Hello Friends,
Technically, the little farm of our friend is not within Spanish Fork’s city limits. But we weren’t thinking of that on Friday afternoon as we got out of the car and walked down the steep hill to the lower garage.
I was the first one down and warmly greeted Nancy and Gerald who were using the tractor to move a 1 ton bale of grass hay off the massive haystack they had, just to the north of the garage. I chuckled as I thought how that haystack was wider, deeper, and taller than the first 3 houses Margie and I lived it. Well, with 15 horses and 4 cows, I guess she needed all that hay for the winter.
Looking back over my shoulder, I saw a chain of children making their way down the old railroad ties serving as steps down the hill. One had a rake. One had a pick ax. One had a shovel. The others were trailing along and laughing or talking. The image of Snow White’s seven dwarfs popped into my mind and deepened the joy I was feeling in that moment. And of course, the very vision of beauty and rapture herself came at the end of this long line of children.
“So, where do you want it?” I asked.
“Right across the road leading down to the barns… and I need it 18 inches deep. Sorry.” Nancy said.
“No problem! We’ll have it done in a jiffy.”
Well, as a matter of fact, it was a problem and certainly wasn’t done in a jiffy. But all the better for my purposes. Of course, we were not there to have a jolly visit. We were there to work. Both Nancy and Gerald are in their 70’s (maybe 80’s for all I know) and with no farm-hands, they manage all their projects by themselves… and some things they simply cannot do… like digging 18 inch ditches.
At first glance the road seemed to be a dirt road. But, actually, it was 2 inches of dirt covering 10 inches of old asphalt. And that is where the trouble started. As my pick ax slammed into the blacktop, my muscles groaned and my face split into a grin – this was going to be a lot of work for my boys. Over the next 2 hours, I swung the pick ax and they manned the shovels, clearing large chunks of asphalt, rocks, dirt, and gravel.
On their faces I could see the strain of physical labor and in their hearts I could see the transforming power of serving others without compensation or promised rewards.
Stopping for a break and a drink of water I saw Margie, Esther and Hyrum running down the hill. They had been up at the house raking leaves out of the yards. With a burst of excitement, Hyrum announced that they had already raked and scooped up more than 20 large black bags of leaves.
The signs of service were unmistakable on their faces as well.
Three weeks earlier before, we went down to Nancy’s farm to dig the trench and rake up leaves, we had a Family Council. The topic was giving of ourselves in service. The Council had decided that once a week – usually every Thursday – we would find a project to do for someone, and secretly if we could manage it.
Walking back up the hill that afternoon, I saw each of the children helping their buddy into the car. They talked pleasantly with each other, some holding hands, others with their arms around each other. No fighting, no bickering, no contention. There it was again… the home feeling.
This post has virtually nothing to do with parenting or families… or maybe, it has everything to do with it!
You see, this blog is actually just one element in a grand scheme that I have in my mind to serve and help parents and families.
Over the past years I have been designing, scheming, dreaming, thinking, and planning a tool that will empower parents and bless families in a way that has never been seen before. It uses a unique blend of old school personal relationships and all the best technology tools available today.
A few days ago I sent an introduction letter to a handful of my most trusted and close friends and family members. The letter outlined this new powerful tool for parents and families and invited them to participate. The response has been very, very exciting! What is more resources to expand, develop, and launch this project have been coming out of the woodwork.
For example Hank and Daryl Hoole have agreed to join me for a family chat and give their wisdom and insights into family matters. As renowned family and parenting authors and speakers, I’m honored to have their support.
And then there are people like Nettie Hartsock – an “A” level PR and online buzz creator extrordinare – have given me great feedback and agreed to help me push this project out to as many parents as humanly possible. (With Nettie, it will actually be to as many parents as in-humanly possible… she’s a miracle worker!) She does it with little tips like, “Did you register with Technorati yet?” (Technorati Profile) And of course I hadn’t!
Then there are the services of my two brothers – two of the most ingenius and exceptional computer programmers and system administrators that can be found anywhere. They’ll be helping with all the back-end magic that will make the project possible.
So, I could go on and on, but suffice it to say, the excitement is growing. The project is growing… the dream is waking out of its slumber and just beginning to shine its light on the world.
Looking in the rear-view mirror, I could see the grin splitting his face underneath eyes that were firm, determined, and dancing with excitement all at the same time.
Our big brown van – a 15 passenger Ford Clubwagon – is hardly what you would call “inconspicuous”, but that only added to the fun challenge that we had given ourselves. My son Joshua had the “package” – a orange, jack-o-lantern shaped goodie bag filled with licorice and bags of popcorn – in his hand and was standing by the double-wide side door, with one hand on the handle, ready to leap out at a moment’s notice.
Driving casually, as if nothing was happening, we passed right by the house. Giggles erupted from the back seats as I said, “We’ll just drive right by, like nothing is happening… they’ll never even notice us!” “Never notice us! Right dad!” I could hear Esther saying. That made everyone laugh all the more.
Once past the house, I stopped and looked back… only to see the lady of the house looking out the big, massive windows on the south side of the house. Hehe.. Sure, they’d never see us or suspect us. After all, we were the only ones in the neighborhood that had a big brown 15 passenger van! Humm, maybe I should have pulled forward out of eye sight of those windows!
And Margie told me as much, “Pull forward, honey – at least TRY to be secretive about this!” More laughter – except from Joshua. He’d been given a mission and was determined to fulfill it.
