Forward, March!

 
I wrote this some years ago. But after this winter, when our yard has looked like this:
                                        

 

I'm feeling like I did the day I wrote it,

 and I thought I share it.

(I confess that it's a bit over-dramatic.)

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Of course I know that the snow will melt, eventually, and probably soon, without any help from me. But I am hungry for spring, and unwilling to remain a passive bystander to the natural process. I am impatient for the moment when I can look out over my snow-free yard and say, “This is spring.”

So I am partnering with the sun, helping it to melt the last stubborn lumps of white by spreading the snow in a thin layer. A note of irony greets me at the edge of the lawn: My husband labored many hours, moving this very snow from the driveway into piles in the yard, and now I am putting it back where he found it, hoping that my warm-hearted confederate in this business will banish it from the concrete within hours.

I wonder if the neighbors are thinking I am foolish. They cannot be expected to understand that this is no vain exercise, but rather a pivotal battle in the annually recurring conflict between winter and me. As I work, my task takes on heroic, almost epic proportions. I am a warrior, a nearly vanquished soldier returned for one last duel. Months ago I retired to my stronghold, conceding my enemy’s superiority, occasionally emerging, dressed in battle clothes and armed with a shovel, to stage a weak resistance. But mostly I have waited, confident that in time, my opponent would weaken. And then, I knew, the reserves would come.

So now, with a mighty battle cry in my heart, I have entered the fray in earnest. I work barefoot, daring the small frozen chunks that jump up as I comb them with the rake to strike my feet, and they do. Let them come. They fight valiantly at the end of their life, but they cannot hurt me now.


I hear water dripping off the roof; the sound of approaching victory. I glimpse a spot of red on the end of my rake and stoop to investigate. I have scraped up a ladybug, and it is now dead. The ladybug was not my enemy, and though I am saddened by this unexpected civilian casualty, my work continues. How many ladybugs has the snow itself killed, I wonder?

Many of my friends have learned to accept the enemy; some even embrace it, buying snowmobiles and ski passes. But I stand firm. I pretend not to know that my opponent is only retreating for a season, to gather strength in its own barracks before it returns full-force. I will not acknowledge this. I will not show weakness. I will put a plant on the porch, I will pack a picnic lunch, I will hang the hammock in the backyard.

Too Late?

I have always loved books, and I have some favorite authors. But the writer I have admired the longest is Dr. Seuss.

My parents started reading to me when I was just a baby, and I was delighted by the quirky rhymes and bold illustrations of the Seuss books. Before long, I could recite “The Cat in the Hat” from memory.

"The sun did not shine . . ."

In addition to his well-known storybooks, Dr. Seuss wrote and published some shorter works.

Among my favorites of these little verses is a one-page story-poem entitled “Too Many Daves.”¹ The wacky names Dr. Seuss invented for this one always make me giggle. But the last line of the poem sobers me up; leaves me a little thoughtful, sad, and wondering.

TOO MANY DAVES

Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn’t a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one and calls out, “Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!” she doesn’t get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!
This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves’
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.
And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O’Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate …
But she didn’t do it. And now it’s too late.

Yes, that's right, She didn't do it. And now . . . it's too late!

                  

I do realize that this is fiction, and very silly fiction at that. But for me, the sense of regret in this woman's story is very poignant. I don't want to live with a voice in the back of my mind that taunts me with the fact that I messed up; that I didn't do what I should have done. And that it might be too late.

But then, maybe it's not too late.


Sister Marjorie Pay Hinckley spoke about raising children:

The trick is to enjoy it. Don't wish away your days of caring for young children. This is your great day. Sometimes we get so caught up in the physical work and trivia that we forget the big picture. We forget whose children they really are. When the house is filled with children, noise and teasing and laughter, you get the feeling this is forever. Before you know it they will be gone.

 When our second son went away to school at the age of 17, I said, “But Clark, I am not through with you. I feel there is so much I will need to teach you.”

“Too late, Mother, too late.”

Sister Hinckley told this story in a way that makes me feel like she knew better. Her teenage son thought he was done learning from his mother, but she knew that the work of parenting and teaching is a lifelong, even eternal work. It was not too late.

