Take My Hand, and Lead Me to Salvation...

...Take my love, for love is everlasting.

And remember, the truth that once was spoken:

"To love another person is to see the face of God."

And so, I sing. I've been singing all day. I've been singing ever since last night; indeed, I'm pretty sure I was even singing in my dreams. For nearly three hours last evening, I sat captivated by the music and the heart and the grace and the pain and the redemption of the marvelous musical that is Les Miserables. It was epic.

It's tradition in our family to go to a movie on Christmas night. We go every year. I remember seeing The Polar Express on Christmas, 2003 with all five kids, Seth just 3-1/2. It was difficult in those days to find a movie that fit everyone's tastes; we have a wide range of ages and interests. It's still difficult. Last year, we saw Mission Impossible, a bit of a concession for me although I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. This year there was no decision to make; I would see Les Mis. Shulamith could not go because Baby Swen is definitely not movie worthy. This was the first year in many that she wasn't with me at a movie on Christmas night. But there were still Gerald and Isaiah, both of whom would have gladly seen Les Mis. Seth, however, was not so accommodating. He's 12, remember. And a boy. So Gerald kindly volunteered to take him to The Hobbit while Isaiah and I went to Les Mis at the same time in the same theatre.

I don't know much about The Hobbit. I remember trying to read it once but only making it through maybe 10 pages. I used to be able to claim that was because I don't like fantasy. This worked as my excuse for not reading Harry Potter too, that and the fact that a main character in the series is a long, disgusting creature with no arms or legs. Nope, I don't like fantasy. I like books about real people and real things that can really happen. Of course I lost all credibility when Twilight was written, but that's another story. So no, I don't know about The Hobbit, but I cannot imagine a more perfect Christmas movie than Les Miserables, the story of one Jean Valjean and his quest for the courage to love and to forgive and to partake of the gift of redemptive grace.

And so, I sing. I'm sure my family is very tired by now of my singing. Sucks for them.

Do you hear the people sing?
Singing a song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again!
When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums
There is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes! 

(Christmas, 2012 - Part 1 of 3)

Good + Good + Good = Exponentially Great!

Have you ever noticed that when you take several really good things and put them together, the result is more than just good; it's exponentially great? I recently wrote about such a combination: a warm fleece blanket, my rocking chair, and "Vampire Diaries." But there are so many other examples:

• a BFF, McDonald's fries, and Diet Cokes
• heated seats in the car, Starbuck's hot chocolate, and a fresh snowy morning
• a walk in the rain, Kitty on a leash, and my favorite Pandora station playing

I could go on and on. It's not that each of these things isn't wonderful all by itself, but carefully placed together, the combinations bring exponential greatness. This Christmas season, Shulamith and I have experienced yet another magical combination, achieved by putting together three things we love: the mall, Christmas music, and anything free! Courtesy of FM 100.3, we have had the opportunity to attend free Christmas concerts at South Town Center every Tuesday and Thursday for the past six weeks. We only missed two, one on Black Friday (concert was postponed one day due to Thanksgiving) and one the day Swen had his 6-month immunizations. Other than those two days, we were there every Tuesday and Thursday at noon, fully captivated by the incredible talent of performers from around the valley. We heard accomplished pianists, guitarists, violinists, vocal percussionists, and singers of all genres. We had our personal favorites, but really, every performance was wonderful. I can't think of one I didn't enjoy.

So popular are these concerts that if you want a seat, you have to arrive an hour early. Here are Shulamith and Swen saving seats, while I go fetch Diet Cokes:

Swen was a little trooper for the most part; often times, we were able to get him to sleep before the performance began. Other times, he was wide awake and jammin' to the music. Today was the final concert in the series. It was a little sad, I must admit. These concerts have become such a lovely part of my week. We never won the $100 Christmas cash given out at the end of each concert, but we never gave up hope. Every time the announcer seemed stumped over a name, we were sure it had to be Shulamith. It wasn't. Nevertheless, it was a glorious experience every time because honestly, when you combine three such fabulous things as the mall, Christmas music, and anything free, how could it not be?

Will Pants Make Me Equal?

After hearing all the hype over the group "All Enlisted" and its "Wear Pants to Church" event scheduled for this past Sunday, I wondered if I would be able to refrain from commenting. Before I decided, though, the tragedy in Connecticut occurred. At that point, nothing seemed very important other than those beautiful children and their heroic teachers, not to mention their devastated, grieving parents. I think I felt even more empathy for them than I might have otherwise, had it not been only two days since I received the terrifying phone call to tell me my Seth had been hit by a car. The outcomes were very different. My son, though frightened and sore, was released from the hospital emergency room that day, virtually unscathed. The victims at Sandy Hook Elementary School will not come home at all. I am so very sorry. My heart aches for their parents, and I can only pray that the healing power of the atonement will surround them and that the love of our Father in Heaven will be sufficient to provide strength at this horrible time.

