Haley and I are almost birthday twins; her birthday is the day after mine. This gives me a strange opportunity in my life, a way to remind myself of what I was like at her age, whatever that age has been. When she turned, say, twelve, I thought of myself at twelve (my ugly duckling phase, but at least I had braces by then so the popular girls could stop calling me "monkey girl") and compared it to how she was at twelve. It is also a way of measuring my success at mothering: if she was doing better than I was at that age, I felt like I had succeeded a bit.

When she turned 18, she wrote a post on her blog with eighteen facts about herself, to remember what she was like. Reading it made me think: what was I like at 18? If I had put together such a list...I can’t be sure how I would’ve written it. I know what I remember but I can't speak anymore in the voice I had then. At just-18, I was leaving the rebellion of my adolescence behind me. I’d just broken up with a boy who changed my life completely (he influenced the mighty change of heart I had that year in ways he never imagined or intended) and was smack in the middle of the Thing I Don’t Blog About. He and my friend Jennifer were leaving soon; they’d gotten jobs working at the Grand Canyon, but as I already had a job (I was working at WordPerfect then), I didn’t go with them. (Sometimes, looking back, that decision seems like my one lost chance at an adventure. How would my life be different if I had gone?) I liked drinking soda—Pepsi even then, and we’d go at least once a day to the gas station for drinks. When I was mad I’d get in my car (a salvaged Toyota Tercel) and drive as fast as I could with The Cult turned up as loud as I could stand. I hated Chinese food and seafood. I was just learning that I loved my sisters and my mom. I was stretching my financial wings by buying books and I was reading everything by Margaret Atwood that I could find.

I’m not sure what 18-year-old Haley would think of 18-year-old me. From music to clothes to our general life outlook, our barely-adult selves would be so different; I’m not sure she’d see beyond the freakiness. Not because she’s judgmental or shallow—she isn’t—but because it takes a similar weirdness to know that the black clothes and the white-blonde hair and the pissed-off attitude were mostly just armor. You have to have been in the same battles to be able to spot the person hidden under the outward display, and she hasn’t fought in those wars. I did everything I could, in fact, to keep that darkness from conscripting her. No, I don’t think she’d understand who I was at 18 because our adolescences were so different: a measurement I am relieved by. She has had her struggles, but she didn’t get lost in the dark. She’s done all the things that normal high school kids do: chemistry class and field trips and yearbook days, dances and football games and the ACT. She applied for scholarships and earned one.

Tomorrow she’ll graduate.

I didn’t do any of those things. For senior year, Jennifer and I went to the local community college instead of high school. After the fiasco of my junior year, that was the only option I had, but it meant I couldn’t graduate with the class of 1990 because the college schedule was longer than the high school’s. I did go to one horribly awkward formal dance during my sophomore year, but I’m like Iona from Pretty in Pink: living with the side effects of never going to prom. Not that I suffer daily from the things I didn’t do in high school, but it’s sort of like when people talk about TV shows from the 70's and 80's (I watched almost zero TV as a kid): I can’t relate, exactly, to the common experiences of the majority of Americans.

And I wonder. What would I have turned out like if I hadn’t crashed and burned? What if I’d continued on the course that I set for myself back when I was ten or eleven: graduated with straight A’s from high school, earned a gymnastics scholarship, lived away from home and had adventures before I got married? It’s hard to tell; the landscape would probably be different (spouse, residence, career maybe), but the location I’m at (mom, wife) is the place I always wanted to arrive. Would going to the prom or walking across a stage for my high school diploma make this place any sweeter? Or would the hollow spots I have, no matter that I love my family and my life, be smaller? The version of myself who didn’t crash and burn—the one who managed a lifetime of being normal—is a shadow I catch in the corner of my eye sometimes. I wonder what that would’ve felt like. But the crashing and burning, no matter how awful, is still dear to me. If I had the chance to go back in time and prevent the crash, I never would. It changed me; it gave me knowledge I couldn’t have achieved through normalcy.

