Most people with any interest in writing are aware that writers play the “What if . . .” game. That’s where any situation or composite character rings some kind of bell inside our heads and we start to wonder What if some one did this or if they did that? What if a person like this did that? What if this happened and someone saw it? What if someone faced this situation? And we’re off and running---or more likely off researching or pounding our keyboards. However, that isn’t the kind of What if I’m thinking of right now.
I just had a scary moment. I wanted to pull up my draft for my Meridian column to sketch in another review. It wasn’t there, not in my document file, not on my desk top, and not in any other file on my computer. I crossed my fingers, stuck in a memory stick, and voila! There it was. I deleted a lot of no longer needed files earlier today on my computer and must have accidently removed that much needed file. Fortunately the frequent power outages we have here convinced me long ago to back up everything I write on an external drive. I hate to even contemplate the What if I hadn’t backed up that file.
This experience got me thinking about the other What ifs in my life and that poem by Robert Frost about making a life changing choice. What if I’d taken the other road? I know, we can never clearly see where the other path might have taken us, but sometimes I can’t help thinking of that other choice and wondering. That’s not to say that I regret the paths I chose; I just wonder where that other path would have led me.
In college I was offered an opportunity to write a script for the Patty Duke Show. I was busy, in love, and had a major role in the college production of Charlie’s Aunt. I didn’t write that script; I thought the opportunity would come again when I was better prepared. It didn’t. But what if I’d written that script and it had been used? There are times when I’ve wondered what difference it might have made.
A couple of years after I left journalism and gave up my job as a newspaper editor, I was offered a position as a foreign correspondent for a newspaper syndicate assigned to the Moscow, Russia bureau. I’ll admit, I was tempted, but I didn’t want to raise my children in Moscow. My husband would have had to give up his job. It didn’t seem to be the right choice for my family---or maybe I just wasn’t brave enough to tackle such a big challenge. A year or two later, the Berlin Wall came down, the USSR was broken into smaller states, and I wasn’t there to see it or to report it. Someone else wrote those stories that screamed their way around the world. I couldn’t help wondering, What if I’d accepted that challenge?
Right after I left the newspaper I got a call from the County Commission Chairman inviting me to serve on the Salt Palace Advisory Board. I was shocked and didn’t know how I could possibly say yes, but for some inexplicable reason I ended up agreeing. There were only two women on the board including me and a panel of some of the biggest names in business, arts, government, and religion in Utah. I met dozens of stars who performed at the Salt Palace, shared a parking space with Mark Eaton, shook hands with Marvin Jenson, strolled down a long hall with Ronald Reagan before he made a campaign appearance, handed Larry Miller a tissue, attended concerts, cheered at ball games, and took my children to ice shows and rodeos. One unforgettable moment was when Elder Ballard invited us to call him “Russ.” Serving on that board was a fantastic experience, but what if I’d said no. I know what I would have missed, but what would have happened in my life instead?
Sometimes indecision makes choices for us, some times we make poor choices, other times we choose the best of all roads. This holds true professionally and in our personal lives, but whatever choices we make Frost was right. The road we choose makes all the difference. Still like me, do you sometimes find yourself wondering What if . . ?
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Some Recent Discoveries
I'm going to step out on a limb here and write a different kind of blog. On the one hand, it may not be "blog-worthy," but on the other hand, it's the kind of information that if you need, it may make a difference. Here goes.
Now and then our modern conveniences fail to operate as they should and we need to get help, and usually that help costs money. On Sunday I was faced with paying a plumber to help us get one of our modern conveniences in particular to get up and running, so to speak. But I didn't really have the money to pay a plumber, plus it was Sunday, and I didn't want to go to a store to find a snake or a better plunger or whatever people use for these kinds of problems. So I googled "home remedy" and "clogged toilets" and found a little forum where people exchanged ideas. Some involved some purchases that were relatively minor but would need to wait so for the short-term, I found two suggestions that worked. The first was just pour bucket after bucket of hot, not boiling, water into the toilet until it cleared on its own. That went a long way to taking care of the problem but didn't quite fix it. So I tried another remedy, which was a can of Coke and dishwashing liquid (half a bottle) and let it sit a half hour before flushing. The remedy called for Dawn soap and diet Coke, but I decided to use what I had and it worked just fine. Some people also said to put root killer down their drains, which sounds like a good idea since my house has trees everyone, including several growing very near the house.
