"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. 

"I have to be fine. We have a fake holiday to celebrate!"

Yesterday, while shopping at Costco, I stopped by the pharmacy to get the second dose of my Shingrix vaccine, so I don't get sick from shingles when I'm old. Two months ago, when I got the first shot, I literally felt nothing. I didn't even feel the needle going in, let alone any side effects afterward, so I was confident it would be the same way this time. 

Not exactly.

Immediately after receiving the shot, I told Shulamith, "That really hurt, and now my arm is super sore. But no worries. I'll be just fine. I have to be fine. We have a fake holiday to celebrate tomorrow!"

To clarify, we are non-natives to Utah and also to the LDS Church. I joined the Church as a young adult shortly before I got married, and Gerald joined about 13 years later. Until 10 years ago, we had never lived in Utah.

Can we just agree that the culture here can be a bit baffling to us non-natives? I didn't say "bad;" I said "baffling." One tradition in particular that I find hilarious is the giant celebration on July 24th. Please don't be mad at me, my dear Utah-native friends, but in the outside world, this is just not a thing. In July, most wards do something to honor pioneers. Oftentimes, they sing pioneer songs in sacrament meeting as we did today. The youth go on Pioneer Trek, and people remember their pioneer ancestors who paved the way for our church to exist today. But no. Outside of Utah, they do not rinse and repeat the 4th of July, just 20 days after it already happened! I have zero memories of fireworks or parades or barbecues on July 24th until I moved to Utah. 

Charitable person that I am, I have on occasion referred to July 24th as a "fake holiday." You see, in my family, I am the pioneer! Not one of my ancestors as far back as I've been able to trace was ever a member of the LDS Church. No one in my family braved cold and snow or illness and angry mobs to walk the trail to Zion. I am a first generation church member and the only member in my original family. That doesn't mean the pioneers and their heritage aren't important to me. They are. I'm proud to be one of them.

But a second 4th of July celebration is not my idea of fun. I don't love the actual one, truth be told. Fireworks scare me, and I'm not a fan of sitting out in the blistering heat to watch parades. So once that day is over, I'm done. No more fireworks. "The 24th is not a real holiday, and we don't celebrate fake ones," I tell my kids. 

Of course that statement couldn't be further from the truth.

In reality, we celebrate the coolest fake holiday ever! But really. At one point today, I asked aloud, "Don't you feel so sad for all the families that don't celebrate Halfway Christmas?" Everyone nodded and voiced agreement. It's a glorious holiday (albeit a fake one). It's our tiny bit of Christmas joy in June. It's the magic of holiday season, minus the stress. It's practically perfect!

We usually choose the Sunday nearest to June 25th, so today was the day. As we gathered, some of us wearing last year's Christmas jammies, Christmas music played in the background. We feasted on sausage gravy and biscuits, hash browns, and our fave green onion cheese ball with crackers. Everything was so delicious, probably because I didn't cook any of it, myself. 

Next we opened presents, one gift each, chosen so thoughtfully by the person who drew our name. We had planned to watch a Christmas movie, something we've done in past years on Halfway Christmas, but after many rounds of "Game of Things," it was already late, so we forfeited the movie and ate dessert: fresh strawberry shortcake with whipped topping. 

Happy Halfway Christmas to you, my dear readers and friends. 

My Big Fat Utah Ward

Ten years ago next month, we left Billings, Montana and moved to Utah. Eli had just graduated from high school, and Seth had recently turned 11, so the timing was right for a big move. We lived in Montana only seven years; still, I'm so grateful for that little pause between Washington and Utah. I made some cherished and forever friends.

During our seven years in Billings, we were part of two wards. The Metra Ward was truly like no other. What it lacked in numbers it made up for in spirit, in friendship, and in love. We were welcomed in with wide open arms and began to serve almost immediately. I was in the relief society presidency within three weeks of our arrival, and Gerald started teaching gospel doctrine a few months after that. You hear the term "ward family," often in our church. This. This Metra Ward was the definition of a ward family. 

That said, we struggled for sure with membership and activity; many people had two or even three callings just to keep the ward functioning. I wonder if that struggle is what made us all so close? What do you think, former Metra Ward members? We never missed a ward activity; even if we were tired, we'd think to ourselves, "What if no one else comes? That would suck for the people who planned this. We need to go!" Eventually, a major stake reorganization obliterated our little Metra Ward. We were all sad. Some were scattered to and fro to different wards in the stake, and then a few of us joined some others to create a new ward, the Skyview Ward. This change was hard for me, because I had to leave my super fun calling as Relief Society President and become the Primary Chorister. Yikes, that one stretched my abilities to the max, but in the end, I mostly enjoyed it.

In 2011, as we prepared to move to Utah, I remember telling Seth how big our new ward would surely be. "You will have so many kids in your primary class!" I assured him. I couldn't have been more wrong. We moved to Sandy/Midvale and into the Union Park 6th Ward. Yes, it was stronger in terms of membership than the Metra Ward in Billings, but not by that much. Seth's primary class included three little girls and just one other boy.

