People and Other Trash

by H. Linn Murphy

My youngest daughter is finally going through the room she once shared with her sister, shoveling out years of garbage I've asked them to clean countless times. The middle daughter has gotten married and she now and then deigns to come by and rescue an item or two. It is, in our house, as if a giant had an upset stomach and has belched forth a giant, bulky pile of vomit.

The thing is, that now that she is in this mode, (or call it 'they' since middle daughter participates on occasion) J is getting rid of everything. All ties to her past have been cut loose and are now relegated to big black trash bags and boxes in my living room and kitchen and bedroom. As long as it isn't in her new bedroom. Things I'd given her and her sisters are jumbled up with old school papers and broken hair ties and a million other bits of flotsam.

Don't get me wrong. I've begged them to shovel out their room on many occasions. I just want them to be carefully selective. It's been very painful for me to see everything go. Toys that cost us loads of money and were barely played with, she tossed out as if they were bags of bug-infested candy (also in there). I fully expect to see my grandmother's carefully concocted doll house resting atop Crud Mountain in the next day or two. Maybe she's weighing the thought of having it gone, with the fit she thinks I'll pitch.

So this morning I thought about it. Why are they so blithe about dumping everything? Why does it bother me so much that I can't give them the least little thing. They demand all new stuff. Why should their tossing things I've given them bug me so much? Maybe it's because for me, all of this is actually a parable about people.

This is the deal: All of my life I've been the Stuff Adoption person. I don't get new stuff. I've never once had a new car. I've never gone to a store to buy a new couch or any other large item of furniture (although last year my husband bought a new dish washer and stove). I very rarely get to go buy myself new clothes. I adopt other people's stuff, whether it's from my mom or my grandma or my messy best friend. I've examined each thing that people are casually dumping and wondered if it had a place in my house--if its presence would mean that we could have something new without paying anything for it. Does it have value? Or should I let it go into the trash? It offends me to see people toss perfectly good pennies (sometimes in actuality). Save up the pennies and buy something good with them.

It's not like there are tiny trails around my house amidst the tidal waves of rubble--well normally. (This week is an exception, apparently.) I'm not a mental hoarder case. I do toss stuff all the time. I donate items regularly. I've tried to promote a mindset of one thing in, one thing out. But I have also built a home some people call eclectic and cute. And I've done it without breaking the bank. I give things value. I enjoy taking out the old things from my childhood to look at and reminisce over.

I think that the children of today don't know how to assign a value to anything that isn't currently new or in constant use. They want all their music on Pandora. They want all their movies on the Cloud. They get their recipes and decorating ideas from Pinterest. They get their knowledge from Google. They want their relationships on Facebook or Twitter or the next big thing. "Those things will always be there," they say. But I know they won't. Those things will go away and they'll have nothing to show for it all.

I and my husband often chaperone youth dances. The kids these days hardly move. They stand on the dance floor and text each other.  Why can't we have decent face-to-face conversations anymore? And why do they refuse to think that there is anything wrong with insulating themselves with barriers of circuits and plastic and miles?

Not only that, they don't want to have to carry boxes of old things around with them. They, the perennial nomads, flitting from one garishly spangled ride to the next at the fair. What catches their fancy had better be glitzy and at the cutting edge of fashion or they won't offer it a second look.

And that's apparently often how they want their relationships. If you aren't exactly their type, they don't have time for you. They rarely take a moment to dig for the real gold. It's all surface sequins. "What have you done for me today? Nothing much? Bye-bye." "Misunderstanding? Too bad. I don't have time for you." Those learning instances go flying past with the speed of a runaway freight train.

I'm hoping it's not too late. I'm hoping that someday soon she'll wake up and realize that what she's been running over for the last six months wasn't gravel, it was people with very real feelings. Take time to get to know a person. 

When I first started visiting teaching as a young married lady, I didn't really 'get' older ladies. They were just homogenized, two dimensional paper dolls with bluish white hair and a weird split pea soup smell. But then one day I took the time to stop and listen. Whole vistas opened up for me that day. Each woman had stories, many of them avidly interesting. I've known dancers, authors, a woman who someone just gave a child to, lock, stock, and barrel. I've visited climbers and artists and war brides. I've known cowgirls and chefs. 

All of those millions of hours of life to be wadded up and thrown in the trash because they're an old lady paper doll? I don't think so. I want to teach my children that each person matters to Heavenly Father--each one is intrinsically important. If He keeps track of every single sparrow, what then of His beloved children?

What, then, of the works of their hands, of their hours of service and creation? They have value. I feel appreciating a person's value is one lesson Heavenly Father is avid for us to learn.

Christ is the Reason for the Season

by H. Linn Murphy

About this time every year the pace kicks into holiday mode. We see ever earlier sales. Black Friday is now a holiday children recognize. The Saving Christmas shows pepper the TV, punctuated by ads for glitzy toys, diamonds, gigantic screen TVs, and gleaming sportscars. We run around trying to do, make, and buy everything in time for the Big Day. We run around like ants, busy with making Christmas. But we often forget that Christ is the reason for the season. We not only forget to celebrate His miraculous birth, but the most remarkable gift anyone ever has or ever will give to us: Eternal Life. We forget God's gift to us: namely His Son.

We see all these festive decorations and gifts and helpful hints about how we should celebrate the holidays, but we often fail to see Jesus. And yet we marvel at the people from His own time and place who didn't see Him for what He was. They were too blinded by politics, or disdain for his upbringing and origins, or by their own problems. The Pharisees who should have been His biggest supporters because of their scriptural knowledge, were instead some of His greatest detractors.

