs. I try to do all I can for him although it is a challenge with a young family. He is able to attend the temple, do his own shopping, and live on his own for now.

First and foremost, Sunday mornings are hard, too early, and a little chaotic trying to get to sacrament meeting on time. My three little kids are respectful and obedient. There is just a checklist a mile long to complete. Baths, hair, dresses, shoes, ties, shirts, ironing, breakfast, quiet books, callings to fulfill, dinner prep and trying to keep a clean house. I am usually ready for a nap once I finally hit the cushioned bench in the chapel. In my mind I am mentally preparing for junior and senior singing time as I call out orders to my oldest daughter for help. Sometimes I feel pressure to present a song and dance for the kids to keep them entertained in Primary. I am also thinking about the next ward activity that is coming up next month and all the finite details I need to take care of as I blow dry my daughters curly brown hair. To top it all off I am in charge of girls camp this summer. I am feeling the pressure to accomplish my long list of duties within my family and within my church responsibilities .

My husband left an hour ago to attend his church meetings. I am rushing to take care of all the details of Sunday morning. As I am getting my three kids ready I realize I don’t have enough time to try a new activity in [primary] singing time. I am just going to wing it. I am going to have all the children with white shoes sing and compete with all of the children with black and assorted colors of shoes. That always works well. This primary group loves a good competition. It is fun to see them sing out and find joy in feeling the spirit through song. I pull my two year old from the tub and call for his sister to help me get him dressed. I quickly part my daughters hair on the diagonal and braid in three cornrows. We pick out a cute little dress that goes with her hair. I gel my son’s hair and send him out to the living room. Now all I have left to fix is myself. What can I throw on and make my frazzled self look half decent?

I yell into the living room, “You guys don’t forget your morning prayers!” This also serves as a good reminder for myself. I go to my bedroom and hit my knees for a few moments. My mind is not paying attention to the words that are being repeated inside my head. Aren’t we constantly warned about rote prayers? Well, here I am reciting, repeating, and retelling words that have been in my prayers a thousand times. My mind is off somewhere thinking about the girls camp committee and if we will all get along. I appropriately end my prayer. My first impression is to jump up and finish getting myself ready for the Sabbath. I sense I should stay down on my knees for a moment. I let out a small frustrated sigh as I sit and I wait on an impression or a revelation to fill my mind. I sort through my thoughts that I had earlier, “Lord, is there something you need to enlighten me about any of my callings or my kids?” There is silence and nothing penetrates my scrambled thoughts. Irritated, I jump up to my feet and hurry to my closet to look for something to pair together. I walk over to my side of the bed to check the time and I assess that we are going to be late if I don’t hurry. A clear impression pierces my heart and I stop, “Go check on your Dad.” “No, leave me alone. I can’t right now. Can’t you see that my hands are full this morning?” I repeat in my head. Again the strong impression comes, “Leave everything and go check on your Dad.” I rehearse in my head, “right now? You want me to go right now?” The feeling comes back even stronger the third time. I think to myself this is crazy. I am at the point of tears because I just can’t leave everything and go… I quickly find the phone and I dial the church’s clerk’s office and I tell my husband my situation. Alan is understanding of my impression and he hurries home to take the kids to church so I can leave.

My heart is beating fast as I run through my kitchen with a plump chicken thawing in the sink. I jump into my car and I am careful to go the speed limit. I pull out onto the highway and I know I need to push the accelerator down as fast as it will go. I throw away all caution of getting a speeding ticket. Emotions well up in my eyes as I realize my Dad must be in trouble. I had been in to visit him yesterday afternoon and he seemed fine. I have a deep urgency to hurry to get to him. I pull into his apartment complex and I shove the car into park. I slam my door and I hurry to the front of the large gray building. I swing the door open and a sour mildew smell accosts me. Maintenance must have just had these dingy carpets shampooed. I hurry down the long hall and when I reach my dads hall I start into a dead run to his door. I knock on his door to his apartment and there is no sound. I reassess my emotions and I check myself. “He is fine,” I tell myself. “I have left everything behind for no reason. He is just asleep.” I knock a second time and there is no call to come in from the other side. I turn the door knob and what I see in front of me almost brings me to my knees. I immediately dial 9-1-1 and call for help.