I also found a homemade deodorant that looks interesting (no parabens, which is supposed to be a good thing) and a remedy for athlete's foot, soak your feet in Listerine (I'll keep you posted on how that works but for now my feet are blue because I used mint Listerine).
I'm not quite ready to take on Heloise, but it made me feel very smart and handy this weekend, a good way to feel on Mother's Day.
Now and then our modern conveniences fail to operate as they should and we need to get help, and usually that help costs money. On Sunday I was faced with paying a plumber to help us get one of our modern conveniences in particular to get up and running, so to speak. But I didn't really have the money to pay a plumber, plus it was Sunday, and I didn't want to go to a store to find a snake or a better plunger or whatever people use for these kinds of problems. So I googled "home remedy" and "clogged toilets" and found a little forum where people exchanged ideas. Some involved some purchases that were relatively minor but would need to wait so for the short-term, I found two suggestions that worked. The first was just pour bucket after bucket of hot, not boiling, water into the toilet until it cleared on its own. That went a long way to taking care of the problem but didn't quite fix it. So I tried another remedy, which was a can of Coke and dishwashing liquid (half a bottle) and let it sit a half hour before flushing. The remedy called for Dawn soap and diet Coke, but I decided to use what I had and it worked just fine. Some people also said to put root killer down their drains, which sounds like a good idea since my house has trees everyone, including several growing very near the house.
I also found a homemade deodorant that looks interesting (no parabens, which is supposed to be a good thing) and a remedy for athlete's foot, soak your feet in Listerine (I'll keep you posted on how that works but for now my feet are blue because I used mint Listerine).
I'm not quite ready to take on Heloise, but it made me feel very smart and handy this weekend, a good way to feel on Mother's Day.
Friday, May 8, 2009
I was blessed with an incredible mother! She taught me so many things, but especially the ethic of work. "If a thing is worth doing, it's worth doing well." I learned how to clean house, care for children, cook, plan menus and shop because she became a working mother soon after WWII and I needed to do those things before she came home from work. (It was the least I could do - she spent some of her precious earnings on clothes for me while I was in high school so I'd have something to wear besides "home-mades and hand-me-downs.)
I didn't know we were poor when I was growing up because basically most everyone else in our little Mormon community in Idaho was in the same situation, and because we had enough to eat and other necessities. But it was Mom's management skills that made the difference between poverty and getting by with grace. I'll be eternally grateful for learning those skills from her.
She taught me to pray. I found her on her knees many times pleading with the Lord for whatever blessing or skill she needed. I watched her accept callings that absolutely terrified her because she didn't feel she was capable of fulfilling them. But she accepted them, and did her best, and the Lord made up the difference. That taught me faith. I learned that with the Lord's help, we can do the impossible. I'm so grateful for that knowledge!
Mom didn't do anything halfway - she became an accomplished seamstress, having learned the art from her mother and grandmother. She made all of our clothes (I have three sisters) and all of our doll clothes from Santa. She then graduated to making exquisite lingerie and heirloom quilts. She passed to me that love of creating with fabric and I even dared to make two of my daughters' wedding dresses, figuring if Mom could do it, I could too. She taught me self-confidence in that way.
I'm grateful for my mom andblessed by all I learned from her, but Glenn's mom taught me many important life lessons, as well. She was in every way my other mother. She taught me unconditional love and forgiveness. Of course, that is a lesson I'm constantly working on to perfect, but she showed me how it was done and what incredible results it could bring.