 So who did see Him? Not Pilate, who thought of him as a sort of discomforting rabble rouser. Not Herod, rich and selfish King of the Jews. Not the powerful or the knowledgeable. It was the small people--the humble shepherds and servants, the craftsmen shutting their shops for the night, the publicans, and fishermen, and women drawing water at the well.

In this age, knowledge of our Savior gets overshadowed by glitzy movie and sports stars, by the rumble of science disavowing His reality, and by the jeers of the inhabitants of the Great and Spacious Building. We find ourselves either defending Him at every turn, or, like Peter at the cock's crow, weeping at our lack of faith. Sometimes the frantic pace of our lives takes Christ's place and fills the emptiness we've left as we chase the dollar bill, elusive fame, or power.

In the holidays, much of the greed and selfishness comes to a head. The refrain of "Mommy, I want that," fills the frosty air. There have been times when I sat wrapping those last presents that I felt my children had never been such brats all year and I wondered why I was rewarding such wretched behaviors. The gimme children never seemed happy. They fought over everything, especially about serving others by doing their chores. The whole season depressed me. It wasn't until, like Christ, we started focusing on the happiness of others that we started to find our own joy. 

Maybe it's time to buck the crowds, walk back down that Spacious Building ramp, and hop across the stones in the river, back to the Tree of Life. 

I remember once when I was little (we lived in Y Mount Terrace back then--married student housing). I had a Penny Brite doll, which I really loved. One home evening my dad asked us a sneaky question. "What's your favorite toy?" Thinking that I was going to get clothes for her or something equally cool, I piped up with, "My Penny Brite doll is my favorite." My sister, probably sensing more than I did, mentioned something I knew for a fact wasn't her most special toy. Then Dad said something that chilled my childish little heart. "Well then that's the thing we'll give away." My mom then made gorgeous clothes for her, and a box with homemade furniture in it for the doll. Wow. I bawled and bawled. I thought that was a really wretched thing to do. We took those offerings upstairs and gave them to another, poorer family. At first I felt so betrayed. And maybe I was, in a way, since I wasn't allowed to make that choice on my own. But I have never forgotten the way I felt at seeing that other little girl's eyes light up. (Then, because I was about five and selfish, I plotted for a little while on how I was going to take it back--but never did. There is hope.)

Later we enjoyed several 12 Days of Christmas forays. One time we lived in Oregon. My parents had moved down to Arizona and left my sister and me up there because of jobs and school, etc. That Christmas was going to be a little bleak for us. But also Mom had left lots of friends without a champion. Patricia was one of those friends. This season was especially lonely for her. She'd recently lost her husband and was feeling the pinch, once remedied by my mom's kindness. 

So my sister Lisa and I decided to do the 12 Days of Christmas on her. We bought all kinds of things we thought Patricia would like: a back scratcher, cans of soup, slippers, books, goodies and several other items. We thought we were being so sneaky running up to her porch, dropping the item for the day, ringing the bell, and racing away. 

Then one day we got caught. We were hiding in her bushes when some woman we didn't know walked out to the front porch and yelled, "Hey! Whoever you are, Patricia moved. You can have all the stuff we didn't eat back again!"

I remember thousands of meals my mom made and took to other people. I remember baking bread and every time we took it out of the oven, without fail the missionaries were there for a slice. Everybody stayed at our house--Young Ambassadors, BYU Folkdancers, Up With People kids, German Club kids, the indignant runaway children of friends. Everyone. I remember my mom giving everything from her suitcase to women in Zimbabwe, only coming home with what she was wearing and a skirt for me. She went to do service, handing out massive amounts of clothing, food, and sock dolls she made by hand. I remember her and my dad cleaning out ICU's and orphanages in Bulgaria and taking food and water to Bande Atche (or however you spell it), the epicenter of the tsunami in Indonesia. And I think of all the presents I've given her that she's turned around and given to other people. My mom lives to give. Thousands of people bless her name. That's how I want to be. Someday I'll make it.

I hardly remember any presents I ever got. What I do remember are those I gave that took some trouble. I remember their faces and how it felt to do something for someone else. Imagine, then, how Christ must feel when we accept His offerings. When we come humbly to kneel at His feet and give our lives into His careful hands, it must fill Him with exquisite joy. 

What a great birthday present!

What My Daughters Should Know

by H. Linn Murphy

I recently wrote a letter of sorts to my sons. This one is to my daughters.

I grew up, like lots of little girls, playing dress-up and dreaming of the day I would find my handsome prince and he'd toss me up on his horse, jump on behind, and gallop off, first to the temple, and then into the sunset to live in his castle happily ever after.

Well for starters, riding double with a saddle is unpleasant. And jumping there hurts like a mother. Castles are damp, drafty, and moldy (I know this because I've been to many of them). Don't let the movies fool you.

Welcome to reality. Your handsome prince might not be either. He could be really cute but really twisted. Or slightly toad-like but princely. He might not own a horse. Ever. Or he might gallop into the sunset with someone else, leaving you with a screaming princess under your arm and a shattered life. Maybe your castle is actually a hovel to begin with. Or always. Maybe you have to go be a scullery maid to put him through school. Maybe your handsome prince gets sick and dies early. Maybe he likes you...and the twelve other dancing princesses. Don't just latch onto the first dude who smiles at you. And don't expect that just because he takes you to get married in the temple it's a lock on Eternity. It takes two of you working like crazy to keep a temple marriage intact.

