The Little White Donkey

Once there was a little white donkey who lived with her mother in the village of Bethphage, not far from the gates of the great city of Jerusalem

Her mother, an ordinary brown donkey, worked hard grinding corn for the miller, walking around and around in a circle, pulling the heavy millstone.

But the little white donkey was much too young to work, so she would watch the road as she followed her mother and dream about the great things she would do when she was older. Both her mother and the miller had told her that as a white donkey, she was very special. The miller would not let her carry any loads, for he had plans to sell her for a great deal of money. It was rare that a white donkey was born.

So the little white donkey watched the road leading to Jerusalem and dreamed about what she would be when she was grown. Once she saw families laughing and singing, coming to the great city to celebrate the Passover. With them were strong mules, carrying food and clothes for their journey.

The little donkey ran to her mother and cried out, “When I grow up, I want to be a strong mule, surrounded by happy families, rejoicing to come to Jerusalem.”

The mother smiled patiently as she pulled her load, “Who knows, my little one, what your role will be. You are a little white donkey, and you will follow the path for you.”

The mother was very proud that her little donkey was pure white.

Another day a great merchant’s caravan passed with tall haughty camels.

“Oh mother,” the little white donkey cried. “When I am grown, I will be a tall camel. And I will carry shining boxes of jewels and ointments. I will carry bolts of bright silks. I will proudly carry the most precious of precious things.”

Mother would smile and say, “Who knows, my little one, what your role will be? You are a little white donkey, and you will follow the path for you.”

Another day, trumpets sounded and a marching of soldiers filled the road. Behind the soldiers came a great man on a tall stallion. The man wore bright armor and scarlet robes, sitting high on the horse and looking down on the poor people who hurried out of his way on the road to Jerusalem.

“Who is that?”

“That is the great ruler of Palestine, the governor chosen by Ceasar, all the way in Rome.”

“When I am grown, I will be a stallion, snorting and stamping. I will carry a great ruler.”

 “Who knows, my little one? You are a little white donkey, and you will follow the path that is right for you.”

A day or two later, two poor men came to the miller of Bethphage. Their robes were tattered and dusty. The little donkey could see they were used to walking and carrying heavy loads.

The little white donkey heard one of the men greet the miller kindly. “Is this your little white donkey? What a fine beast.”

“Yes,” The little donkey was glad the miller was so proud of her.  “This little donkey is pure white.” The miller put his arm around the little donkey’s neck. “Look closely, you will see no mark or blemish. I am saving her for something very special.”

“She is a very fine white donkey indeed,” said the stranger. Then he looked serious.

“Good miller, may I take your donkey, the mother at the mill, and her little white colt, on which no man has ridden?”

The miller tightened his grip on the little donkey’s neck. He was angry now. “Why should I let you take them? Who are you to ask this? I am saving that white donkey to sell. Why should I let you use them?”

“The Lord has need of them.”

The miller stopped. The little donkey noticed the miller looked at the men carefully. He seemed to know them. He said, “The Lord? He who has taught in the temple?”

The little donkey heard the miller’s voice grow quiet and solemn. “He who stays with Lazarus of Bethany? Lazarus. He who was dead and now lives?”

The dusty men stood tall and gravely nodded.

The miller then unharnessed the mother donkey, and prepared both the mother and colt to go.

 The dusty man took the lead of her mother, and the little donkey trotted along behind, wondering about this strange thing. Before long they reached a group of men and women, clustered around a tall man, listening to him.

As they approached, the little donkey and her mother stopped and the tall man turned toward them. “Ah,” he said as he bent down to rub the mother’s soft brown nose.

Was this the man they called “The Lord”?

“So, mother, is this your little colt? She is white and beautiful. Will you let me ride her?”

The little white donkey trembled just a little as the kind man stroked her back.  “Do not fear. I will not hurt you.”

Though she was just a little white donkey, on which man had never ridden, as this man stroked her back, she knew she could carry him.

