The Road Less Traveled

The author Robert Frost wrote a poem called, “The Road Less Traveled,” talking about a traveler and the choice he had to make when faced with a turn in the road and two different paths to follow. One road was overflowing with green grass and clear blue water, while the other road was difficult to maneuver, with tangled undergrowth. Clearly, most people would choose the easier path filled with beauty, but in the end the traveler chooses the more difficult road.

I have often pondered what trials I would have chosen for my earthly test if I’d been given a list before leaving my heavenly home. I look at friends and neighbors and their personal sorrows of divorce, infidelity, pornography, and drug abuse. Satan is well and alive on the earth, tempting God’s children with his enticing wares. To watch one of my children loose themselves would have been unbearable. But I know me! To think that I would have chosen a health crisis as my personal test is unthinkable! I hate drama and being the center of attention. Surely I would have chosen an easiest trial, one without personal sacrifice.

After my shocking diagnosis of Lyme disease, I cried out to my angel mother in anguish. I wanted to know, “Why me?” Hadn’t I always been obedient, made good choices, and tried to live a good life? With tearful wisdom in her eyes, my mother proposed that perhaps I chose this particular test and agreed to fulfill it. “Why would I do that?” I said. I assured her that when they were passing out tests in heaven, I knew I would have been in the line with the easiest problems. Again she suggested to me, “What if there were two roads that you could have traveled? One was straight and easy to follow and led right to your eternal reward. However, when you arrived many of your family members wouldn’t be there, having lost their way without your help. What if there was a more difficult road? One that was bumpy and rocky with twists and turns, but when you reached your destination you would have the overwhelming joy of having your entire family with you. Which road would you take?”

Our brother and Savior, Jesus Christ, chose the road less traveled . . . the thorny path. He died for us that we could live again. He chose the difficult road. During the last few years as I have begun to know Him, I have slowly begun to comprehend what a wonderful gift our Savior has really given us. Our trials are not punishments, but they are an opportunity for us to gain the knowledge that we will need to live with him again. What a wondrous promise of eternal life we have been given!

Our salvation does not need to be earned. It is a gift that has already been given. Ultimately it doesn’t matter how many loafs of bread we bake or mundane chores we perform. The gift is there and it is up to us to know Him so we can receive it!

Our lives go on as we battle our trials. However no matter what happens in life we need not live in fear, because the Lord has a greater plan for all of us and we need to put all of our faith in him. I have a quote on my computer, authored by my mother that reads, “The deeper the darkness, the brighter the light that follows!” It is a daily reminder of my eternal goal.

I know the Savior loves me and that he loves all his children here upon the earth. He wants to take us by the hand and carry our burdens and lead us out of the darkness. No one can find Him for us, as each one of us must do it for ourselves. In the immortal words of Robert Frost, “And I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference!”

Flowers Are Not Always Red!

Flowers are not always red with green stems! While pursuing my Elementary Education degree at BYU, I learned the importance of fostering creativity in our children, encouraging coloring out of the lines so to speak. As a result I enjoyed doing art projects with my own children when they were young, hoping to inspire their individual creativity. There is truly something magical when a young child takes paper, scissors, glue and crayons or paint in hand, to create something they have imagined within their own mind!

The other day my four-year-old grandson, Zander, spent the morning creating paper sculptures with carefully cut magazine pictures, stickers, glue and tape. He likes me to admire his artwork so I suggested he display his paper sculptures on my bedroom door. He was delighted, running to our desk for tape. Out of the corner of my eye I watched him carefully arrange each treasured work of art, counting the items displayed and then proudly standing back to view his accomplishment. “Perfect,” he exclaimed. Throughout the day he would return to check on his masterpiece, mumbling new plans under his breath to expand his door display. It was such an easy, inexpensive project, made of outdated dot matrix computer paper with perforated edges that he ripped off. Yet I marveled at what a profound affect it had on his already well adjusted self esteem that day.

In celebration of creativity and the great works of art and music that personal self expression has brought into our world, I want to reiterate the profound message from one of my favorite children’s storybooks, now unavailable. It’s called, “The Little Boy,” by Helen E. Buckley.

The Little Boy


By Helen E. Buckley



Once a little boy went to school.


He was quite a little boy,


And it was quite a big school.


