Scrooge, Resolutions, and the Hard Work of Seeing Ourselves

 

When I was about 9, my big brother’s wife gave me a paperback copy of Dickens’ The Christmas Carol, and I have been pretty much reading it every year since. And every year I get something new out of it. Now, I need to put in a plug here for reading-- or listening to-- the book itself. Film adaptations do not have the richness of the real thing (though the Muppet’s Christmas Carol comes closest). Anyway, after my latest reading, I’ve been thinking about the importance of clear vision in trying to become a better person.

 

In the beginning of the novella, Scrooge’s vision is impaired by more than the thick London fog that “came pouring in at every chink and keyhole,” “obscuring everything.” He cannot see that his clerk is freezing cold; he cannot see the kindness of his nephew; and most of all he cannot see his own faults. Indeed, after saying, “If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population,” Scrooge “resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself.”

 

If Scrooge had made New Year’s resolutions at that time, they probably would have been 1) to make more money, 2) find a better way to collect rents, and 3) look for ways to cut expenses further. To him, these were good changes to be pursued.

 

As I look back on my own resolutions in the past, I think I may be guilty of the same kind of lack of vision and resulting poor goals. I tend to see myself in a positive light, and my goals are often just to improve on what I am already doing, rather than to achieve substantive change. I already work on eating well and exercising, yet that will be my goal. I already read voraciously, yet I might make a goal to read even more. Do these kinds of goals really help me to become better?

 

Scrooge, of course, has a series of miraculous visions which improve his vision of himself and others and lead to true change. First, Marley’s Ghost shows him his eternal fate if he continues on this path. Then, and perhaps most importantly, the Ghost of Christmas Past, allows him to look at himself from the outside—to “see himself as others see him,” as the poet Robert Burns put it. As he looks on himself growing from boy to man, he can see his own loneliness, his own missed opportunities, and his own poor choices. He begins to soften. He says, “I should like to have given [the boy singing carols] something,” and “I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now!”

 

The Ghost of Christmas Present expands his vision to see the good in people. Led by the Ghost’s capacious presence, Scrooge learns to feel compassion. He asks, “Spirit, tell me if Tiny Tim will live.” As he observes the vast expanse of humanity with all their sorrows and courage, he finds humility as well, saying, “Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask.” And finally, Scrooge meekly seeks to learn from the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, saying, “I know your purpose is to do me good.” The sobering vision of how his life might end makes his good intentions permanent.

 

When Scrooge awakes on Christmas day, the sky is clear and bright, and Scrooge also has clear vision of what he has been and what he can become. He knows what he should do: be kind to his employee, give freely to charity, and perhaps most of all, establish a close relationship with his only living family, his nephew.

 

But here we are, trying to make good resolutions for the new year and maybe not even seeing what needs to be changed? What can we do, in the absence of friendly Ghosts to help us clear our vision? How can we see ourselves and our influence on others and make the kinds of goals that will help us to truly become better? 

 

True confession. I reached this point in my essay three days ago. I’ve been struggling with where to go with this. I’m kind of stymied. We are so caught up in our own point of view that there is no easy way to see ourselves and others clearly. 

 

This is all I can come up with as a possible answer. We can learn about ourselves and what we need to change, but only if we cultivate a spirit of humility, only if we are open to seeing ourselves from an outside perspective. We need to attend, to direct our attention to the issue, to be present in our interactions with others, to search for clues. 

 

As we spend time with others, we can watch to see how they react to what we do and say. When the time is right, we can ask others for advice on how they see us. Most of all we can pray, and ask our Heavenly Father, who knows and loves us best, what we can do to be better.

 

This will be hard work. It will take both meekness and courage. I will need to listen to what I learn without being defensive. When I have a disagreement with someone, rather than assuming it is all their fault, I will have to hold in my heart the reality that it is also my fault and look for ways I can change to make myself and the situation better. 

 

I’ve decided, rather than choose a particular trait to work on as a New Year’s Resolution, I am going to make that effort to attend, to watch for ways I can improve and try to do it.

