"We gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashin'"

"Hello Phoenix! The E-Street Band is here tonight to call upon the power of art, of music, of rock and roll in dangerous times. We are here in celebration and defense of our American ideals, democracy, our Constitution, and our sacred American promise. The America that I know, the America that I've written about for 50 years, is currently in the hands of a corrupt, incompetent, racist, reckless, and treasonous administration. Tonight, we call upon all of you to join us in choosing hope over fear, democracy over authoritarianism, the rule of law over lawlessness, ethics over unbridled corruption, resistance over complacency, truth over lies, unity over division, and peace over war!"

And so the legendary Bruce Springsteen opened his concert Thursday night at the Mortgage Matchup Arena in Phoenix. Arizona. The crowd erupted in cheers of solidarity. 

And I was there to witness it. To participate. To feel. To absorb the energy of hope, the voice of reason, the grace of this incredible performer, unwilling to stay silent, honorable enough to use his platform to spread truth and to proclaim that we can do better, that we must do better.

I had never attended one of his concerts, but it was definitely on my bucket list. As I've noted before in this blog, my not-so-humble opinion is that the 70s was hands down the best decade for music. Ever. Yes, there are talented artists who have come later, and yes, they have written and recorded some really lovely songs. But I will die on this hill: No other decade even comes close to matching the quantity or the brilliance of the artists that blessed us with the music of the 70s.

I have far too many favorites to name them all, but let me share my top three: Elton John, Neil Diamond, and "the boss" himself, Bruce Springsteen. I won't ever get to see those first two perform live again, so I'm profoundly grateful to have seen Elton John twice and Neil Diamond three times. Unfortunately, Neil now suffers from progressive Parkinson's disease and won't be touring again, and  Elton John has chosen to forgo touring in order be home with his husband and their two sons. 

When I heard that Bruce Springsteen was adding an unplanned tour as an act of resistance against our insane president and his loyal minions, I knew I had to go. SLC was not on the tour list, so I looked for the closest city and cheapest airfare, and Phoenix won! Wednesday morning, Gerald and I left the freezing cold wind, and flew down to 83 degree sunshine, palm trees, and so much cacti! It's so big and so cool!

At 7:30 p.m. Thursday night, accompanied by the E-Street Band, 76-year-old Bruce Springsteen took the stage and performed for three solid hours. His energy was bananas! And contagious. But more importantly, his honesty and integrity were palpable. You could just sense it. He didn't sing my favorite, "Tougher Than the Rest," and I didn't think he would; the vibe of the concert was different, and that one wouldn't really fit, but he closed with my second favorite, his rendition of Bob Dylan's "Chimes of Freedom." This one always reminds me of my grandpa. He would have loved that song, and he would have loved Bruce Springsteen. He would have admired his strength and conviction to fight for freedom and protect the underserved and marginalized among us. Cuz that's what he did. 

Grabbin' just a couple stanzas for you here:

"Flashin' for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashin' for the refugees on their unarmed road of flight
And for each and every underdog soldier in the night
We gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashin'.

Yeah tollin' for the achin' ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused accused misused strung out ones at worst
And for every hung out person in the whole wide universe
We gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashin'."

I expect Bruce Springsteen will perform for many years still. And I will no doubt see him again. Until then, may we join together in the unity of resistance as we "gaze upon the chimes of freedom flashin'."

"That Love is all there is, Is all we know of Love" - Easter musings.

On the surface, these two lines from poet Emily Dickinson may sound like a spoonful of pathos-dripping soup, but what if they actually express the truthiest truth of all? On occasion, when I've been asked what it means to me to be a theist, one who believes in God, even a God I cannot prove, I've explained my feelings like this: I love my five children; I love them so much. I can't prove that I love them, and yet, it is the surest thing I know, a truth I know better than I know anything else.

For me, it's the same with God. I can't prove God's existence, yet I know it is true. I've felt God's presence and protection. I've felt lifted, carried, nurtured, inspired, seen, heard, cherished, and even (occasionally) directed by God. Most importantly, I've felt loved. 