But when the little boy


Found that he could go to his room


By walking right in from the door outside,


He was happy;


And the school did not seem 


Quite so big anymore.



One morning


When the little boy had been in school awhile,


The teacher said:


“Today we are going to make a picture.”


“Good!” thought the little boy.


He liked to make all kinds;


Lions and tigers,


Chickens and cows,


Trains and boats;


And he took out his box of crayons


And began to draw.



But the teacher said, “Wait!”


“It is not time to begin!”


And she waited until everyone looked ready.


“Now,” said the teacher,


“We are going to make flowers.”


“Good!” thought the little boy,


He liked to make beautiful ones


With his pink and orange and blue crayons.



But the teacher said, “Wait!”


“And I will show you how.”


And it was red, with a green stem.


“There,” said the teacher,


“Now you may begin.”



The little boy looked at his teacher's flower.


Then he looked at his own flower.


He liked his flower better than the teacher's,


But he did not say this.


He just turned his paper over, 


And made a flower like the teacher's.


It was red, with a green stem.



On another day, 


When the little boy had opened


The door from the outside all by himself,


The teacher said:


“Today we are going to make something with clay.”


“Good!” thought the little boy;


He liked clay.


He could make all kinds of things with clay:


Snakes and snowmen,


Elephants and mice,


Cars and trucks


And he began to pull and pinch
His ball of clay.



But the teacher said, “Wait!”


“It is not time to begin!”


And she waited until everyone looked ready.


“Now,” said the teacher,


“We are going to make a dish.”


“Good!” thought the little boy,


He liked to make dishes.


And he began to make some


That were all shapes and sizes.



But the teacher said, “Wait!”


“And I will show you how.”


And she showed everyone how to make


One deep dish.


“There,” said the teacher,


“Now you may begin.”



The little boy looked at the teacher's dish;


Then he looked at his own.


He liked his better than the teacher's,


But he did not say this.


He just rolled his clay into a big ball again,


And made a dish like the teacher's.


It was a deep dish.



And pretty soon,


The little boy learned to wait,


And to watch,


And to make things just like the teacher.


And pretty soon,


He didn't make things of his own anymore.



Then it happened


That the little boy and his family


Moved to another house,


In another city,


And the little boy


Had to go to another school.


This school was even bigger


Than the other one.


And there was no door from the outside


Into his room.


He had to go up some big steps


And walk down a long hall


To get to his room.


And the very first day


He was there,


The teacher said:



“Today we are going to make a picture.”


“Good!” thought the little boy.


And he waited for the teacher


To tell what to do.


But the teacher didn't say anything.


She just walked around the room.


When she came to the little boy


She asked, “Don't you want to make a picture?”


“Yes,” said the little boy.


“What are we going to make?”



“I don't know until you make it,” said the teacher.


“How shall I make it?” asked the little boy.


“Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher.


“And any color?” asked the little boy.


“Any color,” said the teacher.


“If everyone made the same picture,


And used the same colors,


How would I know who made what,


And which was which?”


“I don't know,” said the little boy.


And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.



If we don't let our children be the architects of their own dreams, if we set limits on their imaginations, if we always devalue their ideas and goals, we are not leading. We are depriving them of an opportunity to reach their potential. We need to tell our children that they can indeed use all 64 colors in their boxes and that the world is filled with thousands of different flowers and their blank pages can be transformed into pictures of beauty. Because flowers are not always red with green stems!

No Man Is An Island

The 1960’s Folk singer, Joan Baez, sang in her musical lyrics, “No man is an island, No man stands alone,” and like Joan, I have discovered my own truth in those immortal words. The seven unsuspecting castaways on the humorous TV sitcom, “Gilligan's Island,” also discovered the reality of these words. Gilligan and the other six passengers aboard the S.S. Minnow on that 1960’s television show, assumed they were going on a relaxing three-hour cruise, never expecting to find themselves hopelessly shipwrecked on a uninhabited tropical island. I too, had high expectations for my long awaited Royal Caribbean Cruise, never suspecting how my adventure would change the course of my life into formerly uninhabited territory!

