Gentle Confirmation

There are always two choices. Two paths to take. One is easy. And its only reward is that it's easy.

Sometimes we are called upon to stand alone.  The metaphorical line in the sand, the point beyond which no further advance will be accepted or made, has to be drawn.  The Universe requires it of us sometimes. 

Sometimes the line in the sand is the narrow path we have to walk.  And we can only draw inch by inch as we tenuously balance.  My dad says it's like being in a dark room and finally finding a doorway.   Opening the door only to discover that the next doorway is just as black and unknown.  But, knowing that you still have to take the step and faithfully trust that there will be a floor to land on.  Scary.  But, I think there's a difference between being afraid and being a coward.  One of them still takes the step.

I had to draw the line and step to the other side and withdraw from the crowd of median commonplace today.  It was time to climb the hill and sit alone atop it.  I have no idea how many of my friends will follow me here and how many of them will think I'm nuts for letting go of a nearly, sure thing.  It doesn't matter too much to me.   I know I'm not alone in my efforts to create valuable theatre for children.  This will happen, and it will be good because our motivations will be right.  I can rest on my integrity tonight and sleep well.

Physical bravery is a basic animal instinct.  Moral bravery is a much higher and truer courage.

Draw the line, walk the path.  Expect the pain, embrace the growth.  It's what we're supposed to be doing here.  It ain't easy, but I didn't choose the easy path on purpose.

Doggies, and chickens, and kitties...



The Dark Avenger (so named by Zeke)
He is neither dark nor an avenger.

 My cat, Lily, had babies in February.  They're finally getting cute.  They looked like little lumps of moldy, hairy clay for about 6weeks.
Now they play and jump and climb.  They keep me entertained during the day...they don't amuse me very much at night, though.

We didn't necessarily want a litter of kittens, but I think that it's important for children to experience the cycle of life at least once.  We could feel Lily's belly growing and feel the babies moving inside her.  They heard her screeches of pain during birth and knew my anxiety, too, when her first baby was born breech.  (I did NOT like seeing my cat in such pain.)

We have another cat, too.  Ole--rhymes with Holy.  He's not bright but he's really funny.  He's the baby daddy. 
We also have a dog, Jazzy.  She's a humane shelter resucee.  We fell in love with her when we first met her.  I'm pretty sure the feeling was mutual.  She's a good girl, extremely laid back and used to getting stepped on by blind kids.  We don't walk her enough.  Transparency is good, right?
Outside we have 9 chickens, thus we eat MANY eggs!  Home grown and not filled with creepy chemicals is best!  We got them last year and love it.  My dad does most of the work.  He mixes a special feed for them and talks to them and I think one of his big, fat, Reds has a crush on him.  Chickens actually bond easily.
So, that's 9 chickens, 6 cats, a dog and a nephew.  That's too many pets.

Anyhoo, I thought it would be cool to take a break from my normal writing MO and just picture blog today.  Enjoy the babies!

The kitten formerly know an as Smeagol.  We call her Fonzie now. 
That name will probably change, too.

Poor Laurence the Monkey.



Lily and Jazzy enjoying the mid-morning sun.

 



Jazzy snoozing...again.

 

Today's haul from the coop.  Babies!

Ole, fishing, I guess.  It's never easy to tell what he's up to.
One time he attacked a bag of cottonballs and the cottonballs won.



Jimmy the white chicken and one of my dad's Rhode Island Reds.



Smeagol/Fonzie/Whatever the new name is.  She really is my favorite.  I just don't know what to call her yet.



Ole seems to always be chasing or antagonizing Lily.



Jazzy loves to love on the babies.  The kitten looks stressed but he's not.  His name is Harvey.



So, that's our allotment of animals.  I figure there's room for more, but not right now.  I think we need a pig.  Maybe, next summer.

144,000 Minutes

On January 22, 2011, at about 5:30 in the evening, I left the Bountiful Events Center in Utah.  I'd just been through a 21 hour audition process that had begun 2 days before.  I was exhausted in every possible sense.  I wasn't sure if I had landed the part I so very much wanted.  I still don't know.  That was 71 days ago.  Now, today, March 27, it's 100 days until the opening night of The Nauvoo Pageant.  I am next to desperate to know if I will don a costume and join the ranks on stage that night.  I have to wait...but I know I'll know some time in the next 100 days which side of the curtain is mine.