Sunday came and went. I don't know much about what happened regarding the "Wear Pants" business, but today I decided to make a few comments rather than skirting (pun intended) around the issue. First, I'm baffled as to how a pair of pants could make someone feel equal, if she doesn't already. Maybe I'm missing something? I guess I've always felt privileged to have so many clothing options (and seriously, no one loves clothes more than I do). I can wear dresses, skirts, pants, capris, leggings with long shirts, etc. Men have only one choice: pants. We ladies most certainly have the better deal.

As for church, my church does not have a dress code for Sunday meetings. End of story. People are welcome at my church always, and they are not told what they may and may not wear. If I wanted to wear pants to church, I would, and I wouldn't need a special Sunday to do it. In my ward in Washington, two of the sisters wore pants every week. If anyone cared, I never heard about it. They were welcomed and accepted just like everyone else. I personally, choose to wear a dress or skirt. I like to dress in my "Sunday best"; for me, it demonstrates a sense of respect for the Lord, especially when I partake of the Sacrament. And my best clothes happen to be skirts or dresses. I'm not a "dress pants" kind of girl, so my pant wardrobe consists mostly of jeans. For me, jeans would not show the kind of respect I desire. But that's just me. It's not a rule. If I wanted to wear jeans to church, I could.

The question is, if I did wear jeans to church, would people judge me? I don't know. My guess is that some probably would? Because here's the thing. In my church, we are a group of very imperfect humans, and like all imperfect humans, we tend to judge one another. It's not right. It's not what we're taught. But it happens. I suspect I've been judged by various people in my church over a number of my choices, choices that appear unorthodox or strange, choices people sometimes don't understand. At one time or another, I've likely been judged for my choice to use my own last name, the one I was born with, rather than someone else's. I've probably been judged a time or two because of my openly liberal political beliefs, most recently my unyielding support for President Obama. I've probably even been judged here and there because I am not willing to assume the role of "grandmother" in any context.

But even if I'm sometimes the target of human judgment, and even if some of that judgment comes from those in my church, I try hard not to be too offended. I keep in mind two important things: (1) These choices are part of who I am, and I am fully comfortable with them, and (2) I'm quite human myself, and though I hate to admit it, I've done my fair share of judging. Guilty I am! As for the pants business, I can't imagine how pants could have anything to do with equality. I just can't. But please don't tell me I'm not equal in my own church. Believe me, I would not associate myself with a church in which I was not considered 100% equal with every other human being, whether male or female. And I don't need a pair of pants to prove it.

Fight or Flight: Love, Fear, Anger, and Profound Gratitude

As I sit here this evening, my body is still in fight or flight mode. Though exhausted, I have yet to decompress, after a day filled with a myriad of emotions. Just a couple days ago, I wrote this post about our 12-year-old son, Seth. It never occurred to me I'd be writing about him again so soon.

At 7:50 this morning, I sent him off to school with the typical "Did you brush your teeth?" and "I love you; have a good day!" I slipped back into bed to relax a bit and must have unintentionally drifted to sleep when I was awakened suddenly by my phone. "Is this Seth Erichsen's mom?" Yes. "Seth was hit by a car on his way to school. He is breathing, but that is all I know." Still in pajamas, I grabbed my big Montana winter coat that goes clear to the ground and raced out the door. Seth's school is very near our house; it would take longer to get the car out of the garage than to simply run. So run I did! I remember the cold air forced into my lungs as I ran and ran, and then the dream-like feeling as I approached the school and saw the fire trucks and ambulance, the paramedics, and the people gathered all around. How many times have I driven by such a situation? So many times. But this time it was my child. It was terrifying.

I ran straight through the crowd to Seth and was overcome by the flood of instant relief as I found him conscious, crying, but able to talk to me. A prayer of thanks in my heart, I held his hand and reassured him that all would be well, that the paramedics were taking good care of him, and that Heavenly Father was watching over him. They told me I could ride in the ambulance next to him. As I buckled myself in, I flashed back to my only other ambulance ride with Shulamith nearly 25 years ago. How grateful I am to these amazing professionals. Not only did they do exceptional work caring for Seth's physical needs, but they were so kind to both of us. The hospital is not far, but the trip seemed endless. All the way there, one medic continuously reassured me as he took Seth's vitals and watched for any signs of concussion. The other one talked to Seth about all sorts of things to keep his mind off what was happening: Christmas, video games, school.

