A Load of Bricks, A Test, and Seeing What is There

In honor of back-to-school season, here’s a story about teaching and seeing and changing.

The summer that I was 9, our family moved from California to Minnesota. As school approached, Mama worked hard to prepare me for school. She sewed new school dresses, brown plaid cotton with full skirts and big bows that tied in back. We bought warm woolen slacks, which we were told I would need to wear under the skirts to keep warm at recess. Mama took me over to Highland Elementary School to get registered and, compared to my old 2-story brick school, the school looked new and shiny—with gleaming floors and bright turquoise doors.

But as I started 5^th grade, I felt lost and lonely. I didn’t know any of the other children in the class. Mrs. Jaus, my teacher, was a large woman who didn’t stand for any nonsense. When we lined up to wash our hands before lunch, if the boys messed around she would loom above us and threaten, “If you keep that up, I will come down on you like a ton of bricks!” I was terrified. I was pretty sure Mrs. Jaus WAS a ton of bricks.

I had loved school in Oakland and done well. Here all the subjects seemed different. We hadn’t started multiplication in Oakland, and the kids here seemed to already know their tables. Every day we had quizzes on multiplication, and I just couldn’t do it. I spent a lot of time watching out the windows and daydreaming. I worked hard on my powers of telepathy, trying to send messages to my best friend Betty Jean. When Mrs. Jaus asked a question, I couldn't answer. At recess, I spent a lot of time on the swings, pretending I could fly and that I didn’t need anyone to play with.

When Mama came to the school open house, Mrs. Jaus spoke to her in low, harsh tones, telling her I just couldn’t keep up with the class. This was devastating to my school teacher Mama, and soon she made dittoed worksheets of the multiplication tables, which I had to practice with her every day. I don’t think I improved very much, though, since I still reach for a calculator if I need to know 8 X 9.

Then, one day, Mrs. Jaus passed out test booklets that we were all to complete, a national, standardized exam. I completed the test and returned to my lonely dreamy life. A few days later, Mrs. Jaus called me up to her desk and boomed out for all to hear, "Who did you copy from on that test?" I had no idea what she was talking about.

I guess she was swayed by my stammered denial because a few days later, the school psychologist had me come in his office. He asked me a bunch of questions and had me play some games and solve puzzles. After that, Mrs. Jaus treated me differently. She recommended me for the gifted and talented class in 6th grade, and best of all asked me to be a patrol girl, to wear the coveted white belt across my chest at recess and help the younger students.

So it all turned out well for me. Thanks to that IQ test. Mrs. Jaus’s image of me was changed and school became a welcoming place again. Mrs. Jaus even gave me clippings from her African violets and taught me how to grow them.

But what about students whose talents and abilities don’t show up on tests? What about students who, for whatever reason, do not do well in a classroom setting? Who is the person who will find their talents and help them to excel in what they can do?

The best teachers will do just that, bless them. As another school year starts, thank you to all the teachers who will look at children and see beyond the daydreaming or the rowdiness to notice what they can do well, to see their particular gifts. Thank you for the kind of seeing that will change each child’s life.

Giving Up on a Dream Can Be a Good Thing

People always say , “Follow your dreams!”  They say, “"Don't give up on your dreams, or your dreams will give up on you." Or "You have to dream before your dreams can come true." 

And, yes, I believe in dreaming and pursuing dreams. But I also believe in choosing your dreams carefully.

Here is a dream I gave up on and I’m glad I did. When I was in college, I loved to dance. I attended my "serious" classes in the morning, took ballet classes all afternoon, and then often had rehearsals through the evening. Ballet was my passion. I would dream about becoming a professional dancer, about moving to San Francisco or New York and devoting myself to dance. 

As I approached graduation with my sensible degree in English teaching, I thought, now's my chance. I'll be a dancer! I'll do it!

I looked into graduate programs in dance. I looked at professional level classes in San Francisco. I argued with my parents.

