Returning to Gratitude

I had a plan last year for November. I was going to write a series of posts about people who had affected my life and for whom I was grateful. It was going swimmingly. Then the leak about the church policy about couples in a same sex relationship and their children hit, and I was . . . what's the word . . . hysterical, maybe, with a dash of devastated. I couldn't focus on my thankfulness for people in my past or present. I could only mourn.

One of the first things I did was call my two oldest children who had left the church to ask them how they were. I asked them if they were going to send in their official resignations (kind of a self-excommunication from the church). I don't remember what J said, but I remember what E said. That it was hard to be attached even in name to an organization that does such hurtful things, but that whenever something like this happens I am so upset that she doesn't want to do anything to make my pain worse. Then she sent me a care package with tissue and treats to comfort me. She sent ME a care package.

I kept going to church (because I love God and I truly believe this is his church) but I've felt fragile there. I like primary and the family history center best. I sub in with the children whenever I can, and go to the family history center then Relief Society whenever I can't. I've been trying to mend my relationship with God, because as it turns out, I am kind of mad at him. There have been several other personal hits to my happy church going, and I'm just mad/sad. I need to get over it.

I'd thought discipleship would be more predictable than it turns out to be. You do A, then B, then C, and as a result D happens. But here's how it really works. You do A with someone else and you bring someone else and their free choice into it. They are totally with you on doing B together. Then you go from being two people with free choice to being eight people with free choice. At first the extra people are little and malleable, so you and your partner take them to do C with the two of you. D is going to follow, right? Not so much.

I got married in the temple to a guy who wanted to raise a family in the gospel. We got busy and made six other humans. We taught them the gospel. Then their free agency kicked in. It turns out that you can't make all the "right" decisions and thereby force all of your family to make the same decisions. Who knew? They get to chose all on their own, just like I did. Just like their father did.

But here's the other thing. My kids are still wonderful. J is just as clever and funny as ever. E is just as kind and observant. N is still a delightful flibbertigibbet who may actually be the smartest person in the room. V still loves with all her heart. L still has his quiet mischievous ways. C is still a cuddle bug. I adore them. I've invested a lot of time and life energy into them, and I honestly think there is nothing they could do that would cause me to no longer love them. If they did something heinous, the annihilation of the human race, for instance, I'd be heart-broken, but broken hearts keep on loving.

I've spent the year in grief of varying degrees. and each time I began to emerge something new hit. I'm beginning to emerge again. I need to focus on the bright and beautiful in my life, and so I am once again going to work on my thankful posts. There is plenty to be thankful for, and I am going to strive to focus on those things.

Today's thankful: I am thankful for the resiliency of my spirit, for God's patience with me and for his gentle healing.

TMI, in Honor of World Suicide Prevention Day

While I was pregnant with my fifth, the whole world fell apart. Some nut jobs flew planes into the twin towers and the Pentagon. People started getting envelopes with anthrax. My girl scout co-leader staged a coup. ("Good news! We have enough girls from our school to start our very own troop!") The city came into my home under the guise of a rehab loan to insulate our ceiling and get a safe water heater, and decided that a third of my home had been built illegally and needed to come down. I already was experiencing my usual pregnancy depression, and things went south from there. I couldn't take it. I didn't want to take it. Thoughts of death filled my every spare thought. I wanted to die with every iota of myself.

It was obvious that I needed to get back on anti-depressants. I'd gone off mine because I didn't want the extra risks for the pregnancy, but the truth was that suicide was 100% deadly to a fetus. The benefits clearly outweighed the risks. I happened to have insurance at that point so I called Kaiser to get an appointment with a therapist and/or psychiatrist. They asked basic questions to ascertain whether I was planning on killing myself. I knew that a yes to any of those questions would result in a "5150," an involuntary stay at a psych hospital. My kids were 10, 8, 5, and 3 at the time. Where would they go?  The only possible answer: "No, I am not going to kill myself." The Kaiser employee, having determined that she didn't need to send the police to save me, scheduled me for the next available appointment, four months from then. Four months. Luckily, I got into my primary care physician after only a month for an SSRI. I just "talked back to the crazy" while I waited.

My crazy brain thought of caulking myself and the kids into the kitchen and having a "movie, ice cream and pizza party" while the gas was on, and I told the crazy brain to SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP, I'd ponder snow camping and freezing to death, and I told myself that it wouldn't work and to SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. Envying people with cancer, wishing for a meteorite to take me and my house out, hoping for a deadly car accident, all were greeted with my standard SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. Never underestimate the power of telling the horrid thoughts no. It got me through while I waited for help.