Date lots of people so you have a frame of reference. You need lots of toads to kiss before you find the Prince. Don't just fall into his arms because nobody else has opened his, or because all your friends are getting married. Or any other reason but that you love each other deeply and know you can build an Eternal life together. Who is he when you aren't around?

Don't just wait for a rescue. Make your own stories. Don't just wait for his. You might not meet your handsome prince until you get old and prune-y. You might not meet him at all. Things happen. If you sit around waiting for the cherry guy to fall into your arms, you could be waiting a long time. Go out into the world. Learn how to live on your own. Learn how to live within your budget. Go to school. Go on a mission if you feel called. Explore what kind of Child of God you really are. Get a degree. Learn to do things which make you happy. Learn to serve others. Get out of your cocoon and be a butterfly. Be worth something.

Be logical about your must-have list. Expecting a guy to be perfect is ridiculous. There has only ever been one perfect man on this planet and you'll not be going out with Him. So you're going to have to logically decide what's a definite must-have, and what items are just perks. Because if your guy is missing a few of your must-haves, they might not be changeable. Remember, though, that if your guy's nearly perfect, (somehow) won't he expect the same kind of perfection?

Expecting him to change for you is ridiculous. You might be completely ga-ga over him and find out that he can't keep a dime in his pocket. Changing that will be impossible. If he's casual about his priesthood responsibilities, that probably won't change. Laziness will stick. Dishonesty will still be there. If he skates along the raggedy edge of the law, hit the ground running, before the ring. Essential things about him will stay the same or only change for a little while. It's human nature. Keep that in mind.

Make a must-be list. For yourself. You can't expect him to do all of the changing. He won't. You're going to need to make changes. You're the one you can control. So choose right, before the problems arise. Change things about yourself that are weak or unpleasant. Make this a habit, not just something you do right before he comes to the door to pick you up. I had a roommate in college who was a full on slob. She'd race around the room tossing things in the closet and under the bed, hoping he'd think she was a good housekeeper, when in reality she sucked at it worse than the vacuum she never used. That's bait-n-switch. How would you feel if he was doing the same thing? Danger Will Robinson! Danger!

If you're a horse and you marry a rhinoceros, expect trouble. You're already going to have some problems meshing your lives together. If you add in extra differences, the mountain of problems increases exponentially. If you have mismatched (or nonexistent) spiritual beliefs, or come from other cultures, you'll have a much rougher road. You'll have to make extra decisions not only for yourselves, but for your children. If you go bullishly ahead with your choice, just know that you'll have to deal with the consequences sooner or later. You need to discuss how you'll make it work before he slides that ring on your finger and the kids come along.

Expectations can be a killer. Go into it with your eyes open. Life isn't going to be all roses and smiling cherubs. There are Maleficent Moments in everyone's existence. Be prepared. Be strong. Suck it up. Running home to mommy is for pansies. But getting wise council from her is smart. Your parents love you and want the best for you. They've been there, done that, and ripped up the t-shirt for rag material.

Train him early to talk with you. It's supremely important. You can't expect him to read your mind because half the time he'll be in his computer game world and you won't even be a blip on the horizon. You have to be able to work things out in a way that doesn't give you ulcers or get you locked up for assault with a deadly frying pan.

Take some time. Some girls take more time to pick out a pair of shoes than they do a boyfriend. I was stupid. I only took four (4, vier, quatro, chi, IV, yes four) days of dating and hanging out to decide to say 'yes' to my ex (the operative word being EX). I didn't give myself long enough to really explore the guy's personality. I had no good idea what made him tick. I had no clue what happened when he got mad. I could have talked to his best friend and found that, in reality, he was a pathological liar. I could have found out that he was actually in love with himself and any girl who worshiped him. I could have found out that he couldn't be bothered to keep a job. And I could have found out that he had a drinking problem. I didn't give it enough time. I didn't want anything to pop the euphoria bubble I was bouncing around in. Bad mistake. Take plenty of time to get to know him.

Infatuation isn't love. We went straight from him serenading me in the Spanish from his mission, to the physical kissing. I was completely hooked. If you go straight to being physical, hormones take over your brain and you lose that ability to think about anything at all. And you won't listen to council from friends or family, either. After the initial loss of all cognitive ability that comes with the kissing and cuddling, comes that period when you've ripped off the mask and see the not-quite-as-handsome guy beneath. Give yourself a chance to experience that before saying I do. Too many girls just jump at that bubbly feeling they get from kissing (or Heaven forbid sleeping with) the guy. Then when the mask comes off and they see the warts and moles and boils of his actual personality, they freak.

Life doesn't conform to your plan. You plan for life. Waiting for Mr. Right to come along is idiocy. Get schooling. Make a plan. Be flexible, because if there's anything I've learned, it's that plans always change. But at least you have one. Get a college education. Get a skill set. Be able to work and work hard. Work hard at home. Do your best. Be excellent.

When you marry him, you marry his family. If you don't think that's true, you'll be in a world of hurt. His family raised him. Sometimes people can rise above their upbringing. Sometimes they can't. Sometimes they go the complete opposite of their parents' upbringing, instead of finding a happy medium. How he treats his mother (especially when he doesn't think you're looking) is how he'll treat you. Remember, his parents are going to be your kids' grandparents.

