This Is Why I Care [RANT]

Some people may have read my last post and are now waiting for my breakdown and the reign of terror. But bad experiences, terrible decisions, and the cruelty of others aren’t all life taught me.

I don’t remember my grandmother very well since she passed away the year I turned four. Yet I have always feel loved when I think of her. My mother assured me that though my grandmother’s cancer had spread to her bones, she refused to miss a moment with me. She relayed that even the intense pain of trying to hold me wasn’t a deterrent. My grandmother wouldn’t let my mother take me from her, even when she heard a snap that sounded like weakened bones giving way. Sometimes, love overrides the pain. 

While many of the people who claimed to try to help me as a child probably did more harm than good by making promises and never following through, a couple of educators truly saw and celebrated me. For some, they showed this by writing a letter requesting I be put in a reading class that would challenge me. One worded it more as an admonition for my enthusiasm making less motivated readers feel bad about themselves and I still got placed back in redial reading the next year. Others gave me outdated reading textbooks from higher grade levels. I devoured all of these words ravenously. 

One teacher in particular took it upon herself to champion me. She didn’t limit the encouragement to just her class. She encouraged my interest in other areas of learning, pointing our with excitement how those interests related to each other. She may have also clothed me for a couple of years. I had a hobo not-chic hand-me-down style that no one else bothered to try to correct politely. (You know other kids weren’t kind—most of the time). 

And she wasn’t the only bonus mom who tried to fill in where my own exhausted mother couldn’t find the time. If you really know me, you know I was the least needy of her children. Some have observed that I essentially raised myself in some areas. In other arenas, I may have been raised more like a boy. Thus you get treated to the weirdness that I call personality.

So despite all my complaints, I have to confess, that I want to be kind. I want to care. I will not randomly decide I hate you because your beliefs or appearance different than mine. And I state certain things all the time, but I shall try to summarize a few here:

I don’t care who you love as long as you respect my assurances that I want to be your friend but I don’t need to be just like you or make out with you to do that.

I am not staring because I am judging you. Sometimes, I am just looking your way because your smile or your eyes are beautiful. At other times, I am looking at the art that someone painstakingly applied to your skin while you exhibited the patience of a saint. 

On a similar note, I may be counting your piercings or contemplating how one tiny hole became large enough to stick a finger through. I am socially awkward not judging you.

If I am asking you questions about your beliefs, I am not about to attack. I want to understand. Honestly, I have bolstered my own faith on more than one occasion where I asked awkward questions about another’s faith. Not because I found their faith wanting but because what they said about their faith sparked a testimony of my own. 

In short, this world we live in needs more love. Let’s assume the best of each other. Sometimes, the person who cut you off just wasn’t paying attention. And even if they were darting in and out of traffic like they mistake the highway for a racetrack, maybe it is best to try to avoid that particular person instead of deciding to drag race them… 

Show Off Those Shovels [FICTION]

As the sky ceased to shower down flakes of crystallized water, I trudged to the door to throw on my snow shoveling gear. Once I looked appropriately uncomfortable in what appeared to be a hundred pounds of winter coat, gloves, scarf, hat, and boots, I felt ready to take on the weather. Despite the bulk of my thick gloves, I grabbed the shovel from my front porch.

As I finished shoveling the thin coating of snow off of my sidewalks and driveway, an unexpected wave of energy filled me. I glanced at my neighbor’s house. Mrs. Waters turned eighty last year, but she still makes the trek to my house with a delectable tray of cookies every couple of months. 

With her grandson back at college, I knew I would see her later that morning pushing her shovel to make tiny paths in the snow. I decided my renewed energy meant I should repay her for all those cookies. I still needed to burn off the most recent batch anyway. 

As I moved from my sidewalk to hers, tossing snow away from the street, I heard voices approaching. I glanced up to find three teen boys staring at me. I paused and leaned on my shovel.

Their leader looked me up and down. “Lady, why don’t you go inside and warm up. We’ve got this.”

One of his henchmen gained courage from that comment. “Yeah. It’s not like you need the money.” His eyes strayed back to my boots, which I admit I had willingly paid a little extra for, but it didn’t make him less rude for commenting.

“I am not getting paid except in friendship,” I resisted the urge to add “and cookies”.

The leader pondered this for a moment. “How about you pay us to help you out it then. This is a lot of snow.”

