Please, No More Talk of Modesty

A year ago I sat in a laundromat in Antwerp, Belgium. Paul and I were trying to figure out the euro washing machines (nevermind that Paul speaks Dutch), but I’m a lazy person at heart so rather than try even 10 more seconds for him to figure it out, I asked the Hasidic Jewish woman next to me to just tell us what to do.  She was friendly and talkative. I’m friendly and talkative too and we ended up speaking about way more than laundry. She told me about her recent wedding, how her amazingly-tall husband saved her from a life of secular Judaism (born again Jew?) and how she had always suffered from seizures until she went to Jerusalem and prayed at the wall. Now they were completely gone. She sadly told me about her strained relationship with her mother now that she was orthodox. She even showed me videos of her friends’ Jewish weddings, explaining why everything was done the way it was.

Antwerp, Belgium, waiting for laundry

She told me about her conversion with such zeal. I was mesmerized. She used to show her hair, whereas now she kept it covered; she used to wear pants, whereas now she wore long skirts to her ankles and sleeves down to her wrists. She once dressed like I was dressed right then--jeans, sneakers, and ponytail hair.  The disparity in our clothing was very obvious, so I tried to speak to our commonalities. I told her that I too was a very religious woman. Had she heard of the Mormons? She never had. And she was not accepting the claim that we were both religious women of God. She kept protesting, in her thick French accent, waving her arms, that she was a very religious woman. I was not. This jeans-wearing woman did not make headway with her on that front.

Jewish quarter in Antwerp, Belgium

And you know what? It felt good. It felt so good, for the first time in well, forever, to be the Gentile Heathen. Moi, a Mormon woman who lives in Provo, which is like 90% Mormon and super conservative, to now be in the Jewish quarter of Antwerp, where I was now the minority. Maybe I’ve read one too many Chaim Potok novels but I’m pretty sure that classifies me as goyim. By the standards of this lovely Belgian, 23-year-old-newlywed woman, this 42-year-old-middle-aged woman was not dressed very “modestly”. The tables had turned. (An aside: this has to be the best conversation I've ever had while travelling, even better than talking to Sal in the fabric district in New York who tried to sell me some voile to make a top even though I said voile is sheer and all I do is push kids in strollers so where would I wear such a top, only to have him reply in what I swear was his best Andrew Dice Clay impersonation he reserved for tourists, 'hey lady it's how ya feel!')

Fast forward a year later. My 16-yr old daughter Ilene came home from church the other day a bit confused about what she heard about modesty in Relief Society. (The 16-17-yr old girls go to class with the women once a month.)

Modesty. Oh please, here we go again. If I never hear that word again used in context of how covered up a woman is it will be too soon. In the words of Ignayo Montoya, “You keep using that word, I don’t think it means what you think it means.” I don't think us Mormons have a clue as to what 'modest' means.

Ilene’s bottom line question was, “Mom what is the big deal with wearing a tank top?!” In short I said, “It is no big deal.” I reminded her of conversations we've had before-- that different articles of clothing are appropriate for different occasions. I don’t use the word modest to describe clothing, I use the word appropriate. We talk about this a lot. Ultimately she is in charge of her clothing. More importantly, never judge and objectify others based on their clothing either. The measuring stick I use to gauge my clothing choices is in no way a stick I use to beat others with.

Ilene in Puerto Rico. Always curious, even about coconuts and driftwood

My old-lady swimsuit is pretty much a tank top and shorts and is very modest by Mormon standards. But what if I show up to church wearing that same swimsuit? On the beach I was way too covered up by most standards, and in church I’d be lookin’ quite out of place and very immodest.  

Paul and me, Big Island of Hawaii, 2013

My covered-up swimsuit at church is “immodest”, my jeans and sneakers were “immodest” to that Jewish woman in the laundry mat in Antwerp, and to be honest would also be 100 years ago walking in downtown Provo, among my own people. I can see the glaring stares now from those Mormon Pioneers, “That woman is wearing pants! You can see the shape of her legs!”  So if modesty changes for fashion, time, and occasion, then clearly it is not the correct word to use in describing hemlines and visible shoulders.

I don’t even remember having ‘modesty’ lessons growing up. I remember we all wore tank tops and short-shorts at church, school, or wherever. Just use common sense, sheesh! There were no arbitrary made up rules about covering your shoulders or wearing shorts to your knees. My mother-in-law even told me all the women wore sleeveless dresses to BYU dances in the 1960s. Not strapless, or spaghetti straps, just sleeveless. That would never be allowed now. When did this orthodox-ness seep into my own religion? What happened between the 1980s, when I grew up, and now when I’m raising teens? And why? Are my daughters holier, more pious than I was at their age if they choose to be more covered up than I ever was in 1990? Will they be more prepared to go to the temple than I was? Do they have greater access to God? No way Jose.

Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem, Israel

A few years ago a new rule came about in our stake--no more shorts at activities. I was Young Women president at the time and I told my young women, ‘Look you don’t have to like this rule, I don’t get it, but as a leader I do have to keep this rule. You can think what you want, but for now, let’s play along.’ I think that rule eventually faded away because I send my girls to church Wednesday nights with shorts and there’s never been a problem.

Me, 1984 in San Bernardino mountains, California, clearly wearing short shorts.

So what does modest mean in my world today? I own a modest home. Or is it? Maybe in Utah County it is considered modest compared to the $700,000-dollar-5,000-square-foot homes going up just two miles away from me. But take my home and put it near my son in the Dominican Republic--who hasn’t had a hot shower in 9-months--or my mom’s childhood home in Mexico--and my home is downright ostentatious. Embarrassing actually for me to live like this when my son doesn’t even have drinkable water or a hot shower. (And for him it’s temporary.) What a privileged life I lead. There isn’t anything modest about my privileged American life. And that's what I told my daughter. That modesty is subjective, in houses and clothes. New subject please.

My own home sweet home

Trees and Faith and People

Nathan the tree climber, 2004, age 6.

When my son Nathan was a toddler I told him that I was heading to the nursery to buy a tree for our yard. Up until now we had only installed a sprinkler system and some struggling hydroseed for our lawn. It was a sad little yard, hot and shadeless. When I came home from the nursery, Nathan took one look at that sapling of a tree and with disappointment exclaimed, “Mom I wanted the kind of tree you can climb!” Fair enough. I wanted shade and he wanted to climb. Neither of us would get what we wanted, at least not yet. It was going to be a while. Years in fact.

Spindly little Tulip tree. The wind later snapped it in half. :(

We moved by the time Nathan was eight so he never got to climb a tree in our yard nor did I enjoy any shade at that house, but I was determined to make both happen. In our new house, once again we had the arduous task of putting in a yard. And that meant planting more trees. We planted Ash trees, Flowering Pears, Aspens, Redbuds, and Maples. Ten years later I have my shade. And maybe Nathan is too big to climb trees now, but his little girl or boy will get to climb our 23 trees someday. They'll be large enough by then.

Birds feeding under my Patmore Ash

Thankfully I do have shade now. I need its refuge. This sun worshiper is getting too old to sit bare-faced in the hot backyard anymore without a bit of respite from the glaring sun. As I sit under my 10-year old trees, listening to the messages in the rustling leaves, watching the birds eat from the orange feeder, I think about my little son and his desire to climb a tree that couldn’t even bear his tiny body weight and how everything worth having in life takes as much time as growing a climb-able tree. Faith. Healthy relationships. Healing. Patience. Perspective. The messages in those fluttering leaves have taught me how God speaks to me--subtle but sure. Trees take years. So do people.

Orange tukips in Keukenhof, Netherlands

After ten years, some tree roots are large enough that they are visible through my lawn. I planted about 50 orange tulip bulbs a few weeks ago. As I dug holes all around my yard I kept running into the deeper but smaller, more spidery, tree roots. I did my best not to disturb them, to let them do their own thing, and to carefully plant the bulbs around the roots into our rocky Utah soil. Those thin little roots will get thicker and more stable year after year. They'll keep progressing and spreading, sending out more roots, like I am, even when, or especially when, growth seems to be negligible and even non-existent.

Nathan the graduate under our shady Maple.

Last week we hiked through Zion's, in Kolob Canyon, through a thin and narrow passage filled with brightly colored fall trees. As we hiked, a gust of wind came through quickly and I heard that familar movement of leaves. Paul stopped and said “I love that sound, the rush of wind through a narrow canyon.” He heard wind but I heard God, once again whispering to me through rustling leaves, that everything is going to be okay. He is aware of me. I matter. Be patient. Let my roots grow deeper. He has given me shade for now, and soon it will be time to climb.

Autumn leaves in Kolob Canyon

My Son the Missionary

My son Nathan left this week on July 12, 2016 to serve a mission for our church in the Dominican Republic Santiago mission. He will be gone for two years. I miss him already. Their is definitely a loss in our home without him here. He's lived here 18 years, how could there not be a loss?