Eventually, I got my SSRI and I started meeting with the Kaiser therapist, a kind of crappy therapist actually. It was enough to keep my domino up. Kaiser eventually got me in to see a psychiatrist and she was a delight. I later found a private therapist who was willing to do phone therapy with me and I worked hard to find my joi de vivre again. The meds stopped the death thoughts. The therapy gave me tools to deal with the emotions that come with life's trials. I was out of my house for fifteen months with a young family. It sucked in the biggest possible way, but I stayed alive. And I got better.

My husband later told me that while crazy me and sane me were fighting it out in my brain, I was calmer than usual and easier to get along with. He couldn't tell that I was on the edge of the abyss. I was running girl scout meetings and interviewing contractors and meeting with midwives and homeschooling and wanting to die with every iota of my being. I talked to some of my closest friends about it. I talked to my husband about it. They all knew I was stressed, but they didn't know how tempted I was. How close I was. Even though I was saying it, they weren't seeing it.

One of my closest friends saw it. She was similarly tempted. She and I made a living pact, similar to a suicide pact, with a happier outcome. The image of the line of dominoes falling and standing strong to hold up the dominoes that depended on me came from this pact of ours.  If I were to kill myself, people would be affected. Period. A lot of people.

I don't say this because I am immensely popular. I say it because when Carla jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, it affected me. We weren't close, but she was my friend. She bought cookies from my girl scouts. She was a Pampered Chef host for me. We'd talked about life, parenting. I say it because when the daughter of one of my best friends from college took her life a few weeks ago, when the sweet girl from my first married ward and sister of my good friend killed herself last week, those deaths affected me. When they died, my domino took a hit, a big hit. Every domino that falls hits so many others. Some we would never suspect. I do not want to knock other people's dominoes over.

I'm not blaming people who kill themselves. Depression is a real illness.When people kill themselves they are not being selfish. They are being sick. Their brain chemicals and their hormones are out of whack. When I started taking the SSRI, my death thoughts stopped. I didn't have to shut them up. They went away because my chemical imbalance was being corrected. It wasn't magic. I had to try several different kinds of SSRIs and fiddle with the dosages with my doctor, but it worked. I'm healthier.

I'm not sharing all this for a big pity party or a love-on-Jami-fest.  I'm sharing it because I know right now there's someone doing all the stuff they are supposed to be doing while envisioning their own death, while googling painless suicide methods, while trying to figure out how to do it with the least amount of harm to those left behind. I'm begging those people to stay, to please get help, even though it all seems insurmountable.

There are happy days ahead even if you can't imagine them now. Believe me. Believe all of the survivors before you. Please seek help. For every time I've thought that life was hopeless and there was no point in going on, I've had a dozen where I experienced peace and joy that I would not have happened if I'd given up. It's not all fields of daisies, but it's do-able with moments of delight.

Those of you who are supporting someone who is tempted by suicide, I need to tell you that if they decide they are going to kill themselves no amount of following them around and trying to fix it will stop them. This is their battle. BUT you can help. You can be there. You can not judge. You can not make it worse by making it about you. You can not give up on them. There are many resources (some conflicting) that you can explore, including seeking therapy on your own. Here's a nice starting point.

For those of you who are on the edge, have been on the edge or might be on the edge in the future,  I give you one of the best self care lists I've ever run into.  Seriously, click on it and try a few of the things. I also give you the number to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255. Also I remind you that no one can be you. Not to your kids or your friends. Not to your mom or dad. Not to your mail carrier. You are the only you that is ever going to be and you are precious. Please stay with us. Stay to experience those bright moments of joy that will surely come. Stay to someday hold the hand of someone else who wants to die. Don't buy the lie that it won't get better. It will. Don't buy the lie that we'd be better off without you. We won't be. Stay. Please.

Seems Like the Day to Do This

My Beautiful Daughter. Photo credit: Leah Mills

The Supreme Court has legalized gay marriage in all of the United States. There has been rejoicing and mourning, and all manner of commotion, so it seems that since the hornets' nest has been well and truly kicked, I might as well make an announcement: my oldest daughter is bisexual. I found out not too long ago, though I had suspected for about a year. (She was very careful about her pronouns when discussing her dates.)

As anyone who knows me or has been reading my blog for a while knows, I have long held the belief that it's none of my business what people's sexual orientations are. My business is to work on my own sins and to love people. It's a hard job and I'm glad I have a Savior to help me with it.