I felt his implied assumption of my advanced age. Not too old to be offended by being called old, I picked up my shovel and went back to work with more finesse. As I shoveled my way toward them, the teenagers exchanged glances and backed away from me. Encouraged to see them backing down, I started dancing with the shovel and even launched into some songs about snow, some that I made up and some still stuck in my head from Christmas. 

Halfway through an upbeat version of jingle bells, the boys started to harmonize with me. I whipped my head up in surprise to see them shoveling in rhythm with our song. I considered reminding them that I wasn’t paying them for their services, but I had a feeling they remembered.

They started the next song, and I joined in as we listed the names of Santa’s reindeer. Soon we ragout of snow to remove. We paused on opposite sides of the driveway to stare at each other. The opening of the screen door interrupted our quiet contemplation. Four sets of eyes turned toward Mrs. Waters as she stepped out onto her porch with some plastic bags of cookies.

“Thank you so much for the show and the snow removal. I knew I baked cookies last night for a reason. I just wish I had some eggnog for you cheerful carolers.”

We stepped forward to accept our payment. As the boys walked away with their bags already open and half empty, my neighbor gave me a hug.

“Thanks for being a good influence on those boys. Kids don’t realize the joy that can be received and given by serving without expecting payment.”

“Well, they got paid in the best currency I know.” I replied around a mouthful of cookies. “These cookies get better every year.”

“It’s because I get more practice every year. I would love to chat, but…” She waves a trembling hand toward her grey hair. “I get older every year and less inclined to be cold. Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

~I feel like I wrote something similar to this, but after a quick scroll through my archives didn’t yield anything. I mixed it up a little though in the hopes of keeping if fresh and delectable like cookies delivered by a neighbor. Feel free to tell me where to look if your memory of my writings is better than mine.~

Looking At the Little Things [RANT]

Like many mothers at this time of year, I am single-handedly running a branch office of Santa's workshop. I bake. I clean. I choose. I package. I label. I wrap. I sew. I paint. I write. I lick. I seal. I clean some more. I ponder. I worry. I buy. I wrap. I bake some more. The list of items I must do to be the best festive elf I can be seems to grow longer not shorter as I work through what needs to be done. Then someone adds one more thing or one more concern to my list.

Then a little bit of green creeps into the holiday. Instead of growing three sizes, my heart shrinks to a third its normal size. My head begins to throb as I repeat the same basic requests and get ignored. And I have to turn my back on the irritant and let it go. I have to refocus on the little things, those things that are truly important but often get overlooked with all the glitter, tinsel, and twinkling lights that punctuate the season. I have to focus on the real reasons I love the holidays and return to my kitchen over and over again in an attempt to share the heart of the season with those around me.

Important basics such as:

1. The love of a Heavenly Father who sent His Son to remind us how greatly we are loved.
2. An earthly family that shared the talent of the kitchen arts with me.
3. The smile on my husband's face as he taste-tests one of the first cookies out of the oven and finds it perfect.
4. My daughter's excitement as she meets a new friend who has come to be with her a result of the holiday.
5. My husband under the mistletoe. (Need I say more about that?)
6. An excuse to craft candy that I love and share it with others so I can still squeeze out of the front door of my house.
7. The anticipation of the beautiful cleanliness of new fallen snow.
8. Peppermint, ginger, cinnamon, and orange aromas on the air.
9. The rustic touch of live pine sprigs decorating the table at the Ward Christmas party.
10. The sweet taste of the little baby oranges that also graced the table of the party.
11. Friends smiling when you picked or made the perfect gift and they know it came from your heart not your wallet.
12. Getting a gift that reminds you how well your friend knows you even though most people would never understand.
13. Christmas hymns floating on the air.
14. The soft voice that reminds you to smile and speak kindly to a stranger who is probably as overwhelmed by holiday obligations as you are.
15. The grateful smile you receive for obeying that voice.

Before I saw the announcement about the light the world initiative, I decided to pass out cookies to my ward family. I scrolled through the list for names and made labels back in October so that I would have an idea how many cookies, and recipes, I might need to tackle this project. I believe my desire to spread Christmas cheer succeeded. I received lots of startled smiles and got to add some delicious Christmas treats to my holiday recipe book, so everybody wins.

I hope your holidays have been filled with love and sweet surprises. I hope they remind you how important it is to stay close to family, whether biological or by association. I hope your heart grows three sizes and your pants size remains the same. Have a fabulous holiday and as you ponder your goals for 2017, remember to include the most important things, no matter how small they may seem.

