a free couch...

I keep thinking about my couch.

It's become quite a personal symbol of God's love for me. You see, DC met us with surprise expenses and a mostly unfurnished apartment, meaning the futon that was left here had to cut it, because there just wasn't any wiggle room in our budget. And it was a huge blow for me. I can't even completely say why. It's probably partly due to the fact that I fantasize about decorating each apartment we move into and then am faced with harsh realities every time. Or it's because I was so desperate for friends but the ugliness of the futon was enough to make me turn down play-dates at my house. Or it's because after an evening of sitting on it, catching up on Parks and Recreation my tailbone literally ached from the lumpy, awkwardly angled, hideousness that was to be our "couch" for the next 9 months. I just couldn't take it.

I cried about it. More than once. Yes! Cried! About how ugly and uncomfortable my futon was! And the knowledge of just how petty and stupid I was being would cause me to plunge deeper into my tears.

Sigh.

Those were the days.

But I got over it. Sometimes it takes a good cry and a good bath to realign your perspective so that you see you actually have everything you could possibly need. I have four walls and a roof. And a sweet (albeit force to be reckoned with) daughter. And a loving husband. And access to a billion free things in the city to distract my toddler (and myself) with. And food. And a bike. In many ways I'm living the life I suppose.

So I went to bed repenting, but grateful one night. Grateful that I have so abundantly much. And repenting for have forgotten so completely.

The next morning Mike woke me up saying, "Free couch!" (I thought he said, "FREAK OUT!" and I was so confused coming out of my blurry-sleep that I thought there was a terrorist attack or something). But no. No terrorist. Just a free, not-bad-looking, genuine leather couch that was up for grabs to whomever would haul it away. We made a phone call, rented a van, and by lunch had a new couch.

It only took me letting go a little bit and realizing that I am blessed beyond measure. And I do believe that God was involved, as silly as it may sound when taking about free couches.

So there's this wearing pants to church thing going around. And like everything that comes and seems to rock the boat a bit, so too has come the sort of vitriolic comments (see, I would have linked to the Facebook group that started the pants-wearing-thing, but the comments are so off-putting it's not even worth revisiting the page to get the hyperlink) and back-and-forths that make me want to delete my Facebook, ditch this blog, and take my family to the hills. But that's not very courageous, now is it?

But the pants thing keeps turning my thoughts to my couch. I guess I can't stop thinking about God's love for us. That He cares about what we care about; that he cares about what others care about (even when it seems as silly as a couch; that He cares that some of his daughters (and sons) feel belittled and underrepresented in His Church; that He cares about our questions and our doubts and even about us wearing pants to church. Because he loves us.

I read two things recently that also have been swirling around my brain and mixing with all these thoughts about feminism and couches and pants-wearing. The first are the verses in Mosiah 18 about  mourning with those that mourn and comforting those that need comfort; about knitting our hearts together in love; about compassion and service and standing together with one heart and an eye towards God. I love those verses. I think they speak to what we strive toward. I think they stand as a stark contrast to what I read online between passionate members ofttimes. The second is in 2 Nephi 30. We read that chapter last night and the last few verses stuck with me because it reminded me that there is yet so much to be revealed. We just have to trust God and keep on keeping on.

I guess I just want to say that I'm hopeful that answers will come and hearts will be mended. Because I got a couch. And that is way more silly and inconsequential than any of the things so many of those that I love are grappling with every day. That's why I'm hopeful and how I know that God loves us.

Belief and beauty

I visited the MOA again today. It made me excited to visit (read: chase Ada around) museums in DC. I wonder if taking kids to museums often as toddlers makes them appreciate them more as older kids, or reminds them of the hours of boredom their mother subjected them to.

Today I went with my grandpa while my sister took The Lou. At one point he was in tears looking at a vase and thinking about what devotion the work expresses.

I was reminded again that religious experiences can happen outside of religious context. In fact, maybe a typifying aspect of Islamic art is that it is expressive of the sacred without having a religious function. I wondered about the ways I could incorporate the sacred into the more mundane aspects of my life—in real ways, not just turning on old EFY soundtracks as I do my hair.