Sitting around all the time eating bon bons and watching Netflix is uncool. He'll hopefully be going off every day to work hard to put food on your table and a roof over your head. If you sit around all day doing nothing, how is that fair? You don't have that right. Growing up means you accept responsibilities, not just that you can stay up longer and eat what you want. It means your efforts should match his. You aren't the Queen of the World and you aren't the scullery maid. You're his partner, which means you work hard too. It means sometimes you have to fix things. Sometimes you have to kill your own mouse. Sometimes you have to dig the garden or landscape the backyard. And you can't always expect him to come home from his grueling job and do all your work too. Do your own. Give 130%. 

Remember that relying on someone else to make you happy is a fallacy. You choose to be happy or not. If you need a guy to prop you up, you're going to be disappointed and unhappy a huge chunk of your life. Because at some point he's going to disappoint you. He'll definitely do things that make you want to bury him in the backyard. That's a given. If you let those things knock you off your perch, you'll be running to a lawyer as soon as he does something stupid. You have to know who you are and that you are loved and a valid, intelligent, gifted, worthwhile person in your own right. His love doesn't make you worth something.

You didn't marry Mr. Goodenough. Stop looking for Mr. Right after you get married. Your husband is IT. The words "Married for Time and all Eternity" should mean something to you. Those words don't mean married until rough seas make you feel like barfing. They don't mean married until someone cuter or richer or better in bed comes along. They mean you're married until long after the world ends and the Sun explodes. They mean you've got your man forever. Stop looking. Stop comparing. Be true to him in your heart and mind and actions. He'll be able to tell. He'll be your Prince if you let him be.

There are absolutely some things you don't have to put up with. Things can change even if you've done all your homework. You don't ever have to put up with being battered. You don't have to put up with him sleeping around with other people. You don't have to put up with porn. You don't have to put up with someone who hurts your children (and I'm not just talking about the occasional much-needed smack). You don't have to put up with criminal behaviors. If you choose to allow these things, you do so at your own and your children's risk. You are not a punching bag or a doormat. You are a Child of God. You are the Queen he chose to marry. Don't risk your Eternal Salvation.

Always remember that there are people who will love you whatever happens--God, Christ, and your parents. We want and expect you to succeed. We know that you can't do that without being close to the Lord and following Christ's example. If you make them the third partners in your marriage, you'll have a successful life.

What My Sons Should Know

by H. Linn Murphy

I believe the scripture about men's hearts failing them in the last days is very real. And it's happening now. People are losing the ability to look beyond their own personal bubble to empathize with others' problems and challenges. Hearts are becoming vestigial organs, like the appendix.

If, my son, you are lucky enough to trap a woman into marrying you, there are a few things you need to know for future reference:

The most powerful words in a marriage? "I love you and this is why...." Find something to complement her on every day. Even if she's gained a ton of weight or she's got a bad haircut or something else has happened, there's got to be something you find appealing. Even if it's just her shoelaces or the way her hair shines. Saying something loving will get you miles down the road toward a happy home. And it will do wonders for her self esteem. If she thinks her husband is still interested in her, still loves her even after two weeks of wedded bliss, she'll bloom for you. And she'll try harder to look nice for you. Sometimes she might act like she doesn't believe you, but deep inside she'll eventually believe it if you keep it up. And if you don't, there'll always be that worry that you've lost that loving feeling and she's just running on fumes. Don't make her guess. Tell her.

Take care of your Spiritual Responsibilities. You are the Priesthood in your home. Act like it. Go to the temple. Make it a priority. When it comes time for FHE, call them together and have FHE. Call for family prayers. Give them blessings. Take your son out Home Teaching or to collect fast offerings if that's his job. Call the family in for scripture study. This is your job as a priesthood holder.

Own your own baggage. Everyone has troubles and challenges. Everyone. If you didn't have some flaw, the good Lord would have translated you already. So acting as if you don't, is pure hubris, and it's frustrating for anyone around you. Don't force your wife to consider rigging an angelic visitor because you won't listen to anyone else trying to batter through your lofty throne of pride. You do get some things wrong at times.

She's not always wrong. It's statistically impossible. Someone once said a room full of monkeys typing random letters on typewriters will eventually come up with the works of Shakespeare (poor monkeys). Well, your wife will sometimes be right. You need to acknowledge that. It really doesn't take much effort to let her know. But it will mean the world to her. When you hog all the credit, it's a total mental beat-down.

Do your own personal housekeeping. Sure she might stay home all day with nothing to do but eat bon bons and watch Netflix (extremely unlikely) but she isn't your purchased slave. Pick up your own dang socks. Put them in the dirty clothes hamper. Take your place settings to the sink. Do your chores happily. If there is something broken around the house, it's your job to fix it. If you don't know how, learn. It'll save you loads of money not having to pay someone else to do it for you. And best of all, it'll save arguments.

You need to work. Hard. That's a fact of life. You are the provider for your wife and children. Nobody else should have that responsibility. That means that you need to study hard in school. Put forth the effort to make great grades so you can then get into college so that you can then get a good enough job so you can feed and clothe your family and put a roof over their head. And you need to start that now. Life doesn't have to offer you nonstop entertainment. It's not one big video game convention. And don't just think you can test video games for a living. It rarely works like that. Find something to do to contribute to society. Find the work you love and love the work you find. But you're going to have to get off your rear and DO SOMETHING. Because if you don't make that choice, life will make it for you.

