Sweet summertime.
I have nothing of consequence to write tonight, but I do want to remember the joy of the favorite summer swimming hole. Yellowstone, you have our hearts. :)
(Okay, I do have one thing to say about this one…I love watching my children grow. My oldest is becoming a little more self-conscious about pictures than she once was, but a more grown-up loveliness is setting in. It’s really something to see unfolding before my very eyes.)
“Life seems neither long nor short, and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees and stars. This is true freedom.”
– John Muir
The secret to joy.
“I felt as if I were in the presence of superior beings who loved me and beckoned me to come. I sat down beside them and wept for joy.”
– John Muir
I am sitting on my porch in the middle of a mountain rainstorm, thinking of beautiful summer days past. There is nothing like it in the world…the deluge out of the open heavens, the thunder that calls and is answered by each surrounding mountainside. Moments like this are one of the reasons we live here. I wanted this for me and for my children. It’s a reminder to me of the secret to joy.
There are times in our lives that feel as though we are standing in the middle of an absolute deluge of sorrow or trial. Heaven seems to have opened all of the stops and let it all out at once. Looking up, there seems to be no sun, no pinpoint of light, no relief from the cold that soaks your skin.
But it doesn’t stop there…it can’t. The secret lies in seeing each drop in its purpose and beauty, in seeing that the drenching rain from Heaven is actually a gift that Heaven saw we were ready for. Often our most painful moments lead to our greatest joys. After the rain comes the renewal of life.
My joy is found not in perfect days or weeks, but in perfect moments. They are perfect because I choose to see that the drops falling from Heaven or the river rushing by or the breeze in my face are all whispering to me that a loving Father has sent all things to me to bring me closer to Him, because He knew I was ready to come nearer.
I believe He speaks to each of us in our own language, and in our own way.
I feel so blessed to have found mine, the language of the river, the wild grass, and the trees.
So, this week, I remember peeling river-soaked denim off of little legs and say a prayer of thanks for these moments of rest and love, moments that speak to me in the language of my heart.
I remember the laughter of playing in the river fully clothed.
The magic of mud and water.
The love of sisters.
The quietness of a barefoot hike back to the car, carrying shoes and quietly talking.
Gentle mountain paths just waiting for our feet.
Not every moment is like this.
But I choose to remember those that are, for seeing and remembering the blessings is the secret to joy.
More abundantly
“If we constantly focus only on the stones in our mortal path, we will
almost surely miss the beautiful flower or cool stream provided by the
loving Father who outlined our journey. Each day can bring more joy
than sorrow when our mortal and spiritual eyes are open to God’s
goodness. Joy in the gospel is not something that begins only in the
next life. It is our privilege now, this very day. We must never allow
our burdens to obscure our blessings. There will always be more
blessings than burdens–even if some days it doesn’t seem so. Jesus
said, “I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it
more abundantly.” Enjoy those blessings right now. They are yours and
always will be.”
– Jeffrey R. Holland
I’m so very grateful for sweet days, where reminders are abundant that everything will be all right, and that all is unfolding as it should. Our oldest daughter passed a major milestone recently, and with it, was able to attend the Temple for the first time. It was one of those rare, sweet, perfect moments in my life. For a moment, all things aligned and made sense and were right. The future stretched out happily in front of me. Certainly, trials lay ahead, but days like that one remind me that a more abundant life has been given to me, and that all will be well.
Mountain-dwellers
“The mountains are fountains of men as well as of rivers, of glaciers, of fertile soil. The great poets, philosophers, prophets, able men whose thoughts and deeds have moved the world, have come down from the mountains — mountain-dwellers who have grown strong there with the forest trees in Nature’s workshops.”
-John Muir
I don’t know what to write today other than to say that I am so grateful. I feel so blessed that our family has worked so hard together, that this may be our life.
New eyes
“Look at everything always as though you were seeing it either for the first or last time: Thus is your time on earth filled with glory.”
― Betty Smith
This is the time of year when crowds start to flock to our quiet mountain home. Luckily, we still have plenty of quiet sanctuaries.
Though things are less quiet, I do love to see the wonder on tourist’s faces when they see Yellowstone for the first time. It is a gift to witness, a constant reminder of how blessed we are to live here.
This is the time of year when my six daughters are photographed as much as any Yellowstone wonder by Asian tourists. I love the Asian tourists most of all. They come so far to get here. The other day, we met some women from China who literally wept at meeting us. “Six girls. Miracle,” one of them kept saying. I am so, so grateful for what I have.