Just last week he was my tiny little buddy. Or at least it seems like last week.

Nathan and me, 2001, Love his Chevron cars in the back, he loved collecting those.

Getting a missionary ready to leave the country for two years is a butt-load of work. Vaccines, passport, Visa application (the worst chore of them all), all the missionary clothes, contact lenses for two years, the list goes on.

Two years of daily contact lenses!

Paul helped him pack for the 2-year mission. 

We tried to do a lot of  "last chance to eat (blank) for two years". Last chance to have sushi, last chance to have chicken kurma, last night to have tacos, last breakfast of blueberry pancakes. I just wanted him to feel as special as possible before he left. That's what moms do. We use food to make our kids feel special. Or at least that's what I do. I did play ping pong with him before he left but I'm lousy at that. I'm better at cooking.

Nathan has loved the chicken kurma at Bombay House in Provo for many years.

A day in Salt Lake, eating lunch 10-stories up.

Sushi lunch with me at Shoga in Orem

The last weekend before we left we had a backyard party for him. I made four different sheet cakes--red velvet, raspberry cream cheese, chocolate mint, and lemon. Who doesn't love a party with lots of cake?

It was a beautiful (but hot!) summer night. Loads of fun, such a celebration.

Such a happy night.

Nathan has such a great group of friends. Such fine young men.

This is my mom, Nathan's Abuelita, She was a big help for the party!

Finally it was time to say goodbye. Hardest day but also a happy day. He had a midnight flight to New York, and then on to the Dominican Republic MTC (Missionary Training Center). We drove him to the airport and said our goodbyes. I thought my heart would break. Actually I think it did a little.

Killing time, being silly.

Farewell to my wonderful son. He is delaying college at BYU for two years. He is that kind of amazing young man. Eager to serve the Lord. I'll miss him but know he is where he should be.

Van Gogh: The Mulberry Tree

I have a new art print in my home, all framed and hanging happily in my family room.

What makes Van Gogh’s The Mulberry Tree so special to me is that I found it at, what was for me, a very difficult time in my life. I had spent most of the previous year trying to pick up the pieces of my shattered life. I truly wondered if I would ever be really be happy again. What I went through isn’t important, we all have excruciating days and sometimes years where the sun just doesn’t seem to rise for us. I found solace in reading, meditating, and praying and begging God to help me rise above the ashes.

So in May of this year (2015) I made a trip to see my sister and my parents in Chino, California. I found solace with them. My sister Carolyn is a magnificent person. She is smart, intelligent, non-judgmental, and so very fun to be around. I knew I could count on a weekend of fun diversion with Carolyn. Everyone needs to forget their troubles once in a while. We went to the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena one afternoon. Beautiful art is divine. I had fun wandering the exhibits with Carolyn.

And then I saw this Van Gogh painting. “The Mulberry Tree”

I couldn’t stop staring at it. The  colors, the harsh brush strokes, all fascinating. Then I read the plaque and began to cry.

How is possible to suffer and still see beauty all around you? How did Van Gogh paint this and many other work of arts when he was at the lowest point of his life? In fact his suffering would claim his life, just months after this painting. I have no idea what it is to have a mental illness but I do know what it is suffer and yet to still desperately try to see the beauty of life.

I came home from that respite of a weekend, bought this print at art.com and it now happily hangs in my home. It reminds me that the beauty of life is everywhere—even in a Mulberry Tree at an asylum,as depicted by a man, gifted and troubled. There is always beauty no matter the turmoil. Don’t give up.

Teaching Children about Objectification

I’ve been thinking for a while about how I can teach my teens what it means to objectify someone and why I feel it is so dangerous. I wanted to teach it to them simply so that they wouldn’t tune out within 3.5 seconds. I want them to feel empowered in their thoughts. I want them to understand their value and the value of others.

I prayed and asked God how I could teach this to my kiddos. Here’s what I came up with:
I have this beautiful blue vase in my house. I can look at it, criticize it, and decide if it has any value. Do I like the color or the curves of the blown glass? Does it make me happy to look at it? Does it please me? Is the glass too wavy? I can criticize its parts because it’s just a thing, it’s an object. I decide whether it has any value to me.