At the hospital, we received the same wonderful care from the ER nurses as they examined Seth. The physician was equally caring as she used ultrasonography to check his internal organs. Can I just say that ultrasounds are not nearly as fun when you don't see a baby in there, but we were happy enough to hear her say everything looked perfectly normal. She showed Seth his kidneys, his bladder, and I can't remember what else. All was well on the inside. He also suffered no broken bones or any other injuries, beyond some nasty road rash on his elbow and hip. I've seen worse, though, when Eli falls off his long board.

He was discharged within an hour, but not before we had a visit from the police officer who was covering the accident. After receiving such gracious and loving care from absolutely everyone we encountered up to that point, I was shocked by the behavior of this officer. He walked into the room and did not so much as ask Seth how he was feeling or if he was okay. Yes, it was obvious Seth was not in any imminent danger, but still, he's a child and he was just hit by a car! The man didn't even say hello to Seth. Instead, he informed us that he had interviewed a witness, and then looking at Seth for the first time, he announced, "You are at fault in this accident. Even though you were in the crosswalk, a truck was blocking the view of the person who hit you, so she couldn't see you. You need to be more careful when you cross the street."

Seth, who was just starting to feel calm after this ordeal, crumbled to tears and asked us if we were mad at him. No! No! Of course we were not mad at him. But I was mad. Let me tell you that. I have had precious few interactions with police officers, but every one I've had has been negative, and this one was the worst. This man walked into my little boy's hospital room and told him it was his fault he was hit by a car while in the crosswalk in front of his school. This mama bear was seething inside, and big sister was no happier. It's a good thing the guy left when he did or he might have had TWO angry mamas after him. And he may not have lived to tell about it.

I'm trying not to dwell on that. Because it's not worth it. More importantly is the gratitude I feel that my baby is alive and well. It could have been so different. He played video games most of the day (thank you, Matt!) and then insisted on going to his Young Men's activity tonight. It was hard to let him out of my sight. He might be feeling fine, but Mom is still in hyper-protective mode. Fight or flight, remember? "Flight" gave me the ability to run fast and unceasingly from home to school this morning. "Fight" made me nearly attack a police officer in a hospital. Motherhood is certainly not for wimps.

He is asleep now. I just went in for the third or fourth time to check on him. How many more times will I do that before the night is over? I don't know. But I think I'll go again now...

Planners Are a Waste of Time and Space

...and other gems of knowledge courtesy of one 12-year-old boy.

Sometimes I forget he is only 12, a child, in every sense of the word. He was born into a world of teenagers. His two oldest siblings were 15 and 14 when he was born. Just about the time they left the teen world, the next two were 15 and 13. He always thought that he, too, should be a teenager. Their lives looked so glamorous and free. They could have jobs and driver's licenses. They could go wherever they wanted and buy fast food all the time. They always had cool friends around and cool stuff to do. He felt it was an unfortunate quirk of nature that he was sent to earth so much later than all of them.

Now he has just six months to wait before he, too, can finally join the teen world. Ironically, just three months before his birthday, his last sibling will turn 20. He will be a teenager, yes, but he will be the only one. At 12, he is perfectly delightful. I love it when he does something to remind me that he is still a kid, such as recently when he brought home his first quarter report card from 7th grade. Excitedly, I looked at his grades: 7 A's and 1 F. Yep, you read that right. He got solid A's, without so much as an A-, in every class but one. Which class was that? Homeroom. Indeed, they give a grade in homeroom (either an A or an F), and he failed it. How does one pass homeroom? By filling out a planner with all one's assignments and due dates.

Mom: Seth, why didn't you fill out your planner, so you could pass homeroom and get all A's?

Seth (With the disdain that only a 12-year-old can muster): Planners are a waste of time and space.

He proceeded to explain that he ALWAYS knows what his assignments are in every class and how long he has to complete them and when they are due. He has never missed an assignment. Therefore, wasting time writing them down in a little booklet is the stupidest idea anyone has ever dreamed up.

Next came the discussion about how sometimes in life we have to do things that seem stupid, even a waste of time, etc. because they are required, and sometimes we have to simply follow procedures so that we can achieve the result we want, and blah, blah, blah. I gave it my best. I really did. But remember all those teenagers he grew up with, the ones he worships, the ones he idolizes, the ones he has wanted to emulate his entire life? Well, one of them is now 21 and lives right here in this house. His initials are "Isaiah Erichsen." He chimed right in and informed my impressionable pre-teen that grades in middle school mean absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of life, so there is no reason to waste time filling out a worthless planner.

Game over. I lose. Whatever.

Have I mentioned that I love this 12-year-old? He is so much fun. A couple nights ago, Gerald and I convinced him go to with us to Temple Square to see the lights. We conveniently "forgot" to mention that we would be watching some choirs perform Christmas music at the visitors' center. Ha! I'm afraid poor Matt was the recipient of the desperate text messages during these performances, complaining about how he might die of boredom. As we left Temple Square and passed by the Tabernacle, he exclaimed "Oh no! Tell me we're not going in there. That is the hottest place in the universe." He was remembering his last visit to Temple Square. I won't retell that tale, but you can read about it here if you wish.