Your wife is your bride. Never forget that. You chose her. You put that ring on her finger and signed the license. She isn't your love slave, your maid, roommate, or unpaid cook. She certainly isn't your punching bag or doormat.  She's your wife. She's your Queen. Treat her like that. Remember that you aren't giving her these rights. She's already got them. She shouldn't have to earn your love or respect. And she shouldn't have to earn her children's respect either. By virtue of being a Child of God, she has just as many rights as you do.

Be her champion. And I don't just mean just when you're out in public. Always. Don't make her fight all her own battles with the kids. If you act like it's not a big deal when they yell at her, or tell her "no" when she asks them to do chores, or lie to her, they'll push the boundaries they do come up against. Pretty soon your home will just be an armed camp, and your wife will snap. You'll have 156 lbs of screaming hag on your hands, rightfully. Yes, she should act like an adult. But it isn't really your job to raise her. It is your job to raise your children. And if you allow them to treat your wife like she's a third class citizen, you're reaping the tornado. They won't respect anyone. Be her champion with loving patience.

Don't abuse her children either. There's a fine line between being a father and being a friend to the exclusion of your wife. Don't always force her to be the bad guy. Be the friendly father. There are going to be some times when you can't be their friend, but you can discipline with patience and kindness and love unfeigned. Set boundaries for your children. Enforce them lovingly. Let them know with velvet gloves on, that you won't allow them to treat your Queen like they are. Believe me, your life will run much smoother when your children understand that your wife isn't champion-less.

Ask her how she's doing. And when she tells you, respond with kindness. If you give her a calm way to address the things that happen in her day, she'll adore you for it. Pillow talk is a fantastic thing. When she's feeling fragile, it's your job, as the Prince she married, to find out why. It's not always your task to fix it, but you need to at least listen. Find out what makes her feel loved and do that thing.

Men have compartments in their heads. I call them rooms. The big important things have larger rooms. I once handed my husband a penny-sized box. When he finally asked what it was for, I told him it represented the Heidi room in his head. Everything else had enormous rooms: work, computer everything, Church callings, the kids. He never responded, which made me think the cube I'd given him was much too big. Give her the second biggest room in your head. God and Christ are the only ones who should have a bigger room.

Communication isn't just a perk of a great marriage. Talk with her. Respond to her questions and dig deeper. It's utterly essential. And it can't just be surface stuff about the kids or the bills or whether the dog needs a vet. You need to dig into the deeper layers and really get at the feelings and spiritual essence. And you need to do this while you're dating too. Practice something more than face-sucking. Surface talk is for roommates and people you don't particularly care deeply for. And don't wuss out and fall back on the "Oh men don't talk" thing. That's the Natural Man rearing his hideous, lazy head. Caring men do talk.

Show her you care about what she says and does and thinks. Don't just hand her the flower you got at church on Mother's Day and call it done for the year. This is a daily thing. She uses those words of love and encouragement as fuel. Good fuel can fill your home with happiness. Bad fuel will nuke the place. You choose what you want to come home to.

Don't accuse her of nagging. If she has to tell you repeated times that something is wrong, GET A CLUE. Something is not right in her world. How else is she supposed to address it? Apparently wigging out and lopping off body parts is frowned on. Don't wait until she feels like doing that. And yes, it might be painful, but you have to rip the Bandaid off and examine what's beneath it. Maybe it needs Neosporine. But maybe, since you've left it so long, it's going to need amputation. Don't let it get that far. Hello. Man up and address it.

When you have an argument (because you will) don't fight dirty. Dredging up all her past wrongs and flogging her with them is wrong. How can she address something you've glazed over? It's not fair. She may even have forgotten about the problem, it's been so long. This isn't a court room. She shouldn't have to subpoena witnesses, keep a record of every offense, and formulate a defense. If you have a beef, address it as quickly and Christ-like as you can, and not in front of others (certainly not the children unless you're both doing it deliberately to show them how to do it correctly and with kindness). Saving things for the next big argument will make it World War III and she'll feel like you're sniping at her from the building across the square. Own your mistakes. Work to address what's wrong. Give her credit where credit is due. Be honest about your feelings. Give tangible, logical, workable ways to fix the problem. Don't sweat the stupid small stuff. Be patient. Actually work to change what you've done wrong. Squash pride and selfishness.

Sometimes you're going to have to go out of your comfort bubble. Do it. Her happiness is worth a night of dancing or a trip to the theater. Do things she likes to do sometimes. I don't mean you have to be surgically sutured to her side, but it shows her how important she is to you when you gracefully endure discomfort or boredom to do things she likes (graceful being the operative word here. If you complain, all bets are off). And she'll be more inclined to do some things you like to do. Also, she might need a cooling down period too. Moms never get to go home from work. They live at work, and they don't get paid for it very often. You try working for the occasional child's smile or the split second the house is actually livable.

Don't ask her to do something and then make it impossible to do. My husband hates it if I touch his things. At all. And yet he likes a clean house. But to clean, I need to dust and move furniture and dusty stacks of papers. Sometimes he loses things. If I've moved anything an iota out of the way, he accuses me of their loss. He hates not being able to find tools in the shed but he won't let me clean it, putting everything in clearly marked containers. He wants to do it (or not) because he knows where everything is. But he forgets that he isn't the only one living in his house, or his bedroom. For years we haven't been able to walk into the shed or find anything out there, because he has to have it just so. All my growing up years my dad yelled at me until everything was clean. Now my husband yells at me if I touch anything. This is a great frustration to me. Don't do that to your wife.