 

Hard, but worth it, as Scrooge finds on that glorious Christmas morning when he lets go of all his sins and feels “as light as a feather.” He loves the knocker of his house, he loves Marley, the ghosts, and all that brought about his change. True change, true repentance, brings great joy. 

 

Scrooge “became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a [person], as the good old city knew.” And so might we, as we learn to see ourselves clearly, to see how we need to change, and then make the effort to actually change. A big order, but we don’t need to do it in one night. Little by little, bit by bit, we can grow to become better. And all along the way, like Scrooge, “[our] own hearts [will] laugh.”

 

 

 

 

 

O Beautiful (Though Flawed) America

Today a friend of mine (thanks, Gary) reported that his neighbor told him, “We are not flag-flying people.” This same neighbor--when my friend wished him a “Happy Independence Day!” --mumbled in response, “Well, good morning.” 

I was not surprised. Shows of patriotism have become yet another issue over which our country is sadly divided. A July 3 New York Times article reports that a vegetable stand was having trouble getting customers because it sported an American flag. The article explains, “What was once a unifying symbol — there is a star on it for each state, after all — is now alienating to some, its stripes now fault lines between people who kneel while “The Star-Spangled Banner” plays and those for whom not pledging allegiance is an affront.”  

 

How has this division over patriotism come to be? Once members of both major parties proudly wore a flag on their lapels. Is it because, now, one of the parties has become especially known for brandishing flags at rallies? Is it because, in another party, a deep cynicism about the history of our country has become pervasive? In highlighting our differences, have we forgotten what we share? Have we forgotten to notice the many good things about this country of ours?

 

Arthur C. Brooks discussed this problem in a recent column in the Atlantic magazine, “The Happy Patriot.” In the column, Brooks reports that a recent Gallup poll show a huge drop in patriotism: When respondents were asked if they were “extremely proud” to be an American, in 2003 69 percent agreed; last year only 42 percent did. Brooks also quotes Alexis de Tocqueville, a Frenchman who traveled through the new United States in the early 1830s. Tocqueville marveled at the vehemence with which Americans disagreed about politics, and yet those same Americans managed to be unified in their patriotic pride, about their desire to build the country together.

Brooks suggests that we try remembering what is good about our country, at the same time we are trying to make it better. This is just what our family did yesterday to celebrate the Fourth: we sat around the family room and everyone took a turn sharing their favorite things about America. If your family wants to give this a try, here are a few of ours to start you off, in no particular order.

1.     That we have advanced medical technology providing Pfizer, Moderna, and Johnson and Johnson, excellent vaccines to bring the world safety in a pandemic.

2.     That we have a Constitution with checks and balances protecting us from the possibility of tyranny.

3.     That we celebrate our national holiday with parades that highlight—not our military might—but our community, with high school marching bands, floats with pretty girls, cowboys on horseback, and small children twirling batons.

4.     That within our nation, we have developed technological marvels—cars, airplanes, cell phones, internet—that have improved lives throughout the world 

5.     That we can disagree publicly with our government, safely

6.     That we are founded on virtuous ideals, like “All men are created equal.”

7.     That we have a strong tradition of philanthropy—both rich and not-so-rich willing to pitch in to help those less fortunate, both within our country and throughout the world.

8.     That after a hard-fought victory won at great human cost, we did not punish our former enemies, but rather instigated the Marshall plan, spending $13 billion ($114 billion in 2020 dollars) to aid Western Europe in recovery.

9.     That, for most, the American Dream is real, that there are no real class barriers, that a poor child can --through hard work, talent, and good fortune--become almost anything.

10.  That our military does not swear allegiance to the President, or any branch of government, but to the Constitution itself. 

That’s just a short list. There are many, many more great things about this country. There are also things that are not so great. But to change the not-so-great, we need to be able to believe in the greatness we have and the greatness we can achieve.

 

In church on Sunday, we sang “America, the Beautiful,” a stirring anthem written by Katharine Lee Bates and first published in 1895. This song has always been my favorite patriotic song, but this year the words to the song were especially meaningful to me. In the lyrics, Bates lauds the beauty and goodness of America, “Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain.” But she also points, at the end of each verse, to a need to improve our country.