“Jesus, we will prepare this white donkey for you.” A woman near the Lord spoke gently. She and other women standing there came forward, robes in their arms. Smiling, they lay the soft clothing across the little donkey’s back.

Then the man, this man they called Jesus, the Lord, sat upon the little donkey, his long legs dangling.

Someone cried out, “Behold thy King cometh unto thee, meek, and sitting upon an ass, and a colt, the foal of an ass.”

The people cried out in joy. “Hosanna to the Son of David!”

The mother walked proudly beside her little white donkey.

“Mother, this is better than being a sturdy mule, surrounded by families walking to Jerusalem. I have never seen such joy as this.”

“Yes, my little one.”

The little donkey watched as more and more people joined the throng. They cut branches from the sides of the road and laid them out, so that the little donkey’s feet did not even touch the dusty road.

“Mother, this is better than being a merchant’s camel. I think I carry something more precious yet than all the jewels and silks.

“Yes, my little one.”

The crowd sang, and called out, “Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.”

“Mother, this is better than being a great stallion carrying the proud ruler.”

“Yes, my little one.”

“Mother, who is this man I carry?”

“I hear the people say, ‘This is Jesus, the prophet of Nazareth of Galilee.’”

The little white donkey felt the goodness and power of the man he carried. The people sang and cried. Proudly, the white donkey carried this Jesus through the gates of the city.

“Yes, mother, he is this and more. I think he is the very God of all.”

“Yes,” the mother answered. “And you have found your path.”

“Hosanna! Hosanna!” The people cried, as the little white donkey carried the Lord, the Prince of Peace, the Savior of the world.

Matthew 21: 1-11

And when they drew nigh unto Jerusalem, and were come to Bethphage, unto the mount of Olives, then sent Jesus two disciples, saying unto them, Go into the village over against you, and straightway ye shall find an ass tied, and a colt with her: loose them, and bring them unto me. And if any man say ought unto you, ye shall say, The Lord hath need of them; and straightway he will send them. 

            All this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, saying, Tell ye the daughter of Sion, Behold, thy King cometh unto thee, meek, and sitting upon an ass, and a colt the foal of an ass.

“What Can I Give You?”

Grandma Leah Nelson, c. 1970

Last night my grown-up son came to visit Paul and me. We’ve been confined to home with bad colds and it was good of him to brave the risk of infection and cheer us up. As he was leaving, I followed him to the door and heard myself say, “What can I give you before you go?”

As the words came out of my mouth I laughed and immediately said, “Now I’ve become my grandmother.”

When I was in college, I would go visit my grandma sometimes on a Sunday evening. She was incredibly old to me. As we sat in her little house, she would ask me about school and show me a quilt she was working on. After our visit, as I began to say my goodbyes, she would say, “Now what can I give you before you go?”

Then she would go to the kitchen to put some homemade cookies in a sack (usually hard and stale), or she would say, “Run down to the basement and get yourself a jar of peaches.” She never wanted me to leave empty handed.

My mother would do this too, when she was widowed and old and infirm. I would go each evening to help her prepare for bed. After I gave her medicine, helped her into her nightgown, rubbed lotion on her feet, and tucked her in, she would say, “Now what can I give you before you go?”

Mothers and grandmothers want to give to their children. Of course, we do. When our children are little and we are strong, we give all the time: food and warmth, comfort and knowledge. Pretty much we can fix whatever problems they have. You’re hungry? Have an apple. You’re tired? Time for bed. You hurt yourself? Let me kiss it better.

When we are getting to be old, and our children are now the adults, we still want to give to them. Unfortunately, I don’t can peaches anymore and seldom keep cookies in the house (probably because I eat them as soon as they are baked). I couldn’t send Mark to the basement to get a bottle or even put some treats in a sack.

So what can I give to my adult children, when they really don’t need any tangible help--when they have launched into adult life and are succeeding at it, praise the Lord.

Sometimes what I want to give them is advice. I forget they are adults, and I still want to make better whatever concerns they may have. I notice when they are worried, when they have troubles. I want to make it better, the way I could solve their little problems when they were little people. It’s because I love them, of course, I want to do this.