And yet I want nothing more than normalcy for Haley. For all of my kids. It’s a situational irony I can’t resolve: I know the knowledge I gained through darkness and difficulty is immensely important, but not important enough that I want my children to experience the darkness. And Haley turned out pretty normal. Not bland or cookie-cutter or average; she is uniquely herself and she stands out in a crowd. But she isn’t instantly aware of the bolstered nakedness of recovering weirdness. She doesn’t carry the memory of darkness and I confess that despite the weight of it in my heart—despite the necessary salt of it—I hope she never will.

When I was a kid, nearly every weekend one of the four of us would spend the night at my grandparents’ house. Technically, they were Grandma Florence and Grandpa Fuzz, my mom’s parents, but we never used their names. They were just Grandma and Grandpa. Their little one-bedroom apartment smelled of bacon and coffee and cigarette smoke—never that stale, ashtray-ish smoke smell, but the fresh burning smell that wafts when a new cigarette is lit. Before I knew him, Grandpa was an alcoholic, although by the time I was aware of things like that he had, I believe, stopped drinking or at least gained control of it. Grandma drank quite a bit of tea and one of the things I clearly remember her saying often is "if the worst thing I ever do in my life is drink a little tea, I think I'll have lived a good life." As far as I know, they never went to church. Probably they came to our baptisms, but just because it was a family event and not as a religious one. I never read scriptures with them, or prayed other than over the dinner table, or talked about religion. It could be said, in fact, that they taught me absolutely nothing about religion. 

But I would never presume to let these qualities of theirs, which many might see as faults, make me love them any less.

This is because they taught me something that is more important, possibly, than anything else a person can ever learn: the power of being loved. Because if there is anything I know about my grandparents, it is that they loved me. They loved and adored and cherished me, and not in a fancy, fabulous, isn't-she-perfect sort of way. They loved me for exactly who I am, no more or less. The thought of analyzing or questioning or doubting their love never entered into my head. It was just there, as much a part of the landscape of my life as the mountains, the lake, my backyard, air. It was a softness that always comforted me, even when I wasn't with them, even when I didn't think about it. They loved me, no matter what. 

They loved me, and they showed me by spending time with me. What we did together wasn't amazing. I sat at their yellow kitchen table and listened to them talk to their friends. I'd sit in the chair that was next to the couch in their living room; Grandma would put her feet up on the back of the couch to help her circulation, and we'd both read. I helped her carry laundry to the little laundry room in their complex; it smelled of Pinesol and must and dryer lint and warmth. Sometimes Grandpa, who managed the landscaping, would take me outside with him while he pruned the rosebushes. They'd take me to the drugstore for a hamburger and a milkshake or to Pioneer Park to wade in the ditch. (If you are of a certain age and grew up near Provo you'll know what I mean.)

I know that my relationship with them is filtered through the lens of childhood. I know they were imperfect people because I know we all are. But even after Grandma's clogged carotid artery changed her personality entirely (when I was about ten) and Grandpa passed away (from a stroke, when I was twelve), I never stopped being cushioned by the certainty that they loved me. It is a softness I still carry with me and I still draw strength from. I would be less of a person—less confident and much weaker—without that experience of being loved unconditionally.

But this is not a paean to childhood happiness and security. Instead it is an introduction to a thing I want to say but cannot because it revolves around a story I don't own and so cannot tell. Not just one story, but several I have witnessed lately, with a basic outline like this:  person A prevents someone in their life (person B) from spending time with or developing a deep relationship with someone else (person C) because person C isn't living his or her religion as person A believes they should. Or person B is eliminated altogether, and person A won't have a relationship with person C because person C doesn't ________________ or does such things as ___________.

To my mind, this sort of thing should be the eighth deadly sin: judgement. It implies that people make choices based on their badness or goodness, on their strength or weakness, which isn’t always true. It implies that person A has the right or the knowledge (or perhaps, in their mind, the obligation) to assume why a decision has been made or an action taken by person C. It is the very opposite of charity because it lacks compassion. It also assumes superiority: because person A does____________, she must be a better person than person C, who doesn't.

I suppose that if we were all photocopies of each other—if all family dynamics were identically ideal—religion could be black and white. What is wrong would always be wrong and what is right would always be right. But as none of us fully fit within the ideal (and quite a few of us are so far away from the ideal that we bear only a passing resemblance to it) ambiguity enters. Not every family is made of parents who look at all religious ideas in identical ways. Some families are made of people who have different faiths. Sometimes people's beliefs change. The same experience in a family might cause one person to stop believing in anything at all while it simultaneously deepens the faith of another. Religion, faith, belief: what we have in our hearts is malleable, changing with time, experience, and knowledge, with disappointments and losses as well as happiness. It is unique to individuals and situations.