            

      “God shed his grace on thee,

And crown thy good with brotherhood

From sea to shining sea.”

 

Though we are "good," we need to be better at living the ideals upon which we were founded, better at showing that “all men are created equal.”

 

God mend thine ev’ry flaw,

Confirm thy soul in self-control,

Thy liberty in law.

 

      We do have flaws. But  we will not change our country through rebellion; our nation can overcome those flaws through self-control. We will have true liberty as we govern through law.

 

May God thy gold refine,

Till all success be nobleness,

And ev’ry gain divine.

 

We have abundant raw material of “gold” available in our country, unlimited possibilities for greatness. But that gold will not be refined until we strive for nobleness, that is “high moral principles and ideals” (lexico.com). 

 

The last verse points to a future when our country can achieve its promise of greatness.  

 

Oh, beautiful for patriot dream

That sees beyond the years

Thine alabaster cities gleam,

Undimmed by human tears!

 

As we celebrate Independence Day, 2021, may we strive to be the kind of patriot who sees beyond the years, who sees a future for our country that is “undimmed by human tears,” that is crowned with brotherhood and sisterhood. 

May we be the kind of patriot who is proud to fly our flag, because of the ideals it stands for, because of what we have achieved and because of what we can yet achieve, as we work together, as we build together.  May we see in that flag the vision of the “alabaster city,” the best that America can become.

Through God's grace and our own noble efforts, together, I believe we can achieve that dream.*

*With gratitude to my brilliant children, who, in our after-barbecue discussions, provided most of the material for this essay.

 

Graduation and the Many Splendored Possibilities of Adulthood

 

 

Last Wednesday night, we sat in the bleachers of the Jordan High football stadium and watched my oldest grandson graduate. From our seats on the west side of the stadium we had a stunning view of the Wasatch mountain peaks directly in front of us, so close you could almost touch them. Below on the field were the seated class of 2021, all in maroon robes and mortar board hats.

 

Speakers from the graduating class represented many types of students: valedictorian and salutarian of course, but also the class president, a cheer leader, and one who hadn’t been sure she would graduate. Three spoke bilingually—a few sentences in English and then saying them again in Spanish. The Principal Wendy Dau regaled us with the many accomplishments of the class. 

 

Everyone spoke of the challenges of the last year, of trying to complete high school in spite of the restrictions caused by Covid—online instruction, cancelled dances, limited sports activities, and just missing being together. They spoke of finding alternatives to what was denied them, of finding workarounds, of triumphing in spite of the difficulties.

 

In truth, the sound system didn’t work well, and I missed much of the talks, but I got the gist. And I was proud of the speakers and all the graduates. The details of the talks don’t much matter.

 

What matters is these kids. They have completed thirteen years of formal schooling. For some that is all they get. 

 

While trying to hear the talks, I was diverted by the action on the other half of the football field. Behind the maroon-clad graduates, their little brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews cavorted on the green turf, not even trying to listen to the program. I watched crawling babies; tottering toddlers (one who lost his pants altogether); small brothers playing frisbee; a girl in an orange dress sprinting down the field, long legs reaching; a tween kicking her shoes off, flinging them as far as she could before racing over to retrieve them and do it again. 

 

They were just children, unconcerned with the challenges of life. These kids in maroon robes--they were children too, just the other day. They were babies, then toddlers, kids, tweens, and now—with this rite of passage—now, they are adults. The principal has presented them, the superintendent of the school district has accepted them, and the school board president has certified that these students have earned their diplomas. It’s official. They are now qualified to use the skills and knowledge they have gained to find their way in the wide, wide world. 

 

Will it be enough? They have varying amounts of classroom knowledge—yes. History and math and writing and science. They have completed papers and projects and prepared for exams during late nights and early mornings. But they also have learned social skills, life skills, learned on sports teams and student government, debate teams and drama clubs. They have learned, or I hope they have, the skills to contribute to the world’s work, the skills to be grown up.

 

They have already faced hard personal challenges. A couple of weeks ago we attended awards night. Jordan High’s mascot is the Beetdiggers. Back in the early days of the town, the school stood among fields of beets, growing a crop for the local beet factory, which turned the sweet vegetable into beet sugar, a common substitute for cane sugar back in the day. 