“It’s more than a vacation, it's a royal experience,” the promotional brochures promised us. Yes! We were going on a Royal Caribbean Cruise! It would be a vacation of pure rest and relaxation, daily pampering, gourmet food, entertaining shows, and interesting shore excursions. We looked forward to the lazy days and a week in the sun, with all our responsibilities momentarily left behind. On April 1, 1995, my husband and I embarked on the adventure of our lives. It was April Fool’s Day, but the trip was no practical joke. After giving birth to six children, ranging in ages from 3–21, and in addition, loving, nurturing, raising, and caring for their every need, we were taking a once in a lifetime Caribbean cruise! It was part of an incentive reward given to my husband’s top selling hardwood flooring distributors.

The cruise was indeed an incredible adventure. Never in our lives had we experienced such stress free rest and relaxation. We slept in late every morning, ate beautifully prepared gourmet meals, watched movies, attended entertaining variety shows, visited with interesting people, and relaxed in the sun. Throughout the trip, as the ship docked, we were able to tour the intriguing sites and ruins of the local villages in three different third world countries. We ended our dream vacation on a privately owned island in Haiti, where my husband went snorkeling with the “guys,” while I relaxed with the wives, or spouse equivalents, on the sunny beach. I swam in the beautiful, clear blue water and wiggled my toes in the snow white sand (never suspect of the invisible bugs and parasites that might have been lurking there). Little did I realize how soon my life would be completely turned upside down, as if shipwrecked.

One week later we arrived home, refreshed and rejuvenated and life returned to normal. Prior to this vacation I had been fairly healthy. I’d had a bout of childhood asthma and the normal childhood diseases of the 1950’s and 60’s, but I’d needed few antibiotics and my only real professional medical experiences were during pregnancy and childbirth. My gynecologist and our pediatrician were literally the only family doctors I knew well. I prided myself on my ability to keep my children in fairly good physical health with my limited knowledge of vitamins, herbs and what I considered nutritious eating.

I had lost weight prior to my cruise and bought some new clothes, so as I returned home I was determined to keep exercising and shed the last of my unwanted pounds. I had been speed walking two miles every morning and vowed to continue. But within a week after returning home, I developed a strange throbbing pain in one of my toes, preventing me from my daily walk. Within another week a toe in my other foot was in pain as well. I could no longer wear the new dressier shoes I’d purchased for the trip, although low healed and very comfortable. I’d had a minor foot problem the previous year, which had been resolved with foot massages recommended by my chiropractor. So I assumed I was now having a different kind of foot issue. However, when massage proved too painful to endure, on the advice of friends, I sought the help of a foot doctor.

The new foot doctor, chosen from a coupon book in the mail (uncharacteristically not like me) told me I had “neuromas” in my toes, a thickening or enlargement of nerve tissue generally occurring at the base of the third and fourth toes. Neuromas are usually the result of compression and irritation of the nerve, like when women wear high healed, pointed-toed shoes. I had been a sandal wearing, opened-toed kind of shoe girl my whole life, and even my new cruise shoes were conservative by any standards. Also my pain was between my second and third toes. But what did I know? He was the doctor and I needed to get out of pain and move on with life. So I took his anti-inflammatory medication and ordered the prescribed custom made shoe inserts that he assured me were medically proven to eliminate pain and discomfort. I quickly put the possible foot surgery recommended in the back of my mind. It wasn’t long before I discovered that while I was on the pain medication I could function, but without it I was riddled with throbbing, painful feet.

Three months later, while on a Fourth of July outing at our family cabin, we received early morning news that my beloved father-in-law had passed away. We needed to pack up and return home as soon as possible. But that morning I suddenly began experiencing a flu-like fever with no other apparent flu symptoms. As my strange symptoms progressed with no relief in site, I was desperate to be available for my husband and his family. So I medicated myself with a strong over the counter pain reliever (uncharacteristically not like me). My feet were more painful than ever and medication seemed to have little or no effect. To get through the funeral I wore running shoes with my dress, as any other shoes were too painful to tolerate. When people stared or jokingly commented on my fashionable attire, I responded with humor, blaming what I now considered the most painful neuromas ever! Following the funeral, anxious to rid myself of the unexplained pain and return to normal activities, I submitted to foot surgery without research, study or thought (uncharacteristically not like me). I, like most Americans, wanted a magic pill, an easy solution that would solve all my problems.