I run to my dads side and he has slipped through his seat belt on his wheelchair and his arms are raised high above his head. His back is arched out and his knees have fallen sideways on the floor. The T.V. is talking in the background with colors flashing. I glance into the kitchen and I see last night’s dinner of fried chicken out on the counter top. His apartment has a distinct smell of urine and meals on wheels. I push past all of this and I see my dad hung up in his wheelchair. He has been this way all night long. He has trouble responding to me and his eyes look at me like a crazed bull that’s been locked in a chute for far too long. He never has his seatbelt done up on his chair. I was confused why he was buckled in? I kneel at his side and I touch him and ask, “Dad, what happened?” he gasps out in short sentences, “Temple…bus… did not unbuckle…got home…fell through.” His breathing is labored. He waits in tortured agony for the ambulance to come. I try to move him and get him to sit upright. He yells out in pain. I do not have the strength to move him from his fallen position.

The EMT and Paramedics give a quick knock and then push through the door. There are four of them in their blue suits, black leather shoes and plastic badges. Their CB’s squelch is turned down and they abruptly shut off the static. They surround dad as I sit on the outside of their circle. They ask him questions, “Sir, what’s your name?” I answered the paramedic, “It’s NICK!” They give me a hard glance and say, “You need to be quiet. We need him to answer the questions.” I don’t understand why they are not immediately helping him? They go through a myriad of questions and then they pull him from his seat belt that is tight around his chest and holding his arms high in the air. They put him on a gurney and transport him to the ER. He had been in that position since 11 o’clock the night before. An EMT hangs behind and says, “Your dad will probably lose his function in his arms and there is a high chance that they will amputate both of his arms. Follow us to the ER where your dad will be further assessed.”

A wave of grief washes over me for my own selfishness. Knowing that my father suffered for almost ten hours in his apartment all alone as I comfortably slept through the night and then worried about stupid fickle things as he hung from his secured seatbelt suffering. I am humbled to my core. I think of my self-absorbed thoughts from earlier this morning of wanting to push the comforter’s promptings aside. I hang my head and I am filled with remorse.

My dad didn’t lose his arms but he did experience a lot of pain for the next several weeks in both of his arms. He had Multiple Sclerosis and it already affected his fine motor skills. His dexterity was reduced even more after he was hung up in his wheelchair. His right hand took the brunt of the damage to his motor skills. This took a toll on the few things left he was able to do. He was unable to maneuver his wheelchair, write, and eat successfully.

Furthermore, there are times when we walk into a really difficult situation. Remaining calm and assessing the needs of the individual can be crucial. In my experience serving others can be a lot of things. It can be reassuring words, holding their hand, making a phone call, and even just sitting there until more help arrives.

Finally, I left my young family on an impression to help my dad. I have found that when I follow my gut it is usually right. If I would have not followed the prompting to go and serve my dad he would have had both of his arms amputated. We are often the answer to others prayers when we follow an impression to serve. I am so grateful and honored that I was able to minister to my dad that day.

Here are a few things you can try when you are serving someone else:
1. Follow promptings.
2. Read the room: Both the EMT’s and I were unsure of what we were walking into. Assessing the situation and being quick to call for help saved my dads arms.
3. Reach out for other resources: I couldn’t help my dad on my own. He needed a priesthood blessing, additional family members help, trained medical personnel, and a team of people who could love and support him.
Resources:

https://ideas.bkconnection.com/serving-others-in-a-difficult-time

https://www.vox.com/first-person/2019/12/10/21003228/how-to-help-a-friend

Thriving in Crisis: Serving Others

https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/church/news/conference-moment-dont-postpone-a-prompting-taught-president-monson?lang=eng
Title: Bedrest Blues

July 12th, 2023
While experiencing my first pregnancy I had the humbling experience of being on bedrest for four weeks. While lying for hours at a time I had never been so excited to pee in my life. Walking the short distance to the bathroom and back to the bed was what I looked forward to day after day. Laying in bed became difficult and mundane. I longed to be touched, to be read to, to see another human being poke their head around my bedroom door. I felt like I could get through the long hours when my basic needs were met and when I could look into the eyes of a friend.