I loved a line repeated often in the exhibition: God is beautiful and loves beauty. If there is one thing my short experience has taught me, it is that those words are true. I believe in a God who loves the beautiful.

I opened my eyes

I felt almost like I'd never opened my eyes before, or at least, not in Utah. The landscape was seeping gold: from the sky, from the grass, from the ridges on the mountains. The colors were grounded, deeply adhered to the earth. I forget sometimes that pigment comes from the dirt and the plants and the elements. Deep purple, rich blue, warm gold. Greens, browns, pinks that I hadn't seen for what seemed like a long, long time. And then we saw a rainbow.

I had to take off my seat belt on our drive back from Idaho. I was bouncing from window to window with my phone nearly pressed against the glass.

Maybe I'll try some landscapes next. Utah is too beautiful to not honor with brush and knife.

I love the city. I loved our lifestyle in Bologna, walking to the store everyday, going to parks, piazzas, shops, the library. . . stopping by local events, feeling part of a community that extends beyond the back fence. But for a moment I thought I could be a cow girl. I could wake up happy smelling grass and mud and seeing the sky stretch out forever overhead. I could tromp for hours and never see another human being. I could let my hair grow wild. I could be free.

I felt connected to my roots, to my Utah heritage, to my God when I looked out the windows, constantly capturing. I think as much as I am many other things, I will always be a Utah girl.

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Don't forget to enter the giveaway before Wednesday, July 18th at 12:00 AM MDT (so it's basically like Tuesday night, right? Right)!

Reaching

When I heard her sudden screaming cry I thought it must be the middle of the night. I lit up my phone as I got out of bed to check the time: 11:18. She had only been sleeping for a few hours.

I entered her room and saw her small body, still lying down, with arms extended, reaching. I instinctively pulled her heaving body close to mine, her hummingbird-heartbeat pattering against my chest. She writhed in my arms, still crying. She scratched at my shoulder like she wanted to climb inside my skin.

I laid her on the bed, checked her all over. Mikey came in and helped. Both of us agreed: nothing seemed to be wrong.

She wanted to be close to me, next to me wouldn't do. So we laid together on the bed, her head on my chest, her little arms tucked tightly under her now-still body.

I stayed awake while watching her fall asleep. This girl of mine. I felt so lucky in that quiet, still, midnight hour. So lucky to have her and for her to have need of me. That feeling of being needed drives so much of what I do. In my head I reviewed lines from the talk Mikey and I had listened to just hours before. This line stuck out to me as I felt the cool wind blow in the open window: One of the great discoveries of parenthood is that we learn far more about what really matters from our children than we ever did from our parents.

I tried putting Ada gently back in her crib after she was asleep, but before I closed her bedroom door behind me she was thrashing in her crib, crying out, and soon standing, arms extended, reaching again. I came to her. Tried to calm her. Felt bad for trying to escape back to my bed. And this time her cries elevated quickly, as if she was angry with me for leaving her there alone.


Soon Michael came in again, he lifted Ada from me in his strong, fatherly arms and offered comfort. I freeze-framed that image in my head. She wasn't calm, but he seemed to be calm enough for the three of us just then. He blessed her, and told me to bring her to bed with us.

It was just the thing she needed.

Maybe so many new faces and places each day makes our girl need extra reassurance that her parents are still here, that we love her, and that we'll always meet her outstretched arms with ours.

The chase

Ada loves nothing more than being chased. She'll begin slowly up the stairs, turn and give me a come-get-me giggle, then snap forward and begin to sloppily shimmy up the stairs. If we're in the backyard and she finds my chasing lagging, she'll slow a little; wait for me to close the gap and make the game more exciting.

I thought about this this morning as I was on hands and knees pounding down the hallway in hot pursuit: we all like being chased.

*

It makes us feel desired, important, worthy of attention. Everyone wants—needs—to feel those things. That's why we're encouraged to keep dating our spouses. That's why we like holding out to hear just how many grad schools want us and what they'll offer to get us. And maybe that's why we'll slacken in our standards a bit—to feel that fire licking at our heels.