Only Young Once

Clearly, I have cookies on the brain. I hope this entry is up to the high standards of my readers though I did try to give it a more youthful tone.

My mother tells me that I should be young while I can. That I think too deeply for a young girl. I even use words that other kids in my class haven’t learned yet. I just smile when she reminds me of this. I feel just as young as every other girl in my class and more light-hearted than some.

I can make that statement with certainty because I see it every day. One girl in particular has aged far beyond our years. The same gloom surrounds her that surrounds our neighbor Mrs. Cranston when she talks about friends and family that have passed away. Mother says it is sweet of me to visit the lonely, old lady next door. Sometimes, she even helps me bake cookies to share with Mrs. Cranston. Those mood-lifting cookies gave me the idea.

What idea? I want to share the joy of being young with the gloomy girl. If I can disperse the darkness around Lydie for just one day, I think she’ll remember how it feels to be young. I know giving her a full day is probably beyond my skill level, being that I am so young, only ten years old, but a smile should be easy to create.

So I find myself working hard in the hopes of just one smile. Bowls, measuring cups, storage canisters, and plastic bags cluster around my workspace. Flour covers most of the other surfaces of the kitchen. Even my face must be ghostly white judging by the surprised look on my mother’s face.

“Malinda, what…?” She can’t find the words, but I know the question.

“I’m making some cookies for a girl at school.”

“You should have asked.” Stern wrinkles crease her forehead and the corners of her mouth.

“But I wanted to make them myself.” I explain, mixing the thick batter one last time before setting the bowl down on the counter.

My mother surveys the ingredients for a second before she steps forward to dip one finger in the dough. As she brings it to her lips, she pauses. Her eyes scan the ingredients laid out on the table anxiously. Then she opens her mouth and takes a tentative bite of the dough. She closes her eyes, contemplating.

“That’s quite good.” She looks surprised. “Your friend is a lucky girl.”

I beam. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “I guess I can help clean up if you let me have a few cookies.”

I nod agreement, grabbing the cookie scoop and doling out the dough onto baking sheets. The oven dings just as the last glob of dough plops into place.

~

The next morning drags on as I wait for lunch. If I produce the cookies at any other time, the teacher will confiscate them or the other kids will clamor to get one. Anxiety builds in my chest and the depths of my stomach to the point that I know I won’t be able to eat my lunch.

Finally, we line up for lunch. The teacher’s shrewd eyes warn against any funny business as she glances back over her tail of children from time to time. The occasional giggle brings her eyes back to us, but any amusement quickly fades under such scrutiny. She opens the door to the cafeteria, ushering us into its expanse before taking her preferred spot along the wall. She leans against it as she keeps watch over us.

Every child must choose a seat carefully. Where we sit shows a lot about who we are. Usually, I sit with a few select friends, but they don’t notice when I walk past them and take one of the empty seats surrounding Lydie. She looks up startled then looks away.

“You don’t have to sit here.” Her voice cracks as she speaks.

“I want to.” I reassure her, placing my lunch box on the table with finality.

She looks up again as I sit down, questioning me with her eyes. “Why?”

“I made something for you.” I smile reassuringly.

She looks back at me suspiciously. Then her eyes dart around the room. Reassured that no one observes us, she turns her attention to my hands. Suddenly nervous, my hands fumble with the clasp. I breathe a sigh of relief as I finally undo it. Reaching inside, I produce a plastic bag full of cookies.

“No, thank you.” Her brooding frown deepens.

I return her frown, opening the bag. “We can share them.”

As I lift a cookie to my mouth, she watches hungrily. I push the bag across the table to her. She takes a cookie tentatively in between two fingers. Her nose wrinkles at the sweet aroma and she inhales deeply. As she takes the first bite, her eyes close. She sighs softly.

“It’s delicious. Thank you.”

She still hasn’t smiled, but some barrier inside her has melted. She begins to talk. We exchange questions and answers. I almost make her laugh a few times. She succeeds in causing me to giggle on more than one occasion. The cookies disappear slowly as we slide the bag back and forth across the table.

As she lifts the last chocolate chip cookie to her mouth, a smile finally breaks through. “Thanks for being my friend today.”

I smile back at her. “Thanks for letting me.” I pause for a second as emotions well up inside my chest. 

“Can I be your friend again tomorrow?”

She nods her head as tears flow down her cheeks.