Again, we felt so welcome and needed. Gerald  began teaching gospel doctrine, and I taught gospel essentials, until I was called into Young Women's, my most favorite organization. I was so happy to be there, but then (just like in Montana), massive stake reorganization cancelled out the 6th Ward. This time the change was even harder, because almost everyone from the former 6th ward moved to the 4th ward; just a small handful of families, including ours, were placed in the 3rd ward. I remember Emily texting me before we even left the stake center that day: "I think you and I are still together!" Of course she and Trent proceeded to move out of the stake almost immediately. Blah! Soon, though, Gerald and I were called to teach gospel doctrine, and that was way fun for a little over a year until COVID hit and everything shut down. But one very cool thing happened in the short time we were in the 3rd ward; a few fun girls invited Emily and me to join their book group, and that was awesome. I shall remain in that group with those lovely ladies; Sandy isn't that far away.

In November, we moved here, and suddenly, I understood what everyone was talking about. I now know what it's like to be in a "big fat Utah ward." Haha! It's so different. You can easily get lost among the people. It feels like stake conference every week! I'm not sure exactly how many members are in our ward, but I've heard the number 900 float around! That isn't surprising because every week, they read in 20 - 30 new names, it seems like. And everywhere around us and far into the wilderness, new homes are sprouting up from the dirt. We've been in the ward seven months, and I still feel like a visitor. We haven't gotten to speak yet (guys, you know how sad this makes me, when I'm used to speaking 4 or 5 times a year), and we don't have callings. 

This is no one's fault. Our kind bishop is doing everything humanly possible to make people feel welcome, but let's face it; the guy has to be overwhelmed! Same with our sweet relief society president. When I was RS president, I could barely keep up with all the sisters in our tiny Metra Ward; this lady has at least five times as many. And then there's the primary president, herding like 5,000 kids (only slight hyperbole) into the right classes and finding teachers to teach them. Oh my! I did do one fun thing here about a month ago. The first Sunday we got to return to in-person, 2nd-hour classes, the gospel doctrine teacher posted on Facebook that he needed a sub. Say what??? I waited one hour, giving time for people already established in the ward to volunteer, but no one did. "I can sub!" I posted. And they let me! Woo, it was so, so much fun. It was a giant class, and the people were wonderful. I hadn't realized how much I missed teaching gospel doctrine.

While it's kinda cool to experience a "big fat Utah ward," firsthand, after a while it's not so fun anymore. This time, when they reorganize the stake and split up our ward, I won't be sad. I've heard rumors that's gonna happen here pretty soon, and I hope those rumors are true. Excited to see how that all shakes out and what opportunities lie head.

Every day a lovely day (and show up at the barricade)!

Two weeks ago, when I checked the calendar and realized that three of the five weeks between spring and summer semesters were already behind me, I made a decision: I will enjoy every second of every day of the remaining two weeks. 

I will make every day a lovely day! 

I will sleep lots and not rush anywhere. I will hang out with the people I love, read good books, binge Netflix, and drink lots of Diet Coke. I will walk first thing in the morning to beat the heat, then again in coolness of evening to get my final daily steps. I will lounge by the pool and relax in my backyard roasting marshmallows for S'mores. I will play pickleball, even though I SUCK at it, and I will blog! Many of these things I already do on the regular, but during these two final weeks of break, I promised myself to slow down and find all the joy in them. 

And I have. Every day a lovely day.

A couple other opportunities came along to add to the loveliness. Eli and Amanda and I went to see Les Miserables at Hale Centre Theatre. Les Mis is my favorite musical of all time, which says a lot because I love musical theater. I've seen the show many times, from high school productions all the way to Broadway. The messages of hope, grace, and redemption touch my soul every time. Show up at the barricade (whatever your personal barricade looks like)!  

This time was no different. You'd think I'd be able to get through a production of Les Mis without crying; I know exactly what is going to happen, and I know the words to every last song. But no. When Jean Valjean looked to God and prayed for the safety of Marius, whom he sees as the "son" he never had, well, I kinda lost it. 

"Bring him peace

Bring him joy

He is young

He is only a boy."

I think my strong reaction is the product of being the mom to so many young adults. I'm sure there's an exhausted, sleep deprived mother of littles reading this who would murder me for this comment, but parenting young adults is by far the most challenging gig I've ever experienced. Their problems are no longer ones I can solve with a kiss and a band-aid; theirs are adult-sized problems, and I feel each one so deeply as though it were my own. I so desperately want to fix the world for them, make it fair, make it kind. I can't always do that, and it hurts so bad when I can't, but I can promise them this: I will always show up. I will always show up at the barricade for them.

Yesterday, it was all about food. I may have invited all of us to Eli and Amanda's cute little house, haha, because they have a nice grill and I need a new one. It was pure delight to sit outside and feast on burgers, corn on the cob, potato salad, chips, and Drumstick ice cream cones. Everything was so good, but Eli's grilled burgers are the best. Mmmm. Then we played a rousing game of Forbidden Words, which Eli and Amanda won, but I think Amanda might have cheated. Very possible. Bahahaha!

We are down to just under a week until summer classes begin, five days to be exact. It's fine. Five whole days of sleep, food, sun, long walks, books, TV, family, S'mores, plus a movie in a theater with popcorn and a giant DC, equals perfection.

Every day a lovely day (and show up at the barricade)!