Brown Is The Color

The Councilwoman said to me, "I hope to hear all about your vacation on your blog next week."

And so I am wondering, how many posts can I write about sitting on the beach eating tacos?

Instead I shall condense the whole trip into this:

I love my son, The Chief, you know.

I loved taking him to the same spot I vacationed as a child. I loved making sandcastles for him to destroy. I loved seeing him splashing about in the ocean. I even loved chasing away
sand dust out of his loaded diapers.

But this trip I could not get over his brown eyes.

After being birthed, I looked in my son's eyes and knew they'd be brown. I fought armies of well wishers who foretold of a little blue eyed boy in my sleepy newborn. Uncles held him up to the sunlight, Aunts shook their head. No one believed me that the stone-colored eyes would turn dark.

But they did. Around six months they deepened into a rich brown as his hair turned blond. Brown eyes and blond hair have always been the wish of my heart. (I see now it's even better when your personal wish is instead given to your child.)

One night this past week, the three of us sat on the beach viewing the sunset. A gorgeous sun that melted into the placid Pacific. But I was restless. I could not decide which glory of God to watch, the dissolving sun or my son's eyes in the fading golden light. Perhaps overly poetic, but nonetheless, true.

Some days later--when we weren't eating tacos--we went to a restaurant to dine in. As we walked to our table a lady stopped, looked into The Chief's eyes and said,

"Those are beautiful brown eyes. They are just like two Junior Mints and I want to eat them."

We had a great time on our vacation, we really did, but that moment will always be the best part.

Happy Birthday Chup!

The Chief woke up really early this morning. I lifted him from the portable crib and remembered how we had put him to bed in a onesie decorated with various stains. His face was encrusted with last night's nasal discharge and he was whining with the same tone as a serious ambulance.

I thought it might be nice to let Daddy sleep in, so I put The Chief in the stroller, and in my wrinkled pajamas, I took my son for a walk. The town was quiet as we passed patches of hyacinths and hibiscus. An ocean mist sprayed in the air and smelled like vacation. Everything was lovely, except for my hair which seemed to expand with frizz and volume as styled by humidity. From the back of the stroller I noticed the back hair of The Chief's head, too. Known as Hobo Hair, the back half of my son's head always looks like a flame of fluff. Always protruding and tempting for insects to make their nests. I try to smooth it over several times a day, but the battle is becoming useless.

So there we were looking like gypsies in our posh vacation town.

We strolled to the boardwalk where I let The Chief out of the stroller. Grateful to be free of his confines, he started chasing a slow seagull on the beach. When the bird was uncatchable, he went straight for the waves, which knocked him down and wrestled him in the sand. He emerged looking like a cinnamon and sugar dipped wet baby. I took him to a small park nearby to dry him off.

After a minute or so, I realized we were in the homeless encampment. All around us were tired looking faces hovered in sleeping bags and old towels. Some were staring at us, some were still trying to sleep.

A smart dressed woman with a sheep dog approached us.

"Hi! What is your daughter's name?" she asked.

"Oh, this is my son." I replied and told her his name.

"Would he like to pet my dog?" she asked.

The Chief walked over and gave the orange dog a big hug. I have to say, it was really cute.

"Oh!" said the lady with a honey-toned voice,"don't worry, my boy! You will have a good life."

She was patting The Chief on his nest of back hair.

This was a little weird.

"You know, the recession will get better, and you will see, things will be just fine."

Was she crying a little?

On cue, The Chief gave her dog another hug and petted him like he was being patted.

"Well," I said, feeling awkward. "Thanks for letting us pet your dog."

"You bet." she said, pushing her designer glasses up on her face.

As we walked back to our hotel I laughed to myself. And made a mental note: Today is Chup's birthday. We celebrate him today for all sorts of reasons, but today I am going to add one more:

because of him we aren't really homeless.

About the Day We Became Parents

"He is going to crack something with that." said Chup as we watch The Chief make his way into the living room with the little shovel used for the fireplace.

The advantage of being at home with my son all day long is getting to know his favorite things. The little shovel is high on The Chief's list. He holds it like the color guard in a marching band. Then, when he spots a piece of dried apple (or something) on the floor he lowers the golden apparatus and scoops it up with much gusto. I've seen this behavior day after day and I've never seen him crack anything. In fact, I find it helpful on the house cleaning.

Then without any warning, The Chief takes the treasured shovel, lifts it high in the air and smacks it squarely on the back of Chup's head.

Well, what have we here Law of Attraction? Chup's cracked head, that is what.

And so Chup is rolling around on the carpet in what appears to be horrific pain, while The Chief stands there, staunchly holding on to his shovel, looking really confused (Why is dad saying that word over and over?) and I am trying not to laugh.

Big problem in our marriage, every time Chup gets hurt I laugh/try not to laugh. Isn't that terrible? I can't even explain it, I just do. I laugh. Not if he is bleeding, only if he is wincing and growling.

He is wincing and growling.

So I trade The Chief, bubbles for his shovel. And after some head rubbing and bubble bursting the incident is forgotten. Still Chup and I have decided that the longest day of a parent's life is the day before family vacation. Which was today, for us.

Chup and I have arrived at some meaningful place where we've decided that three makes a genuine family. Before it was date night on the road (love date night on the road!) but now we're MOM and DAD and BABY and we're going on a bona fide FAMILY VACATION. Where we take a ROAD TRIP to the BEACH and DAD gets more agitated as he drives us across the desert, and MOM tries to entertain the BABY in the carseat with orange juice.