When you want to do something, plan it with her. Otherwise she'll feel like she's only accidentally along for the ride. She has valid points and hopes and dreams (and a working brain) too. She should be your first mate, not the skivvy. And when you're out there on that family vacation, treat her like she's your love. Walk with her. Hold her hand. Thank her for things. Ask her how she's doing. If you want to buy a new car or a house, consult with her. She'll probably be spending a fair amount of time in it.

Open her door even after the ring is on. Take her out on dates. They don't have to be expensive, but something with just the two of you. Don't make her beg for them and complain when she does. You chose her, after all. In case you don't realize it, THIS IS BIG. This marriage thing is for real. It should last for the rest of Eternity. It takes maintenance. You can't just flick a ring on her like in a ring toss game and call it quits. You have to work hard at it constantly. And yes, you have to, or you'll fail. Lots of people do. It's never going to be easy with anybody. Ever. If you think it is, someone is selling you a water-spanning structure.

Treat her like you'd like to be treated, or better. If you would rather not be sniped or yelled at, and you'd like the Kingly treatment, imagine how she must feel. Nobody wants to be treated badly, and certainly not from the mate they've chosen to spend Eternity with. You're the guy she's dreamed of and planned for and secretly kissed her pillow for. You're her Prince. Act like it. Believe me, it'll be worth it.

Next time I'll write to my daughters.

Movies Aren't History

by H. Linn Murphy

I came home from last night's high school open house greatly disturbed. I'd gone to do battle with an extremely confrontational teacher. I came home from that bout feeling like I needed a shower.

I was concerned that the teacher was taking huge amounts of points away from my son's grade for wretched reasons--which is still the case. She refuses to recant on items which are not in any way my son's fault. Apparently, if she fixed his grade, she'd have to fix all the others' (not a bad idea, actually). I wanted to whack her with a frying pan (especially after she called me scatterbrained).

However, it quickly became apparent that her mercenary grading system was not the main problem. What she actually wanted to talk about was why I wouldn't let my son watch R-rated movies (Shindler's List to name one). I told her that we don't allow our children to watch R-rated movies. I indicated that there were far better movies about the Holocaust.
"Why can't they watch THE HIDING PLACE by Corrie Ten Boom or the Diary of Anne Frank?" I asked.
She smirked at me and said, "Welllllll those movies just don't hold enough punch. I want the movies to punch the kids right in the face."

I had to mentally rein myself in by this time from punching her right in the face.
"What if I don't want my children punched?" I asked. "I've actually been to Dachau. I've smelled the stench that still hangs over the place. I've walked between the barracks foundations. I've felt evil so potent it made me want to barf. And I've described all of this to my children. That's as much face-punching as I ever want them to have."
"Well why don't you watch the movie and let me know." Still that smirk.
Condescending much? I thought. "Nobody at our house watches R-rated movies."
"Then how do you know you don't want your children watching it if you haven't seen it yourself?"
How indeed? I couldn't continue. After a point people are past feeling and there is nothing to do but jump out of the plane and hope your parachute works.
I left her with this: "I hope you understand that I will continue to do battle for my children."
"Oh I wouldn't have it any other way," she said. I'm certain she thinks she won. I, however, know everyone is losing.

So now she's warned. I'm taking it to the school board. This is ridiculous. These teachers think that watching a Hollywood version of some story will accurately show how it was then. I say, "Fie on you! Don't you realize Hollywood sensationalizes everything to sell movies?" Everything is sexier, more violent, raunchier, and more depraved. Smut sells.

How long has it been since they did movies without these hooks? It's lucky that Jane Austen's movies have remained fairly intact. It'll be interesting to see how far Austenland goes without the sex which seems to be the only thing they'll show.

I can't count the number of movies I've seen which completely slanted the story or reported absolute lies. Two different movies can slant things vastly different ways. The other day we watched a Snow White movie. Gone was Disney's cute little princess who needed the prince. Gone was the young girl with such virtue and gentleness that all those around her loved her.
This Snow White version had nothing about goodness in it. The dwarfs found nothing to inspire loyalty in the girl. And the prince was such a side note that people found themselves hoping she'd hook up with the huntsman.

What?

So this is what the movie is really selling:
*Violence is good if you're hot.
*It's okay to be a wretched person because someone did something mean to you when you were little.
*Women don't need guys for anything but to admire them from afar and stand around until they're needed.
*Women can fight better than men even though men had to train their whole lives to prepare.
*Fathers and Mothers are an over-touted nuisance and ineffectual at best.
That is just from one movie. I'm certain there are further nuances I missed.

And those are just the entertainment-oriented movies. What lies are the other movies spinning us? It seems to me that the aim is to pick apart the fabric of history and re-weave it into something a real history buff can't even recognize. That, my friends, is called propaganda. It is the deliberate insertion of lies and half-truths in order to change the mindset of this upcoming generation. Ask anyone from an Iron Curtain country about propaganda.

No. My children will not be watching Shindler's List, or any other package of garbage dressed up and primped and pushed on our children in the name of education. If she insists on showing movies of that sort, I will make such a stench that she will think she hit a skunk on the road.

I'm on my way to the Principal's office to see if I can find a better teacher for my son--one who can actually stand children and wants to teach them real history. I'm thinking I won't find that until he comes home to me.

Who's Under Your Bus?

by Michelle Wilson

Writing is like driving a bus. (You ready for this one?)

You've got this great and powerful vehicle that can carry anyone you want to anyplace you want.