Of course it would be Joshua – my 9-year-old. Everyone knew it. He is by far the fasted runner of our children. Plus, he is clever about things and would know just how and where to put the secret package so as to get away the fastest.
I pulled forward out of line of sight. Turning around, I gave Joshua the “signal.” In a flash he was out of the car, running low along the fence line, creeping along side our victim’s car, pausing to assess the situation. “Hum – front door or back door? Dog at the front door – he’s sure to bark and blow my cover. Back door is only a few feet from their car – the car will be good cover for me on the get-away.”
With cat-like stealth he was gone, passing like a shadow from the car to the backdoor, always keeping a tight grip on the large treat bag – the “package” – that he held in his hands. Victory was in sight.. .here came the drop… now the doorbell… reaching, reaching… and then… CRISIS! RED ALERT! RETREAT!
Just at that moment, the lady of the house had decided to come to the back hallway to hang up a sweater. With a shock of thrill, Joshua realized that if he rang that bell, she would be sure to look straight at him. The better part of reason took over and his hand withdrew – they’d find it when they came out to the car… no bell needed.
The small shadow crossed down the stairs again and with the speed of lighting he shot across the driveway, back behind the car and then retraced his steps down the fence line where the get-away car waited with door open, ready to flee into the night!
As we sped away and rounded the corner, the entire interior of the car erupted with screams of glee and cries of laughter! The feeling of pure thrill and excitement filled each heart as we thought of the little deed of secret service we had just pulled off. To think of the happiness that goodie bag would bring the children in that home and the fun they would have guessing, “Who dunit??!!” was more than we could bear!
In the 90 seconds it took to get home and out of the car, I realizee something… there it was again – that feeling. The feeling of family. The feeling of unrestrained joy. The feeling of happiness and excitement. The feeling of enthusiasm. The feeling of unity and love with everyone in the family.
It was the “Home Feeling.”
Oh! How I LOVE that feeling. It just sends tingles up and down my spine. It melts away all the stress and struggle and turmoil of life. It brings out the sunshine and dispels clouds of doom. It makes life worth-while. It makes everything OK.
Yep… we had the “Home Feeling” something strong that night… the night of the great pumpkin caper.
The gentle Puget Sound sun was streaming through a crystal clear sky that Saturday afternoon in early May of 1998. The sound of razor sharp metal edges slicing against each other as they effortlessly cut is still ringing in my ears.
I was sitting on the back patio of our Kirkland, WA condo. Before me was a rich, lush green belt that was more like an ancient rain forest ravine. The ravine dropped down immediately off our patio and went down some 120 feet to the bottom where a small spring fed the massive trees, the bed of thick ferns, and heavy undergrowth (not that any help was needed). The regular – almost constant – Northwest rainfall gave all the moisture any plant would ever need.
The scene was peaceful enough to calm down a ranting warrior heading into battle, but it had little effect on my arrogant and immature 25-year-old mind. The tension in the air was thick enough to be consumed with a spoon… I felt it and, worst of all, Margie felt it.
For the past 3 years of our marriage, I had absolutely refused to let her cut my hair. I preferred, in stead, to pay a “professional” $15 to $25 to provide me with a slick and stylish ‘do. Plus, I wanted my wife to be above “that” kind of demeaning work. After all, she was the queen of my universe… right? (A thing I should have remembered in actions and not simply in haircuts.)
But, the Lord has a way of humbling you. Since our move to Washington, we had hit on hard (dare I say extremely hard) financial times. The stress and strain of our circumstances was weighing heavily on both of us… and on our marriage. The simple fact is, we just did not have $20 to spring for a haircut. But we did have scissors and clippers – a Christmas gift from one of Margie’s sisters. Plus, over the years, I had had enough rotten haircuts to realize that even “professionals” can botch a snip job.
So it was, that I found myself in one of our wooden chairs on the back patio, wrapped in a black plastic cape, cringing at every “snip, snip” of the scissors.
But as nerve wracking as it was for me, it was 100 times worse for my dear and patient wife. She had been the receiver of more than one ugly blunt remark from my lips and knew the heat of my bitter, snide comments. In those days, I’m ashamed to say, that they came frequently and were heated with the flames of financial pressure and my own miserably low self-image.
Rising from the 30-minute torture chamber, I went into the bathroom to review my first home-delivered salon experience. Looking back, I have no doubts that no one in the world would have noticed the few crooked lines or uneven cuts… but I did. And worse of all, I made sure to tell Margie all about it, painfully pointing out each and every one with snide precision.
This painful encounter continued month after month, and, yes, even year after year.
Someone should have whipped me that first day – but they didn’t. So it continued… but not forever.
After a few years of this agony, I began to see myself as the selfish, ugly tyrant that I really was. For heaven’s sake, my poor sweetheart was doing the very best she could. Not only that, but she was saving us hundreds of dollars a month by giving me and our boys haircuts, relieving a bit of the financial burden for our family. And, she was putting herself humbly and patiently in the line of fire each time I sat in that chair. On top of all that, she was getting good at haircuts. Everyone could see it… except me.
One day while standing in front of the mirror, that still, small voice that has done more to impact the affairs of men and change history, snuck inside my heart and said, “So, how much comfort has that hair of yours been to you through all the years of struggle? And, while we’re on the subject, is the praise of a good hair cut worth the tears of your eternal companion and best friend?”
It was a sharp blow. It ran deep and pierced my heart
Of course my wife and her feelings were WAY more important than my hair and how I looked. Of course, the comments and opinions of others were infinitely less important than the joy of my wife.
