PB and Love

Joseph was our smallest baby, and although he grew and was healthy, he never got the rolls of fat my other little ones did. But Joseph was the hungriest baby and child I have ever known. We don't know where he puts it.

When he started kindergarten, it only took me a day or two to learn that we needed to start making lunch early so he would have time to eat before he caught the afternoon kindergarten bus. The first day went something like this:

Joseph ate happily (and messily) and then said, “Mom, can I have another sandwich?”

“Really, Joseph? You've had two big sandwiches already.”

He shrugged and said he was still hungry, and I got the peanut butter and jam out again and made him another. He finished it off, drinking another glass of milk and leaving the peel from the banana he'd eaten too. Then I helped him wash his hands and face and he put his homework in his backpack and we walked to the bus stop, with three-year-old Elisabeth beside us and Adam in the stroller. We waved and said good-bye when he climbed on the kindergarten bus, and then we turned back for home.

● ● ● ● ●

Several years ago, some neighbors invited our family to their house for a backyard cookout. We were happy to be included, but we were a little concerned about our kids, who were picky about some foods and didn't eat meat. Our host assured us that he and his wife would find something they liked.

We arrived at our neighbors' home and sat at a table in their backyard. While her husband cooked burgers and hot dogs at the grill, our friend came from the house and asked what she could prepare for us. Would we like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?

Absolutely.

She went back to the house, but returned a few minutes later to ask a question: “White bread, or whole wheat?”

The responses were divided. She smiled and went back to the house. But she was back soon, with another question: “Crunchy peanut butter or creamy?”

“Oh, really,” I protested, “you don't need to worry about it. They'll eat whatever you give them.”

She listened to my kids as they stated their preference and went back to the house. But not for long. She came back to ask “Strawberry jam or grape?”

It was quite a walk from the house to the table were we sat, and I felt awkward about putting her out this way. But she – and her whole family – were so cheerful about it. And after we ate we played some fun games in the backyard and went home very happy.

● ● ● ● ●

My ten-year battle with cancer has had its ups and downs. On one particular day I was very sick – lying in bed, feeling miserable. My husband was busy with our kids and the day's work, but he checked on me regularly. At one point when I felt so bad I wasn't sure I could go on, Wes poked his head into the room and asked me if I needed anything.

“A resurrected body,” I answered. It seemed to me that nothing else would help me.

My sweet husband assured me that I would get one of those eventually, but for now would I settle for a peanut butter and jam sandwich? I nodded, and he brought me one, and I ate it. And you know, I felt a little better.

● ● ● ● ●

Peanut butter sandwiches are not glamorous or elegant. They aren't expensive, and they aren't very hard to make. They are one of the small, insignificant things in ours lives that we don't think about much.

But small things make a difference. The love and service of a mother for her hungry child, the kindness and cheerfulness of a kind and generous neighbor, and the compassion and care of a man for his ailing wife.

Those aren't such little things.

And there are smarter people than me who think so too:

"Life is made up, not of great sacrifices or duties, but of little things, in which smiles and kindness, and small obligations given habitually, are what preserve the heart and secure comfort." (Humphry Davy)

"And thus we see that by small means the Lord can bring about great things." (Book of Mormon;1 Nephi 16:29)

"Sometimes when I consider what tremendous consequences come from little things, I am tempted to think there are no little things." (Bruce Barton)

So go ahead, do something little. It might turn out to be bigger than you thought.

Comments . . . from my friend Anonymous

Recently, it came to my attention that some of my friends who read my blog don't leave comments because they don't know how to do it. I am sorry about that. I am including how-to info at the bottom of the page.

However, I do have one faithful reader who consistently leaves a nice note whenever he visits. This is especially charming because I don't believe I know him personally. He says his name is "Anonymous." Hmm . . . the name sounds familiar . . . but I still don't think I've ever met him. (Or her. No, I don't think so.)