So tonight, after the Shovel Master was in bed, we started to make preparations for our first family vacation. I just packed the bag with the fun car activities and snacks. And as I did I thought to myself, "How did I just turn into my mother?" When I ran into Chup downstairs packing the cooler he asked the same thing, "When did we become parents who take family vacations?"

And I guess the answer is: tonight.

Because before it was all about having diapers, strollers (and golden shovels), but tonight it suddenly became about memories and experiences. About traditions and rituals. All the great trademarks of legitimate families. My dad always told me, "Family vacations are a key to family happiness" and we are about to discover this for ourselves. Somewhere between here and Southern California.

Wish us luck.

I Was Blind, But Now I See

My brother Andrew (sibling just older than me) used to be called Gills. And then he was called Lenny. And at some point when he was in fourth grade his eyesight deteriorated. Then he was Lenny with freckles and really thick glasses.

Being sorta blind became part of my brother's identity. He would squint all the time. When I close my eyes and imagine my past, I see Andrew with his squinting blue eyes. After years of glasses he started to use contacts to see. So contact cases and bottles of solution became a part of our bathroom decor. And when we went on family vacations my mom was always worried about my brother's eyes, whether he was being responsible about proper contact care.

The fact remained that my brother could not see very well, having eyesight aid would be his life's burden. And my brother Andrew is really such a sweetheart. He didn't share his disability with any other sibling, this was his genetic impairment and his alone.

Lenny, the brother who can't see very well.

Then he grew up and met this brunette from Southern California, Megan. Megan could see just fine (though I questioned this one night when she told me she thought my brother was cute). We warned Megan about Lenny, his strange fear of Roman busts, his propensity to faint when bothered (passed on to our Chief, thank you) and his package deal of thick glasses, contacts, solutions and eyesight frustrations.

She married him anyway.

Along with Megan came a mother-in-law Paula and a father-in-law Ed. One day Paula was praising the modern day miracle of laser vision correction. She went in to the ophthalmologist, let him cut her cornea with a laser and ta da! hours later she was vision corrected! Then Ed, who was older in his years, but also mature in the ways of generosity, told my brother that he'd help pay for Andrew to get his eyes corrected as well.

Of course, Ed had the means to help my brother with this costly, elective surgery. Even still, sometimes the people who have the means to help others don't always have the heart. But Ed did. And so my brother took his father-in-law up on the offer and in a short visit was completely healed of an otherwise lifetime ailment.

Lenny, the brother who no longer squinted.

This morning as I headed out the door I found Andrew in my driveway. He got out of his car and gave The Chief a piece of candy.

"Why aren't you at work?" I asked him.

"My father-in-law passed away this morning."

Ed had been in-and-out of the hospital these past few weeks due to complications with diabetes. He was in his eighties and had lived a good life, but my nieces wished him to live decades more. He fought and tried, but heaven won.

Heaven always wins.

And I've always wanted to figure out how we can heal like Jesus did. He would put his hands on the blind and made them see. Made them whole. How do we do that with our lack of faith and intelligence?

Then today I realized--in a way--Ed did that for my brother.


Thank you, Ed. You will be missed.

What The World Needs

Less angry town halls and more happy duets.

Beauty for Burning

As I have read emails, facebook comments, and discussions on the Blog Frog all applauding my little sister for her bravery in showing her new self this past weekend, I have been overwhelmed with the offerings of support.

Thank you.

And because her story is hers to tell, and not mine, I was going to stay silent. But I just might be one of those big sisters who can't help but have something to say. And if you think I am incessant, try our eldest sister Page. Oh Duck with Orange Sauce, she puts me to shame.

(I love her for it. Oh I love my sister Page! Some day I will tell you all about her.)

And now that I have mentioned two of my sisters, I will surely get a forlorn text from Lucy if I don't mention her too. So here is this: Lucy doesn't care about having something to say, and I enjoy her company so very much.

Where was I?

Today I was trying to comprehend some scriptures outside in the backyard (you know) and without much prodding, I recalled a couple comments about my sister's new image. They were along the lines of this: Nie is even more beautiful than before.

And I must say--I have to say--publicly and before the whole community, that I agree.

The first time I saw my sister unwrapped and exposed will remain with me forever. The nurse had warned me before I entered into the room that my sister (still in a coma) would look very different. I walked down the off-white sterile corridor at the Arizona Burn Center, the same one I had walked down several times before with a pit in my stomach and a strange hope in my chest. I scrubbed my hands, I pulled on the yellow gown and tied my hair up with a net. With a deep breath, I walked into her room and found her there sleeping.

She was lovely.

Hardly the face you see today--skin was just starting to heal--but a face with eyes and ears and a nose and lips. I nearly dropped on my knees with happiness. I couldn't help but whisper in her ears as she slept.

"Steph, you look so good! You look so good!"

We had been warned of the worst, and this was the best. Of course it was. Her body had channeled the prayers and love the goodness of hearts and it was healed most remarkably. I stared at my sister, intubated and a little agitated, and cried at the thanksgiving I felt.

In my sister's face I see the grace of a loving Heavenly Father. I see His glory and His miracle. I see how hope heals the worst of scars. How the essence of beauty is true faith, to be bestowed on those who feel God's love. How can you help but testify of this?

And the best news of all, perhaps, is that it is a gift to all mankind.
Healing, beauty, grace and peace.
Free and accessible to all.

She lives to remind us.

Team Marriage

The Chief cried all day today. Cried, wailed and sobbed. Sometimes rolled on the floor and sometimes insisted on whining into my shoulder blade. He would not be coddled, he would not be appeased. Even when I put ginger ale in his sippy.