Glenn's mom had an inquisitive nature and wanted to know the name of every flower and tree she found. When they traveled across the US to visit us wherever we were stationed, she stopped and picked a leaf or blossom and researched it, then put it in a scrapbook with all the photos of that trip. She loved learning new things. Though she has been gone for ten years now, I still find myself wanting to call her and say, "Guess what I found today!"
Both of our moms were excellent cooks and set a beautiful table. They both loved entertaining, whether their circle of friends or gathering family around. Holidays just aren't holidays if we aren't surrounded by family - patterns and habits learned from our mothers.
I hope I've been the kind of example to my children that our mothers have been to me. I was heartened when my daughter-in-law related a little episode between her and my son. She was struggling with some decision in a calling and asked for Greg's advice. He asked, "What would Jesus do?" She said she couldn't visualize the Savior being in this situation so she was still at a loss as to how to handle it. Then Greg said, "What would my mom do?" Shannyn said, "Then I knew what to do because I knew how you would react." That was the ultimate compliment. Just maybe I'm on the right road and setting the proper example, as did our wonderful mothers!
Happy Mother's Day to all you beautiful, special mothers!!
I didn't know we were poor when I was growing up because basically most everyone else in our little Mormon community in Idaho was in the same situation, and because we had enough to eat and other necessities. But it was Mom's management skills that made the difference between poverty and getting by with grace. I'll be eternally grateful for learning those skills from her.
She taught me to pray. I found her on her knees many times pleading with the Lord for whatever blessing or skill she needed. I watched her accept callings that absolutely terrified her because she didn't feel she was capable of fulfilling them. But she accepted them, and did her best, and the Lord made up the difference. That taught me faith. I learned that with the Lord's help, we can do the impossible. I'm so grateful for that knowledge!
Mom didn't do anything halfway - she became an accomplished seamstress, having learned the art from her mother and grandmother. She made all of our clothes (I have three sisters) and all of our doll clothes from Santa. She then graduated to making exquisite lingerie and heirloom quilts. She passed to me that love of creating with fabric and I even dared to make two of my daughters' wedding dresses, figuring if Mom could do it, I could too. She taught me self-confidence in that way.
I'm grateful for my mom andblessed by all I learned from her, but Glenn's mom taught me many important life lessons, as well. She was in every way my other mother. She taught me unconditional love and forgiveness. Of course, that is a lesson I'm constantly working on to perfect, but she showed me how it was done and what incredible results it could bring.
Glenn's mom had an inquisitive nature and wanted to know the name of every flower and tree she found. When they traveled across the US to visit us wherever we were stationed, she stopped and picked a leaf or blossom and researched it, then put it in a scrapbook with all the photos of that trip. She loved learning new things. Though she has been gone for ten years now, I still find myself wanting to call her and say, "Guess what I found today!"
Both of our moms were excellent cooks and set a beautiful table. They both loved entertaining, whether their circle of friends or gathering family around. Holidays just aren't holidays if we aren't surrounded by family - patterns and habits learned from our mothers.
I hope I've been the kind of example to my children that our mothers have been to me. I was heartened when my daughter-in-law related a little episode between her and my son. She was struggling with some decision in a calling and asked for Greg's advice. He asked, "What would Jesus do?" She said she couldn't visualize the Savior being in this situation so she was still at a loss as to how to handle it. Then Greg said, "What would my mom do?" Shannyn said, "Then I knew what to do because I knew how you would react." That was the ultimate compliment. Just maybe I'm on the right road and setting the proper example, as did our wonderful mothers!
Happy Mother's Day to all you beautiful, special mothers!!
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Distracted or Focused?
As a writer, maybe I get a little too involved or preoccupied with a story running through my mind. I personally like to think I am focused. It helps with the sting of embarrassing moments.