Since these comments are always a pleasure to read, I have felt a little selfish about keeping them all to myself. So today I will be sharing a few of my favorites.

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"Wow, marvelous blog format! How lengthy have you ever been running a blog for? you made blogging glance easy. The whole glance of your site is magnificent, let alone the content material! Here is my page jobs at a veterinary clinic"

 Oh, that's so sweet! I'm blushing . . .

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"Heya i am for the primary time here. I found this board and I in finding It really useful & it helped me out much. I am hoping to provide one thing again and aid others such as you aided me. Also visit my page; visit this page"

It really makes you feel good when you know that by providing one thing you are aiding others.

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"Hello, this weekend is fastidious for me, for the reason that this occasion i am reading this impressive educational article here at my home."

Okay, I had to go to the dictionary for this one. And I came away smiling. How wonderful to know that my friend is feeling excessively critical, demanding and hard to please — all because of me!

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"Hello there, just became aware of your blog through Google, and found that it is really informative. I am going to watch out for brussels. I will be grateful if you continue this in future. Numerous people will be benefited from your writing."

Can you believe it? A compliment and some good advice! I am going to watch out for brussels, too. 

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"Remember: You are never as great as you tink are, and you are never ass poor a speaker as yyou think yoou are. If you use programs other than the browser while connected to the internet, use VPN. Even more likely to bee a problem is a weakness in your password."

I'm sorry. I'm getting a little emotional here. I can't say anything more.

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"If they set up behind the desks close to the hole, they'll be able to put a lot of fire down on you. This diet has you eating as much meat and eggs as you can to increase the body's metabolism. Both brands of tuna subs offer pleasing "mouth- feels", with no un- expected lumps of tuna."

So informative! I did not know any of this!

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"Think about the rich and famous, the media, our rock stars, and movie stars we watch on television. You expect a pot of $250, which you multiply by the probability of winning (. Man, woman, teenage boy -- we think we know what such people look like."

Wow! Has truth ever been so clear? 

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So, now I guess you have a little picture of my friend. He's a busy guy. And so smart! I feel privileged to know him.

☺   ☺   ☺   ☺   ☺   ☺

If you still feel like you would like to post a comment (and I recognize that you might feel a little incompetent now that 'Anonymous' has set the bar so high) here's what you do: See those little brown words below that say No Comments? (well, that's what it says now.) Click there. You get a pop-up window where you can write your comment. That should work. If it doesn't work, we'll both be annoyed.

Stacie

I have a friend named Stacie. She is a little younger than me — not quite forty — and she has lived in her home with her parents her entire life.

Stacie was born with Williams syndrome, a genetic condition which causes developmental delays and learning disabilities.  Stacie's parents fought hard to get her into mainstream schools with special education programs, and she was able to finish high school, receiving a certificate of completion. Tests show that she functions mentally at a first or second grade level.

And yet, I have learned so much from Stacie.

My Friend Stacie 

Last October, we bought some puffy animal stickers from the dollar store to give to Trick-or-Treaters. We forgot about them, and they ended up in my purse. When I saw Stacie at church I thought about her love for animals and showed her the stickers. She smiled with delight when she looked at them, and when I told her she could keep them, she was ecstatic. She hugged me and said, "Thank you! I love you!"

Since then I have noticed that Stacie has a smile and an expression of love for everyone she knows. I am learning the true meaning of unconditional love from her example.

Several years ago, as part of a Relief Society assignment, I designed a questionnaire to learn more about the women in our ward. One of the questions we asked was "What do like to do most?" Stacie responded that what makes her happiest was "dancing to music and playing with puppies."

I learned a great lesson that day about finding joy in simple things. Now Stacie is teaching me that it feels good to laugh along with other people, even if you don't get the joke, and that it's okay to laugh alone if something tickles you in particular.
                
I asked Stacie to tell me what makes her mad. I could see that she was thinking hard to give me an answer. After a long pause, she said, "I can't think of anything. Oh, wait — commercials. Sometimes commercials make me mad."