Due to being six months along with my first pregnancy I am waiting in the Doctor’s office for my six months check-up. The nurse pops her head in the room and asks me to undress and put on a dress that resembles a giant napkin. Finally after reading multiple magazines and having my husband awkwardly looking around the room the Doctor knocks on the door and he enters the room. He looks at my chart for an extended period of time as I sit uncomfortable on the examination table. The oversized plastic lined napkin I am wearing is starting to shift as the air conditioner kicks on. Cold air blows on my bare back and I start to get the chills. The exam table paper crinkles under me as I shift from left to right. I stare at the Doctor’s blue socks with his brown strappy sandals. His clothes look worn and his shirt is wrinkled and untucked. I wonder if he is overworked? He looks weary and he carries himself like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He moves the few sparse hairs back with his right hand as he looks me in the eye. “You have preeclampsia and you will need to go on bedrest as soon as you get home.” He calmly says this as if he has said it a thousand times. He explains the danger to my baby, “your blood is not circulating properly in the placenta and it can cause harm to your unborn child. Also your high blood pressure can be dangerous to your heart.” He continues on with a few more warning signs and he explains a few side effects if it goes untreated. I stammer, “But it’s the fourth of July?” He looks up at me through his glasses and responds with a side smile, “Go enjoy the celebration with your family and then you will need to be laying down to control your blood pressure. You are only allowed to get up to use the bathroom and to take a quick shower.” I have a mixing pot of emotions and questions going on inside of me and I start to think of my immediate future. I am going to be served and waited on, until the middle of August! Is the baby going to be okay? I am still unsure of what is happening to me… I feel fine. I want to be able to celebrate the fourth just like everyone else does. Don’t forget about me! He continues to check me over. He does the standard procedures and then he looks at my swollen feet. He says, “wow, you are extremely swollen. How long have your feet and ankles been like this?” I look at him puzzled while thinking, don’t all women’s feet swell to the size of cantaloupes when they’re pregnant? I wonder if he thinks something else is wrong? I hesitate to say, “They started swelling about the first of June. I can’t seem to find any shoes that fit these things!” He smiles and said, ”You might have to try the men’s section. Do what you have to do to get by.”

After the office visit I stop into Wal-Mart on my way home from the appointment and I waddle into the shoe section. I start with the women’s flip flops and I feel like Cinderella’s ugly step sister. I shove my feet into a variety of sandals and slippers and I am left defeated. I walk down the men’s aisle and I start at a size nine. The shoes are still too small. I panic and I wonder if my town has a Big and Tall Clothing store nearby? Relieved, I finally find a giant pair of men’s, size twelve (wide) blue elastic-like flip flops beckoning me to pull them from their metal hook. Almost like they had been hanging there for years because no one could possibly wear this big of sandal. I could probably jump in the water and win a water ski competition with these skis for shoes.

The following weekend is the fourth of July. I sit on the lawn chair and enjoy the beautiful display of fireworks in the night sky. I try to eat all of the food my scrunched up stomach can hold. Heartburn sets in early as I enjoy the cool night air and the last of my freedom. I return home and lounge on the couch as I inspect my swelling feet. I push in on my skin around my ankles and the indents hold their shape for several seconds. I prop them up on the side of the couch and I am somewhat excited to be able to simply rest until the baby comes.

The next day I lay in my bed. I stare at the brown paneling. I count the dark brown groves on the wall. Faces and images are appearing out of the designs in the wood. I am restless as I reposition my aching back on my bed. I feel trapped as I look out of my metal double paned windows. I notice a small spider that has spun his web in between the windows. Every detail of my bedroom is magnified as I lay here. I didn’t imagine this ‘bedrest’ to become so cumbersome and long. This is starting to test my patience and I am going to have to endure the long days. I look at my walls again and my eyes are drawn to my enormous closet doors that are so ugly. They cover one whole side of my wall. The doors hang uneven and I am instantly irritated at my situation. I am sacrificing my sanity for the health of my unborn baby. This is miserable! This is going to be the longest 8 weeks of my life and I have only just begun.

I have never laid in a bed for this amount of time. Loneliness is beginning to sink in as I lay on my bed day after day. My mom is a bright spot in my day as she fixes me healthy and nutritious food. Homemade pizza with fresh slices of pineapple. Fresh produce from the garden is washed and carefully prepared and served to me. I crave watermelons so bad right now. My mom has become a pro at slicing off the rind of the melon and chopping them into even squares. Before she goes home she always leaves me with a cold bag of melons in the fridge. The melons are like butter to my bread, marinara to my pasta, and hot fudge to my ice cream. I CANNOT live without the red juicy sweet melon! The cool fruit helps with the intense summer heat in my hot aluminum single wide. My mom is heaven sent as she helps in the kitchen, makes me delicious meals, and tidies up the house.

My back is killing me and I cannot get relief from laying flat or propped up on some lumpy cheap old pillows. A friend is going to drop by and bring some chiropractic wedges that I can lay on and relieve some back pain. I can’t wait until her and her husband stop in. I want to see other people and have a face to face conversation. They knock on my bedroom door and I watch them walk around to my side of the bed with the bulky wedges. I take in their smiles and I long for them to stay a while and be with me. The Dr. said to be careful with visitors because there is danger in my blood pressure escalating. They ask a few questions and then they walk away knowing that they could be the reason my blood pressure increases.