The surgery failed to cure me and I never really walked well again. Months later I was still wearing the foot surgery boots, hobbling around, unsteady on my feet. While I appeared as though still in recovery, the truth of it was, that my feet were now swollen and I was unable to fit into any of my shoes. I began wearing sandals with Velcro adjustable straps, with promises from the foot doctor that things would get better. They didn’t. My legs and ankles began aching intensely and the mysterious pain began rapidly spreading to my knees and hands as well. Within months, my legs that previously could have leapt up our staircase two steps at a time could barely crawl up a single stair! The pain in my toes developed into burning pain in my feet, that I can only describe as what it would probably feel like to walk on “hot coals.”

The foot doctor finally suggested that I should get blood tests and seek other medical advice. Scared, crying, and frightened, I hand carried my own papers to the hospital to have blood tests that day, something I had never experienced before. My only previous experience with my blood was giving blood twice in college and having my finger pricked at my gynecologist’s office. If only I’d know to check the box marked “Lyme” before submitting my papers.

My blood tests showed that there was no infection whatsoever in my body, and no explanation could be found for the now burning sore throat pain I was experiencing. I did have a slightly elevated RA factor, and further tests were recommended. I had no idea where to begin or who could help me. After all, with the exception of having difficulty walking, I looked fine! I felt horrible, not unlike what I imagined being run over with a truck and surviving might have felt like. But the worse feeling of all was the feeling of being all alone, stranded on my own tropical island, with no rescue in sight. Thus began our long and turbulent road with a succession of different kinds of doctors, with different kinds of degrees, recommending different protocols and therapies.

While the popular, comedic, American culture television icon of “Gilligan’s Island,” aired for three seasons on the CBS network, running a total of 98 episodes, and spawning three TV movie sequels, my little tropical island experience has not proved as popular. Among the estimated 30,000 people diagnosed with Lyme disease yearly, this disease is definitely not a crowd pleaser. The seven castaways on Gilligan’s Island found that although stranded on an uncharted isle, they were never alone as long as they had each other. I too have discovered who my true friends are and how important it is to have family and loved ones who support us. Without my disease and the lonely isle of uncertainty it brought, which has ultimately become a gift, I would never have recognized the unconditional love that I have always been given by my spouse and children. Each of our journeys are different and each road changeable. But those who bravely take the voyage with us are the ones who make it all worthwhile. No man is an island!

No man is an island,
No man stands alone,
Each man's joy is joy to me,
Each man's grief is my own.

No man is an island,
Way out in the blue,
We all look to the one above,
For our strength to renew.
~ Joan Baez, American Folk Singer

Note: Lyme Disease is prevalent across the United States and throughout the world. A tick doesn't see borders on the states and say, “Hey I am stepping off a deer from Wyoming and onto a deer from Utah.” Where you live doesn't effect your chances of getting it because everyone travels and everyone is susceptible to Lyme Disease whether you want to believe it or not!

Statistically speaking, fewer than 50% of patients with Lyme disease recall getting a tick bite (like me). Fewer than 50% of patients with Lyme disease recall getting any type of rash (like me). (www.lymewalk.org)

In 2007, 27,444 cases of Lyme disease were reported to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) in the United States. However, the CDC has gone on record saying that they believe only 10-12% of Lyme disease cases are actually being reported to them. Many experts believe 200,000 people per year in the United States alone are being infected with this disease! (www.lymeresearch.org)

We All Merge at Grand Central Station

Many years ago my husband, Dale and I were in Switzerland, where after touring the city we ended up in a large and spacious building appropriately named, “Grand Central Station.” It was the central terminal where all incoming and outgoing trains throughout that part of Europe met together. At certain times of the day the terminal was quiet and serene, while during other moments throughout the day, the station was noisy, bustling with the activity of hurried travelers trying to get to their various destinations. As we watched the interesting varied action surrounding the station I suddenly had one of those Oprah light bulb moments, connecting the old clique saying of “Grand Central Station” with it’s origin.

Sometimes my house is peaceful and tranquil and I am alone with my thoughts plunking away at my computer. However, sometimes my house is like Grand Central Station, a flurry of noise and confusion as our children and their crazies (a loving term I use in reference to my energetic, delightfully funny grandchildren) come and go. On at least one day each month we all meet together at one central point to celebrate birthdays. That point, our home, has become the equivalent of Grand Central Station!