Stacie's mother tells me that Stacie does get frustrated and annoyed sometimes, but she doesn't stay that way for long. She always turns back to her sunny happiness. She never holds a grudge.

Stacie is teaching me about acceptance, tolerance and forgiveness.

When Stacie was about twenty, she participated in the Special Olympics. During one memorable race, she pulled ahead of the other runners. For the first time ever, she had a chance to win. The crowd and bystanders cheered as the special athletes ran. Then Stacie saw some LDS missionaries at the side of the track. She moved toward them and stopped to shake each missionary's hand. Seeing her there, the other runners followed her and came to meet the missionaries. After every athlete had shaken every missionary's hand, they started running again    . . . and they crossed the finish line together.

Stacie helped those Special Olympians win their race. And a crowd of people learned a wonderful lesson that day about the unimportance of competitiveness and pride. 

I continue to learn about pure faith. Stacie knows her Heavenly Father loves her. She understands that He has a plan for her.

When Stacie was six weeks old, doctors advised her parents to put her into an institution. They seemed to feel that raising a child like Stacie would be a burden not worth bearing. Her parents rejected this idea and raised their daughter with the same unerring patience and love they showed their other children. Now, looking back, they say, "Imagine all the amazing things we would have missed if we had not brought Stacie home!" 

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When the Savior told us to become like little children, I don't think He meant we should try to make a bigger mess when we eat, or to forget to wipe our noses when they need wiping. I think He was telling us to be more like my friend Stacie — less judgmental, more hopeful, more full of wonder, more forgiving, more loving.



I am grateful to have Stacie as a friend. When I sometimes fall into the trap of self-pity, I think of the smile I always see on her face, and I remember that life is pretty good, after all. 


To learn more about Williams syndrome, click here.
To learn more about the Special Olympics program, click here.
To learn more about the missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, click here.

To leave a comment on this post for Stacie, click Comments below.

For Susan

My dear friend Susan Turley passed away last night, holding her beloved husband's hand. After years of chronic health problems, she finally left her frail body behind and now lives freely.

Her physical problems never slowed down her generous heart. When I was first diagnosed with cancer, she visited me, served me, and somehow, made me laugh. She sneaked into my house while I was at chemotherapy and adorned my home with seasonal decorations. She had a great talent for making things beautiful.

Her husband, her children, and her little grandchildren were her most precious jewels. Throughout her life, she loved them immensely and intensely. I know she still does.

I wrote this poem, with great love, in Susan's honor:

It will not be for men to say
Which breath shall be my last.
We know that there will be a day
When death is coming fast
And men will stand around my bed
And wait to say "She's gone, she's dead!
She's left behind her earthly ties –"
But you must not believe these lies.

I am not gone, I'm living still –
I always have, I always will.
I'm sealed to those I love the most
And that means I will yet stay close.
Though now you might not see me here, I promise:

I am very near. 

Just off the Top of My Head . . .

I'll be starting this post with a trip though time! 

Get ready for:

"A Brief History of My Hair"

This is me: Baby with a fauxhawk.

This appears to be from my Cindy Brady period.

Well, you see, it was the 70s, and ... 

Ladies and Gentlemen, we're going to be entering the 1980s here, you're going to want to buckle up . . .

 (I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I thought I could be Farrah. Or maybe one of the other Charlie's Angels.)

There's really no excuse for this mullet. Sorry.

Welcome to the 90s! You'll need a blow dryer, a round brush, and a lot of hairspray . . . 


This picture was taken the day before I started chemotherapy.

This picture was taken about a month after I started chemotherapy.

I'll let this picture speak for itself.        

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    

Because I have had little or no hair for much of the past decade, I have a lot of hats. I mean, really, a whole lot of hats. Most of them were given to me by really great people. A few of them I have bought for myself.