I am so bored I have read the People Magazine a thousand times and I would give anything for this to be over. The mornings aren’t so bad because there is the morning bathroom break, breakfast, and a soothing shower. The hot afternoons are harder because the sun shines bright into my bedroom and heats up this little tin can. I look outside and I can see my grass needs mowed and my garden is needing to be harvested. I want to be able to do my own yard work and pick my own vegetables but I am chained to this big bed. Mom busies around me and takes care of my basic needs and she makes sure everything is in order.

Today the afternoon is especially lonely. I toss and turn on my back and I cannot wait until the torture of being isolated is over. My in-laws came yesterday to blanch and freeze all of my broccoli. It was good to see them and laugh a little bit. I am really struggling today. My husband works long hours and I am dejected to this neutral muted back bedroom. I start to gain a small understanding of what people with disabilities feel like. I have empathy for the elderly shut away in distant halls in a nursing home. Loneliness just eats at you until you feel so hollow and empty.

In the distance I hear a knock on the door as I slumbered off to another boring nap. I quickly open my eyes and I see my neighbors from down the road. My whole body brightens with the prospect of visitors. They ask, “Can we come in and visit for a minute?” I retorted, “Please come and sit for several hundred minutes.” My neighbor says, “We brought you something!” “Oooh, what is it?” I said. She pulls out a double layer white cake frosted with vanilla frosting and sprinkles. I am so happy I could cry. “Wow, you thought about me today and you brought this to me?” My eyes are brimming with tears. I try to choke back my emotions. I couldn’t believe that someone would spend their whole afternoon baking a cake for me. I was overwhelmed with happiness. I couldn’t wait to dig into the deliciousness that sat before me.

Later that afternoon my mom walked back into my bedroom, “Dari would you like me to paint your toes?” I felt like I hadn’t been touched for weeks. I had laid there in complete boredom day after day. I usually didn’t use polish very much because it was too much upkeep. I was up for the idea and I got a hint of energy when she made such a thoughtful suggestion. I said, “Sure, let’s do it!” Mom sat at the foot of my bed and the moment she touched my toes I felt a feeling of love surge through my body. I had missed touching and being touched by other people. She rubbed my feet and left the room with my toes painted prettier than they had ever been painted before.

At this time, I look back to those people in my life and think of the different ways that they served me. The chiropractic wedges changed my sitting position and it made me more comfortable. It was the conversation, the thoughtfulness, and the service that brought me happiness in a lonely time. I can’t recall how my neighbor’s cake tasted that day but I will never forget the way it made me feel. Love and warmth spread throughout my whole body when I realized I hadn’t been forgotten when they showed up at my bedroom door. Although my mom had painted my toes bright red (a color I despise on myself) it was her touch and the time she spent with me that helped me get through a difficult afternoon. She could have slopped the bright red polish all over my toes and it still would have been the prettiest painted toes there ever were.

At last, my basic needs were met when I was going through a difficult time. I spent four weeks on bedrest and my baby was delivered four weeks early. When I arrived home from the hospital I had to go back on bed rest for another two weeks. A clean house, cakes, wedges, watermelon and prepared food helped me to get through being a first time mom.

Here are some things that I learned through someone serving me. Maybe you could give them a try:
1. Touch: Touching someone who is alone is so important to their well-being. A hug, a pat on the back or holding someone’s hand can make a big difference in someone’s life. It can be the bridge that helps them carry through a difficult experience.
2. Pick up the slack for someone: I was so worried about my garden, my yard, feeding myself, and keeping my house clean. I had a team of wonderful people who picked up the slack for me. This helped keep my blood pressure low and helped me safely deliver my first baby. Just a tip: I didn’t need long term care. I only needed someone to help me get through a rough patch. If someone needs long term care please reach out to resources that can help you. (family, community, professionals, church etc…)
3. Basic needs: If we don’t have our basic needs met then nothing else matters. We can struggle with mental, physical, emotional and spiritual aspects of our lives if we are in survival mode. Kindly check to see if someone is in need of food, heat, and clothing when we are helping and serving others. Help them take care of basic needs first and then assess physiological needs, next make sure they are being loved, and then help build their character, and finally help them reach their full potential.
Resources:

https://www.dignityhealth.org/articles/facts-about-touch-how-human-contact-affects-your-health-and-relationships

https://www.goodtherapy.org/blog/psychpedia/maslow-hierarchy-needs#:~:text=Maslow%20argued%20that%20the%20failure,die%20or%20become%20extremely%20ill.