So when Dickinson proclaims "That Love is all there is, Is all we know of Love," in a spiritual, global sense, I believe her. I'm convinced that if we could fully comprehend the magnitude of God's infinite, universal, radical, love, the result would be not only healing but life-transforming. Now full transparency, I'm not super good at this. I tend to be a "glass half empty" soul, a realist, if you will. Add to that my super hero persona: Anxiety Girl: able to jump to the worst possible conclusion in a single bound! But that's okay with God. Because God holds space for me to be just as I am: fears, flaws and all. God is well aware that mortality is challenging. It's messy and complicated, and sometimes we're left feeling fully broken. But God assures us, in both text and action, that we are not alone in the brokenness. We are not forgotten or judged or punished or shamed. We are only loved. Because Love is all there is. 

Easter reminds us of that constant Love, the hope it brings, the joy it shouts, and the warmth it radiates! I felt all that this past Sunday, as my family gathered for Easter brunch. Gerald and I are lucky! Four of our five kids live nearby and we see them often. But this day was special because we had not only our four local kids, but also their four respective spouses/girlfriends. It was a full house for sure, with 14 of us: ten adults, one teenager, and three kids. Imagine, if you will, the full-on chaos. 

But for this mama, it was beautiful chaos. 

Human memory is faulty. Years from now, when we tell this story of Easter 2026, our individual reflections will differ. One Easter message I heard on Sunday explains it well: "The details change, but the Love remains."

Indeed.

The Madness of March

March had some definite high points. I spent most of my spring break in Oregon with my mom. After returning, we celebrated Eli's birthday at the new Macaroni Grill in South Jordan. Mac Grill is a legend in the Erichsen-Webster family. Four of our five kids (Shulamith, Isaiah, Eli, and Seth) worked there at some point in their high school, college, or post-college years, as did Shulamith's husband, Matt, and Eli's wife, Amanda. It's just a thing we do. I, myself, never worked at Mac Grill; however, I've spent many holidays there: Mother's Day, Valentine's Day, even Thanksgiving and Christmas (!) because yes, I'd rather hang at Mac Grill, eating chicken parm and fried mac and cheese bites and watching my babies work, than spend a holiday without them. We can always celebrate a different day.

It's been several years since the last Erichsen-Webster server worked at Mac Grill, and even though the Murray location subsequently closed, being at the new location, with similar decor, similar menu, and even a few of the same employees, created a bit of nostalgia for all of us. Happy, happy birthday, Eli! You make life better for everyone, and I am a proud mama!

Another March high point was celebrating our friend Bekah's baby girl, to arrive in another few weeks. What a fun shower! Thank you for inviting us, Bekah. We can't wait to meet her!

Full transparency, though, March has been challenging in ways I hadn't anticipated. "The madness of March," I've taken to calling it. Anyone who knows me at all, knows I've struggled for decades with intense anxiety, objectified to fear of terminal diseases. The disheartening part is that prior to this month, it had been a couple years since this demon flared, and it returned with a vengeance, as if to ruthlessly declare, "Nope, guess again, you're not totally free from this shit." And I really thought I might be. The last couple months have been filled with medical talk: my mom in the hospital/rehab for five weeks, a close friend diagnosed with a serious condition requiring surgery, another friend in Washington with a brain tumor, and more. Too much medical stuff for this anxiety brain. Too many triggers all at once. A pastor friend recently commented in a sermon (paraphrased), "What is happening to you in the middle of the night that is more powerful than God's love?" Nothing, Hansen, absolutely nothing. Now I just need to convince my serotonin-deprived brain of this truth at 3:00 in the morning in the dark.

To end on a brighter note, I listened to several books in March; I hate driving, and audio books are what keep me sane in the chaos of commuting up to the U. and down to UVU multiple times each week. And since I don't have time during the semester to actually "read" books when I'm drowning in essays, the audio option is a huge blessing. Two of the books I listened to touch upon the value of writing. Both introduce women, strong women might I add, who lived in a time when their strength was not particularly valued. Both women write. Regularly. Sybil Van Antwerp, the main character in The Correspondent writes letters throughout her 73-year life, letters of all contexts that ultimately reveal the truth of her life story. Martha Ballard, the voice of the historical novel The Frozen River writes a daily journal entry of her experiences as a mother to nine and respected midwife in the late 1700s. Her journal entires begin early in her marriage after her husband teachers her how to read and write, until the end of the novel in 1790, when she is 54.

