What to say about death?

The past two weeks I have heard of three deaths that have happened in my current ward or in my home ward across town. I admit, I find myself a bit shaken up and thinking about it often. But my thoughts on death began before that. One Sunday evening my family gathered at my parents house to celebrate my father's birthday. Paul and I arrived early, took my uncle to the airport, and still returned before the rest of the extended relatives came. With time to burn, Dad asked if I wanted to swing with him in the backyard. As we drifted back and forth in the metal porch swing and my Sunday heals drilled holes in the dirt my dad mentioned a book he'd been reading about near death experiences. He remembered stories where people died, vital signs failed, but they came back to life moments later. And in those moments they were given a choice. Nie nie relates her experience while in a coma from a devastating plain crash: "[I was] with somebody who told me that I could choose to live and have a hard life, you know, embarrassing at times and painful. Or, I could just stay there, and there's lots of work I could do there too."

I know a big part of why we're here is to make choices. We fought a war for agency long ago. Satan would have the world fear death. He makes it seem to final, painful, and dark. He wouldn't want God's children knowing that we have choice in that as well. He wants us to feel as powerless as possible. For me, knowing people have been given a choice only strengthened my testimony of the principle of moral agency and the power that comes with righteous choices. And I have to express my admiration for those who have chose to stay because I simply don't know if I could make that choice in the condition they were in.

But then I heard of a death on Friday that shook me to the core. I can't describe the confusion I felt by the loss of my new theory of choice and death. I don't think that 32 year old father of six beautiful girls and one gorgeous wife would choose to leave them. We must not always get a choice in death. . . maybe getting a choice is the exception. I was frustrated that I couldn't explain to myself what had happened. I just didn't understand. I still don't.

But I know one thing: the peace the Lord brought me in all my musings was sweet and real. The confirmation he gave to me that temple marriage is eternal was powerful and calming. Because Christ atoned for our sins, hung on the cross, and raised from the tomb we, too, can overcome death and be with our loved ones again. Sometimes, that's all we need to know.

Good gravy!

If you were to peek through my front window at about five o'clock this evening, my, what a sight you'd have seen. Paul texted me at about four to tell me he'd be home early and I was a picture of delight. I plopped the roast in the oven with a smattering of carrots and onions before starting the gravy. Let me modify that last statement: before attempting to start the gravy. There was just one kink in the hose. I could not open the bouillon. Usually, this particular task falls upon my dear husband because he is very strong and I am. . . not. But Paul was still at school, and I needed to make a delicious beef gravy! So I tried to open the jar on my own. The lid would not budge. I tapped it ever so lightly on the corner of the counter. Someone once told me if you tap the sealed part of a jar on the counter it miraculously makes it easier to open. The logic of this somehow alludes me but I thought I would give it a shot. I tapped and twisted and tapped and twisted and grunted and twisted and tapped once more. The jar was not coming open.

I retreated to the office where I could search through the tool drawer. I knew of something that might help and the yellow grippy glove I sought was there, dropped lazily over a screw driver and an old extension cord. I picked it up with my left hand, my cheeks pulling the corners of my mouth up into a broad smile. On the back of the glove it read, "MEGA GRIP", which was precisely what I needed. I slipped the glove on and twisted and twisted. I ran to the living room and sat down on the couch for leverage. I continued my prehistoric grunting and my face wrinkled up into a freckled mess. I lopped over onto the floor and twisted some more. I kept telling myself that if I just kept twisting, the lid would eventually come loose. My hands started to hurt and the excess blood pulsing through my cranium was making me dizzy. I set the jar on the carpet angrily and pressed my chin on the floor level with my new nemesis, glaring profusely. I studied the lid and with desperate eyes began to recite a poem.

Lefty loosey,
Righty tighty.