My daughter's bisexuality is simply one part of her. She is smart, kind, quiet, funny, insightful and good to the core. She is one of the most delightful people in the universe. I thank God every day that she is a part of my family. And I want to be very clear. I will not choose between my God and my daughter. I choose both. I choose to love God and to love my daughter. When it comes to people, I will choose my children over anyone. Period. And the fact that my children are such awesome people makes that choice an easy one.

And though it isn't perfectly in tune with either the marriage equality movement or the marriage-equals-one-man-and-one-woman movement, I am happy that she will be able to marry the person she falls in love with, but I'm worried too. Life is going to be harder for her. People who have never met her will hate her, wish her harm. It's frightening.

There's a whole portion of me that hopes she will fall in love with a man, because her life will be so much easier if she does. She won't have to worry about extended family disowning her or friends deciding to cut her off. She could move anywhere in the world without fear instead of only Western Europe or the West Coast or NYC. I have always been appalled at the violence and prejudice that LGBT people have had to endure, but now I have a face, my beautiful daughter's face, to picture those hate crimes being performed against. And I am more than a little afraid for her.

If I had a magic wand, I would make all the hatred, violence, and fear in the world disappear. Alas, I have no magic wand. All I've got is my love. And I give it fully and freely. I hope you will give yours as well.

Giving Thanks--6

I started this on the 6th, but I had a nasty headache all day. Everything came out "Bad noun passive verb typo typo no ending punctuation," and I decided I'd be better off writing later. So ANYHOW, on with the thanking.

I am thankful for medicine. I am thankful for migraine medicine and antibiotics and cold medicines, but most of all I am thankful for psychiatric medications. SSRIs and all of their cousins have saved the lives of countless people. They have kept people off of drugs and out of drunk tanks. For generations, my family has dealt with broken relationships, broken spirits, and addiction issues. One of my direct line ancestors died of "wood alcohol poisoning and exposure." Seriously.

My chemical imbalance began when I was very young. When I was ten I wanted to die with every part of myself. I tried to kill myself by sitting with a wet towel on my chest in front of an open window in winter. A character in a book I'd read had been successful in contracting pneumonia and dying through this method. I failed to grasp the futility of attempting it in a Northern Californian winter. My family laughed at me and called me Sarah Bernhardt, queen of melodrama. Except I was serious. Deadly serious.

The darkness lightened eventually, but it came back, again and again. At thirteen, at seventeen, at nineteen, at twenty-four, and at twenty-seven. Between ten and thirteen I gained an irrefutable testimony of the existence of God (see Giving Thanks--1), a God who did not want me to kill myself, and a firm belief that I would continue to exist past death. So I never tried to kill myself again. But I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to stop. Just stop existing. Never to feel the pain and hopelessness and sorrow again. At those moments a sure knowledge of God's love was less than joyous.

One day, in the middle of my major depressive disorder, something changed. I realized that my misery wasn't just affecting me. My beautiful two year old son had lost his "expensive" belt (twenty bucks) that I'd purchased for church. I found myself ranting some crazy thing about the belt and my son was crying and my daughter was searching frantically for the belt and I saw clearly. I saw how my mother and father had destroyed portions of me with their craziness and how their parents had destroyed portions of them and how I would destroy my children if I kept it up. I saw how my hours of silent crying and envy of people who contracted deadly diseases and died in car crashes, all of that crazy was bending my children toward the dark that enveloped me. I realized that my children would only get the one childhood.

And I saw a doctor. I'd seen a psychologist when I was ten and then again when I was seventeen and again when I was twenty-two and I'd learned a lot of useful skills. Skills which frankly were keeping me alive. I'd learned how to write through my feelings and recognize cognitive distortions. I'd learned how to talk back to the crazy. Useful. But still the darkness remained and that longing for death.

The doctor prescribed an SSRI. And I was healed. It wasn't simple. I had to try different kinds of SSRI and I had to work through the side effects. But it went away and stayed away. I quit taking them twice to have two more babies, during the non-medicated second pregnancy a combination of hormones and situational issues plummeted me to a level I'd never been before. I got to the point where I was sure everyone would be better off without me and a deadly suicide plan formed in spite of my best cognitive efforts. I began taking an SSRI again, because regardless of the risk to my baby, she would be 100% dead if I killed myself. Again it was like magic. I took my pill every day and the thoughts stopped. I could write. I could think. I could laugh, play games. Feel the Spirit. Love God. Love my family.