Both women mention that through their writing, their stories will document their existence long after they are gone, long after their children are gone. Their writing will remain. Their writing will be proof that they existed and that they mattered. My new blog book arrived earlier this month, with my posts from 2025. It is my 17th book, and I am nearing 1,000 posts between itslegs.blogspot.com and the far less prolific thereisroomforyou.blogspot.com. I may hit 1,000 this year, and if not, for sure in early 2027. I may throw a party! Would you all come? I am like Sybil and Martha. My blog shares my story. While its topics are far and wide and sometimes crazy, all my passions from parenting to politics, from religion to rhetoric, from the simplest joys to the scariest fears, it's grown to be the record of our family, the Erichsen-Webster legacy.

So keep on writing, everyone! Tell your truth. Fight back against the insidious infestation of AI, and write all on your own. You all have stories to tell. Meanwhile, send me all the prayers, positive thoughts, good juju, whatever you got that I can subdue this freakin' anxiety, get the semester wrapped up in the next four weeks, and catch a plane to Germany in 41 days! We've got this. Peace, everyone! 

Draw a 3D chair??? ...and "My sister is just weird."

Draw an analog clock to show the time 1:50. Subtract 23 from 100, then subtract 8. Draw a picture of a 3D chair. My mom is recently home from a month-long hospital/rehab stay. Before she could be released from the rehab facility, she needed to demonstrate that she was strong enough to take care of herself and her basic needs, AND she had to pass a cognitive test, which included the above tasks. Yes, I could draw a clock correctly and do basic subtraction. But if all five of my children's lives depended on it, I could not draw a chair, 3D or otherwise. And I don't think I have any cognitive impairment. What I have, or more precisely, what I am, is a polarized auditory learner. I prefer, no I need, to receive information by hearing it. Visually, though? Nada. Nichts. Nothing. I don't know what anything looks like, I can't read diagrams that supposedly represent reality, physical maps are nothing but a bunch of Top Ramen thrown on a page, and I certainly can't draw a 3D chair! This is my best effort. Ha!

This week is spring break at both my schools. My schools' calendars rarely align, but this year they did, so I'm here in Portland this week, soaking up the rain and visiting my mom. She is still pretty weak and tires easily, so we're just chillin' here at her house. Wednesday evening, I got to see two of my cute nieces, Carley and Katie, along with Carley's son, Finn. (We missed you, Leslie!). They brought takeout, and we all enjoyed food, catching up on each others' lives, and lots of laughter.

Last night, my mom, Tom and Yvonne, and I returned to the most nostalgic restaurant of my childhood, Saylor's Old Country Kitchen. You can read about it on that link, but last night's visit was no different from the dozens of others, dating back to our early childhoods. The menu, still shaped like a big steak, included a picture of their menu from 1972. Barely anything was different, other than the prices (my 8 oz. filet would have cost $4.95!). Still, it was served piping hot, with a single onion ring on top surrounding a square of melting butter. Just like it always was. 

Being there brought to mind all the memories for my mom, Tom, and me. We weren't perfect on dates, but the experiences were clear. As we drove home, Tom said, "'There's Russellville School....and a bunch of other random meaningless stuff." Bahahahaha! I couldn't stop laughing. When Yvonne asked what he was talking about, he said, "My sister is just weird."

When we were kids, every time we passed by this particular school (which was LOTS because of its location), I would say, "There's Russellville School. Every time I went by that school, I wanted to know the name of it, and now that I know the name of it, every time I go by that school, I say 'There's Russellville School.'"

Do you think that's weird? 

This led to a discussion of my other childhood quirks: Order of the Pillows, flying lessons, feeding the beach, ordicles, and cold-heat.  

Maybe a little weird? But you know what's weirder? Asking someone to draw a 3D chair to prove they don't have dementia.