During the last couple of weeks my 87-year-old parents made the brave decision to sell their home and move into assisted living. My mother has been my father’s main caretaker and now we are hopeful she can leave behind the mandate tasks of cooking and cleaning and that together they can live out the remainder of their days in peaceful harmony. As my sisters and I have helped with their decisions it has never been more apparent that each of us are distinctive individuals, with different personalities, gifts and opinions. Each of us have had different experiences with our parents and with those experiences come diverse feelings and emotions. Yet each sibling has heart felt love, desiring our parent’s best interest, when all is said and done.

As families we are bound by love. Like the trains in the station we all leave home, navigating our own paths and destinations. As we try to plot a course and find our way we sometimes clash and differ in our opinions, letting anger and pride get in the way of the most important relationships we have. Yet eventually we must come together at one central station for the good of all.

Years ago I lashed out in anger at my older sister Vicki. I blew something small out of proportion and let years of unspoken buried feelings come tumbling forth. I didn’t speak to her for three months. I wanted to punish her for being a less the perfect individual, having idealistically placed her on an unrealistic pedestal all my life. I regret my unkind words terribly to this day and wonder if she will truly ever trust my unconditional love for her. I have admired her strength and courage during insurmountable challenges all my life. She has only given me love since I was a little baby, placed in the arms of my nine-year-old big sister.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, the American poet, probably wrote from personal experience when she said: “One great truth in life I’ve found, the only folks we really wound are those we love the best.” It seems ironic, but it is true that by a careless word or a thoughtless or selfish act we do the most harm to those who are most precious to us. If we don’t do something to correct the problem, our most valued relationships can be permanently damaged.

The key to repairing much of the hurt can be summed up in two words, “I’m sorry.” Life is too short and friendships are too few to waste time fighting or holding a grudge when an apology will set things right. It has been said that, “Being unwilling to forgive is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die!” It’s so true!

Like trains coming together in Grand Central Station we must all come together in love as well. We must learn to understand each other, cherishing our differences, and use our different skills and opinions to help one another find his or her destination. Perhaps county music singer, Jimmy Dean, said it best when he stated, “I can't change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination.”

My all time favorite quote is by Walt Disney, a true example of merging together and moving forward. He said, “Around here, we don’t look backwards for very long. We keep moving forward, opening up new doors and doing new things . . . and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.” I’m happy to be living in the middle of Grand Central Station, in a world of amazing technology, constantly being exposed to new knowledge, people and ideas!

He’s a Super Hero, or Maybe a Saint

Did I mention my husband, Dale, has become my caretaker? If in our earlier, hectic married years of parenthood and trials . . . you know the ones where you pass each other in the doorway, coming and going, stopping long enough to say, “We’re overdrawn at the bank again honey,”. . . yes, those years . . . If I ever wondered if my husband would stick around for the thick and thin of it, well I have my answer. He would, and he has! Our family and friends think he’s a real super hero, maybe even a saint.

I always loved the children’s novel, “The Velveteen Rabbit,” by Margery Williams. Its simple, yet profound message of how toys become real was a true commentary on our lives. “It doesn't happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are ‘real,’ most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are ‘real’ you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand!”

Just like in the beloved storybook, becoming a “real” saint doesn’t happen all at once, although in my husband Dale’s case that point might be arguable. Real life heroes or saints are usually molded one painful step at a time. It takes a long time. Dale was not always a saint, ready for knighthood. He used to be a regular everyday, ordinary, tired, overworked, unappreciated husband. In the early days of his newly acquired motherhood duties, he couldn’t even clean the bathroom, let alone cook a meal fit for human consumption. Once I heard him whispering to our (then) 12-year-old daughter, Ashley, asking her how to clean the toilet! To be fair, it’s not that I entered marriage with any amazing cleaning skills of my own, having to finally take a professional cleaning class, learning how to rid myself of that annoying bathroom scum build-up around my sinks.