With fiction, you can take your reader to, not only new places on earth, but to other worlds. You can open them up to the mysteries of an unknown universe and time, or unlock the secrets of the heart of the woman who lives next door.

As a writer, you are the driver. You decide where you will go and who you want to take.


You also decide who is under your bus.

My mom bought me a t-shirt that says, "Be nice to me, or you might end up in my novel." I've talked to a few writers who have found great satisfaction in killing off an ex-boyfriend in their books. In the novel I just finished, I based one of the (annoying) antagonists on the ex-wife of one of my beta readers. He quite enjoys critiquing my book. Lol.

In fiction it's not too bad to throw people under our literary bus. Sometimes it's fun. And most times it is harmless.

But, non-fiction is different.

You might think you're not a non-fiction writer, but if you've ever written in a journal, a blog post, a Facebook status, a Twitter tweet, a letter to a friend, a talk in church, you have written non-fiction.

 As I wrote my women's inspirational non-fiction book, "Does This Insecurity Make Me Look Fat?" (which is available for preorder now here through Deseret Book, with a release date this December 30th. Excited and unapologetic plug here!) I was careful at not only where I was 'driving my bus,' but over whom I didn't want to drive it over: my kids.

 As moms we tend to commiserate one with another. As moms who write, we do it in print. As moms who write who also network via blogs and Facebook and Twitter, etc, we do it in print in front of everyone.

In my book I shared some stories of the struggles I've had as a woman and a mom, and much of it has been done with humor. But, I've tried to be very cognizant of how much I share and in what flavor I share some of the trials I've experienced via my children. I don't want my children to read anything I've written with embarrassment or regret.

It's important to remember that as we share our lessons and experiences, we do it in such a way that we don't throw our kids under the bus, meaning (quite bluntly) we don't share personal things about our children that will embarrass them, demean them, or hurt them for our own benefit.

Whether it's in a book or on Facebook, we must understand and remember that our children are not little extensions of our lives, but their own persons who have the right to drive their own buses.

I have seen mothers complain, accuse, demean, even demonize, their own children for the sake of venting or sharing. True, most times these moms don't have ill-intent. We love our children dearly--even though they sometimes drive us crazy.  But, they are still people. They have the right to create their own reputations, their own public identity--their own bus, without their mothers telling the world that little johnny is irresponsible, or little molly lies a lot.

I have not always been completely innocent of this.

Just a few months ago I posted a Facebook status about my teenage son that was a harmless (in my eyes) crack about how the house had been so quiet while he was gone at scout camp (with a few other details). My FB friends got a kick out of it. But what I hadn't taken into consideration was that my son was also my FB friend, and he didn't find it amusing. In fact, he was a little hurt that I would broadcast an insult for fun.

I realized I had thrown him under my bus, and I repented.

Yes, parenting is hard--really hard. But, so is being a kid and growing up in this world. Our kids should know that we are their sanctuaries--we are the safe harbor for all their faults and weaknesses. They should feel that we protect them from harm, not run over them with our bus because we are seeking support, validation, or we need to vent, or we just think it's funny.

Of course we can share, generally speaking, our thoughts and feelings- but we should always take into careful consideration how it will make them feel.

 Even our little ones. Someday they will grow up to understand the things that we've said, and written, about them. How will it make them feel about themselves? How will it make them feel about us? How will it make them feel about how we feel about them? (Ask yourself that one ten times fast!)



Writing is a powerful force, a force that brings our thoughts and dreams (good and bad) into reality. We can go anywhere and do anything. We can lift up or tear down. We can spread the love or encourage criticism and hurt. We drive very powerful buses with the words we put out there.

We love our children, and wouldn't purposefully hurt them. Let's be sure we don't do it by accident, either.

Write on and drive carefully!

Drawing the Line

A recent publishing controversy got me thinking about where and how we draw the line in terms of deciding what is or is not acceptable as art for our children.

An LDS publisher recently canceled the publishing contract with two authors days before the book was set to go to press because they were concerned that one of the authors, who is gay, was going to use the book to further the LGBT agenda. Never mind that he never made such threats. All he wanted to do was set forth in his bio that he lived with his partner and some pets. In other words, he wasn't willing to hide his sexual orientation. There is much more about the way this publisher dealt with the issue, and if you're curious you can read about it here and here.

If you're an LDS author and want to take a stand against such unprofessionalism, you can go to this site to read the letter and request that your name be added.

In all the discussion that has ensued, I couldn't help wondering what kinds of mixed signals we're sending our children about all of this in the LDS community.

When does an artist's bio overshadow his art to the point of exclusion?

After all, how many of our children have sung songs written and/or composed by gay musicians and we don't bat an eye? How many of our youth have performed in plays and musicals written by gay playwrights or created by gay composers? 

Doesn't the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, itself, perform songs composed or written by such well-known gay musicians as Lionel Bart (Oliver!), Stephen Sondheim (Sweeney Todd), and Elton John (The Lion King)? If the Mormon Tabernacle Choir can, in a sense, put its stamp of approval on such songs as "Where is Love?" and "The Circle of Life," why can't an LDS publisher, big or small, approve a manuscript like Woven? (Actually, they did; it only became an issue because they wanted to refrain from seeming to endorse a gay lifestyle by printing the truth about this one co-author.)

Are we simply hoping our children will never find out the truth about the sexual orientation of these artists?

This issue was all about integrity and honesty, and those are principles we can't afford to be fuzzy about when it comes to teaching our children.

