As our neighbors helped us unload our U-haul, someone mentioned that the hardest part about helping a Mormon who is moving is all the food storage (so heavy!). Then I started thinking about how so much of what I own shows what I am. Being a Latter-Day Saint is more than where I go to church on Sunday. It is a way of life.  I thought it might be interesting to keep track of some of the things related to my “mormanity:”

• 3 boxes of family history papers
• 1 box of scriptures
• 3 boxes of church-related books
• 4 boxes of church manuals (books of Sunday school lessons)
• 10 boxes of fabric (& a sewing machine I bought when I was a teenager)
• 5 boxes of scrapbooks (& supplies)
• 1 piano, 2 violins, & 4 boxes of church music
• 12 boxes of baby/kid clothes (for all the children I may have someday)
• 2 boxes of 72-hour kits
• 1 box of framed paintings of Jesus (Why would anyone say we’re not Christian?)
• 1 framed picture of a temple
• 1 framed picture of George Washington praying next to his horse
• 1 box of cookbooks
• 7 boxes of non-rated-R-movies
• 8 boxes of canning pots, jars, & a dehydrator
• 52 boxes & 15 buckets of food storage

Many of my LDS friends have four or more children, so the thought of moving twice as much food (or more) sounds overwhelming.  Plus, with all the extra toys and clothing, how would they fit it all into one U-haul?  All of this packing and unpacking reminds me of what Jerry Seinfeld said:

“When you’re moving, your whole world becomes boxes.  That’s all you think about is boxes.  Boxes, where are there boxes?  You just wander down the street going in and out of stores.  Are there boxes here?  Have you seen any boxes?…You can’t even talk to people because you can’t concentrate.  ‘Shut up, I’m looking for boxes’…You could be at a funeral.  Everyone’s mourning, crying around, and you’re looking at the casket.  ‘That’s a nice box.  Does anyone know where that guy got that box?  When he’s done with it, do you think I could get that?  It’s got some nice handles on it.’  And that’s what death is really.  It’s the last big move of your life.  The hearse is like the van.  The pall bearers are your close friends, the only ones you could ask to help you with a big move like that.  And the casket is that great perfect box you’ve been waiting for your whole life.  The only problem is, once you find it you’re in it.”

Hilarious.  They say you can’t take it with you. The way I see it right now, that’s a good thing!

My mom has always been a creative woman. I loved to hear her sing, especially the songs she wrote herself. She sang in a bluegrass band with her sister when I was a kid. On practice days, my little sisters and I danced in our living room to the music of the banjo, bass, mandolin, and guitar. That is one of my favorite memories.

Mom also wrote poetry. She usually wrote when she was sad. I still have one of the poems she wrote in the car. She wrote it on the cardboard from a package of those yummy oval-shaped oatmeal cookies we often bought at the “merc.” I wish I knew where I could get some of those cookies today.

This is what it said:

We are like raindrops of tears

Rolling down the window…pain…

Reminded of the years, so full of shame

Falling to the ground and waiting for the Son

To pick us up with His love,

And make us all as one.              12-21-1988

I don’t think she would mind if I put her poem here. I wanted to share it because I recognize that many of the talents I possess I gained from my mom in one way or another.

I love poetry and music. Before I was a teenager, I saved my babysitting money to buy a $200 Casio keyboard. When I was a young teenager, I taught myself how to read music. My mom bought a used piano for me, and I learned to play hymns on it. Later, I used the money I earned as a maid at a motel, a Saturday and summer job, to pay for piano lessons. Then I walked to the teacher’s house once a week after school. My foster family paid for my lessons after I moved in with them. They were also musical. I loved to sing Christmas songs with them, in four-part harmony. I started singing in the church choir when I was twelve years old. Over the years, I have sung in various choirs. There were times the music made such an impact on me, I felt I would never be the same as before. When I thank God for my blessings, music is always on the list. It has the power to strengthen me when other things have no power. God knew this about me.  I’m glad He planted me where He did.

It is hard to believe it has been more than ten years since my wedding day. That was a happy day for me. Today I read Cinderella to my daughter. There is a page that shows Cinderella looking at the palace from her window, dreaming of that someday when her prince would come. It reminds me of my first twenty years. Every time I saw the temple, I looked forward to going there someday to be married.

It was more wonderful and more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. The morning sunlight that flowed through the temple windows felt so warm, and it seemed to make everyone glow. The love of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and very dear friends surrounded us as we knelt across the altar from each other. We made promises to each other and promises to God. We listened as the sealer told of the blessings that would come because of that holy union. Then we kissed a simple kiss (our mothers were watching!), but it was a sweet kiss, and it was a special kiss because it was our first as husband and wife.

The more I know about the world, the more I realize how miraculous our innocence was. We each gave our first kiss to each other, and in a society where virginity is usually lost by teenagers, we still had ours at the ages of twenty and twenty-five, to be given to each other in marriage.

I still think of our first date with fondness. He was so shy. I was so immature. He was so handsome. I was so thin! We dated for two and a half years before we got married. Unfortunately, there were thorns with the roses. A lot of people thought we shouldn’t marry because we were so different from each other. Some said he was too good for me. Others said I was too good for him. I almost gave up, but losing him felt worse than losing favor with family and friends.