100 days is a significant time period.  My friend, Anna knows this too well.  Her baby boy spent his first 100 days of pre-mature life in NICU.   Born 13 weeks too soon.  He weiged less than 3 pounds.  He's alive because he wants to be.  Anna says, 'all bad things come to an end.'  And she's right.  They do end.  And then more bad things, sometimes happen.  But, so much wonderful hppens, too.  How much happened for them in 100 days.  



 
Les Cent Jours.  That's what Napoleon would've called it.  Matter of fact that's what The Prefect of Paris did call it when referring to Napoleon's 100 Days leading to disaster.  It was campaign that included The War of the Seventh Coalition, and ultimately Waterloo, which of course resulted in his being declared an outlaw by The Congress of Vienna.  And then finally...exile to Saint Helena.  An awful lot was crowded into 100 days for poor ol' Napoleon.

Over the course of 100 days in 1994, 800,000 people were murdered in the small east African country of Rwanda.  April 6 through mid-July.  800,000 people...20% of the nation's population.  What could possibly precipitate a genocide of such immense magnitude in just 100 days?  The answer:  cultural and ethnic differences.  Elementary yet incredibly complex.  Hutu and Tutsi.  Tribes and  Beliefs clashing.
For 91 days, 8 women crouched and huddled silently together in a tiny hidden bathroom in a Rwandan hill village.  One of them, Immacule' Ilibagiza lived to share her 100 days.  She could hear the men, who just hours before slaughtered her family, taunting her on the other side of the wall.  They told her they could smell her...and they would find her and finish what they had started.  In that bathroom, no more than 3 feet long and 4 feet wide, taking turns with the other women, sitting on the toilet to sleep, she discovered God.  She found atonement and forgiveness through Him.  How do you find forgiveness and compassion and mercy when your family is wiped clean from the earth?  When your friends and village and school and home is gone?  Brutally taken in a holocaust of the heart?  She wrote a book...you should read it.  "Left to Tell: Discovering God In The Midst of the Rwandan Holocaust." 
She describes her 100 days. 

"But I came to learn that God never shows us something we aren't ready to understand. Instead, He lets us see what we need to see, when we need to see it. He'll wait until our eyes and hearts are open to Him, and then when we're ready, He will plant our feet on the path that's best for us...but it's up to us to do the walking."

She describes her brother,  Damascene's, final minutes on earth. He didn't negotiate or beg for mercy.  Instead, he felt sorry for them...killing people like it was child's game.  He was ready to see God...could feel Him and was ready to walk with Him.  He told them to ask forgiveness before it was too late for them.

The pinnacle moment for me, in HER 100 days is when she heard God's voice tell her,  "Faith moves mountains, if faith were easy there would be no mountains."   That's the straight quote, but I say it all the time.  Faith ain't for sissys.  Faith can move the mountains, but if faith were easy, the mountians would all be gone.  Those of us willing to confront the adversity of life are willing to climb the mountains...move the mountains...and leave the mountains behind us. 

And, there in 144,000 minutes sit opportunities, blessings, lessons, pain, ache, love, and joy. 

My 100 days is simply waiting for the opening night of The Nauvoo Pageant.  I have not deluded myself into thinking that it will be easy.  The test of patience and endurance is quite real to me.  But, I'm not planning any major offensive movements in France...or anywhere.  My children are well and whole.  And I am home...surrounded by my family.  Perhaps my 100 days is the path for me to walk.  I think God put my feet here and I'm ready to walk it. 

I am led by faith.




 

The Old Rugged Cross

On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross,
The emblem of suff’ring and shame;
And I love that old cross where the dearest and best
For a world of lost sinners was slain.

I attended a funeral today.  It was not someone I had ever met.  A man my husband's family knew.  It was the largest funeral to which I've ever been.  Over 300 in attendance.  It was held in the 'Old School Gym' in Kelliher, Minnesota.  The man himself, Shorty Hillman, was from Waskish--a town 20 or so miles further to the North.  A town that for the duration of the funeral and dinner was drained of inhabitants.  Although, it really only held a few dozen people on any given day. 