And with one quick photo amidst the falling snow, we were off...

 Blessed we are indeed to have a 12-year-old, so that we may be enlightened with the knowledge that planners are a waste of time and space.

Girls' Night In

Do you have to go out in order to have a fun evening? Absolutely not. All you need are some chicken tacos, Diet Cokes, and three fun girls, especially when one of them is a nail artist. Now I know what you're thinking. Nail artist? Nope, that can't possibly be you or Shulamith. You'd be right. However, Isaiah's friend, Naomi, is just that. She creates beautiful works of art, not only with nails, but with make-up as well. She kindly agreed to come spend the evening with us, and she brought her "tool" kit filled with all sorts of fun nail paraphernalia. She has a rainbow of colors from which to choose, glitter, tiny jewels, flowers, butterflies, and more. How would we ever decide? I can't even pick a simple color when I go for a pedicure; Shulamith or Lindsey have to choose for me.

We looked through many pictures online, and with help from Naomi, I finally settled on a lovely, deep purple with a coat of lighter blue over the top, followed by a light pink glitter. Then she put some extra fun on my ring fingers: a flower and three jewels. Pretty! Here we are in the process of creating this masterpiece:

Next it was Shulamith's turn. She chose a zigzag pattern of lime green and gold polish, with jewels on the ring fingers as well. So fun. Here's Naomi working her magic on Shulamith's nails:

And here is the finished product:

We talked. We laughed. We talked some more. We waited for our nails to be completely dry. We don't want to ruin these works of art. We told Naomi stories about Isaiah (ha!) and showed her pictures of when he was little. We ate tacos and drank Diet Coke. It was good.

Girls' Night In. Sometimes it's exactly what you need.

A Warm Fleece Blanket, My Rocking Chair, and "Vampire Diaries"

...or NOT.

Yes, when I went to bed last night, all I could think about was waking to three hours of  lovely "down time" with a warm fleece blanket, my rocking chair, and "Vampire Diaries." It has been a long and tedious few weeks, with essays flowing in, in groups of 25ish, one group after the other, relentlessly, and never ending. Four composition classes are really too many to tackle in one semester, especially as a part-time instructor. It would be one thing to teach four if a couple of them were less writing intensive, such as a reading class or business communications or technical writing or rhetoric. But four freshman composition classes? Shoot me now! Anyway, I somehow managed to reach a point yesterday where I had nothing more to grade. It was around 4:30, and Shulamith and I were headed out at 6:00 to eat a super delicious free dinner in honor of "Friends & Family Weekend" at Matt's new place of employment, Longhorn Steak House. I knew that when I arrived at school today, I'd be greeted by yet another stack of essays, but in that moment, I hardly knew how to handle myself, with not one single essay hanging over my head.

Dinner was superb. Seriously scrumptious. From the baked macaroni & cheese appetizer; to the fresh garden salad with blue cheese dressing; to the tender fillet Mignon, cooked perfectly to just medium rare; to the loaded baked potato; to the "Chocolate Stampede" dessert (six layers of different kinds of chocolate!), the entire meal was wonderful. They pretty much had to roll us out of there, and I came home and fell lifeless into bed. But lifeless or not, in my mind was the quiet three hours I would have the following morning before my afternoon classes. Visions of fleece blankets, rocking chairs, and "Vampire Diaries" danced through my head all through the night, and I awoke at 8:00 am, ready. I gathered my blanket. I placed myself comfortably in my rocking chair with the foot rest lifted. I picked up the remote control and began to access Netflix,...

And what do you think happened? At that very moment, a text came in from my personal trainer (aka Shulamith Webster) announcing that we we'd be leaving for the gym in 15 minutes. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!? Now granted, our gym attendance has been a bit sporadic lately. There are so many variables that need to align just right in order for us to go. Most of them center around Swen, who needs to be well fed and happy before his mommy can leave him. And then we need someone to leave him with. If both of us are going, that leaves his daddy. But Daddy works and goes to school, so yeah, it's difficult to make it happen. We did well during the summer before Matt and I went back to school, and we even had one really great week last month when we went five days (yay, us!). But that quickly fell apart the following week when Matt began this new job, which required five 8-hour days of training.

I guess Shulamith decided we would hop back on the wagon today, but did it have to be first thing in the morning so as to upset my glorious plan? Hmmm. All I can say is I hope it was worth it. We better have burned off every single calorie from that Chocolate Stampede.

A warm fleece blanket, my rocking chair, and "Vampire Diaries." Forever just a dream.