I'm not saying LDS publishers don't have the right to edit their authors' bios. I'm simply saying they ought to always be upfront about it and have that discussion early on in contract negotiations. Otherwise, they're sending the signal that sneakiness, dishonesty, and discrimination against some people is still all right.

That's a signal that will destroy our children and, thus, our future.

Where will you draw the line?

What Do I Know?

We are creatures of continual change and growth. That's how God made us. We have this deep, innate desire/urge to progress. We seek for knowledge and guidance, ways to learn and improve. We find comfort in answers, excitement in success, and peace in heavenly support.

We are imperfect. God made us that way, too. I like to call myself perfectly imperfect :)  I believe He made me this way so I can learn to trust Him with my weakness, and He can help me make them strengths.  It's a beautiful principle, really. In black and white, on a glowing screen, it rings true. But, in real life, it is harder to see, and even a bit scary to live.

At least, it was for me the day before I wrote this post.

I have two biological children. Twelve years ago I had a mandatory complete hysterectomy due to medical issues.  The night before my surgery I requested a blessing from my bishop. In it, Heavenly Father told me my family wasn't finished growing. I'll admit, I peaked open one eye and looked towards the ceiling as I thought, "You do know what kind of surgery I'm having tomorrow, right?"

Of course He did.

And of course He was right.

Three years ago my youngest daughter (then six) joined our family through adoption.  Most of my life, through my own intellect and His guidance, I've been able to figure things out. But, my daughter came with a slew of problems that were completely new to me.

The things she would do and say were difficult for me to understand and accept. Many a night I would cry myself to sleep, convinced someone else could be a better mother. I mean, what mother doesn't understand her child? What mother has no idea what is best for her child? What mother wishes she could go away on an extended kid-free vacation . . . for like a year? (Okay, that last one wasn't serious...mostly.)

Over the years she has grown and improved--and so have I. She has blossomed into a beautiful young lady who loves her family and her faith. Through prayer and study, I have obtained a greater knowledge, understanding, and skill in helping her. More times than not things run pretty smoothly around here, and all is well.

Until something like yesterday happens.

I won't say what she did. Sufficeth it to say, while visiting a friend's house she did something that was just off the wall crazy.

I get an "FYI" text from her friend's mom, and in less than five minutes I was bringing my daughter home.

I was so upset I wouldn't speak for the first ten minutes. I could have, but the well of my emotions would have violently spilled over. So, I kept quiet. 

When I was ready to talk, in measured and control tones, I informed her of the consequences of her actions, and sent her to her "thinking pad" on the floor to write sentences while I escaped to my room and cried.

What was she thinking? Who is this kid anyway? Haven't I taught her better? Doesn't she know better? 

The questions and doubts rushed through my heart and head and out my tears. I became angry, embarrassed, frustrated, and lost. What do I do with this child?

I counseled with my husband and a good friend, who offered peace and support. But, it wasn't until late last night that I received the answer I needed to hear from my Father in Heaven. And it wasn't the answer I was expecting.

My mind was taken back to my scripture study that morning. I had read Alma 40, part of Alma's letter to his son Corianton. He had been teaching Corianton about the resurrection, and came to a point of doctrine that Alma, himself, didn't know. I had underlined the last half of verse 5, which read, " . . . it mattereth not; for God knoweth all these things; and it sufficeth me to know that this is the case."

Alma didn't know all the answers. And he was okay with that.

Then a truth hit me like a ton of bricks: My anger and frustration didn't come from what my daughter had done, but from the fact that I didn't know why she would do it, and I didn't know what I needed to do to help her.

I realized I was upset because I didn't have the answers. (Perhaps that is why I enjoy writing so much--because not only can I control the questions, but the answers as well.)

I let that realization sink in a bit deeper in my soul as I rolled it around in my brain. The real reason I am angry is because of me. 

It's really hard when God shines a light on a weakness. As I said above, it's a beautiful theory and scripture (Ether 12:27), but in reality, it is really hard. And honestly, it took a few minutes for it to sink in. The problem is with me.

As soon as I accepted that God-given truth, the end of the verse came back to my mind, " . . . God knoweth all these things; and it sufficeth me to know that this is the case."

God knows my daughter. He knows why she does what she does. Even though I don't have all the answers about her, HE does. He knows I am weak, imperfect, and He still brought her to me. I find great peace in that. I need to trust that He knows all things. And I need to find the strength to be okay not knowing everything.

As a mom, I wish I had all the answers. In that respect, I'm like the millions of other parent that jokingly mourn the lack of a parenting manual. But I don't. I do all I can to educate myself--reading, studying, praying, talking, teaching, etc. But, even after all I can do, there are certain things that, in this life, I may never fully understand. And that's okay. Because God does.

That's where the faith comes in. Not just the faith to know, but having the faith not to know. It's a hard concept, especially when it comes to your own kids. But, I have to say, in the light of the day, and my new faith and perspective, I am at peace.

My daughter came in to my room this morning to show me her sentences. She was happy and proud of her work, seemingly unmarred from the choices of the day before. I don't get it. But, He does. And that's enough for me.

I gave her a hug and told her I loved her. She smiled and said, "I know," and skipped out of my room.

I don't t know everything, but I DO know that God does. I DO know that God trusts me with her (my gift), and my other two children(my joy and my heart.) I DO know that God is parenting them with me. I DO know that as I follow His guidance I become a better mother. I DO know that I love my children and they love me. I DO know that He will take care of what I can't.

And I DO know that it's okay not to know anything else.

Michelle