Strength

Last Saturday Mariah, Savannah and I went to the art museum at BYU for an exhibit of paintings by Carl Bloch. Bloch is a Danish painter whose works on the life of Christ have been very popular around the world. The exhibit is of originals borrowed from churches and collections around Europe. Many of the paintings were done for alter pieces, really big paintings that hung at the front of chapels behind the alter. At the exhibit, these paintings were set up and framed like they would have been in a church, with columns and pillars. It was all beautifully done.

My favorite of the alter pieces, and of the entire exhibit, is this picture of Christ in Gethsemane. The scriptures say that when Christ was in the garden, “there appeared an angel unto him from heaven; strengthening him.” Always before when I read that scripture I thought of… well I don’t know what I thought, something more forceful; the angel stretching out his mighty arms with power radiating down in a white glow. So when I saw this picture, it really struck me.


Here, strength is given in tenderness and compassion; the angel supporting Christ, holding him up off the ground, with love instead of power. There’s no cheering, “Come on! You can do this!” Just an angel’s embrace.

I’ve thought a lot about this since seeing that picture, and have wondered about how I try to strengthen people, if I try at all, and if it’s loving rather than forceful. And, I’ve thought about the many times that I’ve been strengthened, and remember that honestly feeling loved gave me the support I needed. I’m trying to keep this picture in my mind and use it as an example of the kind of strengthening that works, and the kind I want to give.

Oh, and thanks again to the girls for going with me. They're always good fun.

An Ox in the Kitchen

Andrea, my sister-in-law and Courtney’s enduring wife, commented on my last post, about dancing with Court and asked, “I thought he also bumped your mom's head on the stove another time too, didn't he?” Close, but it was me that he rammed into the stove, not mom.

We were dancing in the kitchen, as we liked to do (see previous post). He went for a big dip (now that I think about it, the big dips were the problem), lunging forward, really far forward, pushing me backward. The inertia of both bodies moving in one direction with such force was more than he could handle. He lost all control, hit the floor, and I was thrown into the stove.

But that wasn’t the worst of our accidents. We were horsing around in the kitchen another day. This time he wanted to throw me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry (side note – I almost never knew what was coming. It’s not like he said, “I am now going to pick you up and carry you around” and then I said, “Okay that would be great”. He just came at me with the surprise attack). He squatted down and pulled me over his shoulders, and just as he was about to stand up, he farted. The passed gas started him laughing. He lost his balance and fell, driving my head right into the knobs on the cabinet door. It really hurt, and swelled up, and gave me brain damage.

Honestly, it was like growing up with Babe the Blue Ox.

But, he was also sweet and affectionate, funny and smart, and we spent almost all of our at-home time together. Along with tackling, fireman carrying, and pain-inducing dancing, he liked to read with me. He’d come up to me and say, “Ang, lets read”, so we’d find a book and sit close on the couch or one of our beds, with his head on my shoulder, and I’d read. That was one of my favorite things. Almost worth the brain damage.

Dance

Hi, I haven't written anything here for a while! I'm not really writing today either, just sharing. My brother Courtney posted this on facebook today, and took it. "'When there's music, I dance', Spencer Sivertson, words to live by."

Courtney and I used to dance together when we were kids. I taught him how to waltz. Huh, I haven't thought about that for years - the memory just popped into my head. We did a simple box step, usually in the kitchen, and he bounced with each step. He used to dance with mom, too. One time he grabbed her up and said, "This is how we dance to a snappy tune", and then started to sing a little ditty while moving her around. Wanting to end big, he lunged forward for a dip, but instead kicked mom in the shin, and then laughed so hard he fell on the floor. Smooth. The King of Smooth. Funny though. Cute Spencer, I'm sure his dancing doesn't cause near as many injuries.

To Sum Up

Hi, it’s been couple of weeks. Here’s a list of what’s been going on with Angie & Co.

Cute William had a birthday. He’s three now and it’s made him three times cuter.

Zachary also had a birthday. He’s 16, and still very cute, with a healthy dose of teenage angst.

My nieces Josie (14) and Amalia (2) also had birthdays and my nephew Jake (11), and….. ME! It was my birthday on the 10th.