One of my girls turned twelve yesterday. I am amazed at how, already, just the knowledge that she has moved to a new phase of life has changed her demeanor and her presence. So grateful for how she has stretched me and loved me.
Grateful for new eyes this spring, which can so easily see my life of wonder.
Magic
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
– W.B. Yeats
Spring is a magical time.
Life returns after a long sleep.
We took a hike on a little-known trail the other day.
Our path led us up the side of the mountain and round a bend, right beside an elk cow nearly ready to calve.
With wonder the girls watched the calf stretching the sides of her belly.
We left her in peace and walked on our way.
We love to go slow. We love to go slow.
The magic of grass and water and all eternity in one moment is irresistible to us.
With each passing year, my girls see it more clearly. Each season we spend in a life-after-rush existence is all the more appreciated.
If we would have been in a hurry, we would have missed the snails.
Hundreds upon hundreds of them, silently crawling through the grass and rocks.
Most shells filled with slimy, magical life. Some empty and left for a beautiful memory.
It was a quiet day, truly wonderful. We didn’t go nearly as far as we had planned. There was no need.
We climbed back down.
We passed the mama, resting in the grass as the sun descended.
Things can be wonderful. One of the greatest blessings of my life has been learning to slow down.
Only then have I learned the magic of ordinary things.
Seeking joy.
I used to let myself be “surprised” by joy if it came. And that’s not a bad thing, but I’ve learned a great deal in the past few years.
One of the best things I’ve learned this past year or so is that I need to go looking for joy.
I need to seek it out and plan to find it. I need to do things and be in places where joy is possible. I can no longer wait around and hope it will stumble into me.
I have a good friend who loves to say, “I choose joy.” Knowing the extremes she has had to endure, I am amazed, every time she says it.
Faith is a decision. Joy, true joy, is faith. It is a choice in spite of disappointment and sorrow.
Sorrow sometimes paves the way for joy.
“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.”
I choose joy.
Wholeness
I think it’s been a month since I’ve written on my blog. It’s been a month of sorting-out for me.
Lots of outside time. Lots of prayer. Lots of Yellowstone. :)
Finally, I think I am getting there. I had so many “false summits”…moments where I was sure that I had made it, but only turned to find another high peak of myself and my will, looming ahead.
An old friend of ours is going through an immense trial right now. He wrote about it publicly recently, and something he said really struck me.
“Believing God lives is much more difficult after enduring heart ache, despair, loss, and true gut-wrenching pain. Especially because by professing belief in a deity that allows such things and worse to be present and perpetuated throughout life means that there must be a purpose to it all.”
Believing that God is there and that He loves us also means picking up the other end of the stick…believing that there is a purpose to it all. The step (more like leap) forward after that is believing that there is a loving, benevolent purpose to it all. (This is the step that C.S. Lewis shared with us all in his deepest sorrow.)
This past year and a half has been a monumental climb. I have finally figured out what I was really climbing towards. I was climbing toward a higher alter than I have ever visited. And every time I climbed, I found there was a greater height, a greater sacrifice, yet waiting. Another place where I had always known the answers, but had not yet had to ask the questions.
But finally, truly, I have placed the gift of my will and my heart on that high and holy alter.
And now I’ve climbed down, never to ask again for the requested gift to be changed. I’ve learned to find joy again in doing not my will, but the will of Him who sent me. For a long time, I resisted the joy. In resisting the joy, I resisted giving all that I truly needed to give. I resisted life.
Moments of intense sorrow are being replaced by moments of deep, intense calm and joy. I look around me every day in wonder. I see more. I’m happy.
And somehow, my heart is approaching whole again. Sorrow carves out a place in us. Wholeness is not the absence of that sorrow. It is a hole of grief that has been filled by a Savior who understands and succors it all.
Spring
Spring is about believing in good things to come.
Spring is about the future.
Spring rushes forth like a swollen river, downstream, to all that lies ahead.
Something about spring makes you ache to be back on the trail.
Sometimes the old trails are covered in snow, and new trails have to be forged.
The call of the future is there, of good things ahead.
Spring is believing in green when all is still brown.
Spring is a time to examine the damage of winter…to see what has fallen and died.
But even in the wreck and the ruin, life springs all around.
Decay will soon take over what once was, and it will feed the new life that is to come.
Spring work
“Along the river, over the hills, in the ground, in the sky, spring work is going on with joyful enthusiasm, new life, new beauty, unfolding, unrolling in glorious exuberant extravagance, — new birds in their nests, new winged creatures in the air, and new leaves, new flowers spreading, shining, rejoicing everywhere.”