Noooo! I was twisting righty tighty! How would I ever get the lid off now? I ran back to the kitchen. Tap tap tap!! Tap!! I twisted and twisted. With the bright yellow glove on my hand, Michael Jackson style, I twisted some more. I sat down on the couch for leverage, flopped over to the floor, twisted, grunted, squirmed, cried, and twisted of course. I sat the jar in front of me again. I was defeated. . . defeated by an eight ounce jar half full of beef bouillon. I would just have to wait until that man I love returned home to start gravy. But then my mind carried me to a place that is never safe to go. I once read a book called The Outsiders where a gang member broke the top off a coke bottle and used the sharp edge to fight. I had no intention of fighting with my bouillon jar but maybe I could break the top off on the concrete steps outside. . . or maybe not. Maybe I could wait for Paul.

I pick up the jar and walked to the fridge and decided to try once more. I half-heartedly turned the lid to the left and. . . POP! It opened! AHHH! All it took was my gentle twist and off it came. I starred at the lid in my hand with such confusion. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But I did neither. Paul would be home any minute, I needed to make gravy, and I had no time to loose.

A picture is worth a thousand words

I was reading the Ensign for this month and it had an article about blogging. It instructed bloggers to not be too long winded . . . But I'm not a blogger, I'm a writer, and therefore need excluded from that instruction. However, to be fair to bloggers everywhere I thought I'd try it out. So here are some pictures of why I love food with minimal caption.

It's looks good to me!

It's fun to play with.

It can take on many shapes.

It smells great. Especially after sitting all day. :)

It sounds so appetizing and mouth watering.

It tastes delicious and can be shared with people you love.

With hair disheveled . . .

My blog used to be titled "Feeling Berry." It was a little twist on my new name, and I thought it would clever. I had heard a little about the blogging world and was under the distinct impression that you had to have a cutsie name and theme. I thought you had to have some code name for your spouse like Mr. L or B-Honey. I posted two posts "feeling berry something" as my title and hated it. It wasn't me. Sometimes I didn't really know how I was feeling, but I knew I wasn't quite feeling like a "Berry".

My life was changing a lot. That road I had pictured before me for so long was drifting from my vision as I began to realize it would never be. I felt as though the 'me' that I knew was withering and I needed an escape somewhere I could revisit that old girl and those old dreams. I needed something to do to keep my mind from sinking into depression. I began writing. It was always something I enjoyed, and it let me open up. To express more fully what I was really feeling though, I needed more freedom than my limited theme allowed. To make the blog truly mine I had to rename it.

"With Hair Disheveled" was a short story I began writing shortly after graduating high school. It's title was derived from the description of the main character who was anything but extraordinary, with no great destiny to fulfill, and was, well, frumpy. My goal was to write about a real person with no happy ending. But I never finished the story. As I gained a greater understanding of the gospel of Christ and shook off the last dregs of my teenage angst I realized that if we keep the commandments, seek forgiveness through repentance, and endure to the end there will be a happy ending-- if maybe not in this life then surely the next-- because as children of Deity we do have a great destiny to fulfill.

My sister came over tonight to have dinner with me and Paul, and I didn't clean up special for her visit. I thought about it. I wanted everything to look perfect when she came and for her to be impressed by my amazing decorating and cooking and and homemaking skills. I wanted her to see how happy and put-together I was. But I'm not perfect, and it's hard pretending to be when I'm fooling no one. Sometimes it's okay if someone comes over and my cookbooks are sitting on the couch from menu making, and my heart won't stop beating if they see we didn't make our bed this morning, and the world will not stop turning if dishes are in the sink unwashed when company arrives.

My dinners are not perfectly cooked, my house is not always spotless, and I will not always have a job I love or be able to afford school when I want because my life is not those fantasy books I read. Everything will not always go according to my plan. But I'm still going to be okay. My disheveled hair and unvacuumed floor won't last forever, but they remind me to be a little better everyday and to just keep swimming because this, too, shall pass.

Neal A. Maxwell once said, "As part of his infinite atonement, Jesus . . . has Borne the sins, griefs, sorrows. . . and pains of every man, woman, and child. Having been perfected in his empathy, Jesus thus knows how to succor us . . . Nothing is beyond his redeeming reach or His encircling empathy. Therefore, we should not complain about our own life's not being a rose garden when we remember who wore the crown of thorns!"

