"Can I still get baptized?"

This was the question Swen asked his mom when they were in the hospital just over a week ago. In the middle of being poked and prodded by various medical professionals (and eventually, also by his parents), Swen still wanted to make sure that his baptism, scheduled for July 24th, would go as planned. It did.

Swen turned eight on May 26, 2020, right smack in the middle of the COVID19 pandemic. Everything was shut down, and rightfully so, with new cases in Utah up in the thousands daily. No one was attending church in person, so of course there was no Primary. Swen didn't get the opportunity to attend the baptisms of his friends as they turned eight; those kids who did get baptized during this time did so with only their immediate families.

Also, several people in Swen's extended family were extra cautious about the virus and chose not to gather in groups, even small ones and even with masks. Swen was already a bit nervous about baptism, and all this COVID stuff just exacerbated that worry, so it made sense for him to wait until life was more normalized and until he felt like the timing was exactly right.

Of course we had no idea he'd be diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes just one week before the scheduled day. "Of course you can still get baptized!" Shulamith replied. "You can do everything you want to do." We are blessed to live in 2021, when kids with T1 Diabetes can look forward to happy, healthy, full lives. It wasn't always like that, and we are grateful.

Swen's baptism was exactly as he wanted it. Being the center of attention in large groups is not his favorite, so he opted to invite just a few people. His mom conducted the meeting, and Amanda played the piano. Eli and I gave the talks, and Swen's grandparents offered the prayers. Mathew baptized Swen, and Shulamith and I served as witnesses. Mathew confirmed Swen the newest member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we all ate donuts. 

Twenty years ago when Eli was baptized, our stake president in Mt. Vernon attended the service. As I was walking past him to sit down after the baptism, he whispered to me, "The angels are singing today!" 

I think they were singing for Swen yesterday as well.

One Brave Boy; Two Incredible Parents

"Is he going to the bathroom again?"

"Yeah, he suddenly needs to go all the time, it seems like. And he can't seem to get enough to drink."

"Hmmm. I wonder if you should get him tested just to rule out Type 1 Diabetes."

That conversation between Shulamith and me occurred Thursday, and by Friday morning, she and Swen were on their way to Primary Children's Hospital, where Swen would be officially diagnosed.

Well that escalated quickly!

She called Matt at work and told him to meet them at the hospital, and the three of them began a 2-day crash course in the logistics of managing this disease. They learned how to do a finger prick to check Swen's glucose level and to calculate the amount of insulin needed to correct the situation if his sugar is too high. They learned how to dose out how much insulin he needs depending on his predicted carb intake with every meal or snack. And they learned how to give him his insulin shot. They learned about highs and lows, keytones, the "honeymoon period," and insulin storage requirements.

Overwhelm much?

Then there is the emotional impact. They were told that all three of them would experience a grieving period, probably at different times and in different ways, but they would all experience it. Makes sense. In less than 24 hours, they went from normalcy to dealing with a manageable (but still scary) disease that cannot be cured. I think this was the hardest part for Swen, hearing that he would have this his whole life. That's kind of a long time when you're nine. 

But he was so brave. 

And so smart.

He takes his shots like a boss, and after only three days, he can already tell you which foods have carbs and which are carb-zero (meaning he can eat them at any time, as much as he wants, without insulin). He's learning how to decide whether it's worth getting a shot in order to have a cookie or some popcorn, or if he'd rather just eat some cheese or peanuts. In no time he'll be doing his own finger checks and giving himself his own shots. I have no doubt.

And Mom? She's drowning in all the emotions that moms experience when their children face difficult challenges: Why did this have to happen? Why couldn't it happen to me instead; I'd gladly take on this burden so Swen wouldn't have to. How will this impact his life, his future? What if I mess up and accidentally do something to harm him? How will Matt and I navigate our country's ridiculous healthcare system, and will we go bankrupt just keeping Swen alive? All the things.

So what's the takeaway here? There are several. The outpouring of support for Swen and his family from both friends and strangers alike has been amazing. Our gratitude for science, along with medicine that allows kids like Swen to have full, healthy lives, is profound. This is a hard thing. But we've been promised that we can do hard things and that we will have divine support and guidance along the way. Evidence of this has been undeniable.

One brave boy; two incredible parents. They've totally got this.

"It doesn't matter."

As I sat in the relief society room at my church in Mt. Vernon many years ago, the lesson focused on the doctrine of charity. This topic evolved into a discussion of the merits (or lack thereof) of giving money to people who are homeless and holding signs on the streets. As you can imagine, opinions were many, and some sisters voiced their concern that if they give money, it's possible that money might be spent to purchase drugs or alcohol, further exacerbating the person's problems.