 

Each scholarship or award was preceded by a description of the sponsors. Almost all the awards were given by alumni, simple people who valued education. We learned of beet farmers and small business owners who struggled through economic hardships, saving money so that their kids could get an education, and then  went on saving so that they could help other kids go to college. 

 

Then each presenter went on to share the achievements and challenges of those receiving the awards. Some of the awards went deservingly to excellent students. But many were just as deservingly given to students who had managed to succeed in school and serve others despite great hardships: growing up in foster care, losing a parent, experiencing homelessness. 

 

I thought of that awards night as I sat not quite trying to decipher the garbled amplified talks. I thought of the brief glimpses I was honored to get of the school graduates this year. As each student filed forward to receive a diploma and congratulations, I thought of the many, many stories represented by the maroon-clad young people on the football field. I thought of what they have overcome so far, and what they will face in the future. 

 

After all the talks were over and all the diplomas had been given, parents raced to the field to find their graduates. There were signs of congratulations held aloft and screams of joy. And leis! One grad was covered in so many leis her head was entirely covered. 

 

What a happy, happy time—and rightly so! We found our graduate, beaming with joy—as we all were.

 

And yet, this is not an ending but a beginning. It is the beginning of adult life. The beginning of work and paying their way and eventually maybe starting a family and raising new little ones who will go on to graduate themselves.

 

I was talking about the graduation with my son—Sam’s uncle. We spoke of the joy of the graduates and the sense of accomplishment. Mark, shaking his head, remarked, “They think the hard stuff is behind them, but it is really still ahead.” 

 

And there will be hard stuff ahead. And also happiness--all of it mixed together. But that is a story for another day.

 

For now, it is graduation day, a day to rejoice in accomplishments fulfilled, a time to celebrate the future, a future filled with many-splendored shining possibilities. 

 

 

 

 

 

Holding Beatrice Rose on Mother's Day

This is my Mother’s Day post—which is a couple weeks late. It’s late because at my house we are very busy mothering. My daughter and her family have been staying with us for the Covid season, and she recently delivered a baby: little Beatrice Rose is three weeks old, and, believe me, she is the sweetest little seven pounds you will ever hold. 

 

And hold and hold and hold. Beatrice loves to be held. There’s a theory that all human babies are born premature (because of that pesky big head we have) and the first three months of a baby’s life are really the fourth trimester of gestation. The sweet little things just want to be back in the womb, all snuggled safe and warm and getting food whenever their tiny tummies feel empty. 

 

Luckily, we have four sets of arms to hold Beatrice, and two more sets just down the street at Krystian’s house. (This is why Mary is still here—so great to have lots of support with a newborn.) But even so, my left arm is feeling the muscle fatigue of the long holding. I’m remembering the techniques of getting things done with only one arm free: opening the fridge, fixing bottles, spreading peanut butter for big sister’s sandwich, turning pages in the book I’m reading.

 

I have a photo somewhere that Paul snapped not long after my third child was born. We are in the bathroom. Anna, age 3, is in the tub. Emily, age 18 months, is balanced precariously on the grown-up potty. I am supporting her with one hand. In my other arm is nestled tiny baby Mark. When I look at this photo, I have two questions: 1) How did I ever do it? And 2) why was Paul taking the photo and not helping?!

 

I have another memory of holding a newborn. This time all the other children are asleep and Paul and I are watching a movie on TV while I hold and nurse the tiny baby. It was a war movie, I think, one of those movies where lots of gun fire is exchanged and dozens of people are killed.  I tended that tiny little soul in my arms, soothing the cries, patting out the burps, rocking and cooing. Here’s the soundtrack of our family room that evening: 

“Wah! Wah!” 

“There, there, little sweetie, you’re OK.”

 “Kapow! Crash! Pew-pew-pew!”

 

At last, I couldn’t take it anymore.  I cried out over the gunfire on the screen, “How can they do that? How can they just kill people like that? Don’t they know how hard it is to get any person even born? Don’t they know how hard it is to keep a little baby alive after they are born? Don’t they know all the sacrifice and hard work, and pain that is invested into every single living being? How can they just snuff a life out with a pew-pew-pew!”