But those are not the best gifts to give to adult children. Trying to fix the problems they need to fix themselves just sends a message that they are not capable of fixing them themselves. It says, “you are still a child.”

I remember my mother giving me advice. I don’t think I ever followed it. But I do remember feeling terrible that she thought so little of my abilities that she thought I needed advice.

Our grownup children are not children. They are adults and they need to solve their own problems.

A wise friend once told me, “When my children grow up, my husband and I tell them it’s up to them to make their own mistakes now. Goodness knows we’ve made our share of mistakes along the way. We need to let our children make mistakes too.”

Solving our own problems and making our own mistakes and finding our own successes is what it means to be grown up. We can’t take that from our grown up children.

Once I heard Steven Covey, author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, speak about loving adult children. He said, once your children are grown, you don’t tell them what to do. You just tell them what they are doing well.

Of course, I still end up giving advice--often even without knowing I am doing it. Bless my dear children for being patient with me when I do that.

But this is what I really want to give to my adult children, as they leave my house. I want to listen. I want to applaud. I want to share my own stories. 

I can pray. I can give them my trust and confidence along with my heart, which they have always had.

But I am kind of sorry I don’t have a jar of peaches to send with them too.

I Lied

In my last post, I lied. This week I want to set things straight.

The post was about a dream that encouraged me to try for a full-time faculty position at BYU. In the dream, the flight of stairs to the full-time offices was missing, but I just pretended they were there and I was able to make the climb. The dream inspired me to act as though I were full-time--even though I wasn’t--and, eventually, I was hired in a full-time position. All of this is true.

This is the lie:

When a 3-year full-time appointment became available for non-PhDs, I applied. And I didn’t get it.

No problem. The next year, I applied again.

“No problem.” That was the lie.

It was definitely a problem when I didn’t get the position. I was devastated. I knew—I thought I knew-- I was the most qualified. I couldn’t imagine why I wasn’t chosen. I felt betrayed by the hiring committee--colleagues whom I had felt were my friends, who I had assumed would appreciate my hard work and clearly want to choose me. I’m pretty sure I went home and pulled the covers over my head. I wanted to just give up.

The lie I want to correct was the impression I may have given that the journey up the invisible stairs was easy. It wasn’t.

It wasn’t easy to try to figure out a professional discipline without classes or professors to help me along.

It wasn’t easy when my proposals to present papers at conferences were rejected. Nor when I sent articles to journals for publication and they weren’t accepted. I didn’t understand what was wrong. I felt like I didn’t know the rules, but I was trying to play the game anyway.

It was not easy to take over a tutoring program and make changes that were not totally popular with the tutors. It was not easy to deal with budget cuts and unhappy teachers and ineffective tutors. It was not easy to create workshops that were initially poorly attended. It was not easy to keep reading and learning and researching when it didn't seem to get me anywhere. It was hard work.

Just like every worthwhile thing anybody has ever accomplished. It’s hard to be a mom. It’s hard to be a good friend. It’s hard to go to school. It’s hard to become an accountant or a doctor or a mechanic. It's hard to clean the toilet. It’s hard to do stuff that matters and makes the world a better place.

But in all the hard things, there are joys. For me, in each difficulty, I found support and encouragement to get through. I had mentors to help me, generous colleagues. I had students and tutors who believed in me. I had a wonderful family: My husband and children helped me with my work, were patient when I couldn’t complete home responsibilities, and, especially, comforted me when I was discouraged. With all this help, I kept trying and learning, and there were many more times of joy than sorrow. Along the way, I found friendships and experiences that I would never trade.

Just like all of you, as you have climbed your own staircases. Climbing that staircase is hard, but it is worth it. The invisible steps hold. 

Stuck on the Landing: A Dream

Around 1990, I had a dream--the kind you have when you are sound asleep, not the kind that Martin Luther King had. In the dream, I was at work at Brigham Young University where I taught writing as part-time faculty.  I was climbing the stairs in the old Jessie Knight Building Annex, my arms full of papers to grade. At the bottom of the stairs were the classrooms where I and the other part-timers taught writing classes. Our offices were down there too. My office was literally a former closet, an airless, narrow space shared with four other teachers, with two desks crammed along the wall and barely space to walk past them.

