The Shining House

Back when I was barely hanging on, busy with 5 littles and a part-time teaching career, often feeling inadequate and inept, I started having a recurring dream. In this dream I would be wandering around and come across a vast, shining, splendid house. 

Admiring its beauty, I would walk hesitantly to the front door and knock. When no one answered, I would push on the door and it would open. The beauty inside was breathtaking. Light poured into high-ceilinged rooms with clean white walls and sweeping staircases. No one was there, so I wandered on through the house, marveling as each room was more beautiful than the next.

Then I reached a spacious room, the most beautiful of all. One whole wall was covered with windows, looking out over a gorgeous vista of flowers and trees and mountains and sea. I was walking toward the windows, in awe of the beauty, when I realized there were others in the room. Several handsome figures approached me, shining themselves as this whole house shone.

I was suddenly and completely embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, my head cast down. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize this is your house. I’ll leave now. Please forgive me. I know I don’t belong here.”

The shining people smiled broadly, their arms outstretched. “Don’t worry, you are just confused.” Reassured, I ventured to look up as they continued. “This isn’t our house. It is yours!”

They gestured toward the room, the house, the magnificent view. “This is all yours. We were just taking care of it until you found your way here. It has always been yours. But you must take possession of it and use it.”

Then I would wake up. And think about those words. “You must take possession and use it.”

I still do think about that dream. I wonder how often we settle for living our lives in a metaphorical hovel, thinking that is all we deserve, thinking that we are not capable of doing more, of being more. We downplay our abilities and settle for much less than we are capable of.

But actually God has such great and wonderful plans for us. He knows what we can do, the light and beauty we are capable of. If we let Him, He will lead us on to find the glorious, shining mansion where we belong. 

Why I'm Glad I didn't Get Married When I Thought I Would

Why I’m Glad I Didn’t Get Married When I Thought I Would

By Beth Finch Hedengren

“You’ll be married in a year!” That’s what all the folks in my Minnesota ward said as I left home for BYU. That’s what people expected of girls in 1968. When I wasn’t, I just kept going to school. I studied English, because I loved to read, but had no plans for a career. I went on to graduate school, because I wasn’t married yet and why not? In graduate school I discovered a love for teaching and academic research, but still when I graduated with my Master’s a week before I was (at last, those Minnesota friends might say) married, I gave away all my teaching materials. What need would I have of them?

But two years later I was back at BYU, teaching again. My husband had accepted a teaching job here, and my old boss asked if I could take on one class. I had a baby, but one hour three times a week seemed do-able. I missed teaching.

So I took that class, and the next semester another. I taught part-time for all the years my five children were little, usually sharing childcare with my husband, teaching early in the morning or in the evening when he could watch the children. I was so thankful to have this opportunity to learn and grow as I taught, and to participate in a world beyond diapers and crying children. I loved thinking of ways to teach my students, and seeing their eyes light up when they learned. When I came back to those children after an hour or two, I loved teaching them too, somehow more because I had been teaching others.

As the children grew, I took on more responsibility in our department. I taught more classes, served as part-time faculty liaison, developed a new course, and eventually took on a three-year full-time appointment and coordinated a section of a course. I developed leadership skills and confidence, and I saw those skills bless others both at the university and also in my home. Every afternoon I came home the same time my children arrived from school and we shared all the things we were learning.

Later on, as the children left home, I took on more opportunities. I was asked to lead a tutoring program, the Writing Fellows, and supervise about sixty wonderful undergrads from many different majors, teaching them how to help other students improve their writing in classes all across the university. As part of this position, I started developing a Writing Across the Curriculum program, training faculty from all disciplines in how to teach their students to write well in their particular fields. I led workshops for hundreds of faculty and teaching assistants, and wrote a nationally published book on the topic.

This work eventually led to a full-time position, which I was then ready to accept. As Associate Coordinator of University Writing, I was able to continue the work of Writing Across the Curriculum as well as contribute to the development of all aspects of writing instruction at BYU.

Now I have retired, I am still using the knowledge and skills developed through my education and career, enriching my home, my ward, and my life. I’m thankful for the opportunity I had to learn, and I’m thankful for how that education has enriched my life, even though at the time I was studying, I had no idea how it would be such a blessing. How thankful I am that I didn’t get married when I thought I would!

She Loved Her Babies

Last week I attended the funeral of Bertha Riddle, the wife of my husband’s  Philosophy Department colleague, Chauncey. Though I only saw her at twice-yearly department parties, I was always drawn to her bright smile, her sincere interest in others, her confidence and joy. I was also totally impressed that she was the mother of thirteen children and I never once heard her complain about them.