This can lead to some pretty awkward situations. I don’t know how many times I have gotten that far away look in my eyes when someone in the family has said, “Uh oh, she’s thinking again.” I have found my son waving his arms in front of me calling out, “Mom, Mom, are you there? You’re thinking about a book, aren’t you?”
One late evening I sat at work down in the Temple cafeteria. People had cleared the dining room for the evening and we were getting ready to close for the night with only minutes to go.
I work with a man who has an extensive knowledge of the great outdoors and since I would soon be leaving to go home and write for a time, my thoughts had turned to some questions I wanted to ask him about a mountainous area.
He had walked out to the cash register, in case anyone did come in those final minutes, I would be then be available to help him or her. I proceeded to tell him I wanted to bury someone alive. Now obviously if she was buried too deep, there would be no oxygen from the soil and she would die. I only wanted her MOSTLY dead…. if the Princess Bride taught me anything, it is that there is a big difference between dead, and mostly dead. Anyway if she was buried alive closer to the surface, she could fight her way out and live. But again, I want her mostly dead and unable to free herself. What did he suggest? Perhaps, locking her in a wood box at a cabin would work better? That was my alternative option. Before he could advise me on the conditions, I heard a gasp behind me. I was so enthralled with explaining how I wanted this lady mostly dead, I never heard a patron walk up behind me. There are no words to explain the look of horror on her face when she heard me express how this lady must be mostly dead and could not fight her way out of being buried alive. I learned several valuable lessons that day the very biggest being that I should be wise enough to pick my topics of conversation in the Temple. It was inappropriate, I realize, but at the time, I thought it was perfectly innocent. I now know better. It wasn’t one that invites the Spirit and I was wrong. I had to explain very quickly to this lady why I was asking about the outdoor terrain but as she walked away, I wasn’t entirely convinced that she believed that our conversation was all in the name of research.
Upon researching mechanical affixation my husband asked what I was doing. I told him I was learning about burying someone alive. He looked at me with shock and shook his head. “You scare me sometimes, you really do,” he said. Yeah well, if it helps any, I scare me too.
While writing my third book, since it took place in Denmark, I suddenly had this huge interest in names and where they originated. Again, at work, I looked over many name tags and asked of their history. I learned quite a bit of interesting facts about names that people loved to share. One day I noticed a common name but her tag said LE Coordinator on it. I asked if she spoke French. The Temple has several languages spoken there and I was impressed that this good sister knew French. Upon my asking about her speaking this language, she looked at me as if I were from another planet. After a far too lengthy pause and a strange look, she asked, “Why would you ask me that?” Wasn’t the answer obvious? “Your tag says, “Le coordinataire,” I replied with a French flair. She looked at me and burst out laughing. Then she told me what it stands for. She was a Living Endowment Coordinator. She said, “That’s so funny! Can I go tell the other sisters?” All I could think of was, “Yes, please go tell them all and make sure they know it was me making a tremendous fool of myself.” Seconds later I heard an entire table burst out laughing. What I wouldn’t have given for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
Research. Pondering. Visions. (Watching the story play out in our heads) What we don’t do to put a story together to get it down just right on paper. We watch shows, read up on books, research topics on the Internet, and even ask police officers questions that no one else would consider asking (like how to sell street drugs and not get caught- yeah I did that too. Try that one and see the reaction you get!)
We do some pretty strange things, all for the love of writing. But maybe, just maybe, I get a little too caught up in things when a story goes running through my mind.
This can lead to some pretty awkward situations. I don’t know how many times I have gotten that far away look in my eyes when someone in the family has said, “Uh oh, she’s thinking again.” I have found my son waving his arms in front of me calling out, “Mom, Mom, are you there? You’re thinking about a book, aren’t you?”
One late evening I sat at work down in the Temple cafeteria. People had cleared the dining room for the evening and we were getting ready to close for the night with only minutes to go.
I work with a man who has an extensive knowledge of the great outdoors and since I would soon be leaving to go home and write for a time, my thoughts had turned to some questions I wanted to ask him about a mountainous area.