So, I decided to change – even if, I said smugly to myself, her haircuts didn’t ever get better.
From that day on, every haircut I have received from my dear wife has been “The best haircut I have ever gotten.” “Man, you really out-did yourself this time, sweetheart. That looks awesome!” “Wowww! Look how even and perfect that line is! Nice job!” “I think I’m the luckiest man in the world to have a wife like you. Thank you so much for taking the time to cut my hair!”
The truth is, I stopped looking at my hair – though, lately even barbers and beauticians have remarked at how well my hair is cut. Instead, I started looking at my wife’s heart and accepting the tremendous gift of love, patience, respect, support, and courage that she was giving to me.
Actually, she had been giving it to me all along – it was just that I was only now starting to notice it.
But more than a better cut, the change in my words has given us something much better. It has given us an awesome marriage. You see, while I was noticing the bad haircut, I was noticing a lot of other things too. And you can be sure, I was quick to bring up those things as well.
It was a wedge between us.
My critical eye and lightning tongue was creating a dam that stopped up our love, our affection, our respect, and our friendship. Once I let go of my petty selfishness, the dam burst open, the floodgates flung wide, spilling joy, peace, harmony and happiness into our lives like we never could have imagined.
Once upon a time, I had crooked lines in my hair and a choppy marriage… today, I’ve got a smooth hairline and sweet marriage. But you know what? Seeing how good it can be, I’d take crooked hair and a sweet marriage any day.
It wish… with all my heart, I wish I would have been there.
Aren’t there times like that in our life? Magical family moments that you would give anything to go back and be a part of. Times when the flood gates of happiness and joy seem to burst open and run all over your heart.
And you know… usually, those times are just simple things. Not the so-called great and glorious events of life or even the major milestones. Nope. More often than not, they are just the simple quiet moments of life that spark something eternal in your heart and ignite a flame of pure happiness, joy, and peace.
This time, it was the sound of tiny 5 year old feet pitter-pattering softly on the hall carpet. Those little feet made their way across the living room floor and up on to the couch beside my dear and wonderful wife.
It was early – not even 6:00 am yet. The rest of the house was quiet and sleepy. Everyone that is except for Sariah, Margie and me (I was already up in my office reading scriptures). Sariah, being only 3 weeks old, already had Margie out of bed, crying for a morning snack. It was Isaac that came and snuggled on the couch next to these two wonderful girls.
He began quietly caressing Sariah’s head and playing with her miniature feet and hands. “Mom, look at these feet. They’re so cute! And Mom, I’m going to tell you this… look at her pretty little fingers. Aren’t they soooo cute Mom? And mom, I’m going to tell you this… I think we should have more babies. Yeah, lots more because they are so sweet and cute. Mom, you know what? We could fill this whole house with more and more babies! And you know what Mom? I love little Sariah… she is soooo cute.”
Margie later told me that he was definitely in earnest as he spoke. His face was serious, sincere and full of infinite love for his little sister.
Oh! How I wish I would have been there to see those shining eyes and to hear his happy voice, expressing a deep longing in his heart.
In a way, his 5-year-old logic was true to the mark. You see, he figured that if this one darling little girl brought so much joy and happiness into our home, then surely, a whole home full of the little angels would bring exponentially more happiness and joy. Of course, his timing is off, but his idea is right.
One day, though it may be long, long into the future, every parent will likely have a whole house full of little babies – at least of their children.
It made me think of my wife’s grandmother. She is now almost 97 years old. In her younger days, she gave birth to 12 children. In turn, through time, those children have multiplied, bringing grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great, great grandchildren. In all her posterity is well over 500 today, and more than that if you count in-law spouses.
And it just keeps growing. Imagine, in less than 100 years she has over 500 children filling her house and bringing her joy.
I have often though, “How much good has that woman brought into the world?” She established traditions and attitudes and perspectives that have immediately influenced hundreds of people and touched the lives of thousands and thousands. And, given another 100 years, how much more power and influence will this one woman have had? It is almost incomprehensible to consider.
Now, regardless if you are a mother of 12 or of 1, your power for good is the same. Over time, your family will grow and multiply, expanding over time.
The traditions, thoughts, ideas, beliefs, and perspectives that you hold today will multiply right along with your family. It will grow and spread and expand and touch thousands and thousands of lives – for good or bad.
So, what are you doing today with your life? With your parenting?
One thing is sure and certain… one day, you will have a house full of children – thousands of them. What kind of future are you giving them by how you are living today?
The room was so richly and exquisitely decorated that you almost had to make a conscious effort to not focus on it.
Rich tapestries, ornately carved oak mantle piece, fine leather and upholstered furniture, gorgeous armoire, rich family photos, fine paintings, costly vases and a myriad of other things reached out and grabbed for my attention.
But, their attempts were in vain. Despite my love of fine things, this night the artifacts and decorations were powerless to rob my energies or divert my gaze. No, tonight there was a different kind of magic in the room that was far more appealing, far more enticing, far more compelling.
My eyes were riveted to a nine-year-old boy standing shyly, but straight and tall and confidently in front of the mantle piece. Compared to the this stripling boy, the finery of the mantle and walls around were like dross – plain and wholly unremarkable.
The boy, of course, was my son Joshua. “I’d like to welcome all of you to family home evening,” he began. It was family night – just like every Monday night is set aside as a family night. We gather together, almost always with just our family, but, on rare occasions, with friends, as we did tonight.