One might ask, when seeing all of the March birthdays in my family, what’s up with March? I wonder what was going on the previous May/June that made everyone feel so amorous.

My birthday was very nice. The girls at work took me to lunch, and then there was cake filled with chocolate mousse. Melody and I went to Outback Steakhouse for dinner and filled ourselves with steak, potato and the joy of living another year. I received lots of text messages and wall posts on facebook. Thank you all for remembering me!

The next day Melissa and I went to dinner, and then saw “A Tale of Two Cities” at the Hale Theater. It was very good. Two Cities is one of my favorite books.

Along with dinner and a show, Melissa also gave me bronchitis, not quite as fun. She earned 2 points for the evening, and then lost 1 for the disease, which leaves her with a score of 1 point. We’ll see how she does in the final jeopardy round.

My nephew Noah was baptized March 5th. Here’s a picture of their very good-looking family.

I spent some quality time at the DMV, registering the Taurus and renewing my driver’s license. Quality time. The state now wants several proofs of US citizenship and residence before renewing a license, even if you’ve had a valid license for more than 15 years. I suppose there is always the chance that I’ve been an illegal immigrant all along…except that there isn’t any chance of that at all. What nonsense.

I finished one of the best books I’ve read in a long time, “The Invisible Bridge” by Julie Orringer. It starts in 1937 with a Jewish boy named Andras Levi going to Paris to study architecture. He falls in love and goes through all the joy and pain and joy that that brings. And then World War II starts in Europe. He goes home to Hungary, and his family is caught up in all that the war brings. It’s beautifully written, really beautifully, and reading it was an experience all its own.

Reading that book made me think about WWII and all of its devastation. How did people keep from thinking that it wasn’t the absolute end of the world? And how did they come back from it? The human race is remarkably resilient.

And that makes me think about Japan. We’ve had a flood of phone calls at the COB this past week from people wanting to know if their missionaries are okay. They all are, and we honestly believe it’s a miracle.

I’ve been distracted these last few weeks with birthdays and time off work and other events, and am now refocusing my attention on some long-standing goals. Long-standing because I never seem to accomplish them, but there’s still hope, right? I am 41 now, old enough to take charge of myself. I’m going to plagiarize my dear friend Tiffany (I hope you don’t mind) because I love what she wrote the other day, “I'm going to start making decisions that will benefit Future Self instead of just satisfying Present Self. Present Self is driving me nuts, eating too much, and not being tidy. She's like the worst college roommate… Time to put Present Self in her place and start sucking up big time to Future Self. I heard she's awesome.” Isn’t that good? Words to live by.

I think that’s it. Oh wait, one more thing, thanks as always for stopping by. You are loved.

Practice Makes Perfect

Little William is talking more and more all the time, but still doesn’t fully pronounce all of his words. I was at their house a couple of weeks ago. William was jabbering away and said something about Jonah. Jonah said, “When he says my name it sounds like Jerk!” I listened more closely and yeah, it kind of did, very funny.

Last week I was back at their house, and William was talking to Jonah, and Jonah got a look of frustration and hollered, “Quit calling me Jerk!” We tried to explain that William thinks he’s saying Jonah, and that he doesn’t really even know what a jerk is. Jonah wasn’t too sure.

So yesterday I was talking to Marla on the phone, and then William got on to say hi. Marla said, “William, show G how you say Jonah”, and William said very carefully, “Jo-nah”, slowly and with two distinct syllables. Marla said, “Jonah worked with him on it all day.”

Nice work, Jonah. It’s always good to know when to take charge of the situation.

Sweet William
And Jonah on his last birthday.

Saving Me From Myself

Guys, I am burned-out! Maybe it’s that end of winter blah feeling we all know so well. Maybe it’s my 6 days a week work schedule. I haven’t had a day off for more than a month. Or, maybe it’s the 1 full pound of sugar and 100 fluid ounces of Diet Coke I consume daily (they say that both are just like mood-altering drugs). Whatever it is, I just can’t be happy.