Maybe this is why it's sometimes hard to keep up our resolve to follow what we know in our heart to be true. The Great Master of the Universe is also the Great Respecter of Agency—never pushes or pulls. He merely waits, extends his hand and says "Come follow me."

More than once the thought has run through my mind: "If I'm so important to you, come and get me." But I've learned it just doesn't work that way. Maybe that's our role as humans helping each other. Maybe we're the ones that need to make one another feel that sense of chase, that sense of being worth someone's attention. (The ironic part of it all, is that the One who watches us most closely and is the most invested in us, is the same One who wouldn't step in to corral or corner or chase. Yet the fact remains: we're the most desired, important and worthy to Him.)

*

When I extend my hand to Ada she often flashes her playful grin and spins on her heel, commencing another round of Can't Catch Me. It makes me wonder how often I do the same. How often the thrill of the chase keeps me out of the comfort of following the Prince of Peace.

A few things

I never appreciate the sky like I do when I live in Utah. Something about the way it's always framed perfectly—not cropped in too tight, but not left too open to overwhelm—by the mountains and trees. Something about the West and the feeling of space. Something about fewer big cities and more openness. Something about vantage points and the ability to climb a mountain and feel like you're a little bit part of it all.

I finished the Book of Mormon this morning. I think Mikey has lapped me several times over, but I'm learning that as in all things, reading the Book of Mormon is not a race. And competing with your husband is only fun when it's friendly. Seconds after I read the last word I heard Ada wake up in her room across the hall. I was flooded with love for my family and especially my girl and I felt grateful to have a little person who depends on me. Her dependence (though if you ask her—and if she could answer in comprehensible words as opposed to constant jibber-jabber—she would tell you she's completely independent) ignites me desire to learn and and grow and fortify my resolve to be good and charitable and selfless. Her very existence reminds me each day that God exists and that He loves me greatly.

I'm venturing into a new place in art. I okayed the proof yesterday to reproduce one of my paintings. I had all sorts of moral battles over whether or not I should go here, reproductions often struck me as something that cheapen work. But I've come to terms with it, and have a better understanding of what reproducing a work of art allows you to do: share your art with more people. Which is never a bad thing, right? I feel good about this new journey.

Scattered at the Time, 30" x 40"

The painting above is available full-size as a giclée pigment print on William Turner fine art paper. The edition is limited to 50 and each print will be signed and numbered.

Email me if you are interested.

Make me feel like shining

I've tried to write my feelings a dozen different ways this morning, but nothing I've written seems to capture the weightiness in my heart. It seems ironic when life is so good, so bright, so full.

I've always been one to wonder and question.  It's been one of the many reasons I've been grateful a thousand-times over for a husband who seems to understand things clearly. He helps me uncomplicate my thoughts and line them up into understandable rows.

I like to think I'm a lot like my great-grandmother who is said to have been same. My grandfather said she was very intelligent, always thinking and writing and trying to uncover the mysteries she faced. Sometimes I wish I could talk to her and learn how held so tightly to things she believed and could understand, and gripped less tightly to those things which made her mind wander or her faith slip.

Not that mine is dangerously slipping. But it seems like everywhere I turn I see another person who I love decide that faith is too complicated, too hard, or too unknown. And it sometimes puts a hiccup in my normally steadily-humming heart. I understand how easy it is to let one domino knock down another and another until you're too confused to set them up again. I've had to learn what my reset buttons are—certain things to come back to, certain passages to rely on, certain people to steady me—and find the strength (or often humility) to press them.

And I'm confident other people will figure it out because I believe in people. I guess I'm just feeling the weight of what it means to be a human struggling to spiritually contextualize humanness. I'm feeling the heaviness of watching others grope for truth and realize that I'm right by their side, groping in my own way for pieces of light that make me feel like shining.

The truer it gets

You know it's bad when you start crying during the opening hymn.

Our last Sunday in Bologna was as emotional as it was sweet. We bore our testimonies, they gave us gifts after the meeting ended (necklaces for Ada and Taryn since the women of the ward were constantly giving up theirs as entertainment) and lots of hugs and "thank yous" were exchanged.

When people ask me if it was a hard decision to move to Bologna, I answer: "Nope. We hardly blinked about it." The decision was easy for a few reasons, 1) we knew it would only be about 9 months and 2) I knew we'd have a ward family here to help us feel like we were a part of something.