 

Paul, I think, turned off the movie and probably blamed post-partum hormones for my outburst. 

 

But really, just think about it. Humans are designed so that someone—a mother-- has to suffer for them to be born. Just carrying that little fetus/zygote messes with your body almost from the moment of conception. My daughter Mary suffers from hyperemesis—really brutal morning sickness. She started throwing up before the positive pregnancy test, and then spent the next three months vomiting so much she had to stay in bed with an IV. That is sacrifice.

 

Then, once a mom stops vomiting, the sweet little one has grown so big she is taking up all the space normally reserved for vital organs. The baby doesn’t care if mom can’t digest or breathe. 

Baby is the priority for the body for the nine months she is growing. 

 

When Mary was so sick she couldn’t eat anything, we worried if the baby would be affected. The doctor blithely replied, “Oh no. Your body’s priority is to feed the baby. You will suffer, but not baby.”

 

Let’s not even talk about childbirth. When my husband had kidney stones, the doctor said, “Now you know something of what your wife went through with childbirth, but this is not as bad.”

 

Then there’s the whole keeping-baby-alive-once-they-are-born challenge that we have already discussed.

 

And then as baby grows, teaching them to be safe, and kind, and responsible. Just think about that for a minute

 

So—what are the takeaways here?

 

If you are alive, you have a mother to thank. If you are even a moderately functional adult, you probably have a mother—and a father, and many other parental figures-- to thank. 

 

Also, when you look at any person--even people you disagree with or people who have hurt you or people who do wrong things—remember that person had a mother who sacrificed to carry him/her, who gave up sleep and self-care in order to keep that person alive. Recognize the value of that person, even if you just think about what the life cost in human sacrifice and effort.

 

So, number 1, thank a mother.

 

Secondly, value the people around you. Judging by the effort that got them here, their worth is great.

 

And, if you are a mom--even though this is late--I’m wishing you a Happy Mother’s Day. You are a hero.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contempt, Warmheartedness, and Booing Mitt Romney

 

 

Sitting in the Maverick Center on Saturday, I marveled just to be with thousands of people under one roof after a year of social distancing. It was the Utah State Republican convention, and as an elected delegate from my neighborhood, I was there to help choose the next party state leadership team. So far, we had heard a bagpipe band play military anthems and a children’s choir sing “One Little Voice.” Following that tear-jerker were some great talks from the current party leadership and from the congressmen and senators serving in Washington. The theme of all the talks was the need for unity in the party, the need to listen to others, the need to work together, the need to be bipartisan, the need to leave anger and rancor behind. I was proud of my party.

 

Then Senator Romney stepped to the mic. The arena erupted into boos and jeers. Romney attempted to speak over the uproar but could not be heard. The nice-looking blonde woman seated behind me was booing and jeering, screaming into my ear. (As in all stadiums, the seats were almost on top of each other.) 

Amid the uproar, I turned and tapped her on the knee to get her attention. I cried out, “We believe in free speech. Let him talk!” She shifted her gaze to me for an instant and screamed, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

 

Finally, the current chair of the party came to the mic, his 5-foot-6 frame dwarfed by Romney’s stature. But he got the attention of the crowd. “This is what we’ve been talking about. Let Senator Romney speak.”

 

What was happening? The people in that stadium were normal people, ranchers and moms and business owners. I’m sure they are kind to their families and neighbors. But what made them feel like, when it came to partisan politics, they could leave behind all the rules of civil dialogue?

 

Now, certainly not all the people in that stadium were booing—many if not most were like me, appalled to witness what happened. And, later on, the resolution to officially censure Romney did not pass. 

 

But the woman behind me clearly felt her indignation was righteous, that she had not only the right but the responsibility to speak out against evil doing. She was not just angry at Senator Romney--she held him in contempt

 

I’ve seen this on the other side of the political spectrum as well. During the presidential election last fall, a friend of over twenty years, a dear friend, wrote on her FaceBook page “Shame on Republicans. Shame on all Republicans.” I commented on her post, gently (I thought) reminding her of our friendship and my political leanings, “Do you mean all Republicans?” She responded with a curt and angry, “Yes.” 