Cake Decorating 201

Some may tell you I have a one track mind. This could be true. . . actually, it is very likely true. Two weeks ago as I stood in the Target backing aisle looking for yeast I happen to glance at a sale sign for food coloring and, overcome with pure joy, I shouted, "Lego cake!" Paul let me get it. He knew there would be no living with me till it was in my possession.

Now, all I needed was a few tips on how to make my lego cake art and an occasion for which to make it. Two words. Dad's birthday. How selfless of me to plead with my mother to allow me to show up to the birthday dinner with a dessert for my 52 year old father that resembles a child's toy. But she agreed to it nevertheless, and I was instantly online googling tips for making lego cakes. And in my great researching efforts I stumbled across a video tutorial on perfect lego cake-making. "It's so so easy!" They kept saying as they effortlessly frosted their most beautiful creation, and I dreamed of what mine might look like.

Tuesday morning I began the baking process. The cake was double chocolate and I put it in the freezer after it came out of the oven. The video said this would make it easier to cut and frost and who was I to argue? I left it there for an hour and then pulled it out. It felt cold. The precipitation that had formed on the plastic wrap from the cakes original warmth was frozen into small streaks across the surface. I called Paul into the kitchen for the main event. He is my su chief. I gave him the honor of cutting the cake because he is a boy and boys like knives.

The video said to do a "crumb coat" which they explained was a thin coat of frosting to seal in the crumbs. I think from my new found experience I would define it a little differently. A "crumb coat" is a thin coat frosting applied to the cake that allows any access crumbs to come off and get mixed in with your frosting and eventually travel to the untainted frosting in a bowl via frosting utensil. Don't let anyone try to trick you into believing that other definition.

So after I "crumb coated" each block, Paul gave them their final "beauty coat" while I worked on the raised bumps. Originally, I thought I would use cookies for this effect but the online video said they used marshmallows cut in half. This being a much cheaper alternative I thought, 'The masters know best!" What the so-called "masters" don't tell you is that it is nearly impossible to find a bag of unsmashed marshmallows at Macey's on a Monday afternoon during the caselot sale. This did not discourage me too much because I bought them anyway. But frosting them was a whole other story.

The video said to cut them in half with greased scissors and stab them in the side. Frost all you can (minus the part that has a fork sticking out of it) and once it's smooth slip it on to the cake where you will touch up the stabbed side. I tried this. I wondered what these women were thinking. I wondered why they didn't try stabbing it through the bottom which didn't need frosted anyway to eliminate the need to have to touch up the side at all. I wondered if they gave stupidly difficult instructions on purpose so no one could make a lego cake that compared to theirs. I wondered if they were on crack. Problems continued to arise as I frosted those marshmallows. You see, marshmallows are very sticky. The manufacturers put a coating on them that is powdery to keep them from sticking to each other. This coating is frosting resistant too.

For an hour and forty-five minutes Paul and I attempted to turn those little blocks of frozen cake into the smooth-looking deserts that I saw all over the internet. But they just kept crumbling and shifting and not accepting the delicious butter cream frosting that I may have got a little too cold in the fridge earlier that morning. By the end of that hour and forty-five minutes, with sore backs from being hunched over our labors and aching carpals from the delicate and detailed work we just endured, we decided it was time to stop. The cake was good enough. I looked around my kitchen and marveled at the amount of dishes we had dirtied and wondered how I would fit every utensil in the house in that little dish drainer.

I later asked Paul what he will say if I ever suggest making a Lego cake again. "No," he said. "No."

Daddy’s hands

I have mentioned my mother a lot in my blog. After all, she taught me most everything I know, but this week is the birthday of another person who taught me a few good lessons himself.