I have learned again and again that community matters, being a part of something matters, feeling connected matters. Our ward in Bologna gave us all of those things. It was a constant reassurance knowing that if something were to happen here, I'd have several people to lean on.

We've spent today packing and playing. It hasn't hit me yet that we're going back to Utah. But I refuse to believe that we'll never be back.

Firmly rooted, but not so firmly

Today I feel grateful.

I fell asleep last night laughing with my husband who held me close and told me how proud he was of me. The last thing I remember before waking up this morning is the sound of my giggle stifled by burying my head on his chest and the sound of him laughing back at me.

I woke up to the sound of Michael lifting a happy Ada out of her crib. He brought her to me and I spent a few minutes singing with her before we both got up to make breakfast.

*

I'm grateful for our stories. I'm grateful for our histories. I'm grateful for the dialogue between past and present. I'm grateful for my heritage, for the knowledge that I can work hard because I come from hardworking people. History is one of the ways we define ourselves, it's our claim to existence. I find comfort in knowing that the state of existence is really a state of impermanence. I'm grateful to know how false the phrase, "People can't change" is and how true the phrase, "We are people at change" is. 

I'm grateful that even though history can't be stuffed into compartments, or soundbites, (or websites), that we record our stories—our histories—anyway. I'm grateful for my believing heart. I'm grateful for my sometimes-doubting mind and for my spirit that reconciles the difference.

I feel grateful for my religion that is rooted in tradition, history and the past, but not so firmly that it loses the spirit which created tradition, history and the past. I'm grateful for creation; for family; for faith. I'm grateful that God speaks.

We make no final judgements

The understanding that we can't be understood as a person in a fixed space and time, but rather as a string of events; that we live in an ever-changing world should engender in us a spirit of compassion.

No one knows the totality of my stories. How could they? I don't even know them. There are too many moving parts, too many instances that go unnoticed, too many scaffolds I am unaware of. How do I expect myself to judge others fairly when I can't even justly assess myself? I don't. At least I shouldn't.

So we make no final judgements. At least we shouldn't. Not even with ourselves. Remember, we're in progress.

*

I couldn't sleep last night for a number of reasons. This morning I woke up groggy, not prepared to face another day at the grindstone. I heard Mike and Ada jabbering in the kitchen and remembered that I am central to the story unfolding; to their stories. So I willed my tired body out of bed, walked in the other room and held Ada close, breathing in the smell of sleep and breakfast.

Today I took laundry off the line. They were stiff from drying so quickly. I was reminded that I need not dry so quickly, because I too can stiffen. 

*

A beautiful thing about teaching one another in church is that as more people contribute, the clearer and stronger the message becomes. So it is with church membership as a whole. We strengthen eachother. We strengthen our ability to learn. We strengthen eachothers' resolve. We strengthen our understanding. We share our stories. We reserve our judgments with understanding that we are all struggling and striving. We remember that power exists. We remember science. We remember God. And we are reminded that only the gospel is constantly relevant, and the substitute things won’t work.

Stories and liquid modernity

Last Sunday, we listened to one of Neal A Maxwell last talks. The talk felt so grandfatherly to me.

While listening I thought about stories—my stories, others' stories—and why they matter at all. It comes back in a small way to creating community, I think. Stories also matter because they serve as one more reminder that we're a work in progress and so is everyone around us.

*

The hard thing about stories is that they're slippery. Events slide into other events. Picking the starting point when recounting a story always proves difficult. Even stories like: how I met my husband, because truth is there is a point where I met him, but there were months of events that brought me to that point. And years of events before that. You see?

*

Several months ago Mike told me about a term he has just learned: Liquid Modernity. The term seems so fitting. "Nomadism becomes a general trait of the liquid modern man, as he flows through his own life like a tourist, changing places, jobs, spouses, values and sometimes even more. . ." When the world we live in is more-or-less a liquid one, it's no wonder why it seems so scarey and people seem so lost. It's also no wonder why we have the compulsion to record our wanderings—to give a sense of place, stability, or momentary solidarity. That way, in moments of retrospection we can see that we are indeed forging a path, that we're moving forward, even if it seems like we're constantly sliding off the road.