 

Another long-time friend told me, “I just can’t imagine how anyone could possibly vote for that loudmouth, selfish, racist, idiotic, power-hungry jerk!” I somehow knew that she wasn’t really interested in hearing any other point of view. She also felt it was her responsibility to speak out strongly again evil doing. She held all those who did not see the election the same way, not just with anger, but with contempt.

 

Recently I read again Arthur C. Brooks’ excellent book, Love Your Enemies. In it he makes a strong case for avoiding the contempt that has so infected our society. 

 

Instead, Brooks proposes that we practice “warmheartedness,” seeing our adversaries as people like us, trying to understand their point of view and where it comes from, being willing to listen. He explains that such an attitude does not mean changing our own beliefs. Brooks suggests we think, “I may not agree with you, but what you have to say matters.” 

 

Here are some other suggestions from Brooks:

·      Don’t attack or insult. Don’t even try to win.

·      Never assume the motives of another person

·      Use your values as a gift, not as a weapon. Don’t call others are evil because they don’t share your values. 

 

In other words, while we may and should disagree with ideas others hold, we should still understand and care for the person.

 

But here’s the deal. Practicing warmheartedness is hard. Contempt, like all sins, is most evident to us when we look at others, but much harder to identify in ourselves.

 

So, let’s just revisit those stories at the beginning of the essay. Looking back, can you see, as I do now, more than a little self-righteousness? How can those people boo? How can my friends treat me that way? Why are those around me so filled with contempt?

 

Which is, as I’m sure you see too, a very contempt-filled feeling. I am showing contempt as well, in the very act of describing theirs.

 

Let’s go back to those stories—what would it look like to respond, not with contempt, but with warm-heartedness? This is hard. I was angry at those booing. I was hurt by my friends’ remarks. But what if I could have controlled my anger and my hurt? What if I had practiced warmheartedness?

 

Maybe when the lady behind me was booing, I should have waited. Maybe that tap on the knee was a violation. Maybe sometime during a break, I could have asked her why she felt that way. Maybe I could have shown some respect for her opinions.

 

Maybe when my friend said, “shame on all Republicans,” I could have not assumed her motivations. Maybe instead of posting a somewhat snarky comment on her Facebook thread, maybe I could have called her and asked what was behind her frustration. I could have listened. Maybe I wouldn’t agree with her, but I could listen.

 

Maybe when that other friend shared her opinion of Trump, I could have agreed with what I could agree on. Then maybe, instead of just focusing on a person, we could have talked about our differing opinions on some issues and policies. 

 

Maybe, if we can listen to each other without contempt, maybe if we can show some warmheartedness, we might just find ground we can agree on. If we can respect each other, we might just find a way forward that we can all feel good about. And maybe, just maybe, through the competition of good ideas and respectful cooperation, we might find ways to improve our country, to improve the world, together.

 

Maybe that is too much to ask. But if we are to come together as a country, it seems to me this is what needs to happen, in our neighborhoods and in our Congress.

 

After the election was called, I was encouraged to hear a Democratic member of Congress speak of his respect for his colleagues across the aisle, of his desire to work with them to govern the country. This reminded me of the way my Republican representative told me he thought his Democratic colleagues were good people who wanted to do what was right. He felt they could work together for the good of all the people. 

 

The current President won the election, but he did not receive a mandate for his platform. Nearly half the country opposes it and about half the Congress. As a country, as a government, we need to listen, learn, and figure out what is best for the whole country. We need to eschew contempt. We need to approach each other with warm hearts. We need to show the world how a democracy can govern on behalf of all of us, for the benefit of We the People.

 

 

 

 

 

Gathering Together in an [Almost] Post Pandemic World

 

Last week I attended three parties--three parties that, for the first time in more than a year, included people who were not in my immediate family. It was so great.

