"Ask, and it shall be given you..."

This verse from Matthew 7:7 took on new meaning to Amanda and me yesterday.

Backstory. Our family celebrated the first half of Thanksgiving yesterday, with a huge feast of turkey, stuffing, smashed potatoes, glazed carrots, rolls, and pie. The second half of our celebration will be Thursday, when we go to Macaroni Grill to eat and watch Amanda and Eli work. Thanksgiving is a big money day for Amanda, and somehow they convinced Eli to expo for them that day as well.

Confession. Because I had a crap load of cooking to do in order to prepare this feast, I decided to dip out of relief society and go home right after Sacrament Meeting. (Honestly, I never do this, but desperate times and all.) So I asked Amanda if she wanted to go home with me, and she was all in. But just before we left, we both lamented on how much we wished we could attend Elders' Quorum, so we could see Eli teach:

Me: Dang, I just wish we could go watch Eli. It looks like he prepared a great lesson. I just want to see him teach.
Amanda: Me too! Maybe next time we could dress up as men.
Me: Do you think anyone would notice?
Amanda: I'm sure no one would.
Me: It's a plan then.

Irony. So we left right after the meeting and headed home. Amanda went straight downstairs to change clothes, and I went straight to the oven to baste the turkey. Hourly basting is what makes it juicy, after all. Not 10 seconds later, she was back up the stairs, half dressed, to report that Eli just called her. The Relief Society teacher didn't show up, so they invited all the women to attend Elders' Quorum. My first thought....why didn't they just ask me to teach? I'd be happy to teach, even last minute. My second thought (and Amanda's).... we need to race right back there. And so we did.

Conclusion. As I said in my last post, you can't make this stuff up. We asked. And it was given us. We got to see Eli teach a wonderful lesson on how our word should be our bond, from a conference talk by Elder Ronald A. Rasband. Eli did such a lovely job, with a huge class! I was one proud mama.

Moral. Ask, and it shall be given you. (And maybe don't leave church early.)

The Christmas Letter: Cool or annoying?

Do you send out a Christmas letter? Or just a card? Or nothing? Or does it depend on the year? Do you have a strong opinion on the subject? As I began the process of crafting this year's greeting from the Erichsen-Websters, I pondered these questions. And the memories came.

Growing up, my grandma received many, many Christmas cards and letters. My grandpa was the president of the International Woodworkers of America, a labor union that spanned the U.S. and Canada, and in that role, he met many famous people, especially political figures. The two of them attended presidential inaugurations and the inaugural balls for both Presidents Kennedy and Johnson, and my grandpa knew many senators, congressmen, and governors personally. As a result, they received a crap load of Christmas cards, and even after he passed away, she continued to receive these for the 20 years she outlived him.

One in particular came from a lady named Maude Ballard. Her husband, Claude (yep, Maude and Claude; you can't make this stuff up) worked with my grandpa at the IWA, so they were all close friends. But Maude's Christmas letter!! Oh. My. Goodness.

First, it was between five and seven seven pages long, single spaced. Need I say more?

Okay, I'll say more. Second, every year, the letter included a detailed report of their health. From a little sniffle to annoying hemorrhoids to (eventually) Claude's dementia, it was all there, raw and real. Page after page, paragraph after paragraph, we learned every single minutiae of their medical history for the year.

And it was so funny. At least to a little kid. It became tradition for my grandma, my mom, and me to gather as soon as possible after the letter arrived. Grandma would call us to report: "The Maude Ballard letter is here!" I had the honor of reading it aloud to the two of them as we sat in Grandma's bedroom, and we'd laugh to the point of crying. It would take at least an hour to get through it because of the many pauses for hysterical, belly-busting laughter.

I remember thinking to myself, "When I grow up, I'll send out a Christmas letter, but it won't be this long, and it definitely won't be this embarrassing!"

Then I grew up. And kept that promise.

I have sent out a Christmas greeting with some sort of letter every year since Gerald and I were married. In the early days, before word processing was a thing, I typed it on an electric typewriter. Much harder to revise, these letters were mostly reports of our year, what the kids were up to, and our lives as parents. As time progressed, I grew more creative. With the advent of modern technology, revision became pleasure rather than punishment, and playing with the Christmas letter became my passion.

I can't begin to remember all the different formats I've used, and I worry that one year I'll run out of new ideas, but you can breathe. I've already drafted the 2019 letter, so we're okay this time around.