The program, as he announced it, included an opening song, a prayer, a lesson to be given by yours truly, and then an activity and root beer floats to wash it all down.
For my lesson that night, I decided to discuss the ideas of war – not the physical wars that we are and have been engaged in with various nations around the globe – but a much more dangerous and impacting war that each of us wages each day. It is a war that demand strong and powerful soldiers. It is a war of wills and choices... choices that will lead to happiness, prosperity, and joy on the one hand, and choices that lead to misery, slavery, and frustrations on the other.
It was the solider aspect of the battle that I focused on during this lesson. In front of me there were 13 children ranging from 12-years-old down to 2 weeks old. My wife and our friend (an early widow that lost her husband in a tragic airplane accident), both women of immense valor, unmovable values, impenetrable armor, and tireless strength in fighting this battle.
And good thing, it is their strength – the strength of a mother – that has always and will always be the very deciding factor in this merciless battle. It is their hand that rocks the cradle. It is their hand that feeds the nations. It is their hand that nurtures the soul. It is their hand that fashions the attitudes and opinions of man. It is their hand that passes on traditions and ideals. And so, it is their hand that, in the end, almost exclusively defines the courses and paths of nations.
Nothing truer was ever said than this, “If the mother fails in the home, the world fails in all its noble pursuits.”
Than night, as we discussed the battle before us, I could not help but think of the enormous power for good that sat in that room. Among those 13 children five of them are women – or at least one day would be. These sweet daughters of God would grow up, marry, and try their own hand at defining nations and writing history. And those boys in the room, the men-to-be, would become fathers, providers and protectors.
In short, it is today that we, as parents, must fashion the armor and weave the cloth of their lives. Those of us with young children in our homes are not just parents of today, we are the makers of tomorrow. And, perhaps more importantly, we do not just fashion the society tomorrow with the homes we build today, but we enable the present and future joys of our little ones.
Looking around, I suspect that there never has been a time in history that more fully hinged on the competence and passion and determination of young parents. We stand on the brink of catastrophic change and wrestle with the most complex questions of all the ages. So, like it or not, the burden of raising these children to greatness and winning the victory lays squarely on our shoulders.
It is for each of us to question, “Am I up to the task?” Of one thing I am more sure of than anything else in my life: We have the capacity. But of another thing I am still wondering: Do we have the commitment?
Actually, that is what this habitual family night is all about. It is as much for Margie and I, as it is for our children. By coming together each week and setting aside the hustle and bustle of the world around us, we can refocus on our role as parents. It energizes us and renews our commitment as we look into our children’s eyes and feel of their immeasurable trust and love. The experience is not always roses and buttercups, but it always serves as a strong reminder that we hold present day happiness and future progress in our hands. The strength we receive is wonderful and vitally needed.
So, if you are not currently doing it, why not give it a try? Once a week for a couple of hours, just set everything aside and spend nice quality time with your family.
I’m sure you’ll find, as we have, that family night makes family might.
Of course, not everyone sees it the way I do.
I simply call it “free range” – I’ve read that it helps improve egg quality, omega content, and increase the vitamins and minerals.
But the neighbors, especially the ones in the apartments next to us, don’t necessarily look on those long-ranging chickens with the same affection and appreciation as our family does. In fact, over the past year we have had countless comments – and even a phone call or two, “Hey, did you know your chickens are wandering around the apartment complex?”
No kidding… they’re “FREE RANGE!”
Our immediate neighbor has donated more than one of his garden plants and decorative flowers to the health and well-being of our growing flock. And, in case you are wondering if flowers change the taste of the eggs… they don’t. He got fed up with it and finally put a fence with smaller links around his back yard. Lucky for the chickens, he only put a 3 foot high fence and the chickens, who roost at about 14 feet up in the barn rafters had no problem hopping over the fence and continuing their feast.
Sunday, while visiting with some of the children from the apartments, I was even informed that several of those wild roaming hens were trying to check the mail – or at least had gotten up on top of the apartment’s mail box and were pecking, cackling, and producing biological waste products. Humm, the mailbox is about a block away from our property… that's definitely “free ranging.”
But that is all about to change…
Now, it is not like I’m trying to keep chickens in a 20’x20’ backyard. I mean, we have almost 2 acres of property. But, it’s a funny thing… those blasted “free range” chickens seem to be magnetized to everyone else’s property and seemed compelled to go to great lengths to get into their properties. Well, at last, with winter coming on, I determined that enough is enough.
“At the crack of dawn tomorrow morning, we are going to rebuild the chicken coop and create a large-scale run that the chickens will never be able to get out of,” I declared to the children on Friday night.
So, Saturday, the sun peeked over the eastern mountains to find five of my children by my side in the barnyard huddled up and making plans for the incarceration of our hen colony.
“Joshua and Esther, dig through the scrap wood pile and find me three boards 7 feet long each – if they are longer, we’ll cut them down.”
“Jared, you and Tony (that’s the neighbor boy from one of the apartments who loves helping us work on the farm), you guys go round me up some more tee-posts. I think there are a couple by the cherry tree and then a few more back by the first gate.”
“Hyrum, get me the wire cutters, the nails, and the hammer.”
“Isaac, will you take this bowl into mom and then bring me out some water? We’ll need that too, before long… and HURRY! everyone – there is a good storm coming and I’d rather not do this project in the rain.”