At that point, one sister raised her hand to comment. I will always remember what she said that day: "It doesn't matter." Her point was that it doesn't matter what happens after we choose to give, if we do so out of charity, pure love, a grateful heart, and with the desire to serve our fellow humans.

This sister ultimately became a dear friend of mine, even though the two of us disagree about many things. You name any political issue, for example, and she and I will come down on opposite sides. She's conservative. I'm liberal. Yeah, that's basically it. And yet, we are friends. I love her, and she loves me.  

But that day in relief society, my friend and I agreed on one thing: "It doesn't matter."

Fast forward 20+ years, and as I wrote about here, Eli recently went through the application and extensive interview process to become a full-time seminary teacher. During this time, he was also teaching 5th grade at an elementary school, a 40-minute drive from his house. Just about every day, on his way home from school, he would see the same man standing on a traffic island, holding a sign asking for help. Each day, Eli would think about him. What happened in his life to lead him to this traffic island, homeless and hungry? Eli would think about how he, himself, would never be in such a position. He has too many people who love him and who would gladly take him in and keep him fed and warm, regardless of the circumstances. This gentleman was not so fortunate.

Oftentimes Eli would give this man a sandwich or a granola bar or anything he happened to have in the car. The man was always grateful. One day Eli made a decision. "If I am blessed to get this seminary position, I'm going to give this man $100, in $20 increments." Well, as you know, Eli did get the seminary job, but then he was so busy finishing up the school year while attending seminary preparation classes that time got away from him, and he didn't think to withdraw some cash for this man. Until he did. One day Eli went to the bank and withdrew $20 cash and put it in his phone case, but by then, school was over, so he wasn't driving that same route anymore. 

Then last Saturday, Eli and I happened to go to lunch at Zupa's in Sandy, right next to the traffic island Eli used to pass every day. And there he was. The same man. Holding a sign asking for help. Eli immediately got out the money from his phone case and prayed the lights would cooperate, so he could slow down enough to hand the gentleman the $20 bill.  

What happened next will be forever etched in my mind, along with a few other experiences that fill my heart and strengthen my soul. Eli reached out the window and handed this man the $20 bill. I will never forget this gentleman's countenance, which changed right before me. His eyes widened and a light came over him, a light of hope and gratitude. All he managed to say was a heartfelt "Thank you," before we were off to merge onto the freeway. 

Before he went to bed that night, Eli tucked another $20 bill in his phone case. For next time. I'm going to do the same, in case I ever come upon this man myself. Oh, and what did the man do with the money? I have no idea. I hope he bought himself a good dinner with yummy dessert and a Diet Coke. But again, I don't know. 

As Jeannie said so long ago, "It doesn't matter."

My sons are pyromaniacs.

(The three who live here in Utah, at least.) 

Even so, this year the Erichsen-Websters had a fireworks-free Fourth. (Is anyone else lovin' on that alliteration as much as I am?)

I did not grow up lighting fireworks. My dad was a professional fire fighter and had seen too many accidents; my brother and I were lucky if we got to hold a sparkler, already lit and handed to us by an adult. As a parent, I'm not a fan of fireworks either, other than to watch the large public displays. My sons, though. My sons are pyromaniacs.

Isaiah and Eli grew up in Montana, where everyone stockpiles an artillery of explosives and spends the entire evening of the July 4th blowing things up. I never bought them a single firework, myself, but they had good friends whose parents would spend hundreds of dollars on the stuff. What's a mom to do? Really, what power did I have against this? None that I could see. And Seth...well, Seth grew up in the midst of all this, so of course he was ready to jump right on the fireworks train with his two big brothers.

And so it went for many years.

I mellowed somewhat over time, and in recent years I actually sort of enjoyed watching the three of them bond over this activity. They older they got, the less nervous I was. Their increasing maturity soothed my fearful heart, at least to some extent. At Angel House, I would set up chairs outside in the front yard for Shulamith and me, grab Diet Cokes and some unhealthy snacks, and watch them blow up the world. It made all three of them so happy. Pyromaniacs, I tell ya.

That did not happen this year. With the drought and fire hazard, Isaiah declared that we would not be lighting any fireworks this year. "I can't think of a safe, responsible location to do it," he said. End of discussion. I'm proud of him, as I always am, as well as of Eli and Seth, who (though sad) fully agreed.

So our 4th of July celebration was really a non-celebration for the most part. Amanda cooked us all delicious spaghetti. We sang to Shulamith's 7-year-old daughter, Kennedy, whose birthday was July 5th. We ate some birthday cake. Yeah. That's basically it. Around 6:30, I went home with Eli and Amanda and spent the rest of the evening with them. Later that night as they were driving me home, we saw numerous displays of fireworks in the sky all around us. They live up on a hill in Herriman that overlooks the valley, and at 10:00 p.m., the sky exploded with fire. 

I guess our 4th wasn't entirely fireworks-free after all.