My dad is a mechanic and not because he loves the smell of gasoline and the roar of a broken muffler. It’s because he’s good at it. Ever since he was young he was taking apart and tuning up almost anything with wheels. Wagons, bicycles, motorbikes, full-blown motorcycles, cars, vans, trucks, you name it. I don’t think it took him long to discover that in his hands broken things became fixed. Still today, Fords destined for salvage become freeway material, Chevys are taken off blocks, and little Toyotas are transformed into chariots for poor college students. And he doesn’t love it. In fact, it’s hard. As his body ages crawling under a dash turns out to be more challenging with the decreased flexibility. Kneeling at tires dirties his aching knees. Hours of bending over engines causes much soreness in his back. He’s worked for bosses he didn’t like and with coworkers he found difficult. He’s spent hours busting his knuckles on rusted bolts and cutting his palms on sharp metal corners only to bring home no paycheck. But he always goes back. Every morning for my entire life he’s pulled on his stained uniforms, packed his lunch and set off for another day doing something hard that he doesn’t want to do because he loves his family that much.

Lesson 1: Life is about doing things that are hard that you don’t want to do. That’s what makes us stronger. . . like the calluses on my dad’s palms. The more we’re rubbed, the tougher we become.

My dad loves Looney Tunes. From boyhood to manhood he has never grown tired of Elmer Fudd looking for that “wascally wabbit” or Marvin’s quest to remove Earth from his view of Venus. My family would be gathered at the table eating some delicious meal and Dad would do some Looney Tune impressions for us. Sometimes he’d show us clips of his favorite episodes on youtube. I think we all love them because he does—because they make him smile, so we smile. One of my favorite memories of him was bedtime. He would tuck me in, take my favorite teddy bear and in his high, happy sing-song voice say, “Can I sleep with you tonight?” I would grab Teddy from him and just giggle. I liked his silly voices. For a short time, when we first moved to Utah, my dad would drive my brother, sister, and I up to Lehi everyday for school. He had an old cassette of Bill Engvall’s cleaner material and we loved listening to it. My dad would just laugh and laugh. I like his laugh. I love how his shoulders fall up and down as he chuckles.

Lesson 2: Even when times get hard, stay happy. Laugh with the people you love most.

There were times, especially in high school where I would come home and break down. Life was over for whatever trivial reason and I wanted some sympathy. Sometimes Dad gave it, and sometimes he didn’t. Most of the time he didn’t. He would sit me down and tell me that life isn’t high school, then he would ask me a question: “Is griping about it going to get you a better grade on the test?” or “Is standing here complaining going to help you do well in chair auditions?” I hated those questions because I knew he was right. I needed to just dive in and practice and study.

I also was overeager to grow up just a little bit faster. When I was three I wanted to be in school, and when I was in grade school I wanted to be in junior high, and so on. There was such difficulty for me to just live in the moment. But my dad has always just been in life while it was happening. So often it was him that grabbed my little kite tails and pulled me back to earth where I was needed. He knew wishing away my present wouldn’t bring the phenomenal future of my dreams. I wish I understood it then like I’m learning it now.

Lesson 3: There is a time and a place for everything—even drama (detail oriented-ness). Sometimes it’s just time to work.

My parents have a long mirror in there room. It’s the only one in the house so if vanity permits and one has to see what an entire outfit looks like, that is the place to go. And sad to say, I ventured there more often then I’d like to admit. I can remember more than one occasion of walking in my parent’s room to determine my “lump factor” only to catch my dad on his knees. He prays a lot. It is my Heavenly Father’s will that he sought when he moved my family to this valley. It was the Lord who he went to when decided to start a business. He has led us in morning family prayer for as long as I can remember; it was him who so often knew, without me saying anything of how sad I felt, that I needed to give the prayer.

Lesson 4: “Pray always, that you may come off conqueror.”(2 Nephi 32:9) And teach by example.

Happy birthday, Dad! Thanks for letting me watch you for twenty years. Thanks for loving me unconditionally. And thanks for your patience. I love you!

Can I interest you?