So, off they went while I began measuring fencing and designing the run. Within a few hours we were digging holes for fence posts, making gates, pounding tee-posts, hanging chicken wire off the barn roof and generally working up a good sweat working on the project.
As I drilled the corners of the new gate together I looked up to see my children. Some were helping with the gate, others cutting baling wire, and other scooping manure into the wheelbarrow. The thrill of the moment was rich and satisfying. Into my mind came the scriptureal edict given to Adam and Eve when they were cast out of the Garden of Eden:
“In the sweat of they face shalt thou eat bread…”
I also thought of the scripture that says,
“Thou shalt not be idle; for he that is idle shall not eat the bread nor wear the garments of the laborer.”
And finally, the rather poignant wisdom from Proverbs that mixes no words:
“Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise:”
In all of these work is the central theme. I couldn’t help wonder to myself if I was really teaching them the values of hard work ethic – or, as Solomon puts it – the ways of the ant.
Maybe I was. Maybe, that morning as we were running around with the chickens, we were all learning a little more about getting the job done, personal sacrifice, self sufficiency and the thrill of straining your muscles and bending your arm for a worthy cause.
Maybe, in years to come, the day with the chickens would be long forgotten, but the principles embedded in my children would carry them through the tough times that lay ahead. No doubt, one day they would be tasked with raising children, providing for a family, doing an honest day’s work for an employer, serving others when it was uncomfortable, or giving of their time when they really didn’t want to.
Maybe, just maybe, in those times when life called on them to give their all, the lessons they learned today will empower them to rise up and claim the greatness they were born to inherit.
So, while not everyone – very few in fact – can have 2 acres, 50 chickens, and 40 apartment residents to serve as a peanut gallery, I can’t help but believe that all parents everywhere can find a way to have their own “day with the chickens” and teach their children how to work.
The small cuckoo clock in the front living room rings every hour and half hour.
Actually, its not a cuckoo clock at all – it is an old Dutch sanse clock that I got from a flea market just outside of Nijmegen, Netherlands. It has the mystical god Atlas mounted atop a chime – and of course, Atlas is holding up the world.
The chime is small, but clear and beautiful. The truth is we have gotten so used to it, that I’m not sure anyone in the house really notices it anymore. But, I do… at least I try to around 7pm.
Seven chimes are important around our house. They tell us that the afternoon is spent, the working hours are past and it is time to “put the house to bed.”
The chimes are almost always heard while we are sitting at the dinner table, finishing up our evening meal together. “Hurry guys! We’ve got to get this house put to bed!” Everyone knows that is the call to arms.
Esther snaps to attention and grabs the broom and begins sweeping the floor.
Joshua slowly but surely takes command of the sink and dishwasher.
Jared – when he finally stops playing around and making everyone laugh – starts heading out to do the evening chores with Hyrum.
Hyrum grabs a half gallon pitcher and goes with Jared to do chores… that would be milking the goat for Hyrum and feeding the animals for Jared.
Isaac and Brigham pick up the floor and clear the table.
Mary gets a bottle and heads down to bed.
Sariah and Margie quietly sit in the rocking chair singing lullabies and nursing.
When it is all said and done, the hustle, bustle and clutter of the day are swept aside. The dishes are done, the floor clean, and the table cleared. The cushions on the couches (always in a state of disarray from pillow fights, tickle time, naps, and fort making) are fluffed and put back in their proper place. The bathroom is straightened up and the library floor is cleared of the countless books that have been pulled off shelves by little hands and eager minds.
In short, our little home is ready for another day of chaos, fun, learning, eating, playing, and resting.
Pajamas are on and everyone goes down the staisr to start the bedtime ritual. With the upstairs empty, I make the rounds, turning out lights and inspecting the night’s work. More often than not, I find myself pausing at the light switch between the dining room and hallway. From there I can see into the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, down to the bathroom and a small glimpse of my office. Call me a romantic, nostalgic fool, but in my mind I can see the little feet pattering over the tile floor… I see the older children learning, reading, writing, and learning at the table… I hear the voices of laughter, and yes, sometimes frustration and anger, as my children learn to get along together… I see the bright eyes of home and the mess of living with 8 children.
A sense of awe and wonder always fills me in those reflective moments. “How can life be so rich, so full, so exciting, so wonderful?” I wonder. It’s times like this when the goodness and greatness of God simply overwhelm me.
With that, I sigh, reach out and turn out the last light. In the darkness, peals of laughter and the sounds of bedtime come drifting up the stairs, beckoning to me like an irresistible siren’s song.
As I reach the stairs, that old Dutch clock in the living room peals its own quiet note of laughter – 7:30pm and all is well. As the sweet sound reaches my ears I whisper, “Good night home,” and I eagerly head down to join the fun.
This morning, his comments were echoing through my ears… “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Sitting on the operatory chair in my brother-in-laws dental office, I did have to wonder what in the world I was doing there.
Sure, a couple of my teeth were not perfectly straight, but it had never really bothered me before – at least not to the point that I had been willing to spend any money to get them fixed. And, hey, my beautiful, amazing wife had married me crooked teeth and all, so it was not like I needed them straight to impress the ladies or increase my chances of a hot date… I had one of those every day, all day. To top all that off, my children all loved me, no matter what my teeth looked like.
So, why was I sitting on the side of the chair staring at the 20 metal brackets and 2 orthodontic wires sitting on the tray next to me? This was going to cost me time, money, and pain – and for what?
“You know what Joe, let’s do it,” I said, “Joshua is getting braces on and Esther has had them on for 3 months already. I want to be an example to them of trying new things.”