The Chief has a very calm temperament most days. Most days he takes apart the vacuum and puts it back together. Most days he plays with the hose in the backyard. Most days I let him go free range without a diaper.

But not today. Today he wouldn't even let me turn on the vacuum. Or the hose. And when I took off his diaper he left a trail of stink in the green room. Then he stepped in it (of course) and continued the trail of bum crumbs into the kitchen.

(I swore in my childless days that I'd never NEVER blog about my child's excrement, but here I am and it adds a nice spice of drama to my post. What am I going to do?)

He might be teething. He might be growing. He might just be ornery. But at exactly 4:40pm I was I was done guessing. I needed a beverage, and I needed a Daddy.

And then we heard the broom, broom of a motorcycle, and in walked a tall, dark spaceman who, when he took of his helmet, revealed to The Chief that Daddy was home! Sweet sound of testosterone! Dad was home, sing the songs of salvation!

Dad took The Chief to the grocery store.
Dad fed The Chief from his own chili-stuffed baked potato.
Dad played remote control cars up and down the street.
Dad wrestled, rocked and rolled The Chief around in the living room.
Dad made funny faces until The Chief (FINALLY!) laughed.
Dad sang the songs of Zion while Mom plunked at the piano.
And when it was time, Dad put The Chief to bed with a bottle and a prayer.

Sometimes I like to think about why I advocate marriage. Today the reason was this: Dad swore before God that he would take care of Mom. A huge, terrifying promise, really. But today, it meant that when The Chief had his fifth smelly diaper, Mom sat on her sunchair and thanked the heavens above she married someone who keeps his promises.

*Photo by Michael Wiltbank

Life Flight

This afternoon I took The Chief to the park. I sat by a tree and watched him bounce down a grassy hill. As I watched his spirited body I said a prayer of gratitude. A thank you to my Heavenly Father for his goodness on this anniversary of my sister's plane crash.

My amen was interrupted by my son's sudden change in direction. He was coming toward me with his dutiful pointy finger in the air. A helicopter was overhead. We watched it sail towards the Y mountain and circle several times. The Chief was captivated, his eyes traced every movement. Climbing up on my lap, we watched together--our cheeks like magnets.

To our surprise, the helicopter came closer and closer to our spot in the park. It flew very low over our heads.

"It is going to land in the park!" I told The Chief. The trees started to blow and unbelievably, the helicopter hovered and landed not far from us.

It was a red and white helicopter. The unmistakable Life Flight.

A crowd that included The Chief and me gathered around. We could see several police cars parked on the park's lawn close to the helicopter. Officers were out of their cars with binoculars looking up at the mountain.

Earlier, as we were headed to the park, I noticed two para gliders up in the blue sky. Sometime later, we saw one para glider flying just over the trees in the park and land. I guessed the other para glider was trapped somehow on the mountain. Eventually Life Flight took off again, and with the help of Chup's binoculars we spotted the downed para glider on the top of a jagged peak. Heroically, rescuers from Life Flight were lowered down and we saw them hike to the aid of the injured.

My first thought was this: people should stay out of the sky in August.

My second thought was this: everyone needs rescuing.

This past year has been a story of stories. I have heard from good souls. I have heard their stories of depression, divorce, illness, disease death of parent, death of sibling, death of children, death of relationships, suicide, infertility, loneliness. So many stories. I will never get over opening an email and reading about disability or distress and not being able to do more. I wish I could do more. Today I read my emails with a prayer, a simple plea to the Lord.

"I will never be able to say what needs to be said, so please let them know I read every sentiment, and I sent my love in return."

There are accidents and tragedies presented in various packages. And some will require the aid of Life Flight (like my sister, or today's para glider) and some will necessitate deliverance from heartache. No matter, there really is only one rescuer. He who sends the aid, offers redemption, saves us from real or symbolic jagged cliffs. Jesus Christ.

Tonight, after The Chief was sleeping, I went outside to stare at the stars. From where my body lay down on the grass I seemed to be directly below the North Star. For a while I listened to a chorus of crickets and thought about Joseph Smith. How Joseph Smith sacrificed his life to give me knowledge of Jesus Christ, and how this knowledge rescues me, lifted me up on this very day last year, and has saved me everyday since.

Healing in Helium

After almost a week in Arizona, and two days in a car, Chup and I arrived back home with my brother Andrew, my baby and three extra children in tow. As we pulled up we were greeted by family who had decorated our house with balloons and cards.

The children were living in a dream. We were all living in a dream. We walked inside and I noticed our cupboards and refrigerator stuffed full of food and groceries. (Later I learned our our kitchen elf was none-other-than my brother-in-law Vance.) Claire and Jane picked out their bedroom downstairs, and we made Ollie's Buzz and Woody at home in the bedroom next to ours.

I had time for a short shower, and then we walked to the park for a balloon launch. Earlier in the week, a good blogger friend had sent me an email with this suggestion--a tribute to Stephanie's favorite birthday tradition. I welcomed the world to launch with us.

Going to the park was much like I imagined heaven to be like. There, on a grassy hillside were friends, family, neighbors and supporters. My mom's best friend Mary Ellen, my Aunt Janie, my childhood friends. I will never forget meeting the daughter of the woman whose yard the plane crashed into or long time readers of my sister's blog. Stress had killed my voice and I resorted to hugging as an expression of love and gratitude.