I think this is one of the strongest under-pinning of my faith: I believe in God because He is the only stable thing I know to exist. In a world of eternal change, I hold to the Unchangeable One, because it makes me feel rooted in something solid.

*

I often come back to the question: Why am I doing this? Am I blogging for myself? To clear my brain and help me sort through experiences? To record my life? Am I blogging for my posterity? So they can see the ways I change and grow? Am I blogging for others? It this time I spend daily to help others? To give them tips? To give them insights? To give them a story?

Honestly, I'm not sure. And it changes from post to post. But one thing that constantly hums in my head while I think or talk or write is that our stories matter. I don't know a better, more powerful way to say it: our stories matter.

At once

I watched a short video about space on AshMae's blog while holding Ada on my lap. I was caught up in the at once grandeur and simplicity of it all. The movie made space out as sophisticated and scientific one moment, but then ordinary—just a couple of big balls that spin around each other—the next. I thought about God; about his at once complexity and plainness. And about my life; how it seems at once a frenzy and a calm.

Then I looked at Ada. My perfect little Ada. My Ada who just the day before had spent many hours in frustration because she couldn't get in and out of her highchair by herself; who flailed and screamed when I tried to help her turn two pages of a book that were stuck together; who hit and cried when she couldn't make me understand exactly what she wanted.

Now she was so calm. She was content sitting with me and turning her green spoon over and over in her fingers. She caught me craning my neck to look at her face. She turned.

We took turns finding each others' tongues and clapping our hands loudly, then softly.

I thought about her again later as I laid down together before her nap. I thought about how she is like space. Perplexing, involved, vast, systemic and extraordinary—but small, clear, simple, sincere and pure.

Maybe one of the reasons we have kids is so we can remember how at once miraculous and mundane our lives are.

Peach tea and strawberries

Yesterday I went visiting teaching. I'm in a threesome companionship that visits four other women. We got our assignment a few months ago, but this is the first time I've been able to go with them.

One of my companions picked me up just after 3:30 and we took a bus to the edge of centro. From there we walked a few blocks to meet our other companion. She was waiting in her blue car. I had understood that we were going to drive to our teachee's home. They explained that one of them would sit in the back and I should get up front with Ada. "Lascia il passeggino!" the told me, motioning for me to leave my stroller parked next to the car.

"Siete sicuri?" I asked, not really thinking it would be safe to leave the stroller there while we went to our appointment.

They said we'd only be 15 minutes. I got in the car and went to close the door but it got stuck on the stroller parked too near the car. When they said to leave the door open, confusion too over. I turned to ask them what they wanted me to do again when I saw their Liahona's spread open on their laps and finally realized we were only getting in the car to plan our lesson. No wonder they said to leave the stroller. When I told them I thought we were driving someplace else they got a good laugh and understood my hesitation to just leave the stroller in the parking stall.

We visited one woman. She had peach tea and strawberries waiting for us and quickly made a few adjustments (moving chairs in front of outlets and placing valuables out of reach) when she saw that Ada came too. We shared our message and visited for a while, then I tuned out while I followed Ada around the room and tried to make sure she didn't burn the place down. We were there for nearly 2 hours.

The whole experience was so Italian. The large open window in the second story flat. The high ceiling in the living room. The large painting on the wall. The rhythm of the conversation. The tablecloth. The feeling of having no place to go which makes the moments seem to hang in time. 

But it was also so familiar. Gathering with a few women over the glossy pages of a church magazine. The back and forth of sharing experiences and testifying of truths. The friendship and support. The feeling of sisterhood.

I was grateful after getting home 4 hours later that I am part of this grand organization of women that gives us the chance to be guardians over one another. And it also made me realize how relatively easy my church responsibilities have been in the past (visiting the girl next door, walking to the temple . . .)

I hope this experience will shape my perspective in the long-term; that I'll reflect on it when I feel overwhelmed and too busy to serve and remember that I spent 4 hours on one visiting teaching appointment. And I was tired. But I was grateful for the chance to belong.