Dale and I, though similar in some things, are very different in others. Similarly we both love the theater, creative arts, and travel. He’s hilarious as a traveling companion with his quiet, dry sense of humor, murmuring humorous comments under his breath and lightening my mood. I have truly only seen his temper flare a few times during our marriage. The first time was at me – in the early married days of “Who is this person I married anyway?” and then again at a car repairman trying to rip us off. All of our girls remember his anger when our one and only teenage son talked back to me “once.” In all cases Dale eventually walked away to calm down, avoiding potential bloodshed and violence, a trait I have come to appreciate.

Dale and I are different in that I love to talk, rattling on for hours about this and that . . . well I don’t really talk all that much, not like those people in the PTA meetings who have an opinion about everything, that you’d just like to yell at saying, “Please shut up, because we want to go home tonight!” But I talk a lot more than he does. Dale is a methodical thinker, who would never put his foot in his mouth, bursting forth with the first comment that came into his head. He thinks about his answers profoundly, before carefully giving his answers, usually good ones too, if you are patient and can endure the silent wait. I’m not . . . patient I mean, even though Lyme disease has worn me down into almost patient city. Our conversations go something like this, “Dale, what do you think about [insert topic]?” Upon which he begins thinking, forming his well thought out reply, his words of anticipated wisdom. I am breathlessly waiting, really wanting his opinion. Minutes pass. It seems like years. I wonder if he has fallen asleep with his eyes open, like the time he did in the downtown intersection during rush hour traffic, causing numerous people to spring from their cars to see if he’d had a heart attack. But no, he is still thinking. Impatiently, I move on to my next comment, telling him how I feel, inserting yet another question, sometimes a third. And suddenly it happens. He opens his mouth and his philosophical words of wisdom, akin to King Benjamin’s in the Bible, spill forth. He is responding to my original question, which sadly, I have now forgotten, having no idea what we are talking about!

In the beginning of my Lyme disease, Dale’s cooking skills included three things: spaghetti from a can, canned soup, and homemade whole wheat bread. Not overlooking his can opener talents, you have to admit the homemade bread thing was impressive, even if it was my recipe, which I admittedly hating making, as it created confusion and a messy kitchen in my already chaotic life filled with constant interruptions. He on the other hand, found bread making relaxing after a hard day at work. Not having formerly given cooking much thought as I entered married life, my newly acquired cooking goals were basic in nature (right after learning to boil water). Basically my cooking goals could be boiled down (pun intended) to one simple three word statement . . . “fast, nutritious (meaning a green salad with every meal), and preferably delicious,” but not absolutely necessary on the later. Cooking was not a creative outlet for me, so our early shared cooking routine became this. On nights Dale made bread, I’d bath the kids and do the customary bedtime schedule. Later we would enjoy a warm piece of freshly baked bread together, before slicing and freezing the remaining loafs.

However, my sudden illness and abandonment of our formerly shared household duties put everything in Dale’s ball court and he was caught completely off guard. At the same time as my illness began, Dale’s beloved father passed away. While grieving his father and perplexed by my sudden unexplained illness, Dale’s initial response was to buy a large case of chicken pot pies to feed our six hungry children, all with various different crazy schedules. Everybody but our three-year-old was literally fending for themselves! Even three-year-old Mckenzie became efficient in taking care of herself with Dale’s “pour your cereal yourself” breakfast menu and his brown paper bagged refrigerator lunches, both easily within her reach. But as my illness persisted with no end in sight, Dale eventually had to step up to the plate and swing the bat, remarkably hitting the ball way out of the ballpark! I know Dale’s mother, who was an accomplished cook and has now passed on as well, is looking down on her son’s new chief skills with pride, remembering how he and his older brother, Leon, once tied her apron strings to the kitchen cupboard while she made dinner for her two mischievous little boys.

Today, in our newly acquired roles, I have learned to appreciate the business like skills a man brings to running a household. I don’t know why I never considered organizing my menu and grocery-shopping list on a spreadsheet? . . . Oh wait, that was when we still remembered how to balance our checkbooks with a pen and a calculator. Now of course we have simplified our already complicated lives with computers. It’s difficult to remember how we managed without Internet banking, bill pay and Quicken downloads. In addition we need printers’ to keep copies in our old-fashioned file boxes and external hard drives to back up all our computer generated hard work, least we suddenly lose it!