My friend May took The Chief and held him so I could greet hundreds of well wishers all holding brightly colored balloons. I watched Claire and Jane playing under pine trees with cousins and Oliver with my brother Matt, while Chup took photographs with his camera. The Marvels were feeding the crowd and people were in a mood of unity. In this dream like, heaven induced state I was dipped into a vat of love. It was all around me, inside me flowing in and out. I looked up to the blue sky and prayed that Stephanie was feeling it too.

We counted down to zero and let our balloons off into the sky. It felt symbolic of our prayers. Each balloon represented a plea to our Heavenly Father. A green balloon for Stephanie, a red balloon for Christian and a white balloon for Doug.

Later that night I checked my email, I was astounded to see that the world had joined us. Australia, Hawaii, Thailand, England, Germany, even Abu-Dobie. Thousands of prayers launched heavenward.

And heaven heard us.

Video of the balloon launch from Dave Henson of VidProUtah
(song "Out of the Woods" from Nickel Creek)

And Pretty Soon . . . (a Legacy)

Aerial view of the Ruby Mountain range from LIFE (1948)

Two weeks before the plane crash Grandma Clark arrived at my door. This was totally unexpected. Grandma is the mother to eight children and forty-five grandchildren (who knows how many great grandchildren? A lot.) Obviously, she doesn't have time to personally visit all of her kin (months? Years?) Mostly when we want to connect with her, we find at home in her cozy white house framed by roses. But this day, I was lucky.

Grandma came over to give me some shirts she thought might fit my frame. From my grandma I inherited a love for patterns and colors in my clothing. Her choices worked perfectly with my closet. She sat down in my white chair and watched me hold up each shirt to my chest, checking the sizes.

They were too small.

"Don't worry, by the fall you'll fit into each of these comfortably." She assured. "Everything passes."

Which reminded me of her life. Six months after giving birth to her eighth child, her husband left on a business trip and never came home. I had heard the story so many times, but I asked her to tell me again. To remind me, everything passes.

He told me he was going on a business trip on a small commuter plane with a pilot. I didn't think anything of it. The night he was set to return I fell asleep on the couch waiting for him to come home. I left the porch light on for him. I woke-up the next morning on the couch, and the porch light was still on.

I walked across the street to my mom's house. When I walked in she was sitting in a chair, looking pale. I looked at her and asked, "Mom, is it Don?" She answered me, "Yes, they are out looking for him. They think they've crashed."

Days later they found the crashed plane in the Ruby Mountains, Nevada.

I was so lonely. I would scrub the kitchen floor at nights to combat the loneliness. I had no choice but to carry on, getting the kids up for church, making pancakes and nursing the baby. So that is what I did, and pretty soon I wasn't so lonely. After some time I stop waiting for him to walk through the door. I just accepted things as they were and I was blessed.

My throat gets lumps every time I think about my young Grandma, on a quiet night with all of her babies in bed, on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. How can I reconcile that hardship? How does that compute? It makes me so sad to think of that woman, her place in time, her situation and not being able to help her.

And in two weeks time I got a taste of her experience. Almost exactly forty-eight years later.

I was washing the dishes one night, all the children in bed, my baby nursed to sleep. In my ears were tunes from Steph's I-pod and Chup was working on his laptop. As I scrubbed and scrubbed those dishes I prayed for my sister's body. I missed her. I wanted to call her and talk about what was going on. I wished I could comfort Doug's family in Arizona. I longed for those sleeping children to have their charmed life back. I cried for my husband and baby who suddenly had to share a heavy load with me. And suddenly I collapsed on the floor--a sobbing, shaking pile of emotions. My cry came from the back of the throat and wailed out of my mouth. I grabbed myself and rolled on my side and back. The pain was excruciating.

Chup came and held me and we sat there for awhile until I could think. And I thought.

I thought about Grandma and the gift she'd given me. When she chose to accept things as they were, she gave me the option of doing the same. Even now, decades later. I didn't have to wonder what to do, I knew what to do--her decision created a pathway to mine. That scrubbing woman, on her knees, she did it for me.

I remembered when our family faced the blackness of adversity we had one choice, to carry on with faith, or not. And when she found her self a young, widowed, single mother, my Grandma chose to carry on and changed the course of generations. This (more than fancy shirts) was her inheritance to me.

Everything passes.


My heart and prayers are with the Mingo family tonight. I pray for their comfort, like so many people who prayed for ours. You can read their story here.

Some Like It Sharp

When Stephanie was transferred to the University of Utah Burn Center Christian came to live with us. It was bittersweet. On one hand the children had their father back. They were able to help with dressing changes and be gofers to his needs. It allowed for more balance in their lives, they were happier for it.

On the other hand, it was hard. It would take him about 45 minutes to commute the hospital every day. Christian would leave in the early afternoons, after his dressing changes, to be with Stephanie until late at night. Sometimes he'd be driving home in wild snow storms and we'd wait up until his car arrived in our carport. It was draining I am sure, though I never heard him complain much. He'd wake up, make a smoothie to share with all of us, and get on with his day.

When I look back at that time--a difficult time to be sure--I think about cheese. Christian would sometimes come home with groceries, and in the morning I'd find my fridge stocked with good food. Food that he rarely had time to eat, so I would finish up tubs of olives and bags of cookies from Whole Foods
(I ate a lot during that time). But most of all, Christian introduced me to Sharp Cheddar.

Sharp Cheddar is a whole galaxy better than Medium Cheddar, or its lazy little brother, Mild Cheddar. It makes everything snappy and daring. I put it on my baked potato once and suddenly I didn't need sour cream. It made a better macaroni and cheese. It stands alone as a snack, or improves a simple cracker. Safely put, my life has changed since Christian stuffed our dairy box with his choosings.