Then, sitting in the old Joseph Smith Building Auditorium at my graduation convocation exercises, in my cap and gown. I had a revelation. I loved dancing. But I was not a dancer. I started dancing seriously at 18, way too late. Though I had gained a certain competency, I was not that good, even compared to other BYU dancers. No way could I compete nationally, with girls who had been dancing since infancy.

However, I was really good at English. I could make a strong contribution there. That was the area I had prepared for really all my life. And I also loved literature and writing.

So after graduation, still dressed in my cap and gown, I walked across campus to the English Department to ask about being admitted to the English Master's program. They said, sure. And that lead to my beloved career teaching writing. I'm glad I gave up on my dream of being a dancer.

I didn’t really give up on the dream—I changed dreams. And I pursued that new dream.

Dreaming is good—but when you decide to realistically pursue a dream—you need to choose the dream carefully.

Inviting Others Into Our Homes and Hearts

Recently, Paul and I stayed a few days in Dave’s home and then a few days in Anna’s. Shortly after, Anna’s family surprised us with a quick visit. Both of these children live about 800 miles away, and though we try to stay close through texting, emails, skype, and FaceTime, there is something different about being in someone’s home.

At Dave’s we got to see to see how they have opened up their new home to light and the outdoors. We got to see that the kids still really like the car ramp we gave to Olin 4 years ago, to see the way they sit on the counter to watch their mom in the kitchen. We were there for bedtime routines and a couple of 2-year-old meltdowns.

At Anna’s we got to applaud as the children practiced violin and piano, to watch little Ellie dance her way through the kitchen and end with a sweeping curtsy. We saw the way each child has a chore for setting the table and cleaning up after dinner. We got to see how sometimes sisters have fun together and sometimes they quarrel.

When Anna’s family showed up at our house at short notice, the floor wasn’t mopped and dinner didn’t turn out quite the way I planned. But they got to see our abundant garden and our burned lawn. They offered us kudos, sympathy, and advice as needed.

As we visited in each other’s homes, we both came to know some of the reality of each other’s lives—the good things and the hard times—and we came to love each other even more.

So I’ve been thinking about how often I invite others into my house and my life? And what am I missing when I don’t?

My parents entertained friends in their home often. Two or three times a month they would have a supper group or a dessert party or a summer picnic or a game party, either at their house or at their friends'. I remember one Christmas Eve when I was the only child at home, our parents just called a few friends, got out the onion dip and Christmas cookies, and an hour or two later we had a party. Those friends, the ones who shared frequent at-home socializing with my family, remained life-long friends.

Another way to invite people into our homes is through a close friendship, sort of like .Lucy Arnez and Ethel Mertz (well, maybe not quite as zany). When my kids were young, I had a friend across the street with children of similar ages, who also worked part-time. We were in and out of each other’s homes all the time. Once my friend came downstairs in the early morning to find my three-year-old in her living room, watching cartoons, completely naked. Our children knew if their own mom wasn’t home to help with something, they could call the mom across the street for help. We each knew the other’s strengths and weaknesses, and we were friends. 

I don’t entertain nearly as often as my parents did, nor do people I know. And, when my across-the-street-neighbor moved, I never found another comfortable-in-each-other’s-house friend. Perhaps with all the digital entertainment available, we don’t feel so much need for face-to-face recreation.

But if we are not in each other’s homes, we miss out on knowing so much about each other. If we only meet our friends at restaurants, if we only know them through what they choose to post on FaceBook, what are we missing out? We are only seeing public faces.

And when we only know public faces of those around us and compare that with the deep dark secrets we know about ourselves-- the laundry pile on the bed? The desk piled high with papers to be filed?—when that is the comparison we make, we obviously will come out below others, inadequate. And we will think, why can’t I get my act together—all the people I know seem to do great!

Someone told me about a close friend who had tried so hard to do everything perfectly all her life, to always show her perfect side to those she knew. But now her grown children were making choices that she felt were decidedly imperfect. She was not only blaming herself for this, but she was also worried about keeping these choices from those who knew her. What would people think if they knew?