He had walked out to the cash register, in case anyone did come in those final minutes, I would be then be available to help him or her. I proceeded to tell him I wanted to bury someone alive. Now obviously if she was buried too deep, there would be no oxygen from the soil and she would die. I only wanted her MOSTLY dead…. if the Princess Bride taught me anything, it is that there is a big difference between dead, and mostly dead. Anyway if she was buried alive closer to the surface, she could fight her way out and live. But again, I want her mostly dead and unable to free herself. What did he suggest? Perhaps, locking her in a wood box at a cabin would work better? That was my alternative option. Before he could advise me on the conditions, I heard a gasp behind me. I was so enthralled with explaining how I wanted this lady mostly dead, I never heard a patron walk up behind me. There are no words to explain the look of horror on her face when she heard me express how this lady must be mostly dead and could not fight her way out of being buried alive. I learned several valuable lessons that day the very biggest being that I should be wise enough to pick my topics of conversation in the Temple. It was inappropriate, I realize, but at the time, I thought it was perfectly innocent. I now know better. It wasn’t one that invites the Spirit and I was wrong. I had to explain very quickly to this lady why I was asking about the outdoor terrain but as she walked away, I wasn’t entirely convinced that she believed that our conversation was all in the name of research.
Upon researching mechanical affixation my husband asked what I was doing. I told him I was learning about burying someone alive. He looked at me with shock and shook his head. “You scare me sometimes, you really do,” he said. Yeah well, if it helps any, I scare me too.
While writing my third book, since it took place in Denmark, I suddenly had this huge interest in names and where they originated. Again, at work, I looked over many name tags and asked of their history. I learned quite a bit of interesting facts about names that people loved to share. One day I noticed a common name but her tag said LE Coordinator on it. I asked if she spoke French. The Temple has several languages spoken there and I was impressed that this good sister knew French. Upon my asking about her speaking this language, she looked at me as if I were from another planet. After a far too lengthy pause and a strange look, she asked, “Why would you ask me that?” Wasn’t the answer obvious? “Your tag says, “Le coordinataire,” I replied with a French flair. She looked at me and burst out laughing. Then she told me what it stands for. She was a Living Endowment Coordinator. She said, “That’s so funny! Can I go tell the other sisters?” All I could think of was, “Yes, please go tell them all and make sure they know it was me making a tremendous fool of myself.” Seconds later I heard an entire table burst out laughing. What I wouldn’t have given for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
Research. Pondering. Visions. (Watching the story play out in our heads) What we don’t do to put a story together to get it down just right on paper. We watch shows, read up on books, research topics on the Internet, and even ask police officers questions that no one else would consider asking (like how to sell street drugs and not get caught- yeah I did that too. Try that one and see the reaction you get!)
We do some pretty strange things, all for the love of writing. But maybe, just maybe, I get a little too caught up in things when a story goes running through my mind.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Moan of the Day
Religious intolerance is alive and well, and I'm still reeling from discovering this. Two weeks ago I encountered a struggling family, and offered to help; three days ago I was told that my help was not required because of my religion.
At the school gates I got chatting to a couple in their late seventies who had found themselves, through no fault of their own, having to bring up their three young grandchildren, two of whom were in the same classes as two of my children. The grandmother sorrowfully told me how exhausted they were, that their only income was their state pension and they had no respite care at all - no holidays, no support.
I had been looking for some sort of service I could perform, and whilst not in a position to offer financial help, I offered to collect the children from school one afternoon a week, feed them their tea, and deliver them at home before bedtime, giving the grandparents a free day once a week. Unfortunately there were no weekday afternoons which were convenient due to the children's various commitments, and Saturday is our family day, so I offered Sunday afternoons. I added that if they wanted a whole day free then the children could come to church with us on Sunday morning too. They were thrilled at the prospect of a restful Sunday to catch up with the washing, and readily accepted.