Perhaps it is silly to say, but everyday I find good in what happened last year. And one day, while I was eating a plate of cheese and grapes, I realized how Christian improved my life in the darkest of days. And, it's the little things.

You know?

Jane & Shane

On a very gray day last January I drove across town with my sister's oldest daughters. Claire sat in the backseat looking out the window. Jane sat in the middle, her feet dangling off the seat, her hands clutching a white homemade card.

"What will his face look like?" Jane asked as we crossed University Avenue.

We were on our way to visit my friend Dalene's husband, Shane. A month before he had been diagnosed with bone cancer in his face, and he'd just gone through critical surgery to have a tumor removed from the roof of his mouth. If the tumor removal was successful this would be the final surgery, if not the cancer would require a partial facial structure removal.

"I don't know." I replied.

The hard part about parenting children you didn't raise is not knowing how to answer their questions. I was not fluent in their family vocabulary. I struggled with using the right terms to satiate their wonderings. My mistake in wording many times led to confusing follow-up questions. All day long I was hearing inquiries from little voices, and rarely did I have the natural ability to answer them. I would hesitate, stutter and sometimes reluctantly make stuff up, just to be able to get through to the next question. Having just had my first baby, he who only had one question (when do we eat?) I was completely stunned by my incapability to respond and reply.

I resorted to I don't know a lot.

"But what if he looks . . . you know?"

My rear view showed me Jane looking at her homemade card with her straight red hair sliding downwards towards her chin.

My heart was broken for Jane. Perhaps one of the most fearless children I know, we had discovered Jane's only horror: Change. And change was going on all around her. Thick, encompassing change that didn't make sense and could not be explained by her mumbling aunt. Her mother didn't look like her mother. Her mother lived in a hospital. Her mother was trying to reclaim her daughter, but Jane was lost.

"He probably won't answer the door, he just had surgery. He'll most likely be in bed, like your mom is when we visit her. You can give your card to the person who answers the door." I assured her.

Her legs bounced.

I talked to therapists, psychologists, social workers. I asked them opinions on what to do for Jane. How to give Jane tools to open her heart to accept this new life. While reluctant at first, Claire was able to adjust--as did Oliver--sister Jane was left to figure it all out alone. Our feisty red-head didn't respond to any of the good advice. Nothing was working.

One night while praying I asked the Lord to help me help my niece. In the morning I woke up with an answer in my ears.

"Give her opportunities to serve others."

I wrote it down. And followed up with,

"Please send us opportunities."

Then I checked my email. Dalene had written an SOS.

"Shane is on a soft food diet and absolutely nothing sounds or tastes good to him so he's not eating. If you have a minute could you send me some ideas, recipes, whatever of soft-but-not-bland/boring-foods I can offer him that don't require much chewing but that might be tempting enough to get him interested?"

Then the prayer: "Thanks for the opportunity."

Jane is a foodie. She can talk about food, make food, eat food all day long. Sometimes she'd wake up in the morning and find me in bed to talk about recipes and food presentation. "I'd like to make a lemon cupcake . . . with strawberry and cinnamon frosting . . . and put a purple flower on top of the cupcake . . ."

I found Jane eating breakfast downstairs.

"Jane, I need your help. A friend of mine just had surgery on his face and can't eat any solid food."

"What is solid food?" Jane (of course) asked.

"Hard food. Food you have to chew." I breathed.

"Why did he have surgery on his face?" She asked again.

"He has cancer." I breathed again. What is cancer? I knew it was coming.

But instead Jane sat there blinking at me.

"He needs something to eat that he can drink. Can you think of anything we could take him?"

Jane thought for a minute. Then, as with any good idea that comes to her mind, her eyes opened wide and her pointy finger shot up in the air. With a static-cling nightgown trailing behind her, Jane dashed upstairs and returned holding a card.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It is my Jamba card."

A gift card someone had given her for Christmas. A card she'd used to play store with Claire. I knew she was excited to use it for real, but we hadn't found the time.

"You want to give it to my friend?" I asked.

"Yes, so he can have a Jamba to eat." Jane explained.

Later she wrote a letter of encouragement to house the gift card. Every letter was printed with her Kindergarten best. Seventy-seven questions were asked in the process.

Is Shane a daddy?

Yes.

Is Shane nice?

Yes, and funny.

What does Shane do for work?

He teaches third grade.

How long will he have to eat squishy foods?

I don't know.

When we arrived at Shane's house the girls were reluctant to get out of the car. Claire, especially. The gray sky was changing to black. Inside the house I could see through the windows. Yellow light drifted outside and I saw moving shadows, they were home.

"You can leave it on the doorstep, if you are too scared." Was the easy out helping, or did I need to push them to be brave? I second-guessed like it was my day job. Sometimes I felt completely confused as to what my role was, a mother? A facilitator? A friend? I was no longer the aunt who spoiled and sent home. Now I was their home, and spoiling wasn't an option. Even my own voice was foreign to me. When was it going to sound right again?

I don't know.

Jane crawled over Claire's lap and opened the door. Claire slid out behind her. The two girls stood looking at the house.

"Go ahead!" I yelled through a rolled-down window.

Jane took Claire's hand in hers and pulled her older sister to the door. Now, here was Jane being the brave one, having the courageous spirit, embracing something scary. Here was a small victory already.