My very favorite one was in 2014, when I rewrote the poem "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" with the story of our year. Remember? Would you like to see it again? Here it is!

Some people have strong feelings about Christmas letters, both pro and con. I've heard comments such as "I detest those stupid letters. They're just an excuse to brag about your kids." But then I've also heard, "What I hate most is when people just send a dumb card, with 'Merry Christmas' and their names and no other information. What a waste of postage."

Haha. I guess you can't please all the people...

As for me, I'll continue to send a Christmas letter each year. Some traditions can't be broken. My thanks to Maude Ballard and my grandma, who are partyin' hard in heaven. I wonder if Maude still writes those five-page letters. And if Grandma still reads them.

Wear a cardigan for Fred

Once upon at time, four times each day, I set up a nebulizer machine in order to give our oldest son, Luke, his breathing treatments. Luke had severe childhood asthma, beginning when he was only a couple months old and lasting through elementary school. When he was a little baby, we would turn on the machine, hold the device in our hand, and spray the mist in his face, hoping at least some of that good medicine would make it into his tiny lungs. But once he was old enough to reason with (Can you ever truly reason with a toddler?), we set him up in a little red chair and put a mask over his face to administer the treatments. It took 30-40 minutes to finish a treatment, and we needed Luke to sit still with the mask, connected to the nebulizer machine, over his nose and mouth.

This was no easy task for a toddler, even one as docile and cooperative as Luke. The only way we were able to accomplish it with consistent success (read: the only way to keep our child breathing) was to turn on his favorite TV show, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. Back then, there wasn't instant access to TV shows like there is today; we used our VCR to record one episode after another onto several tapes, so we could just pop one in for every breathing treatment. Of course Luke had his favorites, so oftentimes we had to search (fast forward, then rewind, then fast forward again) to find "Windstorm in Bubbleland," an opera sung by characters in the neighborhood, in which a windstorm threatens to destroy all the bubbles. As always with the show, there is a moral, a principle founded on love and concern for others. In this case, we learned that by working together, we can overcome even the hardest obstacles.

Do I love Mister Rogers? Oh yes I do! He helped me keep my precious little boy breathing.

...and that would be quite enough all by itself, but more than that, he taught Luke (and all of us) valuable lessons about what it means to be human. He tackled scary topics like death and divorce and windstorms in ways children could comprehend. He helped them feel safe, even in uncertain circumstances, even when a little kid with asthma had to sit still for breathing treatments four times a day.

The characters in the "neighborhood" weren't perfect. They displayed the gamut of human emotion, even though only a few of them were actually human (most were puppets). They got angry. They felt sad. They were lonely sometimes. Like all of us, they has strengths and weaknesses, good days and not so good. King Friday XIII was arrogant and often rude, but also kind and good at his core. Lady Elaine Fairchilde was brash and sometimes offensive, but on the inside, just as insecure as all the rest of us. Daniel Tiger was scared of everything (!) but learned to be brave when he needed to be.

Through story and song and puppetry, Mister Rogers taught us about what really matters--each other. He showed us our worth as human souls and asked us to act accordingly. He showed us how to love each other with the pure love of Christ. No, the show was not overtly religious, even though Fred Rogers was an ordained Presbyterian minister. But it taught the gospel right there; oh yes it did!

One time, during one of Luke's many hospital stays, I climbed up into his big metal crib, sat under the oxygen tent, held him in my lap, and together we watched Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. It gave me hope through one of the most challenging periods of my life.

Tomorrow is being dubbed "World Kindness Day" or "Mister Rogers Cardigan Day." People are encouraged to wear a cardigan in honor of Fred Rogers, and to spread kindness. I don't really wear cardigans much, but I dug this one out and will proudly wear it tomorrow.

For now, that will be my tribute to a man whose vision and talent impacted the world. And my small life.

But one day! One day in heaven, I will thank him personally for the peace he offered to one scared mama and one sick little boy.

I will wear a cardigan for Fred.

The Boys in the Middle

When you have five kids, there's always someone to worry about. In the middle of a dark, scary night, I've been known to say "Moms with anxiety this bad should not have five children!"

I never really mean that. I'm so grateful I was blessed with five, but yes, I do spend quite a lot of time worrying about them.