We promised each other before we were married that divorce would never be an option for us. We vowed we would never speak of it, not even in jest. Through the years, we have shared and loved, fought and cried. We have lost together, prayed together, laughed together, and dreamed together. And after years of longing, we had children together.

There were times I wondered if they had been right. Maybe I deserved someone who was more kind. I’m sure there were times when he wondered also, because he knew he deserved someone more competent. Thankfully, we have both come to know that we deserve each other, and our children deserve parents who love each other unselfishly. So we try. Most of the time we succeed, and I pray it will be enough to carry us through the eternities.

I’ve spent a lot of time with him, but I still want more. I’ve thought of him more than anyone or anything else for almost half my life, but I still like to think about him more than anything else. I guess that’s how it is when you are family and you love each other. And it makes sense that it would be that way if we plan to be married forever, right?

I wrote a poem for him for our anniversary. He understands calculus, but not poetry. So it is a simple poem, but I think it says it all. I gave it to him with a picture of us on our wedding day.

They say we are as night and day

And they are right–

Yet I only long for you to stay

With me day and night.

They say we are as black and white

And I look back–

But all was right with me in white

And you in black.

When I was a baby, my parents and I lived in a single-wide trailer. My earliest memory is of waking in the night to the cry of my baby sister, born in the room at the end of the hall. I was three and a half. My dad built an adobe house from dirt that was on our one acre of land. When I was about four, we moved into the new house. I still remember the day my old house drove away. I stood in the yard and watched it go: my first home.

Twenty years later, my husband and I ordered a manufactured home to put on our half acre of land. On the day of arrival, I was helping a friend in a neighboring town when I saw my new home pass by. With excitement, I jumped into our truck and followed it, taking pictures as I drove. As they backed it in, I recalled that childhood day when my house drove away, and how then my new home was driving in. I thought that was a full circle moment.

Six years later, we put our home up for sale so we could relocate for my husband’s career. As I packed our belongings, I kept thinking about how much I had loved that house. It was the first home that was our very own. It was the place where I took my tiny babies home from the hospital. Then one last time we knelt together in a circle in the family room (with nothing left in it but my family) and thanked God for the sweet memories made there. As we drove away, my four-year-old and I waving, “Good-bye, House! We love you,” I realized that was really the full circle.

One of my favorite movies is While You Were Sleeping. In it, there is a line that says, “You are born into a family. You do not join them like you do the Marines.” When I was fifteen, I did exactly that. Growing up, I had friends who seemed to have the perfect families. I wanted one too! So I found one that was almost perfect and I joined it. This is my story of how I became what most would call “a foster child.”

Before I begin, I want to say that I truly love my family. Looking back, I have many good memories. My parents did teach me things that were good, and the good things stuck. I know more about the world now than I did when I was young. If I were to now rate my childhood family on its dysfunctionality (I think I just made up a new word), I’d say I was lucky compared to a lot of kids.

There were many things that made me want to leave home. I think that is another story. Today my story is of an amazing family who welcomed me into their house, not just as a guest, but as a family member. It started with a lovely woman who befriended me at a church function. I had quite a few friends that were mothers and grandmothers. My best friend used to tease me about it, but I liked they way they genuinely cared about me.

My new friend and I became close before too long. Every school day, she sent a sack lunch for me with her son who was a year older than me. There was always a note inside. One night, things were not good at home. I called this woman and told her I was leaving. She picked me up in her car and brought me to her house. She put me in a bedroom for the night. I had cried a lot and was tired. I still remember the feeling of clean sheets and the smell of food cooking.

When I awoke the next morning, I could hear the family interacting. The mother was trying to keep them quiet so they wouldn’t wake me. I snuggled into the blankets and enjoyed the warmth and security I felt. After that, I stayed there as often as I could. It wasn’t long before I began calling the mother, “Mama,” which after a while became, “Mom.” She had always wanted twelve children. She had eight, and called me her “added upon.”

I wasn’t the easiest person to have around. I used to cry everyday, sometimes curled up in the bottom of the closet. I was extremely jealous of their other children. Once I almost started a fist fight with the daughter that was closest to me in age. I still have guilt about that. I have since talked to her about it. She just laughed and says she doesn’t remember it, so I’m forgiven. I was angry a lot, usually at Mom. For some reason, they though I was worth all the trouble. Many times I have prayed that God will bless them for what they did for me.

We had some good times too. Sometimes all of the girls and I would get laughing so hard, we’d be on the floor. Dad was a constant support. He used to read to us, the scriptures as well as interesting novels, usually being tied to our church in some way. Instead of going to church alone, I had a family to sit with.

I lived with them for five and a half years, until I got married. During that time they never received money from the state or my family for my care. They bought an older car for me to drive when I was in college. I worked part time to pay for the gas and insurance, and as much as I could for my books and tuition. They took care of the rest. They even paid for my wedding. This wasn’t a wealthy family, but they always said they had enough for another one of their kids. Mom continued to write notes to me, calling me her “dotter.”

I know people around us thought it was strange, the way I pretended like I was part of their family. That doesn’t matter. I count myself blessed for all that I gained because of them. It is another evidence that Heavenly Father loves me and is watching over me.