And because I am not an especially neat and organized person (yes, yes, gasps of surprise), I have had hats all over the house. I rarely could find the one I wanted, and when I did it was dusty. Or crinkled. Or had visible food stains.

So I decided to do something about it. I bought a cheap piece of "wood" (Medium Density Fiberboard) from the hardware store, but when I saw the price of knobs, I backed off. The project was officially on the back burner.

But just a few days later – thrift store to the rescue! I got a big bin of knobs – brand new, super cheap – and split it with my friend Arrin.

 The knobs were nice, but I decided to paint them to match my bathroom better. One 97-cent can of satin black spray paint later, and I was on the job.



My son Adam drilled the holes (under supervision) and the whole thing turned out great.

It holds 19 hats and they are easy to get to.

Now, what should I do with the other 67 hats?

Gone Thriftin'

Yesterday, two good friends and I drove to a city more than an hour away to do one thing: visit a really good thrift store.

Does this sound extreme? Even, perhaps, a little insane? The frugal shopper's version of Thelma and Louise?¹

Maybe. But we had a lot of fun together, and we picked up some real bargains.

I started shopping at secondhand stores more than 20 years ago. My husband was in school full-time, and I had been working only a few hours a week since we had our first child. Money was tight, and thrift store shopping seemed to be the only way for me to pick up a few necessary items.

Now, although I still have to stretch our income to provide for our large family, I have several reasons to keep thrifting that have nothing to do with money.

1. No super-store, big-box store or mall can match a good thrift shop for variety. I've never been to a retail store where you can walk in empty-handed and come out with a wedding gown, power tools, a spare tire, a backpack, a Halloween costume and some Christmas decorations – in June.
2. You are likely to find some surprises. Thrift stores offer some unique items you probably can't get anywhere else: Out-of-print books, 8-track tapes, binoculars used in World War II, and sometimes a really beautiful dress or quilt or table that was clearly handmade in a previous owner's house or garage.
3. Most thrift shops are run by charities and support worthy causes like feeding and educating people in need or providing a safe shelter for an abused spouse. Shopping at these stores gives us a great opportunity to help.
4. Buying and using secondhand products is good for the planet. Selling things that would otherwise end up sitting in landfills just makes ecological sense. For the environmentally minded shopper, thrift stores provide the quintessential opportunity to recycle, renew, and reuse.
5. Finally, thrift stores give people a chance to share with those less fortunate. There's no question that many middle-class Americans have too much stuff. Look at the cover of almost any magazine marketed to women and you will probably see a story headline reading “Ten Tips to Cut the Clutter” or something similar. If you look inside, you'll find that the magazine article does not suggest that you get rid of things. No, it will tell you how to store the things you have, so that you can get more stuff you probably don't need. Knowing that a college student or a recently relocated family can make good use of your excess and be grateful for it is a satisfying motivation to pare down.

Some people don't like thrift stores because they don't want to buy things that are “used.” I prefer to think of these items as “broken in.” Let's face it – everything you own is used. Does it really matter who used it first? I like having items in my home that have some history – and it doesn't have to be my history.

I have heard some people express doubts about the quality of secondhand items. How do you know that toaster will work? Maybe that backpack will just fall apart. Maybe. But isn't that true of things wherever you get them? Many thrift stores have a return policy, but I almost never take them up on it. In my experience, thrift store items tend to be higher quality than you might find at discount stores. When clothes have been worn and washed, you can more accurately judge their quality. When a seam rips open the third time the shirt is washed, or an appliance goes out-of-order, people don't give them to the thrift store. They throw them away. Yesterday I bought an old blender. (I don't know how old it is, but the color is Harvest Gold, to give you some idea of its age.) It works well, and I think it might keep working well longer than a new blender I would buy. I've learned to believe the old saying, “They just don't make things like they used to.”

I have occasionally been known to say, “I'm pretty sure that even if I had plenty of money, I would still live frugally. But I wouldn't mind having a chance to find out for sure.”