That said, I spend even more time being proud of them, and today, I'm especially proud of the two in the middle. I've found that in large families (Does a family of seven qualify as large??), kids tend to be grouped, usually by age, into categories with names. Our family is no exception. Until Seth was born, we had two groups: "The Big Kids" and "The Little Boys." Luke and Shulamith were the "big kids," and Isaiah and Eli were the "little boys." When Seth was born, that changed slightly. We suddenly had three groups: The Big Kids, The Middle Boys, and Seth.

And so it is, still today.

Those "middle boys" have awed me recently with their effort, skill, and dedication to their respective jobs, so this proud mama needs to brag just a little.

First, Isaiah. His team of software engineers had a competition last week, a "hack-a-thon." They divided into five teams, each with a team leader, whose responsibility it was to come up with an original coding idea and then guide his team to write it in just three days. Isaiah was the leader of his team. I knew something was up because suddenly, he was going to work at 7:00 in the morning and not coming home until after 6:00. On the final day, he came home and told me what was going on, and guess what? His team won first place! The prize, a $100 Amazon gift card for each member of his team, but in his words, "It's really just the bragging rights. Respect." Go, Isaiah!

Then, Eli. As many of you know, he started his first teaching job this fall, at Park Lane Elementary School in Sandy. Fifth graders can be challenging to manage, so Eli works the greatest share of every Saturday doing his prep work for the upcoming week, so he's fully prepared and can focus on management when he's in the classroom. It hasn't been an easy start, but he is making such great progress, and the kids are responding. Last week, he and Amanda and I went to a student council fundraiser dinner at Zupa's, and my heart might have broken just a little as I heard so many children's voices shouting, "Hi Mr. Webster!"

I have five wonderful children, and I also have an anxiety disorder, so I can't even begin to calculate the hours I've wasted worrying about these people when they are perfectly fine. But I'm so proud of each of them.

...and this week, I'm especially proud of my "little boys," turned "middle boys," who have grown into such hardworking, responsible, caring young men.

I never have (get?) to do this again.

This afternoon I stood outside in a long line of missionary parents, all holding packages of wrapped Christmas gifts to be sent to South America through the courier service LDSXpress. It occurred to me that maybe I have it all wrong. As most of you know, this missionary mom gig has been challenging for me. On more than one occasion, I've uttered the words, "I never have to do this again."

But this morning, those words felt empty. Sad, even. Because you see, even with the pain of the two-year separation and the thick longing with which I miss my baby, there's just a crap load of joy that comes alongside this experience.

I have grieved every single "last" with Seth. Every. Single. One. Last choir concert. Last piano recital. Last high school musical. Last parent-teacher conference. Last trip through the parent pickup line. Last homecoming dance. Last prom. It goes on. Truth is I hardly know how to define myself outside my role as a parent of kids and teenagers. I'm not sure what comes next or what's left for me.

With Seth's mission thus far, I've mostly just wished the time away, counting the days until these two years could be over and he would come home. Now, though, as I find myself on the downside of this whole deal, I sense a change. With just nine months to go, I'm beginning to grieve the "last missionary." Never again will I nurse a kid through wisdom teeth removal, schedule medical appointments, assist with application forms, or wait so impatiently for that call to arrive in the mailbox. (Seth's was one of the last ones to come by snail mail.)

Never again will I wait anxiously for Monday, P-day, wondering if technology in Paraguay will be our friend today, or if we'll have to settle for a text chat. Never again will I see the pure joy on the face of a young elder as he tells me about someone he has come to know and love, someone he has taught and who has taught him, someone whom he now considers a friend, someone who has made the choice to follow Christ into the waters of baptism.

And never again will I put together a missionary Christmas package, packed full with so much hope and love and pride. This past week, Shulamith and I shopped for just the right things: his favorite gummy candies, the shiny green tie he requested, a watch, solid sunscreen sticks, G2 pens, more candy, and the most anticipated item: a 20 oz. bottle of Mtn. Dew Code Red. As I tracked down Dad and all the local sibs to sign the Christmas card, it hit me: This is yet another "last."

I might have cried.

Motherhood is not for the weak.

Join me if you will, with crossed fingers for this little package. May it travel all the way to Paraguay intact, with no soda bottle leaks or explosions, and into the hands and heart of my brave, faithful missionary.

Meanwhile, my rhetoric has shifted. "I never have to do this again" has been replaced with "I never get to do this again."

...which is far more accurate.