Before the girls could ring the doorbell, Shane came out to greet them. I was shocked to see him looking like Saturday afternoon, but not like Post-Surgery. His face wasn't even slightly puffy. When he opened up his mouth to show the girls the wires in his upper jaw he did so without any ginger movements. Then he told them jokes and asked them silly questions and before you knew it, Claire and Jane had a new best friend.

"This is for you." Jane finally said to Shane, giving him the note. He hugged her, and the girls skipped back to the car in the dark night.

On the way home it started to rain. I watched the windshield wiper travel back-and-forth across my face. From the back seat Jane was telling Claire about what she wrote in Shane's note.

"Well Jane, I am going to ask if we can go back tomorrow and I will write the note this time." Claire reported.

A couple days ago the girls came over to visit me. They had ridden their bikes down the street from where they now live--happily--with their real parents. They were eating candy and swinging on the swings Chup had crafted for them in the playroom.

"Hey Courtney," said Claire chewing. "One time Jane gave her Jamba card to a guy who had his tonsils out."

"Yeah." said Jane chewing too. "That was cool."

"I know," I replied. "I was there."

*An update on Shane? Read Dalene's account here.

This week I am celebrating a year of survival for my sister, her husband and our family. I am writing some of the untold stories from the period of time in our lives when people pulled together to help us, and heal us. Thank you for being a part of it all.

Some Body--Second Edit

The night before I was supposed to talk with Matt Lauer on the Today Show I was at the mall shopping with Chup. I was two months postpartum, nothing fit me. Nothing. I had suffered through the last two months hoping my black sweats would sorta look like casual dress pants and ginormous t-shirts from my husband's closet. When I write about it now, I'd like to erase this entire first paragraph and just state: I was a mess.

I leaked through shirts and peed when I coughed. My body ached from earlobes to ingrown toes. I would braid my hair because I had no energy to do it--not that I have any idea how to style my hair anyway--but braids didn't help my cause. I looked like an aged Gretel who had just eaten Hansel. And bless my husband's heart for staying attracted to me even though I spent my days hiding in paisley mu-mus that buttoned down the front.

This was not me. No. I had generously donated my entire life to Cute. Later in my twenties, Cute met up with Weight and started a Circus. I sacrificed anything to achieve Skinny (the ultimate Cute) with the bounds of health consciousness. I cut out meat, dairy and sometimes eating all together. I dreamed of re-sculpting my hips to fit into jeans and drying up the last of anything that bulged. I couldn't have a baby, darn it, but I could have Skinny.

(And for the record, my body does not do Skinny. Which was always going to be my problem. Starting at age 16 it became a quest and intensified with time. Wasted time.)

After a pregnancy riddled with self-induced anxieties and nine months of flu-like symptoms, a whirlwind postpartum and ensuing transitions then, a family trauma, equaling two major life changes in two months, I can tell you I was not ready for my close up, No Thank you, Mr. Lauer.

But it came, anyway.

I bought a blue stretchy dress and told the lady who sold it to me to look for me on the Today Show. I don't think she believed me, or she felt sorry for me, either way I felt the same way about myself. I didn't have any shoes that fit me really, my feet were late to the memo about not needing to retain water, so I showed up in some frumpy Crocs and asked if I could go barefoot on national television.

"We won't even see your feet." Encouraged the producer.

So there I was in between my two wisps of sisters, in my new blue dress and bare feet at 5 in the morning. I felt awful, I had a head cold which masked my voice with mucous. A few days earlier, I didn't even have a voice, so I was grateful for what I had. I reminded myself over and over again to sit up straight and keep my head forward so as to avoid my other two chins from making cameos. But I slumped on that couch with my heart beating so fast I was sure all of New York could hear it.

Had you told me, in my late twenties, that my fifteen seconds of fame would coincide with my biggest weight gain of my life I would've asked for death. Death! A sweet remedy to what surely would be the greatest view of human insecurity possible. Millions of people getting one glimpse into my life and all they will see is my flesh stuffed on a couch. And yet, in that moment I could not refuse a chance to tell my sister's story, and welcome others into our circle of prayer.

They put that ear bud in and told me to smile at the camera before commercial break. The whole time I smiled I thought, "My cheeks! They are so puffy! And is it hot in here? I am so hot, I am going to melt before the commercial is over. Matt will have to interview a puddle." And before I knew it, the interview was over. A grip started wrapping up cables and the producer was telling us to go home, back to bed before our segment aired in Utah.

I didn't even watch it. I was so embarrassed.

Some days I cringe when I think of the whole episode. I see myself so vulnerable and lost. Shortly after buying it, I donated the dress to a second-hand store. I couldn't even see it in my closet and not think about the state of my shapeless body. How much work would I have to do until I could be comfortable again? It was impossible.

But on other days--kind days--I think differently. I think about how soft my body felt at that time. How the children loved to wrap their little arms around it and snuggle with it. I remember my leaking body was everything to a newborn baby and retained the stains of creative extensions. It felt loved by a man, and responded to his touch. Perhaps, this was my glory after all--not Skinny, but Steady. What a better time in my life to have this battled body immortalized on the archives of live television in front of millions of viewers?

Because of this experience, I have come to believe that the God who gave me this body, molds it and moves it into the shape He needs it to be. As long as my form obeys its true function, it will always be the right weight and the right time. And in light of my sister's fighting body, mine was at least healthy. It should've been the last thing on my mind--looking fat on tv--but vanity runs in my veins. I'm afraid.

I will always be grateful for the opportunity, it introduced me to hundreds of good people and those people bless my life daily. Amazingly, it allowed me to come to terms with my one of my biggest fears and gave me the gift of seeing that it wasn't so bad.