I may never get that chance. But the more I think about it, the more confident I am that thrift stores will always be on my shopping list.

¹I have not actually seen this movie, so it's possible that I am making an inappropriate comparison here.

The Club

This is from fall 2004.

Like most clubs, this group meets regularly, in the same place, on the same day every week. Our meeting room is attractive, with comfortable seating, and refreshments are served. Although membership is limited to a small segment of the population, the club is growing. Some members of the group drive a long way to be here. Sometimes the room is full and some of us have to wait to get a seat.

But none of us really wanted to join this club.

This is my “Chemo Club,” as I have come to think of it – the group of people who come to the cancer clinic to receive their chemotherapy treatments on the same day that I do. In a small room lined with leather recliners we sit together while chemicals drip from an IV pole into our arms or our chests, filling our bodies with poisons intended to kill our cancer before our cancer kills us. Depending on the type of chemotherapy we are receiving, this can take several hours, or even all day, so we have plenty of time to get to know each other. While we talk, the nurse comes in and out, checking on us, hanging a new bag of medication on our pole when one bag is empty, asking if we want a blanket, or something from the snack tray.

Occasionally a new face appears in the group. We get acquainted with new club members like convicts greeting the new prisoner, comparing crimes and sentences:

“So, what are you in for?”

“Breast, stage three.You?”

“Lung. Stage four.”

“Ooh. How long have you been in chemotherapy?”

“Three months. I’ll be in for a year.”

Some of us have been given a life sentence – those with fourth stage cancers, metastasized beyond their original sites and now considered incurable, have been told they will need this  treatment indefinitely.

I have never liked hospitals and doctors' offices. I never wanted to be around “sick people”. But the emotional atmosphere of the Chemo Club has been a surprise to me. The room is filled with greetings, jokes and laughter, stories and sympathy. I have been touched to see loving spouses who come every week to support their partners, or grown children who stay to help a ailing parent. People swap stories about their side effects and offer advice to others similarly afflicted. There is a general feeling of goodwill and comradery. When a patient’s last IV bag is empty, the nurse removes the line and the patient stands to go.  As the patients leave, they pause at the door and say, “Goodbye, and good luck to you all this week.”

Most of the people in my life are much like me – mothers with young children, middle-class, college educated. My Chemo Club meetings present me with a more diverse group. There is a elderly farmer in suspenders, a middle-aged woman who works in a factory, a high-school student with testicular cancer.

One woman, with stage four ovarian cancer, tells me that she has full custody of her two young grandchildren. The chemotherapy is making her very sick and uncomfortable, but she has to fight, she says, for them. They need their grandmother.

Sometimes one of the group doesn't come, and we worry. We don’t ask the doctor or his nurses for information; we know they can’t tell us. Almost always, the person returns the next week, feeling fine, having taken a week off to travel, or because of illness. But sometimes, one of the group is missing, and another has sad news to report. She has seen the obituary of our absent club member. He won’t be coming back.

Being diagnosed and treated for cancer has made me aware of something I should have known all along: I am going to die someday. We are all – everyone on earth, not just the members of the Chemo Club – terminally ill, and the disease is being alive. Every day on earth is another day of an extended trip, the length of which we can guess at but don’t really know.

And that is what the members of the Chemo Club have in common, despite our diverse backgrounds. We have all faced the reality that we might not live as long as we had hoped. We have all realized that there is magic in each additional day. We are all willing to accept pain, and inconvenience, and nausea, to prolong our lives – but not because we are afraid of dying. I don’t believe that’s why we come.We come every week because now, more than ever, we enjoy life, and we want more of it.

I did not want to join the Chemo Club. I was hoping my application would not be approved. But like many other experiences I didn't want to have, this one has enriched my life. And when my term of membership is up, I expect to have mixed feelings about it being over. At my last meeting, I think I will hand out treats, and hugs, and maybe shed a tear or two. And then I will stand in the doorway, pause, and say, “Goodbye, and good luck to you all this week.”