My body, my spirit

I've been thinking a lot about bodies lately. Specifically, I've been thinking about the spirituality of our bodies, not our spirits, but the way that our bodies are tied to our spirituality.

In my opinion, many of us view the body and the intangible parts of us (mind, spirit, emotions) as far too separate. I think if we do this, we risk putting our spirits, minds, and emotions at risk, because I'm of the school that our physical actions are unquestionably connected with our spirits.

Mormons believe that God has a body, like our bodies, only perfect in form and function. We also believe that the big goal in life is to learn to become like God. So, if we are here trying to become like God, then wouldn't a big part of that be learning how to use our bodies perfectly? I think so. I believe there's far more to Godliness than patience, charity, and mercy. We need to learn our bodies perfectly; to feed them, use them, stretch them to their limits, and care for them too. Because our bodies not only house our spirits, they are holy things themselves.

I think it's a no-brainer that what we do with our bodies profoundly influences our emotions. But there seems to be a disconnect for many people who hold to a belief that bodies are inconsequential. They're just a piece of biology. They think that what they do with their bodies won't affect their intangibles.

The man in the podcast I recently posted about seemed to be surprised that after engaging in open-type relationships, he no longer wanted to be with his long-time girlfriend. After a three month foray in polyamory, they both decided that they "just weren't right" for each other anymore. My take on the story is that they engaged their bodies in activities that didn't fortify the love and connection they had with each other. It wasn't about having to discover if they were right for each other. They determined that with how they used their bodies.

How we use our bodies determines the way we feel emotionally. If you choose one person with your heart, but another person with your body, doesn't it makes sense that the body eventually wins over?

When I was single and dating in college, I noticed that the worst breakups came not when I split with the guy I "loved" most, but when the physical affection outpaced the real relationship. It was a lesson to me in how powerfully connected the physical and emotional/spiritual are.  Physicality shouldn't supersede the substantive. When that happens, emotions get manipulated and people get confused.

I'm not trying to write a novel, or get into the weeds of sexual morality, I guess what I'm saying is I have come to understand more deeply that our bodies are holy; that they are part of the struggle in becoming like God. We're not here to master some sort of "mind over body". We're here to recognize that God's creation of our bodies wasn't merely so we would have a vessel in which to go through life and work out our spiritual struggles. Coming to earth to "get a body" is only part of the story.

We've got our bodies, now we need to learn to use them.

Stake Conference and Venice

We were up early to catch the train to Stake Conference. I spent time Saturday preparing for the trip north (packing breakfast, preparing lunch, packing diapers, toys, snacks . . . I'm going to be such a pro at traveling by the time we leave Italy) and it was so worth it. After an hour and a half on the train and a short taxi ride to the hotel where conference was held, I was immediately impressed by how familiar the feeling of community at Stake Conference was.

On the way to Conference. Thanks Brianna for the photo.

 The meeting was centered of Family and what we can do at home to strengthen our families. It made me want to recommit our family to holding Family Home Evening each week, even if Ada only participates for a small bit of it (she folds her arms during prayers . . . most of the time). The talks were all in Italian except for one which was given by a woman from the military ward in our stake. They provided audio translations to English speakers. Mike and I shared one, but we tried not to use it (with Ada running a muck it was hard to listen much at all). I feel like we're beginning to get the hang of this language.

The meeting made me so glad that we are part of a ward in Bologna. It made me glad that we worship together in Italian and that our family is striving to be involved as much as we can.

After many families headed to a nearby park to eat lunches and let the kids play. Ada was exhausted and crabby, but finally calmed down after spending some time playing with Dad.

From the park we walked back to the hotel and bought bus tickets to head into downtown Venice. We went with a few women from the ward and felt lucky to have some tour guides. Mostly, I felt like the day whet my palette for heading back in April with my parents!

Ada and I waited outside the train station while the rest were inside buying our return tickets.

Family picture. Doesn't Ada look thrilled to be in Venice?

In Venice, a piazza is called a campo. Photo by Julie. It was her birthday.

Off one side of Ponte di Rialto

Add off the other side.

A glimpse at the Grand Canal. We didn't take a vaporetto down it. . . this time . . .