Except for the bare feet, when I was told they made it on camera, I was not pleased. And there is no reconciling that. Mr. Producer.


Post-edit: Had to add the "Because of this experience, I have come to believe" paragraph (second from last) or else insomnia promised to hold me forever in it's tireless claws. Good night.

From September to May

On a warm, exhausting night last September Lucy and I were upstairs in the Ollie's temporary bedroom. Somewhere in the house were our spouses and the children, running and chasing. I had the baby on the bed with me, Lucy was changing Gig's diaper.

"I think I'm pregnant." She told me, as if confessing to heavily-carried sin.

She stood up and wrapped the wet diaper like a burrito and tossed it down the hall.

It had been a rough year for my little sister. After a much hoped for pregnancy ended in miscarriage, she had spent the rest of the year in the throes of infertility. Wanting, waiting, expecting and being disappointed. Having stepped up and taken Stephanie's baby and with the ongoing emotional tolls of not knowing our sister's mortality, this announcement seemed oddly timed.

"It's wonderful." I said, and I meant it. We needed a piece of hope, a reason to look forward to something in the distant future, another name in our growing prayer list. But then, almost in the same moment, I realized that her daily help would soon become stunted. She'd be sick, and tired and have a two-year-old to keep up. My partner was weakening, what was I going to do?

Lucy had been my angel. She showed up everyday to manage the unmanageable. We ate together and cried together. Our lives became one, we shared everything we had, which was mostly energy. I relied on her bouncy spirit to keep me buoyant most days. I really wanted her to have the great wish of her heart.

But now Lord? Now?

When it was official, and the growing embryo was given a spring due date, we went ahead with our hoping. There was never a prayer said (food or "please help me find my other shoe") that didn't include our plead, "Please bless Lucy's baby." And indeed an impending baby gave us other perspectives, other prospects. We'd talk about the day when the children would have their parents, and Lucy would have her baby.

As the weeks crawled by Lucy continued to show up every day as promised. Most days all she could do was collapse on the couch and spend the afternoon trying not to throw up. But she was there, and kept on like a gestational solider in the first trimester war. Even more amazing, Gigs was always well-fed, well-dressed and adored. She always had enough patience for this little gift of a boy who responded by treating her with sweetness.

There is so much unknown in the Lord's timing. What I thought would be my downfall, turned out to be my blessing. Watching one sister recover, while another sister bloomed became an interesting lesson in the power of a woman's body. But even more, I was given another reason to never doubt the Lord--His timing or his love, because both are always right.

On a warm spring evening in May, my sister gave birth to this anticipated baby. I first saw Betsy naked and squirming in her mother's arms. Having witnessed Lucy lovingly care for Gigs, my first thought was how lucky this baby girl was to have such a mother.

My second thought . . .we made it.

Need To Say This In A Post of Its Own

In today's post I accidentally wrote that Nickelback was on my sister's I-pod. She is going to kill me when she discovers this error. Nothing wrong with Nickelback, but I meant Nickel Creek. Small mistake, big difference.

And to show my humility, I will actually embed our favorite NICKEL CREEK song (Anthony) here:

Rocks and Rolls

From the beginning of our experience it was clear to me we were going to need more than one I-pod. In the absence of their parents, the children were drawn to the familiar playlists on their mother's device. Claire and Jane especially demanded listening to their mother's favorites alone, curled up with headphones attached. Over and over again they heard friendly voices in Allison Krauss, Nickel Creek and Mindy Gledhill. In the music they felt their parents, they cried and were comforted together.

We shifted and shared until one night when we came home from an outing to a dark house. On the kitchen counter were three I-pods red, pink and green for Claire, Jane and Ollie. We put them to bed that night with their heads full of memories. And from that night on, the I-pods were a second best to their own parents singing them to sleep.

As it turns out, our benefactor was none other than James Valentine. James is known to the world as the lead guitarist for Maroon 5, though to us he is also our sister-in-law Lisa's little brother. I know he knows how important music can be, how it can soothe little hearts and make sense out of the senseless. But still, I hope he knows how much his kindness meant to us. We are very grateful to know someone who could do this for us, but even more, we are grateful that he did.

I'd like to share with you one of our favorite songs we listened to during this period in our lives. This song is called "My Darling" and it is a cover of a Wilco song. It comes from Ryan Tanner off of Scott Wiley's Baby Mine compilation album. I think you can see why it meant so much to us.

My Darling

The Magic Swing Set

A year ago this month our lives changed. All of our lives. And in celebrating the time that has passed from then until now, I am going to take these next couple weeks to tell some of the untold stories. The experiences my heart reminds me of in reflection. The stories of quiet kindness and merciful service. The people who sacrificed on our behalf for our betterment. I wish I could tell all the stories, I will spent my life trying.

BobAnn works with Chup in a gold gilded office building downtown Salt Lake. When Chup first started working with the company, he'd came home talking about BobAnn.

"BobAnn knows everything about the company."

"BobAnn is so nice to me, she even laughs at my jokes."

"I think you'd like BobAnn, you should meet her."

Which eventually I did. I was riding in an elevator in Las Vegas--tagging along during Chup's business trips--when BobAnn slipped between the closing doors.

"BobAnn!" yelped Chup.

"This is my wife!" he pointed at me.

The grouping inside the elevator all turned to look at me while a sweet woman with kind eyes responded.

"Nice to meet you." A soft hand was offered.