But we can’t do that with human beings. We can’t take them apart with our eyes or thoughts and decide if they have any value. We can’t do this because everyone is divine. And because we each have a divine nature, we are all valuable. Infinitely valuable in God’s eyes. I love what Tad R. Callister has to say in this speech:

“There is a sentiment among many in the world that we are spirit creations of God, just as a building is the creation of its architect or a painting the creation of its painter or an invention the creation of its inventor. We are more than creations of God; we are literal spirit offspring or children of God our Father. What difference does this distinction make? The difference is monumental in its consequence because our identity determines in large measure our destiny. For example, can a mere creation ever become like it creator? Can a building ever become an architect? A painting a painter? We are the spirit offspring of God with inherited spiritual traits that give us the divine potential to become like our parent, God the Father.”

We can’t use a person (ogling, lusting, fantasizing, judging) for our own pleasure because the instant we do this we remove their humanity. And ours. We turn them into an object like my blue vase, something to be discarded in our thoughts when we’re tired of looking at it.
As I taught this to my children (ages 17, 14, and 11) I made sure I used examples so they could understand that this is something we all do yet we all have the power to stop it. If a man sees a women in a tiny tank top with large breasts (yes the kids giggle when I said breasts—we have some work to do!) he can choose to look at her breasts and have sexual thoughts. He can blame her for his thoughts because she chose to wear such a skimpy top. Or he can choose to see her as Divine. He can look at her face instead and wonder, “Is she happy today? What are her struggles? Is she worried about paying her bills? Does she know God is her Father? Has her heart been broken? Is she safe?”

Likewise,  a woman can look at another woman in the Wal Mart line in front of her who is overweight and make judgments about how large her butt is or how ridiculous she looks in those tight pants. Doesn’t she know everyone can see her cellulite? Why doesn’t she just go to the gym? Or she could choose to humanize this woman and proclaim to her brain that her value is just as valuable as her own.

There are infinite ways we objectify others and ourselves but I wanted to keep it simple for my kids. I told my children that I am trying to work on ridding my mind of objectification as well. I want to look at each person (including myself) and see value, to see sorrow, to see happiness, to see anguish, and worry and joy. Society will teach them otherwise. It will teach men that they are not responsible for their thoughts because they are wired this way. To that I say, horse manure. I teach my son that he has the power to control his thoughts, to see a woman as a daughter of God, literal offspring of Deity.  He is not an animal—he has self-awareness and that’s what sets him apart from the animals. I love this Father’s take on teaching objectification to his son. Brilliant.

The lesson was just a few minutes long, and my examples were a little humorous to them, but serious in intent. I hope to have talks like this again and again with my kids. In the weeks since I taught this to my kiddos they have even said things to me like “Mom don’t objectify!” in reply to comments I would make. Hooray for them! I’d love to hear your ideas on this subject as well. Life was sure a lot easier when I simply had to teach them to not throw their food on the floor and to say please and thank you. But I’m up to the challenge. I have to be.

Refusing to Raise Idiots

If my kids grow up to be idiots, well, it won’t be my fault. I am a mean mom and force my kids to ‘learn’ and ‘appreciate’ things that otherwise they would simply ignore. I honestly believe that my 13-yr. old has no interest in doing anything that isn’t purely entertainment and that requires more than just a handful of brain cells. Tough.

Because I believe that learning musical instruments is beneficial to the brain, makes them well rounded, and teaches children discipline, I make them take piano lessons. (Ok, so those are my hands on the piano, but that’s because once again I am taking lessons too.) And if they grow up to hate music of any substance, well it wasn’t my fault.

 

Because I believe kids should never eat hamburger helper and rarely, if at all, eat anything made under golden arches (smiling stars are ok though), I force my kids to try food like arugula and curry. It’s more than just good nutrition I want them to emulate—I want them to appreciate different cultures, and food is the best way I know how to do that. Not only do they have to try these foods, they have to cook with me as well. If they grow up to hate vegetables, well, once again, it' wasn’t because I didn’t try. Here’s Nathan cooking some Tikka Masala:

And because I believe God loves us (we are his children), Jesus Christ is my Savior,  and has given us a plan to guide our lives, I make my kids go to church. We pray together everyday, we read from the scriptures nearly everyday, and do our best to follow the commandments. I believe these things add value and meaning to our life. Will my kids agree someday when they are adults? I sure hope so. But once again, if they choose to abandon our  faith, it wasn’t because we didn’t try. (Disclaimer: I do NOT believe you are an idiot if you are not religious. These are just my own personal values.) Here we are at the temple in Laie, Hawaii:

I correct their grammar, refuse to let them say “like” too much, and make them scrub toilets and dust around the house. But hey, in 20 years, there just might be three more adults in society who go into therapy because,  lo and behold, it turns out, they had an idiot for a mother.