– John Muir
Thaw
The thaw has been coming fast and early this year.
The land is new and wild. It is waking up, new earth and secrets revealed.
Everywhere is the sound of water, as the snow melts away and the earth breathes once more.
I wasn’t quite ready for it yet.
I had given myself the winter, the long, long, winter, where the snow quietly covers everything in a deep, white blanket. Everything rests. Everything sleeps. Part of me slept, too.
In my heart, I knew that when spring came, I needed to wake up again, too, and breathe and grow again.
When I began to hear the familiar drip of the water and smell the new, wild smell of the earth, I didn’t feel ready.
It takes faith to walk through the door of rebirth, and to keep walking through it day after day.
There is a holy light around a newly born babe, of newly sprouted plants in the spring, of new baby songbirds in a nest…a divine assurance that this new birth is right and sacred.
There is travail with the birth of a new heart, as well, but the same, quiet light shows through.
My comfort would prefer
For me to be numb
And avoid the impending birth
Of who I was born to become
Speak to me in the light of the dawn
Mercy comes with the morning
I will sigh and with all creation groan
As I wait for hope to come for me
– Brooke Fraser
Five years and mercy
This week has turned from what I thought would be a couple of days of mild sickness to constant throes of very serious illness. We haven’t been this sick in a long, long time.
Our sweet fifth girl turned five this week, and she was sick as a dog on her birthday. She was still my sweet, magic girl.
There was no cake, but there was lots of love, and lots of Little House.
Sweet homemade presents from sisters made the day even better.
She threw up first thing in the morning, after being sick all night and the day before. Right after, she said with a smile, “I’m five! I think I’m taller today!”
Even before this child existed, her little spirit has demanded that it be here. I have never in my life met a stronger presence than this sweet girl.
Our family has banded together as never before this week. I have cried, watching my family love each other this week. Each person has sacrificed and stretched to help others who were hurting.
All week, I have wondered at the mercy in our lives. The dehydration of myself and my family this week scared me…but it didn’t. I felt this incredible peace this week that I can’t quite describe. At the same moment I realized it was going to be very terrible, I also knew with certainty it was going to be just fine.
Somehow I have found more peace than ever in knowing that our Savior knows, that He suffered it all, and that He knows how to succor us…I have felt Him run to me, more than once this week. And though I prayed and begged that I would not get it, so that I would have strength to care for my family, I suffered with them in the middle for a few days. What a gift it turned out to be…that I could then have the understanding, patience, and compassion on the sickest of them all once I was better.
We’re nearly over it now, and we’re starting to notice the spring light filtering through the trees and windows. We are together, and tender mercies are abundant.
Blessed am I.
Less noise
“…one morning long ago in the quiet of the world, when there was less noise and more green…”
– Tolkien
I spent all night and day with a sick babe. It is amazing how quickly things change. One day, you’re hiking through the mountains or playing in a forest of fairies.
The next, you are in constant, quiet motion, calming, comforting, soothing, cleaning. I hate when my children are sick. But, I feel grateful for the time to stop and do nothing but sit next to them and watch.
Things become so quiet, and the times that are healthy become so much more appreciated. I can’t tell you how many times today I have said prayers of thanks that we were so healthy while we travelled in our little RV for all those months.
Today, I just looked around me. I looked around at the comfort of home, and felt so blessed. I looked at our incredible, quiet life. No major interruption or upheaval has to happen when we are sick. We just slow down a bit more. Most of all, I just looked at six little faces, some feeling well, some feeling terrible. All delicious and mine. I am so thankful for a life of less noise.
Say a little prayer for my sick ones tonight? :) All will be well.
Blessed am I.
A thousand windows
“Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days…days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God.”
-John Muir
I have been aching since we’ve been back to return to the Tetons.
We finally had the chance yesterday.
It was a perfect, bluebird day.
We snowshoed and hiked for hours.
A ranger told me yesterday that often one visit to the Tetons is enough to change a person’s life forever.
We already knew that.
Not sorry
We make it into Yellowstone at least once a week right now. It requires a lot more effort than in the warmer months, but it is worth it. From the moment I enter those borders, I am home.
(This is Richie, the girls’ hiking mascot. Every kid should have a mascot, don’t you think?) :)
I marvel sometimes at the things that were once difficult that have become second nature. I remember last year, working for an hour at times to get 6 little bodies into snow gear and 6 little pairs of snowshoes strapped to 12 little feet. Now, we can hop out of the car and strap those things on in minutes.