Illness halted the plans for a week, but on Friday I chatted with the grandmother at the school gates, giving her directions to the church so that she could drop the children off there since we didn't have room in our car to take them all. On Saturday the grandfather telephoned to say that the children would not be coming to church, or to my house, ever. They - he and his wife - didn't trust me, and didn't want to speak to me again, and would I kindly have nothing more to do with them.
I was, naturally, very upset. I struggled to understand how my efforts to help could go so very badly wrong. I wondered what I had said to offend them. I arranged for my husband to take our children to and from school so that I could respect this couple's wish not to have to see me.
The light dawned when I confided my distress to a good friend who pointed out that something major had changed from my initial, well received offer. I had identified which church it was I would be taking the children to. And now all the prejudices about Mormons were playing against me, and this couple were convinced that each Sunday my sister wives and I would be indoctrinating their children to be racist, worship the dead and bow down before icons of Joseph Smith.
Sometimes it's an uphill battle being a Latter-day Saint in a country where only 10% of the population ever go to any place of worship, and many of those that do are taught at their churches to mistrust Mormons. But I don't have pioneer ancestors, so perhaps it's times like this that remind me that I am, with my family, forging my way to the promised Zion. Not a physical place, but a time when the Church is understood and respected within the community, and the love, service and kindnesses of its members are accepted in the spirit they are given.
Sorry if this post isn't as uplifting and heart-warming as the contributions of my fellow-bloggers, but I will try harder next time, I promise! (And Mother's Day here was in March, so I don't have that subject to ruminate on.)
At the school gates I got chatting to a couple in their late seventies who had found themselves, through no fault of their own, having to bring up their three young grandchildren, two of whom were in the same classes as two of my children. The grandmother sorrowfully told me how exhausted they were, that their only income was their state pension and they had no respite care at all - no holidays, no support.
I had been looking for some sort of service I could perform, and whilst not in a position to offer financial help, I offered to collect the children from school one afternoon a week, feed them their tea, and deliver them at home before bedtime, giving the grandparents a free day once a week. Unfortunately there were no weekday afternoons which were convenient due to the children's various commitments, and Saturday is our family day, so I offered Sunday afternoons. I added that if they wanted a whole day free then the children could come to church with us on Sunday morning too. They were thrilled at the prospect of a restful Sunday to catch up with the washing, and readily accepted.
Illness halted the plans for a week, but on Friday I chatted with the grandmother at the school gates, giving her directions to the church so that she could drop the children off there since we didn't have room in our car to take them all. On Saturday the grandfather telephoned to say that the children would not be coming to church, or to my house, ever. They - he and his wife - didn't trust me, and didn't want to speak to me again, and would I kindly have nothing more to do with them.
I was, naturally, very upset. I struggled to understand how my efforts to help could go so very badly wrong. I wondered what I had said to offend them. I arranged for my husband to take our children to and from school so that I could respect this couple's wish not to have to see me.
The light dawned when I confided my distress to a good friend who pointed out that something major had changed from my initial, well received offer. I had identified which church it was I would be taking the children to. And now all the prejudices about Mormons were playing against me, and this couple were convinced that each Sunday my sister wives and I would be indoctrinating their children to be racist, worship the dead and bow down before icons of Joseph Smith.
Sometimes it's an uphill battle being a Latter-day Saint in a country where only 10% of the population ever go to any place of worship, and many of those that do are taught at their churches to mistrust Mormons. But I don't have pioneer ancestors, so perhaps it's times like this that remind me that I am, with my family, forging my way to the promised Zion. Not a physical place, but a time when the Church is understood and respected within the community, and the love, service and kindnesses of its members are accepted in the spirit they are given.
Sorry if this post isn't as uplifting and heart-warming as the contributions of my fellow-bloggers, but I will try harder next time, I promise! (And Mother's Day here was in March, so I don't have that subject to ruminate on.)