He shrugged his shoulders, gave me that coy grin of his, chuckled with a mirthful laugh that said, “Ok... but you have no idea what you’re getting into!” and had me lay down in the chair.
2 hours later I felt like someone had snapped a pair of vice grip pliers on my teeth and was mercilessly yanking on them. If that wasn’t bad enough, there was this wire digging in here and a bracket grinding on my lips there. But, truthfully, all-in-all, as I walked out of the office, it wasn’t too bad.
This morning, almost 48 hours later, my whole face feels loose and sore, especially the two teeth that are most out of line. The raw lip syndrome has set in with a fury and sleeping has been a bit troublesome because every time I roll over my face presses against the pillow and reminds me that the vice grips are still there yanking on my teeth.
It is a constant reminder of the last thing Dr. Joe told me as I sat up from the procedure, “Well, you’re a great dad, Joshua. You know you’re going to have about 5 times the discomfort and pain that your children will have – right?” Now he tells me… thanks a lot!
In truth, I would have done it anyway.
I was there for that exact reason – to be a good dad. I have heard so often that example is the only teacher and the more I strive to raise my children to greatness, the more I realize the profound truth of that statement.
Example says, “If I can do it, so can you!” It urges on, calls to rise up and join those that are going before. It removes excuses and levels the playing field. It drives teachings, lessons, ideas, principles, deep into the realm of reality and extracts them from the vague, superficial and obscure. Example makes it all real.
But there is something more that it does – something that is even more powerful that all of that.
This morning, during my personal scripture study, I discovered what that “more” is. Paul, talking to the Hebrews, stated this about our Savior:
Abruptly, and without any warning, Isaac stopped in the middle of the trail. “Dad, I’m going to tell you this… I never give up, but I’m just going to walk a minute.”
I couldn’t really blame him. The hill we were on up Hobble Creek Canyon was tough for just about anyone, let alone a 5 year old on a regular little MX dirt bike without gears. So, I geared up, and slowly pedaled beside him for a while.
The other three children were well ahead of us. The trail was quiet and we had it all to ourselves. Right about then, I was sure glad that I had listened to him when he begged to come with us on the ride. We were all a little hesitant, but I just could not say no to that pleading, longing, hopeful look in his sweet young eyes. So, I said in the heartiest voice I could muster, “Sure, Isaac! Of course you can come along! We were hoping you’d ask.”
Well, if the joy that leaped into his eyes right them was not enough reward for me – and his three older siblings… because they sure got a kick out of it as well – then this moment on the hill was paying me back 100 fold.
“Daddy, I’m going to tell you this… today, my teacher learned me this song… ‘One, two, buckle my shoe – three, four, shut the door – five, six, pick up sticks… ah what’s the next part dad?”
I had to smile. When he started the song, his pudgy little fingers on his right hand began shooting up. But now, needing to use the other hand, he was having a little trouble managing the bike. Plus, the whole song recital had distracted him from walking in a straight line and he was zigzagging wildly around the trail. What, with my laughing so hard, and trying to keep my balance while riding VERY slow, and trying to avoid his sudden zigs here and zags there, it was just about all I could do to avoid crashing into the poor boy.
“Well, dad, what’s next?”
Oh, right.
“Seven, eight, laa…”
“No, dad! I know the rest, don’t say it! Seven, eight lay them straight – nine, ten… oh, and dad, this is the funniest part. Everyone laughed so hard when we said this last part – dad, you are going to laugh too. Ok, listen to this… nine, ten, A BIG FAT HEN!”
The hilarity and humor and fun of shouting “A BIG FAT HEN!” at the top of his voice and hearing it echo through the canyon was too much for him. He stopped and laughed and laughed. I did the same.
We spent the next 45 minutes in conversations like this. Every now and then we would catch up to the others and ride with them a while, but for the most part, it was Isaac and I riding along and talking.
At the end of the ride stood a huge, steep hill, that rolled upward and went on and on. We all were together then and set a point about three-quarters of the way up that we dubbed the “stopping point”. There we would turn around and head back to the car. Up we went, slowly, sweating, panting, pushing, pedaling…. but we made it.
Turning around, we faced that long stretch of vertical excitement.
“Ok, guys… ready? Remember, hit the back brakes first if you need to stop or slow down… and be CAREFUL. Ok, ready, set… LET’S GO!!”
Isaac, to my sheer delight, bolted out of the starting gate first and got a jump-start on Esther, Joshua and Jared. I trailed behind watching them fly down the hill. The wind was pushing so hard against our eyes that it squeezed out tears. And our hair – oh, what a mess! And our hearts were beating wildly - half with the sheer thrill and excitement of the ride – half out of fear that the plummeting hill would reach out and drag any one of us down into a careening mass of metal and flesh.
In the end, we all made it down the hill – and down the mountain for that matter – safe and sound. We took away from that canyon the thrills of family time and the joys of exerting ourselves.
But, there were other things we took away. You see, this was just two days after we brought Margie and Sariah home from the hospital. We were out on the trail because Margie needed a break. So I took the children out on a ride.
They learned to ride in the canyon, and that they have a father that loves their mother.
They learned the importance of staying in shape physically, and they learned how to care for a new mother.
They learned how to use their gear bikes, and they learned how to be real men, fathers and daddies.
They learned the thrills of feeling a mighty rush of wind as they race down the trail, and they learned the greater joy – the real thrill of life – in serving others… first, in letting their little brother tag along, and second in serving their mother and new little sister.