So, yes, as odd as it sounds, I am thankful for meds. I'm thankful that my now 20-year-old daughter and my 19-year-old son love me and don't fear me. If I was diabetic and took insulin because my pancreas couldn't meet my needs, I would take it and feel perfectly reasonable mentioning it in any setting, but because it's my brain, I feel a little cautious in mentioning it. Will telling come back to bite me in the butt? Given the stigma of mental illness, it might. Yeah, my brain has some sort of genetic brain chemical imbalance, but if I take my medicine, I am fine. It's really a modern miracle. I imagine how differently my family history would read if my mother and father and their mothers and fathers had taken an SSRI. The past doesn't get to be rewritten, but I sure as heck can write the future. I can tell my children and my children's children that it isn't necessary to drink away or smoke away or scream away the dark.

If you currently are experiencing depression and suicidal feelings, I encourage you to seek help. Medications and counseling can save your life, can save the quality of your life and the life of those you love. Please reach out. 

 Here is a link that can start you on a path to healing: http://www.helpguide.org/mental/suicide_help.htm

The Truth Ain't Always Comforting

My mom died early in the morning on December 21st. Everybody wants to die peacefully in their sleep. Everyone wants to hear that someone they love died easily. I've been lying pretty steadily to my mother's friends and relatives. If you want that, stop reading now. Read my lie and stop: Yes, it was easy and peaceful. I miss her very much.



The truth is: My mother's death was the most horrific thing I have ever witnessed.  I have never seen suffering that intense (and I've been a part of 11 drug-free births). Listening to her take her last couple of breaths may well have been the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. I miss her immensely, but no one in their right mind would wish even one more second of life upon my mother.

Her pain control had never been great. On average, I'd say the last two weeks of her life were spent at an 8 on that infernal pain scale. (See here and here for irreverent explanations of the pain scale. Language warning on the second link.) The hospice team took us slowly through a gamut of meds. We started with Norco (a codeine and acetaminophen mix), moved to long-acting morphine pills, then to liquid morphine, Fentanyl patches and finally a Dilaudid IV pump. Each time Vlas, the hospice nurse, visited he would call the doctor and increase the meds. (He advocated for my mom compassionately and aggressively. God bless him.) And none of it worked until we got to the Dilaudid pump. It, combined with six Fentanyl patches, knocked her out and allowed her to rest peacefully. We had the pump for two days.

They give you a booklet that explains the signs of death. Several books actually. And the yvil sister and I read them and read them. A week prior to her death my mother was doing everything that indicated that she could die any minute. (Except the mottling of hands and feet—that woman died with pretty pink hands and feet.) The waiting was excruciating. (I am not a good wait-er under the best of circumstances.) The hardest was the death rattle that went on for days. She would stop breathing for 15-20 seconds several times an hour. I found myself holding my breath with her, hoping there would be no more. Hoping she'd die peacefully in her sleep.

At about 2 am, the death rattle changed. I could tell death was near. I prayed my sister would be able to sleep through it. Not likely. Mom began moaning, and that moan turned into a noise that was as loud as a scream, but not as shrill. After about forty minutes, Y came in.

The Dilaudid pump allowed four extra doses an hour at the press of a button. I have never been so precise before in my life. Fifteen minutes, press. Fifteen minutes, press. I slapped our last Fentanyl patch on her (for a grand total of  seven 100 µg per hour patches).

My mom had bought a book, years ago, about how to kill yourself in a dignified manner in the event of an incurable disease. She'd had me read it and asked if I would be very angry if she chose that route. She never got to that point while she was lucid. (Very disturbing, that book.) I pulled that out now. Not to kill her. (I'd already had to reassure Y that Mom would never have wanted her to go to jail for any reason, ever. Even though she'd said "kill me" days before.) I pulled the book out to figure out how much liquid morphine is lethal, so that I could give her as much as I could without actually hastening her death. I quickly determined that liquid morphine was hard to get to a lethal dosage once you've been taking it for a while and that the lethal dosage was quite high, well beyond any amount we could get into her. I began giving the dose that had been prescribed for breakthrough pain, slowly because she couldn't swallow and it had to be absorbed under her tongue. All the while: fifteen minutes, press; fifteen minutes, press; fifteen minutes, press.

Three and a half hours later, the moaning/screaming/death rattling subsided into mere moaning/death rattling. A half an hour after that it stopped altogether.

When she came to confirm death, the hospice nurse asked why we hadn't called for help. They could have increase the dosage of Dilaudid the pump was giving her. In hindsight, we'd had time, but at the time we didn't know.We thought we were minutes away. Additionally, the night hospice team sucked. And the night dispatch nurse sucked even more. (Had a couple of prior attempts at nighttime advice to confirm that one.) It would be an hour before they could get there. And the pump took more than an hour to set up originally. Additionally, we were too busy giving her the pain meds we had and holding her hand.