And if I know anything at all about religion, it is that the only religious experience I am qualified to judge is my own. (If I'm even able to do that.) This is because the motivation behind what might seem to be a sin is quite often not something anyone else knows. For example, one of my close friends very rarely pays tithing, not because she lacks faith to write the check but because every time she does, her husband gets mad at her. Which is worse: not paying tithing, or having an enormous argument with her husband every payday? I know some people would say she should pay it despite the argument and that she is spiritually weak for not doing so; I know others who would say that if she is willing to pay it in the truest part of her heart, and circumstances are stopping her, it is OK that she doesn't. I know which side I  believe, but I can only speak for myself; I don't know what God thinks. But what I do know is that if I thought "I can't be friends with her because she doesn't pay her tithing very often," I would be sinning because I would be judging someone who it is not my place to judge. (Not to mention, my life would be less without her humor, encouragement, and music recommendations.)

Other people's beliefs and their way of living their religion are not the measuring stick I use to determine the type of relationship I want to create. I have many friends whose faith and religious works are much greater and more devout than mine, but I'm not friends with them for that reason (even though it is something I admire about them). Nor do I think they are friends with me despite my religious shortcomings. Instead, we are friends because we get each other. Because we can laugh with and talk to and trust each other. Because we each know the other is in a different place in her spiritual progression—and that is OK. We are friends, in other words, because we love each other unconditionally.

I will readily agree that there are some relationships in my life that I put limits on because of person C's actions. But these aren't because of religious practices but safety and sanity; I limit the relationships because I need to limit the amount of toxicity I'm exposed to. I understand limiting your kids' interaction with their pot-smoking great uncle or with cousin Marge who's been known to drive drunk more than once or even with Aunt Tara who is angry and mean. There are several "person Cs" I know whom I keep on the fringes of my life because their drama is too much to mix up with my own.

But not living up to religious expectations doesn't make a person toxic. Limiting a relationship because person C sometimes drinks iced tea or coffee, goes out to dinner on Sundays, or only goes to sacrament meeting? I know that I am not the strongest, most faithful and spiritually knowledgeable person, but to me that is the opposite of what Christ taught. "As I have loved you, love one another" is the essence of Christianity. Obedience, following the commandments, keeping promises and covenants: all of these are important, but I think it is love that matters most. When we try to love like Christ loved we are working at being Christian. Christ didn't say it was acceptable to sin, but He did die for us because He knew we would anyway. He doesn't limit the relationship He has with us because we are sinners. He continues to love us and to encourage our relationship with Him. He loves us not despite our faults and sins, not because of them, but just for who we are. He loves us, in other words, unconditionally.

What if someone in my young life had said, "Amy, I know you love your grandparents. But your grandpa smokes and your grandma drinks iced tea and they never go to church, so you can only see them on your birthday and at Christmas"? What if someone had judged their religious qualities and decided they were lacking enough that the rest of it—the time, the unremarkable and yet remarkably sweet ordinary experiences, the conversations and the stories and the laughing and the tenderness—didn't compensate? What if I had never been loved in such a way? I cannot describe the desolation that thought gives me. I would be without my life's truest safe place. Not knowing that I was worth being loved for who I am would have done more damage than the coffee or the smoking or the not going to church.

Everyone needs to be loved for who they are. We all need expectations, goals, and achievements, too; of course we can't just sit around loving each other. We have to do: work, struggle, fail, try again. We have to keep trying to do better and to not let our weaknesses become excuses. But to deny or reject love because the person offering it is flawed? How can that be anything other than judgment? How can it do anything other that fracture relationships, damage families, lessen potential? I understand that person A is working from a space of wanting to teach principles and ideals. But what sort of principle is poisoning a relationship built on? And we can't live our lives only interacting with others who think the same thing we do. We are all trying, even those of us who look like we aren't. But offering love and having it rejected, especially by family members: it is a uniquely horrible sort of damaging pain, and it isn't like cancer or Alzheimer's or a car wreck. It is a pain we can avoid giving others, simply by avoiding the eighth deadly sin.