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I recently heard a man speak about his daughter, who died in a tragic accident not long ago. Although he was emotional, and clearly felt the loss, I sensed no regret while he talked about her. He had taught her well, spent happy time with her, lived as an example of his values, and made sure she knew he loved her. He seemed to be at peace, knowing that he had fulfilled his role as a father, and that he would see his beloved daughter again.

Years ago I watched as a family, grieving over the death of their child, opened a letter from their missionary son. Everyone in the room wept as his father read his son's words: "I don't want one more person to die without knowing that I love them. I want all of you to know that I love you, that you have been great examples to me, and that I am grateful that you are part of my life."

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This is the question I raise: When does late become "too late"?

I don't really know the answer to that. I've gathered some thoughts on the subject from people who are wiser than I am:

"People who fail in life are people who find lots of excuses. It's never too late for a person to recognize that they have potential in themselves." (Ben Carson)

"It is never too late to give up our prejudices." (Henry David Thoreau)

For behold, this life is the time for men to prepare to meet God; yea, behold the day of this life is the day for men to perform their labors. ile in this life, then cometh the night of darkness wherein there can be no labor performed.  (Alma 34:33) 

"It's never too late for ice cream." (Elisabeth Spencer) [A personal favorite of mine.]

"I'm convinced of this: Good done anywhere is good done everywhere. For a change, start by speaking to people rather than walking by them like they're stones that don't matter. As long as you're breathing, it's never too late to do some good." (Maya Angelou)

But behold, your days of probation are past; ye have procrastinated the day of your salvation until it is everlastingly too late . . . (Helaman 13:38)

"A man never sees all that his mother has been to him until it's too late to let her know that he sees it." (William Dean Howells) [Another one of my favorite thoughts.]

"It is never too late to strengthen the foundation of faith. There is always time. With faith in the Savior, you can repent and plead for forgiveness. There is someone you can forgive. There is someone you can thank. There is someone you can serve and lift. You can do it wherever you are and however alone and deserted you may feel." (Henry B. Eyring)

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Of course, like most people, I do have regrets. And following the logic that I don't want them, I need to get rid of them. This is what I think I should do:

Consider carefully whether the regret can be fixed. Many regrets can be banished when we make changes to our lives. Maybe it's not too late to start exercising, to start eating better, to learn a new language. Maybe it's not to late to go back to school. Maybe there's still time to save a dying relationship. 

I have found that it's often not too late to apologize. When I have had a little nagging guilt about some small thing, and have reached out to confess or apologize – weeks, months or years after my offence – without exception the response has been "Oh, don't worry about it," or "I don't even remember that."  But I have always felt better; a little lighter, a bit freer.  

"So if you have made covenants, keep them. If you haven’t made them, make them. If you have made them and broken them, repent and repair them. It is never too late so long as the Master of the vineyard says there is time." (Elder Jeffrey R. Holland)

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Still, sometimes it is not possible for the offence to be mended. If it is clear that a regret cannot be fixed, recognize that the guilt from that issue belongs in the past, and let it go. If we hang on to the regret; if we keep torturing ourselves with our guilt so that we can't move forward, we get stuck. Obsessing over past agonies is unhealthy and just plain wrong. The Savior has atoned for our sins, and He promises that he will not hang on to our guilt.

 . . . Saith the Lord; for I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more. (Jeremiah 31:34)

By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them. Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more. (D&C 58:42, 43)

So it is foolish to cling to our shame, while One much stronger and wiser than us would simply throw it out like yesterday's garbage – which is what it is, really.

I love this story from Elder Henry B. Eyring:

As my father lay in his bed near death, I asked him if he didn’t think it was a time to repent and pray for forgiveness for any sins that were not yet resolved with God. He probably heard a little hint in my voice that he might fear death and the Judgment. He just chuckled quietly, smiled up at me, and said, “Oh no, Hal, I’ve been repenting as I went along.”²

It seems to me that this is the best course: to live without regrets by shedding our sins and errors as we go. In a life lived like that, there is no room for "and now it's too late."

And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more. (John 8:11)

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For we labor diligently to write, to persuade our children, and also our brethren, to believe in Christ, and to be reconciled to God; for we know that it is by grace that we are saved, after all we can do. And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.                 (2 Nephi 26)

¹ "Too Many Daves" is part of the book The Sneetches and Other Stories.

² To see President Eyring's excellent conference talk, click here.