Kennedy Says - Part X

127.  In our ward there are many, many children. So on Fast Sunday, oftentimes children go up, one after another, to share their testimonies. After listening to several of these kids, Kennedy could no longer contain her confusion.

Kennedy (whispering to her mom): There must be something wrong with these kids.

128. Sunday was Easter, and Kennedy was exhausted. She hadn't slept enough the night before, and she was tired from all the Easter activities. She just wanted to go home, which would have been fine, except i wanted to get a picture of everyone first.

Kennedy: I don't want to be in a picture. I just wanna go home!

Shulamith: It will just take a second, and then you can go.

Kennedy: It will take forever, and then Her will say, "No, we need to take it one more time. My hair doesn't look good, and I need to fix my makeup and change my shirt."

(Note: she's not wrong.)

8,500 steps by 9:00 a.m.???

Last Saturday I had 8,500 steps before 9:00 a.m. I aim for 10,000 daily and almost always get them, but 8,500 before 9:00 a.m. is not typical. How did this happen? It's a bit of a saga.

To begin, I've written in the past about my friend Trudy and our history of walking together. It took place over the seven years I lived in Billings, Montana from 2004-2011. You can click that link above if you want to know more, but the interesting thing about Trudy and me is that all we ever did together was walk. I'm trying to remember if we ever did anything else. Like did we ever go to lunch together or to a movie or shopping. We must have, right? But I really can't remember.

When I moved to Utah 15 years ago, we stopped walking. Well, we didn't actually stop walking; we stopped walking together. Obviously. Through the years, I think Trudy had a few different walking partners. My friend Emily walked with me a couple days a week, but other than that, I was pretty much on my own (thank goodness for audiobooks!) until 2020, when Shulamith and I built houses in the same neighborhood. Now she is my walking partner, and I am so grateful!

It's been rough six months for Trudy. Mortality sucks sometimes, and this has been a particularly sucky time for her. She lost her beloved husband/best friend/soulmate in September, and on the heels of that, broke two of her toes. Just as they were nearly healed, she had another medical condition arise that required surgery! When that happened, she wanted to call me, but the only way she could think to do that was to call and talk to me while she walked around her living room. (This represents the extent to which she connects me and our relationship to walking, haha!) So that's exactly what she did.

As we hung up from that conversation, it occurred to me that we could have been doing this all along, all 15 years since I left Montana. The technology is there! We could still go for walks and talk to each other; we'd just need to use our phones. When I suggested that option to Trudy, she was all in. So Saturday morning at 8:00, I bundled up in my warms, put my AirPods in my ears, set my watch to record my walk, and called Trudy. And just like that it was nearly 9:00 and I had 8,500 steps! That's how it always was with our walks. The time speeds by, without ever much pause in the conversation.

We plan to do this every Saturday morning, moving forward. My only regret is that it took me 15 years to come up with the idea.

Swen-isms: Part X

Imagine that. The 10th year of Swen's words of humor, intelligence, and incredible wisdom. His thoughts have matured through the years, but he still entertains all of us with his genuine, unique voice.

348. I drive Swen to school two days a week, when our schedules align. It's only a 7-minute drive but adds exponential joy to my day, as he always has something substantive to talk about. Yesterday, it was this:

Me: Your mom showed me the video of you riding your bike down that steep hill. Impressive!

Swen: No, not impressive at all.

Me: I wouldn't do it. No way.

Swen: Yes you would. It wasn't hard.

Me: I wouldn't. 

Swen: What would it take for you to ride down that hill?

Me: Eeeeek, I don't know. A lot.

Swen: You'd do it if Harris could be President. 

Me: You win. Yep, I'd do it for that.

349. I substituted at Swen's school Monday. I was scheduled for a Spanish class, but when I arrived, the secretary informed me that I'd only have two periods of Spanish and I would need to sub in an art class the three other periods. Swen doesn't take Spanish, but I knew he had an art class, so I quickly checked the roll sheets, and sure enough, one of my art periods was his class. I texted Shulamith to tell her and to see if I should warn Swen. She thought I should. Here is my text thread with Swen:

Me: Hey, I'm subbing in your art class today. Do you want me to say hi or pretend I don't know you.

Swen: You don't know me!

Me: Done!