Paul’s school schedule is predominately in the evening . . . which I hate because it means I spend a majority of my afternoons home alone. Upfront, I didn’t think it would be an issue. Being home alone has great advantages. I can turn on my silly girl music, dance around in my underwear, sing at escalating volumes, and there are no witnesses. However, after doing that for five afternoons in a row I was ready to move on to a different hobby. Unable to find one quite so entertaining I’ve trained myself to clean, cook, and nap, which as you can imagine took far less time to get old then my afternoon interpretive dance sessions. But no matter what I fill my afternoons with, mostly I just feel lonely and miss that man I love. When Paul is home I have someone to talk to and a partner in crime on my dessert making adventures when Monday night FHE permits.

Tuesday was one if these lonely afternoons were I cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed the carpet, worked on my cookbook project, and prepared some rather soupy homemade macaroni and cheese. I put a in a movie to play in the background, and when I had a free moment I could stop and watch. It was during one of these slow moments when a knock came to the door. I answered. It was door-to-door salesmen. Smart door-to-door salesmen.

And when I say smart I don’t mean it in the sense that they were knowledgeable about their product, or highly educated. What I meant was crafty. I have a no soliciting sign on my door. It is not faded like the house numbers or smudged or handwritten. It is an official laminated plaque with bolded words, and for the illiterate there is a picture of a little man with a briefcase circled and crossed out. Yet I’ve had three sales representatives come to my door in the four months I lived here, and they all try the same trick.

[knock knock] I open the door. The sales people smile. “I’m so sorry,” they say. “I didn’t see your sign.” Thinking of dear Bill Engvall I resist saying, “That makes two of us.” Instead I give them some nonchalant words to excuse their grievous error but before I can finish my sentence a flyer is shoved into my hands. “But you can take this if you want and, I mean, if you don’t want it you can give it to a friend. Hey what kind of cable service do you got?” I open my mouth to reply but—“because we’re here on behalf of DirectTV and we’d love to hook you up with a greater deal than whatever your paying.” I tell him we are paying nothing, that we don’t have television, and if he can give us a better deal than free, like a monthly check to take his services, I’d sign up. They look a little nervous, I bid them good day, and I shut the door.

No kidding, I think they are teaching this method in annoying sales people schools, which apparently Comcast and DirectTV and all-purpose cleaner companies require all their employees to attend. The teacher stands in front of a class, re-slicks his comb-over, and leans forward. “Class,” he hollers. “I’m going to give you the trick to successfully working your way around a ‘no soliciting sign’.” The students lean in, anticipation dripping from their open mouths. The instructor hitches up his pants “The key is to walk up to a door and ring the doorbell as fast as humanly possible, then look around to see if there’s a sign. If there is one you can’t leave because you already rang the doorbell and doorbell ditching is rude. So wait till they answer the door. Apologize for not seeing the sign, and before they have time say goodbye you throw out a pitch faster than Billy Mays.”

Now, I’ve fallen for this three times and I think I know what my problem is. I have two actually. The first is I keep answering the door. In my defense, I’m new in the ward, I still don’t know a lot of people, and unless these men have matching shirts and logos plastered to ball caps, which none of them have, looking out my window I can’t tell salesmen from home teachers. So I just keep answering the door.

The second problem I have is I’m a girl and an English enthusiast which means in the simplest terms: I can’t say anything in just two words. If my husband answered the door and the salesmen apologize for not seeing the sign he would say, “Okay, bye.” And he’d shut the door. But I don’t do that! They apologize and it’s like I have this need to put their guilt to ease or it is transferred to me somehow. So I say something like this: “Oh, guys! It’s okay. I know how that feels because this one time I was trying to raise money for the school band and I went to this house to ask if they wanted to pledge for a carwash and they had a sign and I didn’t realize and I just started shaking because I didn’t know what to do. . .” And I my mouth just won’t stop. This gives them plenty of time for flyer shoving and an interruption followed by the beginnings of a pitch.

I’m caught in this vicious cycle that will never end because I can’t just stop being a girl, and I can’t change my prose-like mindset. I suppose I should just make peace with the idea that I will argue with door-to-door salesmen for the rest of my life.