I felt betrayed by the hospice literature. By all the people who had had sweet peaceful deaths. By everyone who had ever touched my mother medically. I'd never heard of anything like this. I felt like my sister and I were dumped into the middle of a complicated surgery, handed a bunch of scalpels and sutures and told to figure it out. I still am in shock. It's been two weeks and I am still in shock. My mother-in-law hadn't died like that. My aunt hadn't. My uncle hadn't. They all died of similar diseases. If I had some sort of way to forget, I'd take it. But I don't. I get to be sucked back into the memory at random moments. To dream about it.

Finally, I just decided to write it. To get it the heck out of my head.  To save innocent bystanders who are politely wondering how I am doing. (The answer to that is just fine, most of the time.) To provide a cautionary tale to others. (Ponder long and hard about dying away from medical personnel. Weigh the risks of heinous medical interventions against the risks of dying with a sudden increase in the need for pain meds with all help at least an hour away.)

Don't worry about me. I have an amazing group of friends who have been there for me this whole journey. I will heal. I don't know how many times I will have to tell this story before it loses it's power, but I know that it will. Eventually it will become a memory, instead of a reality. Thank you to those of you who made it this far—thank you for holding my virtual hand while I've told my story.

Time Management Induced Panic Attacks

You all have seen this one, right?

Start with an empty glass.

Now fill it with rocks.

Is it full?

(Uh yes. Just said to fill it with rocks.)

Can you fit any more in?

Oh yeah.

Next comes the gravel,

pour a bunch in and shake it down.

How about now?

Completely full yet?

No way.

Fill that baby with sand.

Shake her down.

Now we've got something like this:

Is it full now?

(Can we stop yet?)

Nope.

Time for:

WATER!

Fill 'er up!

Now the potential of the glass has been reached.

This demonstration is supposed to show that

you should put first things first.

(A la Stephen Covey)

Because if you try putting the sand in first

you cannot fit in the rocks

which represent the important things in life.

If you try something silly

like putting the sand in first,

you'd get something more like this:

And that's a little

OVERWHELMING!

The thing any rational person should be asking themselves is:

WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH

ARE WE TRYING TO GET

THAT MUCH CRAP IN OUR GLASS?

I feel the same way about appointment calendars with 15-minute increments.

No offense to my organized friends. Love you.

Rethinking the Whole Castration Thing

Melanie requested to hear about my world view exploding, and I think I'm stable enough to write about a portion of the explosion now. If not, I can just erase the post. Unless I accidentally press publish instead then my psychotic rantings will promptly go to a few dozen blog readers. (Not that it has happened before or anything.)

"Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up."

I've got a problem with child molesters. It's a common problem. I hate them and would like them to die during an unmedicated castration. Child molesters are pure unmitigated evil and deserve pain. It's a nasty world view, but there it is.

A few years ago when my best friend's husband got caught red-handed with their mentally-challenged adopted daughter, I had a conflict. This was a man who I had known for years, a man who had offered my family shelter during a difficult homeless time. (Another long story involving the city and some building code violations.) The evidence was undeniable however. I took the girl in while my friend got her husband out. Then I watched in disbelief as law enforcement and CPS let the whole thing drop between counties.

The thing is... as much as I loved the child, I did not want her molester to die slowly. I wanted him to get treatment, I wanted him to stay away from other children, but I didn't want him dead.

Fast forward to early summer 2009. I do a Google search on a good friend from college to see what he's up to. Surprise! It's a molestation conviction. I cannot believe it. I don't mean that metaphorically—I really cannot believe it.

I email him and get the scoop. I believe the now-adult "victim" is lying, insane perhaps.

This man is one of my oldest and most spiritual friends, one of the chastest people I've ever known. (He has faults, but they mainly lie in his unwillingness to get a real job and support his family.) Now he's falsely convicted. The justice system sucks: a guilty molester wandering free and an innocent man bound for jail. I rant and rave. Rave and rant. What's it take to get a little justice in this world?

After I calm down a bit, I contact his ex-wife, who I love and respect. Such a sane woman, taken in by lies. Her pain must be immense.

It is. Two hours later, my heart is broken, my world upside down. I claim tragedy in a friend's life to explain my tears which for some unaccountable reason roll down my face anytime anyone says, "How are you?" (Awkward.) It's not a lie: My dear friend has lost his mind. My other dear friend has had her world and her faith shattered. All of their children have lost their father. That, my friends, is tragedy.