As Shorty's family filed into the gym, the descendant's nephew, a pastor played upon the Clavinova, 'The Old Rugged Cross.'  56.  That was the number of his family that walked past me.  I counted them.  His sweet wife, Marllys leading the march in her motorized wheelchair...smiling though obviously sad to have to make this march alone.  It was standard funeral fare.  Songs.  Preaching.  Scriptures.  None of it overcooked nor long winded.  It was actually refreshing.  Lots of laughs.  Few tears.  Memories shared.

Got me to thinking about what we do with life.  What do we have to give at the end?  What did Shorty offer when he got home?  It's a burden sometimes to be here.  It doesn't seem natural to me.  I have lamented many times that I'm a Stranger here...in the world.  I think our bodies are like wet overalls..heavy and old, never quite fitting correctly.  I get homesick and melancholy often.  Longing to be back with my 'people.'  I am full there.  Complete.  Perfect.  When I get back my mission will have been fulfilled.  Makes me think of Matthew 5:48.  A call to be perfect.  To complete the job.  To come home. 
I think He misses us, too.

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it some day for a crown.

Some day we'll arrive back in His embrace and He'll ask what we have to show Him.  Not in the form of condemnation, but in the form of excitement.  The way a Father would ask his little girl what she's hiding in her hand.  Once, when I was a little girl, my own earthly father asked me exactly that.  My hands muddy and dripping, opened to reveal a tadpole, fat and gasping.  I had, to my thinking, rescued him.  He was at the edge of a puddle and kept flopping himself to the edge no matter how many times I 'helped' him back into the fullness of the water.  My father explained, as the poor little guy gasped his last, that he was ready to move to land and become a bullfrog.  My heart was broken.  I was 6 years old and a murderer of amphibians.  He held me while I cried and told me that God would count that as a good deed, because the intent in my heart was to rescue him. 
Another time, I saved a ground squirrel from the jaws of my sister's cat, Demon.  His head crushed and bleeding, I put him in an old hamster cage.  He writhed for hours, obviously in intense pain.  My parents told me he would die.  But, I refused to believe that my love, alone, wouldn't keep him alive.  I'm sure the analogy to lost relationships is clear and need not be explained.

My life is full of such occasions.  Attempts at rescue.  Inevitable smothering.  Fruitless rescusitation of doomed relationships.  My whole life is paved with the intents of my heart.  I have never purposely hurt someone.  But, often my own insecurities, fears, or pride well up and create a death where one was not intended.  I squish the emotional life right out of people.  I don't mean to.  But, I do...sometimes.  Oh, how it hurts to accidentally pain someone you care about.  I would rather my hand be slammed in the door a thousand times than inadvertently do it once to my child. 

But, The Lord knows my heart.  He knows what I mean.  That's how He will judge me on the Great Day.  I'll drop all my little trophies on the table in front of Him--dead tadpoles, sticky chewed gum, paper clips, rescued ground squirrels, dead butterflies, casseroles delivered, old people visited and loved, prayers uttered, blessing for my children begged, health for my parents petitioned.  All trophies--and all I have to show for my life.  All I have to offer.

I'll thank Him then.  For carrying the old rugged cross.  And leaving it there for me to see on the hill.  I cherish and cling.  I have no doubt that Ol' Shorty cherished and clung.  Neat man from what I hear.  good guy.  Wish I'd met him. Wish I'd seen some of his trophies. Someday, Shorty, someday.

And someday, we'll trade 'em all in for our crowns.  Yes.  I like that.  I can hardly wait.

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it some day for a crown.

Door 11

I just read an article about how mothers and daughters bond.  I found it mostly amusing, if not trite and a bit cliche.  Apparently mothers struggle with letting their daughters 'be' their own woman.  I really haven't reached the point in my mothering career that I have that battle.  I don't know that I ever will.  For the most part I don't think of my daughters as appendages, bound to my way of thinking.  I want them to feel independent and autonomous.  I need them to be. 