Yesterday, we explored a new trail. We floated over the hills of snow and down to the river. We crossed it and left the trail, opting this time to follow the winding Gallatin further and further.
I love snowshoeing. I love the work. I love how much more deliberate each step is. There is little joy in the world like stepping out into a completely untouched white world that has not seen other feet in so very long.
We found a perfect place to stop and rest. We played and listened to the bubbling water flow under the ice.
We ate the pure, untouched, wild snow. I laid down in it and watched the sky and the clouds.
My oldest lay on her stomach and leaned over the bank (she was completely safe), punching the ice in small bursts, to break clumps of river ice out and pull them up for her sisters.
In moments like that, I feel like I could explain the meaning and purpose of anything and everything. Everything is whole and clear. Everyone becomes so much quieter, listening to what she is being taught, even while playing.
My children begged to stay when it was time to go. We stayed a half hour more.
We finally left our little place to head back to the car and back to the things that needed doing. I heard one of my girls promise the river she would be back soon. Chunks of layered, sparkling river ice were carried gently until we reached the car and they absolutely had to stay behind.
There are times I feel a little sorry for the strength it takes to be a child who walks such a different path. There is so much rush and activity that we have chosen to stay out of, and that sets them apart and makes them different. But then I look at my children and the light in their eyes and a piece of the river in their hands and I realize, I am not sorry at all.
Love
I’m so grateful for a year of very simple living. It has taught me to slow down, to see and savor. More than anything in my days, I see love. Love is the bright mountain moon, shining down from heaven, assuring me that all of the answers will come and the paths made clear.
Love is listening to my children drift off to sleep, one by one, to the sound of their father’s bed time story.
Love is a sleepless night with children, and still wanting nothing more than to simply be with them all day.
Love is celebrating little moments of progression and forgiveness.
God gave us families to help us become what He wants us to be—
This is how He shares His love, for the family is of God.
Home tree
Yesterday dawned bright and cold.
It was one of those days that is so cold that all moisture leaves the air and snow and you are left with a million brilliantly glittering cold diamonds reflecting back into your eyes.
The girls and I try to take the approach that there is no such thing as bad weather. No matter how cold, we try to get out and enjoy it.
It’s also my increasingly firm mantra for life this year.
We went snowshoeing along the river.
The girls are always seeking, when we hike through the woods, for that one perfect tree.
The tree that will feel like “home,” where we will stop for a while and they will play under its branches.
No matter our path, we always seem to find it eventually, as long as we keep going in spite of cold.
The forest knows the secrets we need to learn, the life amid cold, the perfect home tree, just ahead.
“The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us. Thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.”
-John Muir
Abase and abound
It has been a brief season of sweet rest. Though nothing has happened to change it, I can feel my heart being pulled again.
I can feel the possibility of decision and change coming. My heart has ached with raw emotion the past week…a constant recommitment to a path that is different than once hoped. A decision to be glad in spite of sorrow. Such a good decision, but never easy or without that raw feeling of new skin on a changed heart.
I’ve learned that asking, seeking, and knocking mean different things than I once thought. “Knock and it shall be opened…” It doesn’t always mean that if you ask, you will be given.
“What man among you, having a son, and he shall be standing out, and shall say, Father, open thy house that I may come in and sup with thee, will not say, Come in, my son; for mine is thine, and thine is mine?” – JST Matthew 7:17
I think that, instead, it means that if you knock, whatever the answer is, it will be what brings you in to Him. Sometimes, that may be exactly the opposite of what you asked. But you will be with Him. And that, above all, is where I want to be.
“…for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.
“I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need.
“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” – Phil. 4: 11-13
I’ve been thinking a lot about Paul and about what he said about knowing how to both be abased, and how to abound, about living fully, whatever comes my way. It is a gift to know how to fully humble and submit, and it is a gift to know how to accept abundance and enjoy it in its moment. The greatest gift is to do both at once, for they are twinborn.
Be full with what you have…be hungry for what you lack or long for that brings you in to Him.
Knock and it shall be opened.
Snowflakes
My heart was so heavy with so many things the other day. I went out into the snow with the girls.
I took them to their favorite hill. I wonder sometimes how many of their memories will involve flying down a hill or dragging an increasingly heavy sled back through the woods to their cabin. Many, I hope.
As the girls flew over and over down the enormous hill, I laid down in the snow and looked up into heaven.
Flakes fell from the vastness above and tiny darts of ice fell and melted on my face. Each one had travelled so far to tell me that all was well.