Should he be castrated, the life slowly ebbing from him while his soul is thrust down to hell? People who harm children are pure unmitigated evil, right? But he is my dear friend, not pure unmitigated evil. How can I process the unprocessable? He's innocent. Guilty. Innocent. My mind won't leave it alone.

I reread everything he's ever written. It's a lot: emails, letters, a book, a screenplay, his appeal paperwork. I read my college journals. And I decide he is telling the truth. This man could not have committed this crime. I'd buy losing his mind and committing a bank robbery, polygamy, even murder, but not this, not molesting a child. Not him.

Every instinct in me says she's right, that he's guilty. Every instinct in me says he's innocent. Clearly I cannot trust my instincts. I cannot trust my conclusions.

These things I do know. 1. Jami plays no part in this tragedy except as a weeping audience member. 2. I cannot know. Not in this life. 3. It's OK to believe they are both right even though it defies logic. 4. We probably ought to skip castration as a form of the death penalty. 5. I will feel this pain until God heals it.

I want to be able to wrap up this whole monstrosity in a nice little package of wisdom with a bow on top and a tag that reads, "Yes, it's heinous, but there's a moral to be learned here." Alas I have no wisdom; I'm still floundering. I'm praying wisdom comes along at some point. Praying hard.

Bring Your Pillows, My Friends

It's looking like my talk will run slightly longer than a session of General Conference. Everyone's good with that, right? Hello? Hello? Where did everybody go?

Input Requested

(Apologies to my non-LDS readers.)

I'm speaking on Sunday. Subject: Testimony as a Process.

I would love to hear any-and-everyone's thoughts on the subject. How did you receive a testimony? What does testimony mean to you? What has challenged your testimony? Do you think there is a universal testimony acquisition process? If your response is too personal to share on the world wide web, please feel free to email me with your thoughts.

I'll post my talk on Sunday. (Although, knowing me, the talk I give will only bear the slightest resemblance to the talk I write.) Thank you, thank you, thank you for your help!

The Virgin Mary

Mary's Virginity. Every Christmas season I hear the allegation that Latter-day Saints believe our Father in Heaven had sexual intercourse with Mary. Does the idea make your skin crawl? It should! It is an ugly lie about God, the father of us all.

If it were just rabid anti-Mormons spewing their contagion, I'd just roll my eyes and ignore them. However, early last month my daughter's seminary teacher gave his opinion in support of the hideous blasphemy. I'm not holding it against him. He isn't the only misinformed Mormon I've run into. Several friends and a mission companion also have gotten all hung up on the "begotten in the flesh" phrase.

I've heard it too many times. "We just don't know. It does say 'in the flesh.'" We do too know! The scriptures testify again and again Mary was a virgin.

Our confusion and reliance on worldly knowledge isn't surprising. Even Mary herself asked how such a thing was possible seeing as she "knew not a man." She knew how conception normally worked. The Angel didn't give her a technical explanation; he simply told her, "The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God." (Luke 1:26-38 )

Not surprisingly, Joseph initially believed that Mary had conceived her child the usual way. An angel reassured him that Mary was a virgin, faithful to both Joseph and to the Lord. "The angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost. And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name JESUS: for he shall save his people from their sins." The scriptures then confirm that after their wedding "knew her not till she had brought forth her firstborn son: and he called his name JESUS." (Mathew 1:18-25)

Yes, Mormons do believe that Jesus is literally the only begotten in the flesh. We believe that our Savior was the only child ever born whose X chromosome came from a mortal mother, Mary, and whose Y chromosome came from our immortal Heavenly Father. What a glorious heritage, one that enabled him to atone for our sins and to overcome death for all of us!

Yet . . . there’s still that “in the flesh.” We all learned early in life that sexual intercourse is the way Mr. Y. Sperm usually gets to Ms. X. Egg. The only way? Of course not. Virgins can conceive today through in vitro fertilization or through artificial insemination. Our omnipotent, omniscient Heavenly Father has known the beautiful intricacies of creation from the beginning; He certainly understood reproductive technology at the time of conception.

Mary was a virgin, because she had never known anyone. She was a virgin at Jesus' conception. She was a virgin at Jesus' birth. She fulfilled Isiah's prophecy: "Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign; Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel." (Isaiah 7:14, emphasis added)

After seeing Mary in a vision, the prophet Nephi describes her. "I beheld a virgin, and she was exceedingly fair and white. . . most beautiful and fair above all other virgins." An angel then explains the significance of Nephi's vision, "Behold, the virgin whom thou seest is the mother of the Son of God, after the manner of the flesh." Nephi continues to describe his vision, "I beheld that she was carried away in the Spirit; and after she had been carried away in the Spirit for the space of time the angel spake unto me, saying: Look! And I looked and beheld the virgin again, bearing a child in her arms." (1 Nephi 11:13-20) Notice that Nephi still uses the term virgin to describe Mary holding her firstborn.