My eldest daughter, Kennedy, will be 15 years old in a few months.  She's becoming a woman.  She told me that she is ready to handle herself.  She made a request.  'Mother, I love you and appreciate all that you do for me.  However, I would like for you to let go and allow me to handle my affairs at school and on trips that I take.  And, please understand that I will come to you when I need you.'  I cried 2 tears, from just one eye, and honored her request.  A woman's request.  We've worked to create a line a of communication.  It would not be right for me to ignore such a jump into maturity.  I'm her ghost hitter.  I love who she is.  And am happy she isn't me.

My Maddie.  She is the center of my children.  Maddie in the Middle.  The Green Kangaroo.  She sparkles.  Reminds me of crisp fall, with new frost on the deck, catching sun rays, warming into beautiful mornings.  A beacon of truth and light.  A pursuer of excellence and achievement.  She wants to be more and know more.  She works hard and plays hard.  Eager to help and impatient with injustice.  Quick to recognize 'the least of these,' and to defend.  She is amazing in every sense of the word.  Born late and screaming.  Let the world know she had made it.  Her debut comical.  She still snuggles with me when she is sick, though no longer is my lap large enough.  We've moved to spooning in my bed.  I'll take it.  It won't be there for the taking much longer.
Soon these two will leave.  Time marches... and mocks the while. 

I will be left with Just Julia.  Julia.  Julia.

Julia. Precocious, wise, witty.  I'll never have a problem letting her be her own woman.  I don't have a choice.  Julia is 8.  2nd grade.  Top reader in her class.  Not in her whole grade, as she pointed out to me, just her class.  But, some day she'll beat that Johanna Swedberg!  Julia was born on Halloween.  A pumpkin.  Though not plump and round like most newborns and pumpkins.  Slender.  A face like an adult.  Tiny.  She didn't cry or make any noise.  I worried when she didn't.  The nurse told me she was perfect, just not chatty.  She smiled at me before she ever made a noise.  Smiles--always. 
Julia came from Heaven with a specific delegation.  She knows what it is.  I don't.  She's had me on the bench form the beginning.  She allows me to think I'm coaching the game.  But, I'm not.  Not really.

At 5 months, the doctors told me to get accustomed to the idea that she would not live to be very old.  Part of her brain had not matured and she would not live long.  CTScans and MRI's and tests and IV's in my child's delicate body.  Tiny babies swaddled, but alone in hospital cribs.  I'll never forget the ache and anguish.  Pain.  Hurt.  Even anger.  Trying to never question the Lord's plan, but accept it.  It was hard.
I don't remember when the pinnacle moment came for me.  The moment of acceptance and the willingness to let go of my pride.  It doesn't matter.  She is mine...they all are. We are sealed for all time, literally and spiritually.  And yet, they belong to the eternities.  I accept their plans and missions.  I'll help prepare them for their work.  I enjoy being their mom.  I want to be their mom.

The year we moved to a new school, town, state...we established a routine of mom picking up the girls at Door 11.  It's at the back of the school.  Quieter, fewer kids.  Only a couple of teachers use that door.  It was a habit for all of us.  Sometimes, i would bring a picnic snack and we would sit in the grass and enjoy the sun kisses.  It became our tradition.  Part of our families lexicon.
And, now...Jules is in 2nd grade.  Practically a woman.  She is the last to meet me at Door 11.  Kennedy has moved to an entirely new school in a different town.  Maddie meets me at a door that is more convenient to her schedule.   Time marched on. 

As, Julia peeled herself out of my van this morning she inquired dutifully, "Door 11 at 4:15 , mom?"  Perfect symphony to my ears.  Yes, Door 11 at 4:15.  Always.

Gone are the days of Disney Channel and Nickelodeon in my home. Barbies and Dollys get less and less face time.  Snuggles and smooches for no reason.  Grubby hands presenting me with blades of grass, just for being mommy.  All absconded by time...left for more womanly pursuits.  Oh, how I desperately miss it.  I wish I had known to appreciate more. To relish and find the treasure in the moments of time. 
No matter.  Time knows where to find me.  Door 11.  4:15.  I'll be there.

100 Day Countdown

Today is 113 days until the 'curtain' goes up on the Nauvoo Pageant. 
Specifically, 113 days, 23 hours and 36 minutes...but who's counting?

decided that I will blog each day from the mark of 100 days.  That means that somewhere in the middle of that, I'll know whether or not I'm going to Nauvoo to be in the Pageant or just as an audience member.