At Bertha’s funeral I learned she was a brilliant woman, a talented musician, and an able administrator, serving in demanding positions in the church and community. But as her children stood to speak in praise of her, this is what I heard, over and over: “My mother loved her babies.”

Bertha came from a generation of women who knew that raising children was the most important job to be done. She devoted her life and her considerable talents to that task. She taught them to sing, taught them to love learning, taught them to love God.

It made me think about why loving babies is so important, why spending a life in that service mattered so much. It made me think about the ways loving babies differs from other loves—say for dogs.

 Lately I’ve been hearing a lot about couples choosing to have dogs rather than babies. The NewYork Post reported in 2014: “Data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention show that a big drop in the number of babies born to women ages 15 to 29 corresponds with a huge increase in the number of tiny pooches owned by young US women.”

Ann Patchett, who is one of my favorite writers, detailed why she wanted a dog instead of a baby.

Who can’t look at a baby and a puppy and see the differences? You can’t leave babies at home alone with a chew toy when you go to the movies. Babies will not shimmy under the covers to sleep on your feet when you’re cold. Babies, for all their many unarguable charms, will not run with you in the park, or wait by the door for your return, and, as far as I can tell, they know nothing of unconditional love. (This is the Story of a Happy Marriage, p. 75-76)

I have loved a dog too--our cute shaggy Frodo. His joy at my approach and his comforting presence gladdened and consoled me. I can tell you hundreds of stories of how darling and devoted he was.

But, there are differences.

A baby is more work than a puppy. An adult dog is more work than an adult child.

A puppy never grows into a teenager who will talk back to you. A dog never grows into an adult who is a better person than you are.

You can teach a dog to fetch a ball (though we never could teach Frodo to give it back to us). You can teach a child to read, to play the piano, to think and to listen and to give.

A dog will wag his tail when you come home. A child will eventually hold a job, and pay taxes and social security.

A dog loves you unconditionally. A child will love you and care for you when you are old.

A dog can make your afternoon better. A child can grow into a person who will make the world better.

I understand that raising a child is expensive and hard. I know all about the nights without sleep, the worry and the fear. Sometimes a child will not grow up to be the person you had hoped. 

Still, though I understand the appeal of loving a dog, nothing is more important to love, to devote our lives to, than loving and raising a child. I’m glad I knew Bertha Riddle, for the way she loved her babies.

---

Spring and Our Crazy Robin

Thud. Thud. Thud. What you hear is a crazy robin banging his head repeatedly against our patio door. In a frenzy of territoriality, he has determined that his reflection in the window is his arch enemy. Again and again he attacks the dangerous bird, only to find the guy comes right back.

So he hangs out there, just outside the door, jealously guarding his rights. “Take that!” I imagine him saying as he races full speed into the door. “You can’t treat me like this!” Thud. “I won’t take this kind of attitude!” Thud.

We have tried to convince him the challenging bird is not real. First we closed the curtains. No go. Thud, thud, thud continued from behind the curtain. Turning to the internet for suggestions, we took a bar of soap and scribbled all over the glass. For a short while Mr. Robin was confused and stayed away, but then he realized his enemy was still lurking behind the scribbles. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Next we taped some newspaper to the window. Our robin friend was deterred, but only briefly. Soon he was thudding again, this time aiming right for Donald Trump, which at least was reasonable on a certain level.

At last, my brilliant husband suggested moving the patio door screen to the window the robin insisted on attacking.

It worked. For the first time in 24 hours I went about my kitchen work without being distracted by the angry suicidal robin.

Then, just as I was starting the dishwasher, I heard it, softer, but unmistakable. Thud, Thud, Thud.

 Mr. Robin had found another enemy, this one in the living room window. He would fling himself at the reflection and then rest a moment on the porch chair calling for a mate. Fling and call. Fling and call.

As I opened the front door, the robin flew away. I watched him perch in the Bradford pear briefly, before hurling himself at the upstairs bedroom window.

Mr. Robin, I know you want a mate. I know you are trying to show just how tough you are by attacking every phantom enemy in sight. But really. Have you considered that maybe Miss Robin might be more impressed with a more emotionally stable mate? Someone willing to build a nest with her, and maybe share in feeding baby robins? Someone who can tell the difference between a real danger and an imagined one?

As I write, the thudding continues. Robins just don’t listen.