A mighty rush of wind… it’s an experience I’d recommend to anyone.
Both the doctor and Margie felt that she would be fine being induced.
I had zero reservations also.
Margie had been induced on all but one of our children and each time it went smooth. In fact, the most nerve wracking experience we have had in bringing our then seven children into this world is on the one that was not induced and did not have an epidural. Isaac, our fifth child, was turned sideways and we wondered if we were every going to get him out. The pain was unbelievable and caused Margie to nearly faint on several occasions. So, my apologies to any “all natural” believers out there, but that is just our experience.
At any rate, we felt that being induced would be just fine.
And after 6 hours of sitting in the hospital, everything was fine. The oxytocin was flowing nicely. The epidural had Margie resting comfortably – even taking 20-30 minute naps here and there! We read together, napped together, talked about the other children and really enjoyed the private time we had (minus the occasional nurse that came in to check on us and that ultra aggravating blood pressure cuff that automatically kicked on every 15 minutes… Margie hates that thing!)
At about the seven hour mark, is when things began to get a bit dicey. As the contractions got stronger and closer together, Sariah’s heart rate would drop out the bottom. 135… then drop… 105. Back up to 123… then drop… down to 85. Slowly back up to 118… then drop… 61.
With the sound up on the heart monitor we could hear the tones drastically change from a high-pitched, swishing sound, to a slow, monotonous pulsating sound. With each drop our anxiety grew and my concern for both mother and child knew no bounds.
Over the next 60 minutes they dropped the oxytocin levels, inserted a head fetal monitor, and watched everything very, very carefully. If these kinds of decelerations continued, the only option left on the table was an emergency c-section. Oh, that dreaded word. We thought, with the good news of the placenta moving up and away from the cervix, that we were past worrying about that word. But here we were again. And this time, it was not just a formality to avoid complications with the placenta, it was a life or death emergency situation for the baby.
Now, to understand what happened next, I need to give you a bit of scriptural background. If you believe in miracles and Godly power, then our experience will not be surprising to you at all. However, if you do not believe, then you are likely to be dubious about what I’m about to tell you. So be it.
In ancient days God granted man the power and authority to act in His name and to be protected by or perform miracles with that power. We see things like Moses parting the Red Sea, Daniel walking out of the lions’ den unscathed, Shadrach, Meshach and Abed-nego standing unharmed in the midst of a fiery furnace, and Elijah calling fire down from heaven, blessing the widow’s flour and oil to last throughout the drought, and finally raising her son from the dead.
Likewise, in the New Testament, Christ is seen healing the sick, giving sight to the blind, causing the lame to walk, casting out evil spirits and raising the dead. After His Ascension, the Apostles are found doing similar miracles.
All of these things were done through the power and authority of God. In our day, God has likewise given that power and authority to man. Through his authorized servants, many, many miracles are performed and people around the world are blessed, just like in days of old.
It has been my lot in life to be among those authorized servants, and to receive the power and authority to bless and heal and act in the name of God. And so, in this very scary situation, where the health of my dear wife and the life of my precious, unborn child hung in the balance, I felt no hesitation is giving my wife a special blessing. Together, we prayed – fervently – and then I blessed her.
The effects of that blessing were immediate and real. It was now about 10:40pm. Immediately following the blessing, the nurse came in (not knowing anything about the prayers and the blessing) and turned the oxytocin completely off. By all reason, this should have almost immediately stopped the contractions – and of course that was the point. The decelerations only occurred during a contraction, so they wanted to give Sariah time to recover and get the heart rate back up.
But, in that blessing, Margie was promised that the delivery would go quickly and everything would be just fine. At the time the oxytocin was turned down, Margie was dilated between 4 and 5 centimeters and about 50% effaced. By all accounts and standard measurements of delivery, she had a ways to go.
With the oxytocin off, the nurse left, confident that we could all take a breather. But God had other plans. Within 2 minutes I noticed that Margie’s whole body position and dynamics began to change. She felt little more than some extra pressure because of the epidural, but I could sense something significant was happening. I watched her for 2 more minutes and knew for sure that she had just gone complete and was in full transition. She knew it too.
I quickly went out and got the nurse. Skeptically, she returned and checked Margie… only to discover that the baby was crowning. The doctor was just down the hall and within another 5 minutes, Margie was ready to push. And one solid push was all it took.
The doctor saw a contraction coming on and said, “Ok, Margie, you can push now.” Margie knew that Sariah could not last long in the birth canal and that she needed to get out quickly. During all of our children’s birth, I have been amazed and stood in total wonder at this stage of delivery. A powerful, glorious, eternal fire ignites in Margie’s eyes as the final, great effort of delivery comes. There is an incredible power of creation that comes over her, as she partners with the Creator of all things and breathe life into a helpless baby.
But, this delivery was unlike anything I had ever seen in Margie before. The look on her personage was indescribable. The power consuming her was tangible and made the air around her tingle with intensity. The light that entered her body shone from her face and radiated from her eyes. And it all was focused and channeled into bringing Sariah safely home.
Sariah did come safely home to us. Today, seven days after her delivery, Sariah and Margie are both healthy and strong – in fact, Margie is enjoying her best recovery yet.
My gratitude to God knows no bounds. I have, on many occasions, since that experience, reflected with tearful eyes, on the miracle that I witnessed. And if you had been with me in that hospital room… and seen the light and fire in Margie’s eyes… and felt the charge in the air as God granted life… and held that tiny, precious baby in your arms… then you, like me, would be compelled to exclaim that there is a God, and He does answer prayers.