It also means, that if I DO get to go as a Pageant member, that somwhere in there I'll be leaving for rehearsals in Provo.  So, it'll be a challenge to blog everyday.  But, I will.  Some days will be more bloggy than others.  But, I'll do it.




I think it'll be nice to look back and track it.
So, that's the plan.  Look for the first blog on March 27.

Carving the Arts at BSU

It's snowing softly, quietly today.  Yet, the fires of anger and frustration are burning deep in my spirit.  I've not slept well these last weeks.  I thought it was because my kids were sick and I was keeping a vigilant ear to their needs.  And perhaps it is.  But, I think it's my deep conscious mind telling me I have rested too long on an issue that needs voice.  Not the kind of voice that screams with fervor and zeal at  injustice and then blanches into boredom and normalcy.  NO, SIR!  This is an issue that speaks to the core of who I am.
Recently, it was announced that funding would be cut at Bemidji State University in the Arts Department.  ALL the arts.  I have friends who are professors there.  Professor of what?  Truth. Knowledge. Enlightenment.  Encouragment.  Art!  Men and women who have taught me and with whom I have shared a stage.  I can no longer afford to do nothing but lose sleep. 
Jeremiah Liend,  free-lance artisan, brilliant mind, keeper of the flame has been striving diligently to keep the art program from being cut. 

On his recent FB status he stated, 'just fired a warning shot to Hanson that I'm going to invade his office again Monday. It was not a pleasant letter. It will not be a pleasant meeting. And all hell will follow me.'

Hanson is the President of BSU.  One put there, I am convinced to do the nasty.  I'm guessing he gets sleep at night. 
Here is a response I wrote to J after reading a list of comments written on his status.  I was heartbroken by the lethargy and patheitic ideas presented by some to simply let it happen, as, and I quote, 'You all do not posses the will to affect real change to this system.'

The HELL you say.  I can only sit back and be a good girl for so long.


Dear Jeremiah,
 I know that you're still slumbering--probably not peacefully, as I guess that you seldom have serenity--but sleeping still.  I've just awoken myself.  In more ways than one. 
I've read the list of comments and have thus far remained quietly defiant to the goings-on surrounding the choices at BSU.  I have chosen to reserve my energies for things that I have deemed of higher priority, like children and church work. The fact that I live 25 miles away is yet another factor.  I don't fell like I should say much as one who has lived here for just 3 years.  An outsider.  I'm from the South and good little Southern girls sit quietly and fan themselves whilst the gentlemen plan the war. 
 But, at the mere mention of this topic, my heart bursts in obstinate desire.  It breaks and recoils and my mind rages with ideas and methods of tearing down the establishment, the regime, the administration.  I've never liked fans and I DON'T sit quietly very well.
I'm sure that your friend, Phillip Nelson meant well in his comments and I mean no disrespect.  But, Phillip darling, your green, obtuse ideas are unenlightened and apatheitic.  The kind of thinking that keeps women sitting quietly and men's liberties cast as chaff on the wind.  So, perhaps, Mr. Nelson, we will not succeed per your definition, but, thank heavens I don't live by your definition.   And thank heavens so many others don't either.
I have been re-awakened.  The fire refueled.  The desire to right wrongs can not be held any longer within my spirit. Maybe it was a desire to prove people like Phillip Nelson incorrect or maybe it's a desire to show my children that the world is NOT what other people hand you, but rather what you create. They are blind--not visionless.  It doesn't matter the reasoning.  It's time now for action.  I feel it my responsibility to now step out of my shadow in the corner and fight shoulder to shoulder in this cause. 
After your sleep, expect a call.
Sincerely, Bridget
PS--Mr. Nelson, if you've managed to make it through my whole letter, I extend to you an invitation to join the fray.  We may not win.  We may die trying.  But, we will die regardless.  And the wrongs will be there anyway.  What could be the worst to happen?  We win.  Come, engage.

The invitaion is to all.  Enagage.  I may not be a part of the hell that will follow Jeremiah into the man's office, but I sure will bring my own hell with me. 

Maybe now, I will nap.