My first sign of burnout is deep fatigue. I drag myself around – drag out of bed, drag through the motions of getting ready for work, drag myself to the car and then to my desk. It’s all a drag. Fatigue is followed by crying. I’ll be on the edge of tears all day long without knowing why. I just walk around with my eyebrows pulled together and thinking, “I want to cry.” Sierra used to announce her crying, back when she was little (and this last Christmas when I beat her soundly at Apples to Apples). Little Sierra’s eyes would well up with tears and her face would scrunch and she’d say, “Crying. I’m crying Angie.” It was cute. It’s not so cute when I do it.

It doesn’t take long to realize that all of the tears are because I’m tired, and then a good nap or long night’s sleep will do the trick, maybe a weekend of naps. If that doesn’t work, if the burnout is determined to get me, then I slowly digress into the next step – grumpiness. It starts with periodic mild irritation and grows to all out, uncontrollable anger. I’m mad about everything – going to work, going home, people talking to me when I’m not in the mood (which is always), nothing good to eat in the fridge… it doesn’t matter what’s going on, I’m mad about it. This morning some of the guys were standing by my desk just having a friendly chat, and while doing the blank stare and nodding I was thinking, “This is boring. I don’t care about anything you’re saying. This is intolerable. I’M BORED TO DEATH. GET OUT! ” By the way – that’s another sign of burnout. Everything is so, so boring.

That’s where I’ve been for a couple of weeks now. I need a break, a vacation, a yacht on the sea. Luckily, my birthday is coming up, so I’ve scheduled a few days off. No plans really (and certainly no yacht) but just some time away from work will be nice. And, today I took a walk up by City Creek and saw green grass alongside the water, and a bunch purple crocuses blooming in someone’s front yard. I almost cried again. It was a sign of hope. Even though the wind was cold, there in the patchy snow was evidence of change and a new season.

So if you’re wrapped up in your house fighting off the cold and a deep desire to quit your life all together, or maybe to kill people, don’t despair. It’s almost Spring.

Valentines and Ten Dollar Bills

My mother with my Grandma Ruth, circa 1953.

When I was a little girl, my Grandpa John and Grandma Ruth sent us cards on holidays. We each got our own card, and inside were two dollars. We got them for Valentine’s Day and Halloween. I don’t remember now if she sent cards for other holidays, but I definitely remember those two. I have a clear picture in my head of opening the card and seeing the two bills, so exciting.

They lived in Wichita Kansas, in the house my mom grew up in, and we’d go visit them at least once a year. They’d visit us about that often, too. On those visits they’d give us each a ten dollar bill to spend during the time we were together. Grandpa John was a recovering smoker. He carried hard candies in his pocket because having a candy helped him when he wanted a cigarette. He’d put his hand in his pocket and pull out a bunch of candy and offer me one. I usually picked butterscotch.

Grandpa John died in 1983, when I was 13, and Grandma lived on her own in their house for nine years. By then she was getting close to 90 years old, and realized that she needed to be close to family who could help her. So in 1992 she moved to the Fargo-Moorhead area where we were. She had a little apartment and took care of herself. Mom visited her a couple of times a week, took her shopping, etc. I saw her as often as I could, too, when I was home. I was in my early twenties then, and it was good to spend some time with her as an adult. When you’re young grandmas are for playing and fun and the ten dollar bills, but when you’re older you realize how interesting they are. Grandma told about her family when she was young, and about meeting my grandpa. She said he had style, wore nice clothes and always kept his car very clean. She talked about extended family who’d I’d never met but who had some great stories. One time she showed me three old pottery bowls that she’d gotten in Mexico. They’d been in southern California on a vacation, and walked across the border to Mexico. She bought the bowls and carried them back again. After telling me that, she got thoughtful and said, “I’m not sure that that was legal.” I laughed, and still get a kick out of Grandma carrying contraband over the border.

Grandma Ruth died in January 1997, at the age of 93, fourteen years ago now. When Mom and my aunt Beverly were going through her things, they found an envelope with ten dollar bills in it that she was saving to give to the grandkids when she saw us again. There were enough for each of us to get one more. I still have mine tucked in an envelope at home. I also have the cedar chest that Grandpa bought her before they were married (in 1929), and the clay bowls from Mexico.

This morning I was signing and addressing Valentines to send, and it made me think of Grandma Ruth. I’ve wanted to carry on the tradition of holiday cards with nieces and nephews, and have actually succeeded some years, but I’m not as good and Grandma was.