We do this to ourselves all too often. We hide our imperfections, assuming people won’t like us if they knew. I knew someone who would not let you in her house if she hadn’t just cleaned it. Trying to portray perfection, we miss out on real love and support.

Perfect is not the point of our lives. Love is. And love means welcoming people into our homes and our lives, sharing who we really are. It means accepting people the way they are and accepting ourselves and accepting help and giving help as we all stumble along, trying our best to get a little bit better. What was great about my recent visits with my children was the way we could love each other even more because we came to know each other a little bit better.

The other day a young mom in my neighborhood generously invited me into her home when I appeared at her door unannounced. She has five young children, so, of course, toys and children were strewn everywhere. But we cleared space on the couch and sat down and had a lovely visit.  I learned, not only that she was welcoming and kind, but also that she loved watching the Olympics with the kids (because she was) and that she crocheted darling stuffed toys for her children (because the baby had one in her hand) and that she had a real talent for designing a lovely photo wall (because it was). I would never have known this about her if she hadn’t invited me in. I love her even more now--because I know her even more.

Perhaps if we are willing to open our homes and open our hearts to those around us, perhaps we will understand each other better. Perhaps we will have more understanding of our own and others’ failings and strengths. Perhaps we will understand that no one is perfect, nor do we need to pretend we are. Perhaps we can truly love each other.

Dry Lawns and Starting from Here

On Monday we flew home after a wonderful 10-day vacation. As we rounded the corner, we looked forward to seeing our home, surrounded by green trees and green lawn, with bright marigolds lining the path and the front porch. As the house came into view, Paul observed, “The lawn’s a little dry,”

The lawn was a lot dry. Evidently the sprinkler system had suffered a glitch and for 10 hundred-degree days, parts of our lawn had no water. It looked like our house was sitting in a field of straw stubble.

While Paul worked to fix the problem, I chattered about how lawn always comes back and no problem, but deep down I was sad. This was the height of summer: the time for enjoying soft grass under bare feet, the time for croquet and badminton on green turf, the time for lying on the grass and watching stars. Summer wouldn’t be the same on crunchy dry sod.

As we settled in, I was also sad about something else. I had made a promise to myself in January to write a blog post every week. For six months I did it—or at least 4-5 posts a month, if not always posting on the same day each week. Then in July, I didn’t. I managed to write only two posts and now July was over and there was no way to fix that. I found myself thinking, “Oh well. Six months was pretty good. Maybe that’s enough. It just shows I’m not really a writer, or I would have prioritized writing more. Maybe I should just stop.”

The days went by, and I didn’t write. I made excuses. I had things to do, I had to catch up on stuff after the vacation. There was laundry. I had a tree full of ripe apricots.

Then I thought of our lawn and Paul. As soon as we unloaded the car, Paul was outside, getting the water on the lawn, figuring out what had happened to the sprinkler. He has wasted no time on regretting what happened, but he has worked for days trying to get things fixed.

I also thought about something else. Only parts of the yard were dry. The sprinkler worked great on our vegetable garden, which had grown huge and bountifully during our absence. Squash and tomatoes and cucumbers filled the plants; tasseled corn stood higher than the fence with actual ears of corn waiting to be picked. Zinnias exploded on three-foot high bushes.

And my July hadn’t been a waste either. I had done a lot of good stuff during the month. I had helped some neighbors, tended grandchildren, gone to the beach, enjoyed my family. I had done good things in July.

Today, after several days of deep watering, we can see little green sprigs poking up in the yellow. And today, I’m writing again. It feels great.

Stopping for a while does not mean quitting, does not mean giving up, does not mean failure. We can always start again. We can start from wherever we are. We can start watering the brown lawn.

“Please remember tomorrow, and all the days after that, that the Lord blesses those who want to improve. . . . If you stumble in that pursuit, so does everyone; the Savior is there to help you keep going.” (Jeffrey R. Holland, October 2016 LDS Conference. https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2016/04/tomorrow-the-lord-will-do-wonders-among-you?lang=eng)