Every moment in my life, every uncontrollable circumstance, every decision, every effort, every struggle, had led to that quiet moment in the snow. And that quiet moment was leading to every moment that would follow thereafter.
That moment was perfect, encapsulating everything we have worked to become. That one moment would lead to more, and all would be well.
Mountain mansions
In the mornings, when I walk the dog, I watch the sun brighten the trees and listen to the birds calling and flitting through the branches. I walk the snow-lined paths and breathe the air.
In the summer, more people will be around, but for now, it’s just us. I try to drink it in.
The Yellowstone area woods called me here, and they have taken me in and changed me. I feel like the tiniest part of this vast forest, so happy to be where I am meant to be.
We make this beautiful little home more ours everyday. At night, I go out and look up at the stars. Nowhere in the world has stars like these. It feels incredible to sit by the fire at night and know that I am home, home at last.
“Fear nothing. No town park you have been accustomed to saunter in is so free from danger as the Yellowstone. It is a hard place to leave...You may be a little cold some nights, on mountain tops above the timber-line, but you will see the stars, and by and by you can sleep enough in your town bed, or at least in your grave. Keep awake while you may in mountain mansions so rare.”
– John Muir
Quiet
Time has slowed down lately.
Boxes are being unpacked slowly, old treasures rediscovered.
Most of them can wait, though. I’m in no rush.
This babe turned seven this week. Seven.
Seven years ago, on a bleak, February day, she came into the world. Robed in sorrow and pain, a babe of light was in my arms.
She has taken me on a seven-year journey. She doesn’t know it, but she has changed everything. I know I write this every year, but each one of her birthdays is like a celebration of life. She is a gift from Heaven, a mercy, a miracle. Everyone who meets her is made glad. She is pure.
Today I watched her.
She sat for hours, very still, in the snow, near her bird feeder, birdseed in hand, just waiting.
She watched the little mountain chickadees dance around her. She called to them, and they did not fear her.
She kept her hand outstretched, breathlessly waiting. Finally, after hours, it happened. A little bird flitted from a branch to her small hand, ate a seed, and then flew away. She told me that it only lasted a moment, but it felt like it lasted forever.
Tonight, I feel so blessed. Blessed and so grateful. Grateful for a quiet life, and the peace in my heart (largely because of this child) that life is precious and not to be wasted on rushing. Goodnight, friends.
Glimpses of home
Home.
That word has held so many different meanings for me this year, each of them special.
But this is the sweetest of all.
A place that I know I belong. My mountains, my woods.
I don’t have many pictures yet. Just tiny glimpses that have made us grab the camera here and there.
More soon, as we move in and make it our own.
We’re home.
Moments
My mind has been consumed by tiny moments lately. In many ways, time seems slower and clearer for me these days.
We’re in a moment right now…one of those incredibly rare, sacred moments in our lives where everything is okay. Everything is working out perfectly. Everything is moving along so smoothly.
Here’s the thing about moments like this. Well, two things.
1) It’s tempting in a moment like this to become afraid. Afraid that things are too good, too right, too perfect…waiting every day for the other shoe to drop. That fear destroys the quiet, holy blessing of a moment like this in our lives. This moment is a blessing, a reprieve, a gift, an assurance that our path is right. Worry kills the joy of it, whether the moment is 2 seconds or 2 months. We should enjoy the blissful moments for what they are, and be glad they’ve come.
2) Moments like this are made in halves: Half is made by Heaven, an outpouring of blessings. The other half is made by us: accepting the blessings that have come. Everything, everything, (well, except for the town where we will make our home) is different than I had planned it a year ago, even a few months ago. We are choosing to walk the new path and be glad. We could rant and cry that nothing is as we wanted it. Or, we could be glad of the hand of Heaven in our lives, and see that hand for what it is and the mercy it has poured out on us.
My mountain
“And I…did go into the mount oft, and I did pray oft unto the Lord; wherefore the Lord showed unto me great things.”
–1 Nephi 18:3
I climbed a figurative mountain a while ago.
I finally reached the top, but then I had to come back down. And just like each literal mountain I have ever climbed, the descent is almost as hard in many, many spots.
I’m down. Finally, I am down. I gave everything to it and I am down. Every time you reach the bottom of a mountain you just climbed, the entire world looks different. Perspective will never be the same.
This is the biggest mountain I have climbed, ever. I will never be the same…but that was the whole point. I climbed a mountain, and my prayer was answered.
Even them will I bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer.
–Isaiah 56:7