I walked into Haley's choir concert late on Wednesday night. Just a few minutes, and late because I'd been to Nathan's choir concert at his junior high right before. The first choir (not Haley's) was singing Leonard Cohen's song "Hallelujah" and I found myself crying before I could even find a seat.

Back in the spring before she started junior high, Haley had to choose whether she'd learn an instrument or singing in the choir for her music option in seventh grade. She wanted to maybe play the flute or the violin, but my gut told me something different. Even though she didn't seem like a particularly strong singer, my gut new she needed to take choir. So I listened to my gut and I insisted she chose choir, even though she was mad at me.

She didn't love it at first. But her junior high (the same one Nathan and Jake go to now) has an amazing choir teacher. She encourages and bolsters and supports. She takes those young people and teaches them how to read music and how to use their voices. There's something powerful in that, I think—in learning to use your voice. It becomes more than just singing. If you know you have a voice then you also start to know you can say what you think.

What I didn't expect from that gut feeling was how Haley would blossom in choir. She discovered that she has a beautiful singing voice. Who knew? She didn't get that from me! The last time I sang in a choir I was in fifth grade and my friend Brittney asked me not to stand by her when we sang because the horribleness of my voice knocked her off her own tune. I mouthed the songs for the rest of the year. Don't get me wrong: I love to sing. If I am in the house or the car by myself, I often have music on and I'm singing along. But I keep the music loud to drown out how terrible my voice is.

But Haley? Her voice is strong. It's strong and confident and lovely. And choir, despite her initial reluctance, became her thing. She earned solos and went to choir festivals and never missed a concert. She tried out for and got into Bella Voce in ninth grade, and when she got to high school (ours is 10-12 grades here), she found another accomplished and amazing choir teacher.

There were some struggles, especially at the end of tenth grade when she didn't make it into the A Capella choir. (This is an enormous choir class; I think there are about 100 kids in it, and they sing the more technically difficult songs.) I didn't understand why and came this close to calling the teacher to protest. But I listened to my gut again, which said that the Con Brio choir she was in would be the right place for her that year. And it was. She learned to accept a loss without making others feel guilty for their accomplishments. In the smaller choir, she shined. She became a leader. And I know, listening to my gut again, that she learned in Con Brio what she needed to know to earn a spot in Chamber choir (you know, the exclusive one that does all the coolest stuff) for her senior year.

So much knowledge and experience over the past six years. No wonder I started crying at the concert, because it wasn't just her last concert. It was my last concert to listen to. No one believes me, but I swear: I can always hear Haley's voice in the choir. Not because she overpowers anyone else. It's subtle. But I can still hear her in the weaving of voices. I have loved coming to listen to her sing. It has been one of my favorite parts of her adolescence: her voice. And while this could be a story about moms listening to their guts, what it's really about for me is a person finding her way. Finding the thing that gives her expression, finding the thing that helps her be unique even within a crowd.

I will miss that beauty.

A little tiny graphic novel.

A little bit of drama over my printer eating the perfectly-misted cardstock I’d carefully dried under books for two days.

Lots of late nights spent happily playing with my favorite scrapbooking products.

35+ new layouts.

A bajillion ideas discovered in the flurry of creativity that a deadline brings on.

All of that, plus letter stickers!

One of my favorite Big Picture Classes Workshops, Textuality, is about to start up again.

Unlike my other BPC workshops, this one isn’t about writing. Well, there might be just a tiny bit of writerly advice thrown in. But mostly it’s about supplies. Text-based supplies to be more specific.

It’s like an ode to letter stickers.

A paean to fonts.

An homage to quotations, a tribute to titles, an accolade to cool journaling formats.

I loved putting the course materials together. And I’ll be secretly happy dancing every day I teach the class.

I hope you’ll join me in learning how to get all those alpha products out of your stash and onto your layouts!