It was one of those things that you really don’t like to hear – didn’t want to hear.
The light in the small room was dimmed so that the ultrasound technician could see the screen better. With Margie lying on her back right next to the machine there was no way she could see the monitor. I guess the doctors got tired of women twisting their neck around to see what was going on, so they mounted a good sized TV on the wall where Margie could see everything the technician was seeing.
As a registered nurse, Margie knew what he was seeing before he handed over the bad news.
Marginal placenta previa.
Since Margie was only in her 20th week, the tech said that there was a good chance the placenta would move up as the baby grew and developed. Still, there was just as likely a chance that it would continue to slide down – which would mandate a c-section… an experience Margie did not want to have. The risks were even higher considering that one of her sisters had the same thing, and it DID move down and she DID have a c-section.
We came home that afternoon and sat all the children down to explain things to them. As a family, through previous experiences we had learned the power of prayer. So, we decided to include a sincere petition in all of our family and meal-time prayers that the Lord would help that slippery placenta move up and not down.
So, over the next 15 weeks adult voices and young voices and tiny little toddler voices rose to heaven eagerly pleading and begging the creator of Heaven and Earth to just help that placenta move up. Some of the children never quite got the name of it right – “Please help the macenas move” or “Please bless the bamestar to go away”.
Well, even if they didn’t get the request right, these 3 and 5 year old boys of ours got spirit of it all right. They love their momma with all their precious little hearts and they really, really wanted her to be healthy and strong and safe.
Most inspiring to me, was the unwavering and consistent faith of all 6 of our children (Mary, our seventh, is still a wee too young to talk, but I’m sure she has great faith too!). In every prayer, in every situation, they ALWAYS remembered to ask God to help their dear momma.
The day of the second ultrasound came and found our family kneeling in the front room with me, once again, lifting my voice to Heavenly Father. Please, please, bless my dear wife and the wonderful mother of these sweet children.
We returned from that visit with hearts lifted and souls satisfied. God had heard our prayers and, at least for the time being, all was well with Margie and the baby – the placenta had moved.
Now, some may say that it was coincidence, it would have moved all on its own. Maybe. But if you had been there and heard those tender voices and heard the love they have for their mother… and if you had been in our home on the day that we returned from the second visit to the ultrasound tech and seen the sublime joy and happiness in their eyes as we told them the placenta had moved… and if you had felt the intense feelings of peace that came over all of us BEFORE we went to the doctor… then, I bet, like us, you would be compelled to acknowledge that there is a God, and He does answer prayers.
There is a wonderful – though scary and nerve wracking – sequel to this story and how Sariah Marjorie Boswell came to our home….
The red rock and sands of the Kanab, UT valley crunched under the van tires as I gave three short honks of the horn.
I only remotely heard my youngest son (that's Brigham, he's 3yrs) come in the first time. Faintly, through a fog of deep and very heavy sleep, I heard a little voice saying, "Mommy, I had a bad dream." Actually, he doesn't know what that means, but it is just as good of an excuse as any to come into our room at 2:03 am in the morning."Did you say a prayer?", I heard Margie mumble."No""Ok, let's say a prayer. Heavenly Father will help you sleep good."Then in quiet, sweet tones a simple prayer was offered and then little feet pitter-paddering out of our room and back down the hall. I knew what was coming next, but hoped against hope that it wasn't going to happen.But, it was no use. Just as I was dipping back into my deep slumber, I heard those tiny feet sliding across soft carpet down the dark hallway.You see, of all the lovely things we have taught our 3 year old, tucking himself in bed in the middle of the night is not one of them."Daddy, my bed is messed up. Will you help me?"Knowing there was no use in fighting it, I rolled out of bed, making a mental note to myself to have that lesson on "tucking yourself in bed" first thing tomorrow morning.As I reached out into the darkness for my son, I felt a precious, trusting hand already stretched out waiting... expecting... me to reach out to him. There was something in his simple and unwavering confidence in that act of reaching out to me that sent a thrill of excitement and pleasure through my whole frame. "He believes in me! My boy, believes in me", was the thought that flashed through my mind.In a minute, I had him snugly tucked back in bed and before I got to the bedroom door he was sound asleep. "I love you, Brigham", I whispered softly into the night.I couldn't help but linger in the doorway a little longer. There was something magical about the glow of the soft night light as it gently illuminated his cubby cheeks and pure features. Enormous swells of love, and compassion, and care swept over me as I looked on.I thought to myself, "I bet, in a way, this is how Heavenly Father must feel about us. He must thrill when we approach him. He must rejoice when we plead for help. He surely is elated when He can serve, bless and comfort us." And then another thought came to me. I realized that in raising this boy to the great man that he would someday become, he and God were working on raising me to greatness as well. In that brief encounter with my son at 2:03 am, I had overcome impatience, my selfish desire for sleep, my frustrations at his inabilities, and petty thoughts of "why doesn't Margie get up with him." Simultaneously, my patience, compassion, care, and love had deepened. In short, I had become a better man, father, and husband because my 3 year old son had a "bad dream" and reached out to his daddy for comfort. As parents, while we raise these children to become great future men and women, we should never forget that they are in cohorts with God to raise greatness in us. Is this family thing an amazing plan, or what?
In my wanderings through different self-help seminars, books and lectures, I have discovered some remarkable information about the times and seasons that we live in.