Ada got her own seat for about 10 minutes. Then the train got real full. Despite her little concerned face, she was a super-trooper the whole day. We love our little baldy.

On snow and preparedness

Snow makes the city feel quiet. There aren't dozens of motocini buzzing past every other minute. The buses drive slower. Footsteps are muffled in the slush. People seem to whisper. The snow seems to cap the noise underneath it's heavy blanket.

I went to the grocery store yesterday. I could number the contents of our fridge on one hand. 3 of those things were condiments. There was a small group of people gathered outside, waiting for the doors to open at 9 am. I was one of the first people in the door.

There were maybe a two dozen liters of milk. One carton of ricotta cheese. Two packages of salami. A handful of produce offerings. A single 1 kilo bag of flour. The store was practically empty when it opened.

As I walked home I said a silent prayer of gratitude for the things I was able to buy, and then pondered how often I take it for granted that food is magically stocked at a store just down the street from my apartment. I also resolved to keep a small bit of food storage on our shelves. And to never leave town again without making a dinner and putting it in the freezer before I leave.

I think people in my stage of life (including me) think that food storage is a thing for when you're settled in a home you know you'll be in for more than 8 months, you have a pantry, you have more wiggle room in your grocery budget . . . but I learned over this past weekend that everyone needs to be prepared.

Had it not been from our next door neighbor, Ada wouldn't have had milk for her bottle (I never thought I'd regret weaning her by 12 months but there I was milkless, everything closed down, and nothing on the shelves).

I bought an extra can of corn today. Preparedness, I'm going to own you.

So che l’espiazione funziona

I spoke in church on Sunday. The urge to prepare a talk half as long and get a translator was there the whole time I was writing out exactly what to say. But I wanted to try in Italian. Plus, my teacher offered to translate, so I really didn't have an excuse.

Here's the thing about giving a talk in a language that you only sort-of speak: it takes you a long time to get through it. I thought I'd be on the lean side of 8 minutes. I'm pretty sure it went over 12.

I learned a few things as I gave it though.

First, is that people are grateful when you put forth an honest effort. I approached in gratitude by several people who sincerely appreciated my speaking their language (or at least trying). Talks have been given with translators even since I've been in the ward, and I never thought much of it. But I think the Italian ward members are grateful that I am trying to be as much a part of their community as I can be.

Next I learned that I faked some people out. After the meeting people came up and starting talking to me in fast, no-holds-barred Italian. It was way over my head. I had to sheepishly tell them that while I am a fairly apt reader of Italian, my actual speaking has a long (oh so painfully long!) way to go.

Third, I had a personal experience with how the Spirit transcends language barriers. Though I knew what I was saying as I bore my testimony, the words didn't make the familiar feeling my mouth that comes when I speak of Christ in English. However, the feeling in my heart was the same.

Finally, I learned how important it is to bear our testimonies. It had been way too long since I had gotten up and shared what I believe. I didn't say anything different from the testimonies we heard just a few weeks ago. Strains of a love for our Savior, the belief in eternal families, belief that we can be made like God were both in my testimony and the testimonies I hear every week, but there is power in hearing yourself testify that something is true.

And I needed to hear myself last week. Which I guess makes one more thing that I learned: Bishops give us assignments that seem scarey and sometimes laughable, but I am learning again and again that their assignments to us are wise, inspired, and stretching opportunities. And I learned again that it's so important to stretch.

Thinkng about Mary

Tonight Mike and I watched all of these. One after the other. They don't keep you on the edge of your seat, but it's all so thought provoking and beautiful to watch.

I've been thinking so much about Mary after watching the video based on Luke 1:39-55. I know I've read (over) those scriptures before, but I never really listened to what Mary prophesied. I never thought about her in such a real way. I never realized that she must have known prophesies concerning Jesus Christ. She was a devout, God-fearing woman who worshiped her Son before even knowing she was to be his mother.

While I was pregnant I was filled with many thoughts like, "What will my daughter do with her life? How will she affect those around her? What things with she teach me? What will she fill her time with?" There's no real end to these wonderings.