Yesterday at the library, I answered the phone to an urgent voice. "I'm at the bookstore," he said, "and I need to know what to get my mom for Mother's Day." I had a small inward giggle at someone calling the library from the bookstore—they have booksmart people there, too. Also a silent groan and eye roll: it's only 4:30 on the day before Mother's Day, what's the hurry? Still, I asked him some questions about his mom's taste and then made some recommendations (Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake which I recommend to almost every woman older than about 35 or 40; Unbroken, and Frozen in Time as his mom likes nonfiction about history). The urgency was gone when he thanked me.

The very next phone call that came through was my husband. He wasn't at the bookstore (ha!), but his question was fairly similar: Give me some ideas for a Mother's Day gift. 

Another deep sigh.

Mother's Day, like Valentine's Day, is not my favorite thing. From the talks in church about perfect moms (I actually dreamed this morning that I had to speak this morning in church, and my dream talk started out by stating how I wouldn't be talking about perfect moms) to the idea of gifts. I don't know—it all makes me uncomfortable.

I told Kendell not to worry, I wasn't expecting anything and what I really want for Mother's Day is for everyone to be nice to each other. And maybe a picture of me with my kids and no one complains about taking it. I wasn't being passive aggressive; that's really how I feel. But then I found myself writing a Helpful Guide for Husbands Who Don't Know What to Buy: gift cards and little tokens and even grand gestures.

I ran out of time to write it last night.

This morning, Kaleb woke me up at 7:30. He had an envelope for me to open, and four pictures he'd drawn for me. In the envelope were three pennies he'd found, and the pictures were of skeletons and dragons and hard work---he'd written about why he loved me, in his most careful penmanship, and not just a few words. (The quote in my title comes from one of his cards.)

And that, my friends, is Mother's Day in my mind. The sweetness of my child being himself and telling me he loves me. The only thing I really need is that reminder: I love you, Mom.

Every once in awhile I get discouraged about dinner. This happens because I have picky kids who aren't afraid to voice their opinions, a husband who won't eat soup because "it's not manly" (thus eliminating an entire food genre), and my own quirks (I don't like fish or seafood...thus eliminating another genre). All the drama makes me blue; the result of said discouragement is that I quit trying for awhile. We exist on bagels and Eggos and cold cereal, bean burritos and scrambled eggs and maybe, if we're lucky, hash browns. Then I eventually realize that my fridge has only condiments, cheese, milk, and some wilted carrots. I take a deep breath and put my big girl pants back on and wade back into the fray.

The past ten days or so haven't been happy food times at our house. Someone who shall remain unnamed said something like "not that again" and, coupled with all the other complaints rambling around in my head, it was just enough to push me into Discouraged Dinnerland.

We ate a lot of tacquitos.

But then Monday came around, and I noticed a recipe on my friend Sophia's blog, and I decided to return to the Land of Cooking. Jake was at work (where he can also eat, as he works at a pizza restaurant), and Haley had already eaten with her boyfriend, but the four of us liked this. The opinions went like this:

Kaleb: ate it with only mild complaining and somehow didn't notice the green onions. (Any actual green food is usually entirely unacceptable.) (His plate was, of course, bereft of lettuce.)
Kendell: decided that he liked it well enough, but isn't sure he wants it once a week or anything. (His opinion tempered by the fact that there's no cheese involved.)
Nathan: One bowl with meat, one bowl without, another with. ("I ate so much my stomach hurts.")
Me: "Must. Stop. Eating. No, just another bite. Wait, one more bite. Holy cow this is delicious." (I ate so much my stomach hurt, in other words.)

So I'm adding this to the rotation!

Asian Beef "Wraps"
(modified from Sophia's recipe)
(also, modify amounts to fit your family. I tripled-ish the recipe; we had left overs.)

3 lbs extra-lean ground beef
1 red onion, diced fine
4 garlic cloves
a bunch of grated fresh ginger
salt and pepper

In a large skillet, cook ground beef with onion, garlic, ginger, and salt & pepper. Drain grease thoroughly. Add:

2 T sesame oil
1/3 cup soy sauce
1/3 cup almond butter (use peanut butter if you don't have allergies at your house)
3 T honey
1/4 cup rice wine vinegar
2 tsp garlic chili sauce (this is in the Asian foods section) (also, it's HOT!!!)