Humorously, our present day interests are still as varied, as they are similar. While I enjoy movie genres of romantic comedies and heartfelt dramas, my husband enjoys watching sports, sports and oh yes, more sports. Oddly, he has also now become abscessed with the Food Network channel. Dale has become somewhat of an amateur, gourmet cook, even with all the crazy diets and limited food choices I’ve been placed on over the years. Like Bobby Flay, he cooks with flare, creativity and enjoyment, creating works of art to behold, tantalizing to the taste buds. He is my hero . . . like I said, a “real saint,” and "once you are real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand!”

It Takes a Village

There’s a 1966 song that still plays in my head, by Marvin Gaye called, “It Takes Two,” and statistically speaking, two people have proven effective in marriage. But when you have a crippling, neurological form of Lyme disease, no longer able to stand or walk, “It takes a village” of people to care for your needs and replace the former you. I have five neighbors who fill an appreciated service, as they come one day a week each, providing physical therapy and highly valued, “girl talk.” My husband has become chief cook and bottle washer, care taker, housekeeper, lawn mower, gardener, child nurturer, and dedicated Sunday School teacher, all while running his own business, mostly from home by cell phone and computer. He has many balls in the air to balance, so to speak, although claiming his are generally all lying on the ground. Three of our married daughters have volunteered and divide their time weekly as well, providing me with muscle soothing massages, five times a week. They along with my neighbors, provide a much-needed relief to my overworked, underappreciated, tired husband.

While my daughters massage, I am able to share in their lives and visit with my grandchildren. This provides for some hilariously, entertaining stories, and delightful conversation. It’s been said that, “Laughter is the best medicine,” and the stories about my grandchildren are more than entertaining. I must admit however, that these same experiences were not as humorous when they were happening to me as a young mother. But now I giggle under my breath, enjoying the mother-child scenes displayed before me in all their glory. It’s vindication somehow for all have gone through, having “been there, done that!” Now it’s their turn, realizing what they have signed up for and wondering why there were no specialized instructions with delivery.

Last week, for instance, my daughter, Ashley came to massage, bringing along three-year-old Isaac. Ashley’s older sister, Liz, was already at our house, doing her weekly house cleaning, a service we pay her meagerly for, but could never actually pay her what she is actually worth to us, as she does so many extras, like decorating Christmas trees, and organization projects. Liz brought her children too, Acacia, six and Joshua, four. Liz is normally an overprotective mother (I can’t imagine where she picked that up from, as I stop breathing watching Joshua climb our wall unit). However, on that particular day Liz allowed her active children to play outside on my neighbor’s swing set, giving Acacia her cell phone with our number programmed in, just in case Joshua decided to wander away. This was her plan, in order to be able to clean quickly and efficiently without whining children begging for her undivided attention. Acacia is a rule follower and very responsible. I could only imagine the brain cells churning in her head as she was probably thinking, “I’m going to be so good at this. I think I’ll be ready for my own cell phone.”

It was decided that Isaac could go outside as well, as he never gets to go outside without his mom. He agreed that he would stay by Acacia, never going near the road, with threats of having to come inside if said rule was disobeyed. (Where do my girls come up with this stuff? It’s like we all read the same mom book!) Anyway, less than five minutes later, Acacia called Aunt Ashley. “Ashley, Isaac is throwing rocks in my eyes.” “Let me talk to him,” Ashley demanded, rolling her eyes and muttering something under her breath about little boys. “Isaac, did you throw rocks in Acacia’s eyes?” she asked. I am thinking, “Of course he’ll say no. What kid would say yes?” To my surprise Isaac said remorsefully and honestly, “Yes.” “We do not throw rocks in peoples eyes,” Ashley patiently explained. “Say we do not throw rocks in people’s eyes!” “We do not throw rocks in people’s eyes,” Isaac repeated. “Tell Acacia you’re sorry,” Ashley instructed. “I’m sorry,” Isaac said . . . end of conversation . . . play resumed.

Five minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Acacia. Isaac had committed yet another infraction, bordering on a criminal act in Acacia’s mind. Once again Isaac was summoned to the phone and the conversation went much as before, substituting the new crime of course. Every 5-10 minutes there was a new phone call, sometimes with Joshua being the offender and sometimes it was just Acacia wanting to chat, hungry with her new found power. Finally, one last phone call and Isaac was again summoned to talk with his mother. The phone was on speaker and I could hear Isaac's reply in the back ground. "No thanks, I don't want to talk to her." He had obviously caught on to the conversational pattern occurring and didn't want to be bothered anymore!