Sunday, May 3, 2009
A Bouquet For Mom
by Gale Sears
My mom loved nature and adventuring. She died three years ago and I miss her. But whenever I take a hike in the mountains or through a meadow filled with wild flowers I feel close to her.
It's the week before Mother's Day so, in honor of my sweet mom, I'm sending pictures of beautiful blossoms to celebrate. And since a picture is worth a thousand words, I'm going to limit my own puny attempts at description and let the pictures speak for themselves. Enjoy!
My mom loved nature and adventuring. She died three years ago and I miss her. But whenever I take a hike in the mountains or through a meadow filled with wild flowers I feel close to her.
It's the week before Mother's Day so, in honor of my sweet mom, I'm sending pictures of beautiful blossoms to celebrate. And since a picture is worth a thousand words, I'm going to limit my own puny attempts at description and let the pictures speak for themselves. Enjoy!
Friday, May 1, 2009
Alpiniste
(Baldy Mountain is the left eye of the "frog." This is the view out my dining room window.)
As many of you know, I'm a Type 1 diabetic. This was a concern for my husband and our bishop. Both cautioned me with regard to this particular activity. Neither of them thought I should attempt this climb. I assured both men that I would be fine. I promised to carefully watch my blood sugar level, to take along carb snacks, and to pace myself. I figured I was in fairly good health, all things considered. After all, I walked 5 days a week with a good friend. We usually walked about 3 miles at a somewhat brisk pace. That mountain didn't scare me--until I was halfway up, struggling beyond what I had envisioned.
We began this exciting adventure near the base of a mountain known in our neck of the woods as Baldy. (It earned this nickname from the lack of trees on top. In comparison to the neighborning mountains, it looks bald.) It's also the left eye of what is also commonly known as "the frog" here in Bennington. If you look at the picture posted above, you may see how it received that name. ;)
I figured we would start climbing Baldy right off the bat. It wasn't until we had all gathered at the designated meeting place that we learned we would actually be climbing two smaller mountains\hills first. It would be a seven mile hike straight uphill.
Gathering my courage, I was still determined to participate. This was the first big activity for my oldest son in the YM's program and he had been excited to hike with me that day. Plus most of my Mia Maid class had come to take part in the climb, and they were cheering me on as well, since quite a few of the adult leaders in our stake had bowed out of this activity.
Things started out well. We were all in good spirits and eager to prove ourselves. Then, about halfway up that first hill, my left leg began to cramp up in a horrible fashion. I figured it was because of the damage this leg had experienced a few years earlier due to a blood clot adventure. The circulation has never been very good in that leg as a result. Later on I would learn that I was in the beginning stages of a crippling form of rheumatoid arthritis (ankylosing spondylitis), and it was the true culprit that day.
I was in so much pain by the time I reached the top of that first hill, I was ready to throw in the towel. In fact, I did just that. "I'm sorry, I can't go on," I told my son and my Mia Maids. They said they understood, but the sad look in their eyes haunted me. Doing my best to ignore that, I limped to a nearby pine tree, sat down, and ran a check on my blood sugar. Severe pain tends to drop that level and it was on its way down. So I relaxed against that tree in the shade and sipped apple juice, watching as everyone else went on without me. (A couple of the other leaders had volunteered to stay with me, but I assured everyone I would be fine by myself, and that I would wait there for their return later on that day.)
As I watched while the others climbed the second, taller hill, I felt a little nudge of guilt. I've usually never been one to give up easily. And yet, I had allowed some discomfort to stand in the way of accomplishing something I knew in my heart I had really wanted to achieve. Gathering my courage, I stuffed everything back inside my backpack and continued on my way.
It wasn't too bad going downhill. I was still limping, but my leg functioned somewhat normally. Then I began climbing the second hill and found I was in just as much pain as I had been in earlier. I did my best to ignore it, sucked on pieces of hard candy to keep my blood sugar level where it needed to be, and I made it to the top of the second hill.