In the dream, I was walking up the stairs toward the third floor, where the Real Faculty Offices were. Up there, on the third floor were roomy offices with bookcases and actual windows. Also on the third floor was the English Department Office, where all the decisions that affected me were made—when and what and whether I would teach. My contract was always for only a semester at a time, and there were no real guarantees that it would be continued for the next semester.

Perhaps even more difficult, on the third floor I felt invisible. Full-time faculty would pass me in the halls without a greeting or a nod. If they recognized me at all, they knew I was one of the part-timers and did not feel a need to get acquainted. Who could blame them? After all, I may not even be around next semester. Certainly, they knew that as a part-timer I would have no input on any departmental committees or decisions. Why bother forming even a working relationship?

In my classroom, of course, I felt like a real teacher. I planned my syllabus, chose my texts, created lesson plans, and designed writing assignments. I cared deeply about my students’ success in the course and kept trying new ways to improve their learning. I did not see my work as temporary or ancillary. I loved my work and I wanted to learn more about it. And when I found something that helped my students, I wanted to share it with others. But I did not see a path to doing this. After all, I was only part-time. More than that, I had no Ph.D., that all-important academic credential.

Now, let’s go back to the dream where I found myself scaling the stairs from the basement to the third floor, my arms filled with papers and books. I climbed a short flight of stairs, turned on the landing, and climbed another short flight to the second floor, and then another short flight.  I turned on the landing . . . and I froze.

There were no stairs. That last flight of stairs to the third floor were missing. Nothing led from the landing upward—just thin air through which I could see all the way down the staircase to the basement. I looked up—above the empty space was the third-floor lobby, looking just as it always did, with the display case showcasing faculty books, the directory board with office numbers of the faculty, and teachers walking to and fro, completely unaware of the strange problem with the staircase.

I didn’t know what to do. I stood there and considered. I couldn’t stay on the landing forever. I could just turn around and head back to the basement, to my closet office and continue as usual. But I didn’t want to. 

Then I heard the voice. It was clear, unambiguous, and definitely came from outside myself. It said, “Just put your foot out into the air. Climb the stairs as though they were there.”

And that is what I did. I stepped out with my right foot, a little way up, and, though still invisible, the surface held. I put my weight on that invisible step and then moved my left foot a little way up. It held too. Step by invisible step, I climbed the staircase that should have been there until I found myself standing solidly on the third floor.

When I awoke, I knew this was a true dream. I thought, how do I climb the invisible stairs? How can I become a contributing, full-time member of my discipline and my department? What if I started by acting like I already was?

I started by doing scholarly research in my field, learning the conversation of my discipline by reading scholarly journals. Then I thought of personal research projects I could conduct on teaching, which I completed. I proposed sharing those projects at national conferences, and I was accepted. I asked for and received funding for travel to the national conferences, where I shared ideas and experiences with scholars from all over the country and the world. I found I had things to say in these conversations and I gained confidence. 

Back in my department, I volunteered to serve on committees and to help with designing courses. I presented at departmental conferences. I co-authored with a faculty member.

Then, when a 3-year full-time appointment became available for non-PhDs, I applied. And I didn’t get it.

No problem. The next year, I applied again. And I was offered the job. Then, after three years of full-time responsibility, including serving as a section head, I was back to part-time. But people knew me, and when a position became available directing a university-wide tutoring program, I was offered that job. That job led to becoming the Writing Across the Curriculum Coordinator for the entire university, a full-time position. Along the way, I wrote a couple of books, one with national distribution, created a university-wide newsletter, and started a series of university training programs that continue to this day.

So that is how my dream came true. I shouldn’t have been able to do it, but because I just pretended I could, I did. 

The moral of the story is that if you want to do something, do it. Nothing need stop you. Not even thin air.