Alma also testified of Christ's virgin mother and of his miraculous birth. "And behold, he shall be born of Mary, at Jerusalem which is the land of our forefathers, she being a virgin, a precious and chosen vessel, who shall be overshadowed and conceive by the power of the Holy Ghost, and bring forth a son, yea, even the Son of God." (Alma 7:10)

The doctrine is clear. Very few honest seekers of truth remain confused after reading the scriptures, praying and reading the church's very clear statements on the subject. Mary was a virgin. We do not need to squelch our oogie feelings when someone teaches that our Heavenly Father committed incest. The confusion, the I-just-don't-know feeling--all those disconcerting feelings are there to testify to us that we are hearing false doctrine.

Let's not wander into indecent speculation but instead teach the truth. A virgin did indeed conceive and bring forth the son of God, Jesus Christ. Through his atonement, made possible through his divine lineage, we can return to our Father in Heaven pure and clean. The truth is joyous.

Not an official publication of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

[I'm leaving comments on, but shall swiftly and emphatically delete any crude comments. Please keep your disagreement reverent. ]

I LOVE SUE!

(Not in a Prop 8 defying kind of way. Gee. One-track-mind-political-junkies!)

Even when I run into her and don't know it's her, I love her. So for those of you who missed the big unveiling, I present the following secret:

SUE IS CORDY.

And no, I didn't know:

1. that Cordy was fictional.
2. that Sue was writing it.
3. that people could get SO flipped out about a blog.

I was just sad that it was over. But it's not! She's going to back up and finish the story the way she intended. Wahoo!

Some advice for those who feel betrayed and angry—try a bubble bath and some chocolate. You'll feel better.

In Which Jami Horrifies Two Lovely Young Teachers

I'm in serious overload mode with Girl Scout stuff right now. So I do not have time to craft a pleasant fiction in which I do not behave like a boor to those poor teachers. Background for those of you who missed the first post on this subject. Here we go! Details. Rough draft style.

I think I've frightened my mother off forever by bringing up the specter of Mr. Marshall which frees me up to discuss my crazy educational protectionism without fear of giving my sweet mother an aneurysm as she suppresses the urge to tell me off in front of the entire world.

ANYWAY...I met with V's two teachers last Monday after school. They had a nice neat rubric, with the smiley face, :), the flat line face :|, and the frownie face :(. They were certain that if they explained that the frownie face meant something other than "I'm mad/I don't like you/You have displeased me" that I'd say "OH! Thanks for explaining that. Whew! Glad we got that cleared up." Um, sorry, I'm crazier than that. A smile is a universal symbol for friendly acceptance while the frownie face is the universal symbol for "unable to complete assignment as given?" I think not.

So they kept saying, "Well, that's what we do."

And I kept saying, "Well, you can do it, but not to my kid. You aren't allowed to make her cry. I don't care if it is wimpy and silly that she cries over a frownie face. She's six, my friends."

Finally, I bent a bit. "OK, you can put a frownie face on her homework, but you can't let her see it. You can mail it home to me or stick it in an envelope and I'll get it," which was an unacceptable solution for them. They want the child to understand that they didn't complete the assignment correctly. Okey-dokey. More negotiations ensued until finally we settled on "1" = :( . Whew, glad we got that cleared up.

[OK Crash Test Dummy this next sentence is for you.] Nevermore shall my darling receive massive sorrowing visages marring her pulchritudinous, puerile endeavors toward scholarship.*

Then I told them I hated their reading program. That went over really well. I asked if there were any alternatives. Nope? OK...moving on then.

V's attention-seeking behavior? Ah yes. We locked her in a closet for six years, never paying any attention to her, and now she's a bit clingy. I sympathized with them. She does really seem to be a black hole for love. I told them that if they pay attention to her when she is making mistakes and acting up that she was likely to continue.

Did they want to keep trying what they have been doing or consider other options? My suggestions? They could have her move to a different classroom when she is seeking attention inappropriately, they could carry her in a baby backpack all day, whispering sweet words of encouragement and affection, or they could try something of their chosing that didn't involve frownie faces.