But Mary knew that her son was going to be crucified for the sins of the world. She knew that he was going to bring salvation to mankind. She understood his mission and his divinity. It seems almost more weighty to know than to be left in the dark about your child.

Advent Calender Day 11: Watched the Bible Videos on LDS.org

Christmas Song: Still, Still, Still by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir

Notwithstanding the mildness of the voice

I was asked to share a scripture in Società di Soccorso last Sunday. Unfortunately the buses weren't running normally, so our 15 minute commute took 45 because we walked to 5 different bus stops before finding one that was in service.

We were very late to church. I was bummed. I missed the first half of Relief Society and was unable to get up in front of the sisters and say, "Claudia mi ha chiesto di condividera una scrittura con voi. Ho scelto Helman capitolo cinque versetto trenta e parte di trentuno. Allora . . ." Oh well. Next time.

The verses describe the voice of God not as a "voice of thunder, neither was it a voice of great tumultuous noise, but it was a still voice of perfect mildness, as if it had been a whisper . . . "

So much of not only my relationship with Heavenly Father, but also my relationships with other people, is encompassed in these verses. The exchanges I have daily are small. The things that I learn are incremental. The inspiration I feel is mild. The Spirit whispers. My own voice is weak.

But the next verse says, "notwithstanding the mildness of the voice, behold the earth shook exceedingly."

I am too quick to forget that the small, the daily, the perfectly mild things in our lives are still pushing us forward, helping to forge an important work.

This idea—that the mighty things appear weak—is so appropriate at Christmas time. I was telling Mike a few days ago that after having Ada, holding just a minutes-old baby, made me realize at once how small and fragile she is, and how infinite and limitless she is. Mostly, however, I was just in awe over how tiny, how perfect, and how completely dependent she was. I felt a great weight of being needed like I hadn't felt before.

How incredible it must have been for Mary to hold her just minutes-old baby, to realize how much he needed her, but to know also how much she needed him. She couldn't be saved without this small and fragile newborn. How incredible it is to think that those early seekers of the Christ-child—Simeon, Anna, the Shepherds, the Wise men—knew by looking at a baby that He was the Savior of the World.

The statue of Mary and Jesus in Piazza San Domenico. Happy Immacolata Concezione della Beata Vergine Maria day.

Advent Calender Day 8: Stroll through Fierra di Natale a Via Altabella (with hot chocolate!)

Christmas Song: Lo How A Rose E'er Blooming by Sufjan Stevens

Bestimme deinen einstellung

When Coach Eric Taylor told his wife (excuse his language), "If I do this thing half-a** it doesn't help anyone," I knew exactly where he was coming from. He was working harder than he ever had in his life and doing it with one thing in mind: his family. I also knew how his wife must be feeling: overwhelmed, discouraged, perhaps a bit isolated and really missing her husband.

Yes I have a grip on reality; I know these are fictitious characters.

But Mike and I had a similar conversation a few days ago. I was struck again by how good he is at seeing the bigger picture. And discouraged for getting stuck in the weeds far too often.

I felt empty, but knew I had to give more. But to give more, I had to be filled.

Mike opened the scriptures and we read passage after passage of comforting, empowering words. While the words sounded beautiful and inspiring, I felt like I had already tried to do what they were saying and didn't reap the power they promised. I felt cut off for some reason. Numb. I explained this to Mike, welcomed some tears in the process and was finally calmed by a blessing.

While Michael spoke, I knew my Father in Heaven was aware of my efforts. I knew He was proud of me. I knew He knew that I could do more than I was allowing myself to do. I knew He wanted me to take the time each day to fill myself. I knew He was there to help me.

I started this week renewed. I have felt fueled by my scripture study. I have felt sustained during the daily grind.

*     *     *

In my high school German class, there was a sign on the door that read, "Bestimme Deinen Einstellung!" I still think about that advice a lot (still!). So much of our happiness—and unhappiness—is a choice. If it's possible for me to be unhappy living in Italy, studying the language of love, and cooking fresh pasta for my beautiful family, it's possible for anyone to find reason to be down.

But it's also possible for all of us to allow ourselves to be happy, to allow ourselves to be filled, to allow (force?) ourselves to seek out the sunshine despite the gloomy forecast.