As we all know, since March 2020 we have been all about “stay home, stay safe” and socially distancing. We have stayed away from our friends, refused to approach acquaintances, and spurned strangers. When Paul and I went for a long drive and ended up in the town where my old college roommate lives, I begged to stop to see her. But all we could do was stand on the porch and smile over our masks. We have learned to “meet” online—church is broadcast, book club is on Zoom, and work and school are also on a screen. It’s been OK. Not that great of a hardship, nothing like the Great Depression or World War II. And certainly better than actually catching Covid-19.

 

But then, in February, Paul and I had our vaccinations. A few weeks later, and we are clear. We can’t catch Covid, we can’t give you Covid. And, though it feels so strange, we are beginning to reach out to friends beyond our family.

 

I went for a walk. A neighbor I’ve known for 40 years was standing on her front lawn, an older woman, one who has been carefully isolating all these many months. Instead of just smiling and waving from a safe distance as I’ve done for a year, I stepped across her lawn and we visited, face to face. As I left, without thinking, I gave her a hug. Then I said, “Oh no! We’re hugging! Is this OK?” “Oh, my yes,” she said, “I’m vaccinated. You’re vaccinated. Let’s hug!”

 

Then, last week, things really got crazy. Tuesday night was the last night of the religion class I teach college students in our area. All through the school year, we have met on Zoom, making do with the tiny little squares that confine what we can see of each other. With many of us vaccinated, we decided we could meet together for our last class. We wore masks and were careful, but oh, how lovely it was to see all of them in person, to be able to see their whole selves, to see how tall they are, to see how they interact, to really share with each other who we are and what we feel. 

 

Next up was my book club. This club has been together—oh, close to 30 years. We have been through sickness, divorce, and death as well as marriages, graduate school, and retirement. Now we can add to our shared experiences a year of meeting solely on Zoom. It was OK, better than nothing, and did have the added benefit that club members who had moved could now join in. But last week, we met in person, all double vaccinated and clear. As we have for so many years, we could sit together in the same room. It was so much easier to discuss the book when we could read the full body language of those we were sharing with. It was wonderful to be able to reach out a hand to comfort a friend who is suffering. And, perhaps the best part, the part that just can’t happen online, was the way the meeting ended, breaking into conversations of twos and threes, then shifting to other groupings of twos and threes, in the foyer, on the steps, and in the street as we gathered by our cars. Some things just can’t be shared online.

 

Finally, we hosted a baby shower for my youngest daughter. Most of the guests were family, on both sides. But we did invite a few of Mary’s long-time friends. We dressed up and served fancy sandwiches on my best china. We played games and laughed and laughed. We opened presents and collectively marveled that in a few weeks a tiny little person would actually be filling out those tiny little clothes. 

 

There is something about physically gathering. Online, on a screen, we can share ideas and words and smiles—and that is good. But when we can actually come together, physical bodies in the same room, we share experience, we share life, we become one. It is good to gather together. I’m so thankful we can do it again.

 

The Absolute Best Part of a World-Wide Pandemic

I am sitting outside my 2-year-old granddaughter’s bedroom acting as her jailer. It is 1:30 PM, well into designated nap time, and we are determined that Lucia doesn’t stop napping. After all, we have a new baby arriving next month, and we will all need that rest time, even if Lucia doesn’t.

 

So, you may ask, how did a 70-year-old grandmother get to be in this position? 

 

[Excuse me a minute. Lucia just tried to break out again, slowly turning the doorknob, sneaking through the door silently. Then, when busted by Grandma, angelically explaining, “I wake! Time get up!” 

 

No.  Scooping her up, I sweetly explain “Time for sleeping.” And she is once again tuggled up under the covers.]

 

So, again, how did this happen? The answer is Covid. 

 

Over a year ago my daughter Mary and her husband Krystian called us up. Both were moving to remote work for their employment, so, they explained, “Why not come to Provo until we go back to normal? We never have enough vacation time to spend with family, so why not take advantage of this chance? We can work from your home as well as from ours. You can help with childcare and we will get to hang out with family after work.” They went on, “It will just be for a couple of weeks.”

 

We cheered! What a great idea! The best part of a world-wide pandemic.