We win some, we loose some, but there is always pay back for each new parental idea. Always, you can be sure that whatever worked yesterday may not magically work again today. The rules may change, but kids like to keep life interesting, least we become bored with our dull, uneventful days! Gratefully, if we are fortunate, we have family and friends to share experiences and ideas with. Living with Lyme disease and raising children are similar in that like the African proverb says, “It truly takes a village!”

I Blame Hollywood, or Maybe June Cleaver!

I was 44 years old, having taken my three year old and living with my parents for what I assumed would be a short two-week visit (which turned into two months). I had just been diagnosed with a mysterious illness called, Lyme disease. Having abandoning my husband and five older children, leaving them to fend for themselves, I sought refuge in my mother’s caring arms. Surely with two weeks of loving care, I would be back to driving carpools and cooking meals in my self-imposed career called, motherhood.

That morning my father came into my room to chat, he himself miserable with shingles and the aches and pains of old age. “Linda, do you know why they call old age the Golden Years?" I replied, “No Dad, why?” “Because the doctors get all the gold,” he laughed, scratching his itchy shingles rash. He had only been to but a few doctors in his life, yet it was funny all the same. Little did I realize how true of a statement it would become in the following 13 years as I have battled my disease. It was 1996 and I had been searching for answers to my unexplained symptoms for a year. I lived in Utah, where no one tested for Lyme disease at the time. “Lyme disease?” I’d said, to the Nevada doctor in the clinic where I was finally diagnosed. “What’s that? Do you get it from eating limes?”

As I begin writing this first entry in my new online blog, I smile at the irony of it all, having told my mostly grown children, “Why would anyone want to write a public journal?” I wonder if I will tell them about it or if it will be one of those dark, hidden family secrets, the kind that are eventually revealed when you are standing in line at the supermarket, only to realize your life has suddenly been exposed, openly displayed on the front page of a trashy tabloid newspaper. Ah, the justification of it all! It would serve my children right and give them additional material to complain to Oprah about, telling her how their formerly sane mother cracked under pressure, becoming “crazy mom!”

How did I get here? Why did I choose this crazy life of mothering helpless creatures, loving, nurturing, caring, knowing they will eventually come to a point in their lives where they blame me for everything gone wrong, as I did my mother. The mother-daughter bond is a love-hate relationship, one we’re never entirely able to break away from, even if we wanted to. I blame Hollywood really, or maybe June Cleaver! The movies fill our heads with romantic ideas of motherhood and June certainly didn’t help out either in her 1950’s Television sitcom, "Leave It to Beaver." June served three nutritiously prepared meals everyday, displayed on perfectly set tables with china and crystal goblets. She was greeted each morning by her well-dressed husband, eager to go to work and be the bread winner and her two shiny faced, clean cut boys, handsomely dressed and ready to begin their school day. Oh that Beaver, now he was a rascal, sometimes having dirt under his fingernails, but not June. She cooked breakfast immaculately dressed with wrinkle free, pressed, tightly wasted dresses, salon hairdo, and pearl necklace displayed neatly around her neck. I don’t know how she managed, as I think of my sleepy-eyed, nightgown attire in my years of young motherhood, yawning as I put cheerios on the table, wondering if I’d get a chance to shower that day. June wore this same outfit when cleaning walls and vacuuming her home, never breaking a sweat or mussing her hair! Oh wait, I don’t think her home ever needed heavy cleaning, it was dirt free and magically self-cleaning somehow!

So here I am today, in the middle years after raising most of my children, rapidly approaching my mature years (old age). I am wife, mother of six, grandmother to eight and counting (hopefully), living my life with Lyme disease. It’s not who I am nor does it define me, as I think of those whose voices have lowered with sadness when asking my family how I’m doing, as if my situation is tragic beyond belief. My disease has marched on as my husband and I have attended high school and college graduations, given four wedding receptions as our children found love and married, and as we have held each new grandchild for the first time. It’s true that this disease has been expensive and the medical professionals get all our gold, but my life is golden, nonetheless!