Winded, but determined now to finish this thing, I hobbled down the back of the second hill. About halfway down, one of the stake YM leaders who had been assigned the "difficult" task of driving his truck up to the base of Baldy with a load of water coolers, spotted me limping down that second hill and he drove up to where I was struggling. He told me to climb inside the truck, which I obediently did, and he then drove us down to the base of Baldy Mountain. Along the way I received a lecture about overdoing, and was counseled to give up.
"You don't need to finish this climb," he stressed to me. "I can tell you're in a lot of pain---you've more than gone the extra mile with this activity, just relax now and wait for everyone to return."
I sat there for a few minutes, recovering, but as I watched everyone else struggle up Baldy Mountain, I couldn't ignore what I was feeling inside. This had become a personal vendetta between myself, my wayward body, and Baldy.
Climbing out of the truck, I thanked the nice stake leader for his concern and told him this was something I needed to do. I couldn't explain why that was to either of us, but I was determined to see this thing through to the end.
With renewed vigor, I began to climb that final mountain. And it was more difficult than the other two hills combined. Halfway up, my left leg collapsed on me, and I nearly rolled down the mountain as a result. I sat there, uncertain of what to do. Above me, I could hear my son and Mia Maids calling to me. Around me, since I had managed to catch up with some of the other leaders, I was being told to stay put. Closing my eyes, I prayed. I explained to our Father in heaven how much I wanted to finish this climb, but I wasn't sure I could. I asked for His help, and it was granted. A thought came to mind quite strong, and I knew it was my answer. I remained in a sitting position, and began to use my arms and right leg to propel myself up the rest of that mountain.
That climb took everything I could do, and then some. But when I finally reached the top of that mountain, there was such a feeling of exhilaration. An emotional reunion took place as my son and Mia Maids hugged the stuffings out of me. They had seen how much I had endured to make that climb and we all cried together.
After several minutes, I was able to put weight on my left leg. I stood, and gazed out at the view before me, pondering all I would have missed if I had stayed in the shade under that pine tree down below.
A strong analogy came to mind that afternoon, as it was impressed upon me that sometimes, during painful trials, we have to trust in God, gather our courage, and continue on. The climb, though arduous, is always worth every effort made.
Six months later, one of my Mia Maids who had climbed Baldy with me that day, was killed in a car accident. That experience of climbing Baldy would help us all to survive the pain of losing Julie. The bond formed while climbing Baldy, would prove crucial as we pulled together to climb that mountain of grief.
Since that time, I have often pondered the lessons learned on that day of climbing mountains. I even wrote a poem about it I entitled Alpiniste, which is French for mountain climber:
Alpiniste
Darkness overwhelms
It is too much
I cannot climb
The sheer rock
That slices ‘til I bleed.
There is no strength to face this challenge.
But I have come this far—
To give up now makes a mockery of all that has passed before.
Closing my eyes, I am led by an inner peace that beckons,
Reminding me of a presence that has been there all along.
Slowly, I make my way, clutching at handholds that guide—
Sustain.
The Sun shines bright upon my face as I make the final stretch,
Reaching for what most would deem beyond my grasp.
It is finished.
I have learned to face the wind
The clouds
The rain.
I have conquered the fear that held me back.
At the summit is a beauty that was always there
Beyond my limited sight.
I turn and see another mountain—
But I have learned to climb.
Cheri J. Crane
I will end with a thought given to me by a wonderful friend who is facing an entire mountain range at the moment. It is simply this: "Remember when you see a woman on top of a mountain, she didn't fall there."
(If you'll click on this picture, it will enlarge for a closer look. It was taken the day we climbed Baldy. You'll possibly spot me on the front row, kneeling in the midst of my Mia Maids. A camera case is slung over one shoulder. Julie, the Mia Maid we lost 6 months later, is the blonde on the back row, second from the left. My son, Kris, is also on the back row. He's wearing a light blue hat.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)