 

And it really has been. The “couple of weeks” stretched on, as their work continued to require remote work, until here we are, over a year later. While I love having my grown-up kids nearby, there is nothing quite so wonderful as living with a 2-year-old. 

 

[Wait a minute. Do I hear movement behind the door? Ah yes. The handle turns and there is that sweet little pig-tailed head smiling up at me. “I hungy, Grandma?” So pathetic. “No, Sweetheart. Time to eat later. Now it is time to sleep.” Once more, scooped up, kissed, and snuggled, sung to, and tuggled in. We’ll see how long this lasts.]

 

Oh, but, here are the reasons I love having Lucia here:

 

1.     All my grandbabies have been born at a distance from where I lived. I would get to see them maybe two or three times a year, but never could see the day-by-day growth, never could have the daily bond with them. I’ve seen Lucia grow from an 18-month-old who could barely climb stairs and say some words, to a little chatterbox who drags around her little stool so she can climb up on anything and get into everything.

2.     I get to see Lucia first thing in the morning, when she is a little sleepy and cozy. Or sometimes she comes into my bedroom all excited for the day, “Need ‘nana, Grandma! C’mon!” Then she tugs me down the stairs to get breakfast.

3.     We get to listen to songs together. Every morning we say, “Alexa, play Super Simple Songs!” Then we sing along to “The Wheels on the Bus,” “Five Little Ducks Went Out to Play,” and, the current favorite, “Old McDonald Had a Farm.” I’ve never enjoyed doing housework more than when I am be-popping along to Lucia’s music, with Lucia by my side.

4.     Sometimes Lucia is the music master. She has a little story book that will play music when she presses a button. She will press “Hokey Pokey,” and we will put our right legs in, put our right legs out, and shake them all about. We do the hokey pokey, and laugh and giggle and laugh some more. I have to say, that’s what it’s all about.

5.     We have all the toys out that our children played with when they were little. Lucia carefully puts the old cylindrical Little People into their little cars and airplanes and flies them around on all sorts of adventures, just as her mother and her aunts and uncles did before her. It’s comforting to know that some things never change.

6.     We get to read stories together: old classics like Pokey Little Puppy and Home for a Bunny; and new-to-me classics like Ten Little Ladybugs and The Hug Machine. Nothing is better than having a small child on your lap intent on figuring out the story. And absolutely nothing is better than getting to do that every day.

7.     We get to go outside together. This little one sees. And because she sees, I do. Rocks that sparkle, flower petals, grass. The texture of tree bark, the taste of leaves, the movement of a small bug. 

8.     We can play at the park. Up the stairs and down the slide and in the swing. Chase the ducks and climb on the rocks and throw stuff in the water. Everything makes Lucia giggle, and I giggle too when I am with her.

 

Now, that’s not to say some things are not harder. She dumps out the blocks and all the toys every day and, though we sing “Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere,” this Grandma is the body that usually does most of the cleaning up. I have to do a little more planning to arrange for doing things like go for a walk, read a book, or take a shower. And sometimes, I have to sit outside a bedroom door and be the nap-nazi, forcing Lucia to stay in. 

 

[Here she is again, the sweet thing. No, my dear. You will be happier after your nap. Back under the covers you go with your Minnie Mouse and your binky.]

Here is the best part. I get to do all these things as a partner with my cute daughter and her husband, Lucia’s parents. I get to see what patient and good parents they are. I see them taking time to color with Lucia, to play with her, and to teach her. I see them never ever losing their tempers. I see the way Mary and Krystian work together to parent Lucia with intentionality and love. I see the way they both are always considerate of me, making sure they do not ask too much of me. I see the way they are always so grateful for any help I give.

 

And here is the absolute best part. In just a few weeks, we will have another little one in our home. Mary will give birth in just a few weeks. What a sweet blessing it will be to have a tiny little newborn in our home again!

 

Eventually, Mary and Krystian will indeed go home. As the Covid restrictions lift, they will need to return to face-to-face work and to their lives far away from us. 

 

[By the way, it’s been quite a while since the last attempted jail-break; maybe she is sleeping. Or maybe she is wreaking havoc, very quietly, in the bedroom.]

 

But, for now--oh, what a precious time.