I’m ok with that.

What Shall We Give?

I was thrilled on Sunday when it was announced the Mo Tab would sing this song. Is there a better Christmas song that sums it all up? I don’t think so. I’ve been humming and singing this all week—as I scrubbed my shower, and while braiding Ilene’s hair this morning.
What shall we give to the babe in the manger,
What shall we offer the child in the stall?
Incense and spices and gold we've got plenty-
Are these the gifts for the king of us all?
Merry Christmas.

Scripture Tote Bag

Hallie has been needing a new scripture tote bag. She grew out of her old scripture bag made by my fabulous (now far away friend) Candy of Candy Argyle Designs. So I made Hallie a new bag for church. While I was contemplating how to decorate her bag (yes, I think about these boring details) I had an embroidery customer email me asking if I had an CTR designs. CTR stands for Choose The Right which is basically the theme for all Sunday School children of the LDS faith. Well, I didn’t have such a design, but I said I could quickly make one. So being the brilliant gal that I am, I put those two ideas together—a CTR Scripture Bag! If you’d like to buy the design, click here.
If you’d like to make this scripture, bag you’ll need to cut:
Main body: 1 piece, 18”x11” of canvas,
Top strips: 2 pieces, 2”x11” each
Cotton batting to interface for structure: 1 piece, 21”x11”
Lining: : 1 piece of lightweight cotton, 21”x11”
Straps: You’ll need 2 pieces of 1-inch handbag webbing 19” each.
Fabric to cover straps: Cut 2 pieces of lightweight cotton 3”x19”
That should be it for your supplies!
I’m too lazy to type here all my steps, but trust me, it’s easy.  Like 30-minutes easy for this speedy sewer and maybe 1 hour for those without the Speedy-Sewer-Super Power. Just google “how to sew a tote bag”. But if you’d read this far, you obviously already know how to sew and don’t need no stinkin’ directions.
On the other side I added my Boutique Tag with her name, and voila, cute and chic scripture bag for lil’ miss Hallie.

Young Women’s Camp 2010

I just returned from Young  Women’s camp on Saturday. This year was my 5th year in a row attending. (Please, hold your applause.) For those of you not part of the Mormon faith, who have no idea what I am talking about, Young Women’s camp is for the teenage girls in my church ages 12-18.  Our goals are many, but just a few are: helping them increase their testimonies of Jesus Christ as our Savior, teach them skills, bond as only women (young and old) can, and get crazy and silly.  I call it the Mormon Miracle because no matter what obstacles beset us, there always seem to be much learning and growth despite my failings as a leader. 

Now, before I go further, I must say that when I went to YW Camp in the California San  Bernardino mountains as a teenager, it was quite different. We had electricity in our cabins, hot running water, and we ate all together in a giant mess hall where the food magically appeared on large tables, carefully prepared by fairies and gnomes.
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No dishes were done, no work to be done. Oh, and we had a swimming pool which was crusty, but nonetheless, it was still a pool. Now, the camp we attend in the Utah mountains is rustic and meant for pioneer women who simply didn’t know the difference when faced with a week of no bathing and boiling water to wash dishes. I am such a wimp and I proudly proclaim that camping is for the birds. Well, it’s for the kind of birds who like dirt, bugs, and sleeping on 20” wide cots. Because this bird likes her Blackberry, memory foam mattress pad, and homemade chocolate milkshakes at night. (Good grief, that sounds like a personal ad!)

This year was dubbed Rainy Camp (notice the rain droplets on the pink lantern and on the canopy). And don’t I look happy in my yellow poncho? Last year was ‘Hotter than Hades Camp’, the year before that was ‘Frozen Chosen Camp’, and the previous two were just plain ‘Normal Dusty Camp’. I thought Utah was a desert, but mother nature has a sense of humor, hence the daily rainstorms. On the day we made reflector ovens to bake our pizza and cookies, I had to light my charcoal (no joking) at least 7-10 times because of all the blasted rain.  But oh yes, I prevailed in making fire, even in a deluge. Don’t the girls looks happy cookin’ in the wild?
I tried to stay out of most of the photos, instead preferring to be the Paparazzi. Here I am photographing our pizzas baking. After all, it’s camp, and there ain’t no make up allowed at camp.


All in all it was a fabulous week. Lives were touched and I still believe that there is nothing quite so beautiful as a young woman who keeps the commandments of God. She literally glows and it sure shows in her countenance.
Wouldn’t you agree?