So then we discussed district standards for first grade which are the state second grade standards moved down a grade. That was fun. We discussed the wisdom of high pressure learning in the lower grades which led directly into the V's only attending their school because I need her out of the house during the day. Poor ladies, trying so hard to be nice to the crazy woman who pops this HORROR on them!

I offered reassurance. We totally follow their little homework routine for the hour and a half it takes to get done, roughly the same amount of time we'd spend on an entire day of homeschool. We parted on reasonable terms, but I would have paid hard, cold cash to be a fly on the wall for the conversation that followed our meeting.

In summary [that's also for CTD] they did not harm me, I didn't really stand on the desk and do a Tarzan yell, and security was not required to drag me off.

The end. For now. Until I get my knickers in a twist again.

*Translation: No more huge frownies on my V's beautiful, immature efforts at worksheets.

Resolution Redux

Due to some freakish self-defeating mental condition, I am much less likely to accomplish something if I make an official goal. The only New Year's resolution I have ever kept is 2006's: I will not kill anyone. (That was back when I was on the school board and TRUST me only the fear of God and my New Year's Resolution kept a couple of people alive.) By golly, I did not kill (or maim or even threaten) a single person all year long.

So here are the 2008 New Year's attempts (and results).

1. Get the playroom clean. (Define "clean.")
2. Oft speak kind words to the munchkins and the wizard. (Define "oft." Define "kind.")
3. Blog less. (January 1st I was reading By Common Consent, Mormon Mommy Wars, and Feminist Mormon Housewives daily, commenting and following the links found therein. September 22nd. I am following approximately twenty blogs and comment regularly on all of them. AND I started my own little mish-mash blog, my own little bloggy playground. [I am not addicted! I can stop any time I want. I just don't want.] I spend about two hours a day playing. More if I'm looking for a picture of a pirate kitty.)

So that's how the New Year's resolutions are going.

So how about my fake gastric bypass? DOA. Oink, oink. Got some seriously unattractive gluttony going on here.

To add the final flourish to my goal-making humiliation, I have the following to report:

******CAUTION, RELIGION ALERT. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK******

How's about that not talking about it plan? Not going so well. I've been reading everything I can find on the subject, chatting with sympathetic friends, and pretending not to be listening to all of the exhortations being dished up at church. I've been wandering around, irritated at this blatant politicizing in my place of worship, looking forward to November 4th (oh SO looking forward to November 4th) when the whole stupid issue will be laid to rest!

AND THEN?!? Why, the Living God decided to have a little chat, of course. Not a face to face chat. More like a heart to heart. I will spare you the details, but the gist of it is that I have been asked by God to obey. To humble myself, to trust him and to volunteer to make phone calls. Oh and since my objections were made in such a public forum, He thought it would be a good idea to use that same forum to mention my acquiesce to His will.

What is interesting about all this is that I have not been asked to change my mind. I still don't think that the world will end if gay marriage is legal. I still don't think that homosexuality is any more of a sin than any other kind of unchasity. I still think church is a rotten place to talk about Proposition Anything or Candidate XY and his running mate XX. However, I am going to be making phone calls on behalf of the Yes on 8 campaign. Because God asked me to. Because He created me. Because He knows best. Even when I disagree.

(p.s. Yeah, I'm still having the Toblerone give-away.)
(p.p.s. I just achieved my unspoken, unofficial goal of writing a post with the word redux in the title.)

Forty-something

Yep that's right folks! I am officially forty-one TODAY!

We partied yesterday because the 17th is

wacky Wednesday which looks like this:

6 am Seminary Kids out the door

(J says this doesn't count since he and E ride bikes and that I'm just using them to garner sympathy. True enough.)

7 am School Kids up

7:45 School kids to school

8:00-9:30 Last minute prep for teaching later on

9:45 Homeschool kids to co-op classes

1:00 Teach General Science at co-op

3:00 Pick up big kids from building class

(4:15 Yay! No activity days today.)

4:30 Cub Scouts (Yay! I'm not the assistant den leader anymore! Sorry Jen. Still love you!])

6:30 Brownie Girl Scouts

7:00 Mutual (church youth activity) for E & J

7:30 Pick up V from brownies

8:30 Pick up kids from mutual

10:00 The Man leaves for work

(I'll squeeze in meals, baby care, survival housework and emergencies in between.)

(A visit from the Truth Fairy: I am writing this on Saturday and scheduling it to post on the 17th, because I know that I will have no time at all to write on Wednesday. I will have time to check my email and stat-counter for little signs that you all love me. You know, like COMMENTS or gift cards or something.)

Anyway! Happy Birthday (forty-one years of mortal probation down and no more than fifty left to go) to me!