I thanked her for making my Chup's transition into the company more comfortable. She humbly rolled her eyes and laughed off any compliment. When the doors opened she jetted off to the convention and I kissed my husband good day. I had an afternoon to spend by the pool.

A couple of years later, BobAnn heard about my sister's three children coming to live with us. She told Chup she had something to offer in a way of entertainment. Her own children having long since abandoned the swing set in her backyard, BobAnn asked if she could give it to us. Retro House was void of tricks and treats, so we gratefully accepted.

One Friday September afternoon BobAnn showed up in a truck. In the back was the swing set in pieces. BobAnn had taken the day to painstakingly disassemble every screw and joint, load them in her truck and make the 45 minute commute southward to our home. There, with Chup, she meticulously reassembled the entire set and made sure it was sturdy before she took her tools and headed home.

As they worked on reconnecting each piece, I sat on a lawn chair and cried. What a good woman! I tried imagining myself doing the same thing for others. I don't even know how to work a screw driver, I don't do much heavy lifting and can't I just drop off a loaf of banana bread instead? I worried that BobAnn was secretly laughing to herself about that woman in the elevator, off to sun bathe while the rest of humanity worked, getting her due, four children all at once, but then I remembered thoughts like that don't enter the minds of the good-hearted.

In the coming months the swing set proved to be just what we needed. We spent the rest of the fall swinging, sliding and rocking on the teeter-totter. Claire learned to scale the monkey bars which made her recesses at school less lonely. Jane invented the Waterslide Backyard Freefall, and Ollie christened the crow's nest his Tower of Cool. Chup and I used it like an energy depleting machine, telling the children to go out and play anytime the indoor decibel level was too much. We said we'd stain it red, but the day to stain it red never offered itself up to our schedule. So it stayed perfectly weather beaten and sliver-threatening.

Now that the children have their own home, The Chief and I spend our afternoons swinging and scaling and rocking and chasing around the swing set. It has become a part of our lives, a structure of memories, a loyal time-passing friend.

Sorta like BobAnn.

Compression, Expansion, Illumination

Last November my sister came out of her coma.

In haste I flew to her bedside--my baby ever attached to my body--from Utah to Arizona. In the morning my parents picked me up at the airport and we drove straight to the hospital.

I rehearsed everything I wanted to say to her. I wanted to assure her children were at my home, her baby with Lucy. We had sheltered them from the whirlwind of the last several months. We sent them to school, fed them and checked on their little sleeping bodies at night. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, how I wish I had more energy to expend on her behalf, even though my body was given dual purposes; keep her babies alive, keep my baby alive. Gratefully, energy was like milk, when it was depleted, my body produced more.

But she wasn't feeling like visitors.

A kind nurse came out to talk to us, "This is typical. Please don't think it's because she doesn't love you, she does. Give her a little time to be alone." The extreme shock of coming-to had caught up with her spirit and these were dark days. And in that moment, the surrealism of survival had come to an end for me too. Suddenly I knew what lay ahead. It was a laborious road of recovery, both emotional and physical. The hardest part.

I nodded my head, and looked down at my baby. My parents spoke with the nurse a little longer and we turned to leave. In the car we started to drive through downtown Phoenix. I sat in the backseat with my crying baby in the car seat next to me. I was a spectrum of emotions. Angry at myself for being so assumptive. Desperate for comfort. Desperately sad. My chest was tight and I was tiredly fighting the sterotype that I was invincible, strong. I was vulnerable to the unknown months ahead. I was flatlining. Choking from emotional claustrophobia.

In trying to explain the cacophony of voices in my head, I spewed out trails of rage as we drove slowly through Old Town Scottsdale. My baby cried, I cried and my parents actively listened. But their ability to be what I needed at that point was asking a lot of them. I knew that.

We share these things, these experiences, these tragedies like spiders on the same web. My sister's pain was felt to some degree by all of us. I would like to have carried more, but I was wasted. I wanted to write her a note, tell her I was sorry for my shortcomings, and get back on the plane. Instead, Dad drove us to the desert, up a windy, cactus-lined drive to Taliesin West, Frank Lloyd Wright's winter compound and campus.

A quick lady with a sun hat was our tour guide. She hopped along and spoke with infatuation about the infamous architect. Dad's salty questions about Wright's past were kindly refused. But as we moved from structure to structure we were instructed of the mastermind's play with compression and expansion.

A stuffed entry way pushes into a spacious sunlit room used for socializing. A dark tunnel opens to a grand theater draped in red velvet. An outdoor walkway molds into a tight maze of plaster and leads to an open pool of water. All around us we fell victims to confinement and became followers to the increase of something bigger, larger, better.

Our small group crowded in a doorway bumping into each other, waiting for the dim light to reveal surroundings. Our guide waited until we were sufficiently uncomfortable before she allowed the group to expand into the next illuminated space. As the group moved slowly, I sat down on a bench, cramped and crouching in the gray light. The baby was hungry and I needed to feed him, which I did as the tour continued. From the next room I could hear the group gasping with delight.

There in that little space I sat for awhile in quiet. I tried to feel the ghost of Mr. Wright. I wanted to tell him that I understood his symbolic representation of the human experience. I knew this space was created for me to appreciate the next. And quietly I nursed my baby and quietly I made peace with the compression.

Compression promises expansion. Dark promises light. Voices ahead increase hope. Tired would become energy. Pain would become stimulus. Choking would be breathing.

When my baby was full, I readjusted my body and shirt, put him back in the stroller. With a quiet resolve I moved towards the yellow light at the end of the hall.

It did not disappoint.

*photo from here.