Stir until everything is mixed. Add:

5 diced green onions (dice them small enough & no one will notice!)
1 can water chestnuts, drained and diced
1/2 cup diced cashews (or less if you're the only one who doesn't bitc complain about how nuts shouldn't be in any food except caramel, fudge, and ice cream)

diced romaine lettuce
steamed rice

The quotation marks in the title are there because this is supposed to be served as a wrap: keep the lettuce leaves whole and use them like a tortilla. But as I was eating by myself and wanted to read while I ate (without dripping stuff out of the bottom of a wrap onto a library book) (I am STILL dragging myself through Sweet Tooth and I'm only finishing it because it might sully my Serious Reader credential if I didn't), I tore the lettuce into pieces, put them on my plate, and then layered rice, meat, and a sprinkle of cashews on top.

Seriously: delicious.

The original recipe called for ground chicken. As ground poultry gives me the shudders and I had no defrosted chicken but some hamburger, I switched the meat. I think this would be equally as delicious (and much healthier) with diced chicken.

Kendell was doubtful when I bought the big package of romaine lettuce at Costco. (Since I had, alas, tossed out some deteriorating broccoli and asparagus that same day.) Just to prove him wrong, I made Asian chicken salad with the rest of the romaine for dinner tonight. (Well, by "made" I mean "opened up the Asian Salad Kit and stirred everything together.")

Which means that for two nights in a row, no gratuitous carbs have been consumed at my house.

Perhaps we have finally traveled out of Discouraged Dinnerland.

(Just as long as no one complains tomorrow!)

Yesterday I spoke briefly with a neighbor, who asked me if I had any races I am training for. (Ragnar, right now, but I am seriously also thinking of doing the Epic Relay, which runs from Logan, Utah to Jackson Hole, Wyoming.) We talked about running for a bit and he said something like "I'm jealous of your ability to get out there and run" and I said something back about how he could do it, too.

I have this opinion that everyone could be a runner. That if you want to do it, you just have to start: buy a pair of shoes, figure out some routes, read a book or two about running. Start slow, with mostly walking. Pick a 5k to train for to give yourself motivation (nothing motivates like "I don't want to waste my race fee," especially now that they're getting more and more expensive!) and purpose. You'll have setbacks and frustrations and days you eat bagels and hashbrowns instead of going running, but that's OK because all runners have those, too. A large part of being a runner is believing that you are a runner. Once you have the mental ability, you run because it's part of your identity.

But what I forget to factor in is the physical ability.

I don't mean skill and talent. Trust me: I look silly when I'm running. I'm not super fast. I have to build my running wardrobe around the fact that my thighs rub together. I am not the typical ultra-skinny long distance runner and I don't run with grace or athletic ability.

Instead, what I mean is physical limitations. The neighbor I spoke with has a bad knee. Kendell can't run because of his two metal hips. Haley wants to run more than she does but keeps getting sidelined by shin splints. My friend Heidi has reoccuring skeletal problems from a car accident.

All of those physical things make it harder to be a runner. And none of them came because of choice but by happenstance.

And while I've had my physical abilities strained—ITB and plantar fasciitis and a constantly-irritated sacroiliac joint and burgeoning bunions—they've never broken. I've been able to recover with time and physical therapy and patience. But for the past decade or so, I've been physically able to run.

And despite my funny gait and my thunder thighs, I am grateful. I'm grateful for a body that keeps on going, mile after mile. I'm grateful I can touch my toes and practice cartwheels and handstands outside with my kids. I'm grateful my body takes me up and down mountains. I don't know what I'd do if I came across a physical limitation that would make it so I could never run again, because in my mind? In my mind I would still be a runner.

I think that sometimes you have to toss it out there: your gratitudes to the Universe. When I read Heidi's post this morning, I knew I needed to do just this. Acknowledge that part of being a runner is simply being lucky to not have physical limitations. I know one could appear at any time. But until one does, I am going to honor and respect my body just a little bit more. I'm going to be grateful that my mind says "I need to run" and my body says "how far?" and my thigh-covering shorts are clean.

I'm going to try to remember, every time I tie my shoes, that running is a privilege my body affords me, and not take it for granted. Not, in fact, care that I am slow and ungainly. Instead, I am (for reasons I don't understand) blessed to be able to run.