.38

Such mixed feelings. Birthdays and me haven’t had the best of relationships in the last 20+ years. There was the year that all my college roommates were in an accident on my birthday, where the car was totalled, but thankfully no one was hurt (it was the only mode of grocery transportation for our whole apartment). There was the year on my mission where the branch threw me a birthday/going away party (I was being transferred the next day) and then forgot to invite me (which means in the 3rd world, where no one has phones or cars, that I didn’t find out until it was over and I was on my way to the next city). There was the year that my daughter contracted scabies and we had to spend all day cleaning the WHOLE house and all our possessions and then slathering every member in the household (including the baby) in special scabies lotion and going to sleep.
This year doesn’t really rate on that scale. It was just not much different than any other day. Like nearly every other day, DH left for work early–this time at 0 dark 30. Like nearly every other day, I got children ready for school and they fought and tormented each other, destroyed property and the belongings of others. Like nearly every other day, I yelled too much getting them into the car and safely to school before the tardy bell (how much before the tardy bell we won’t go into). Like nearly every other day, I fought with the entropy of life to be able to have a shower and meals in the same day. And like nearly every other day, I saw my husband for about 1 ½ hours between when he left work, early special for my birthday dinner, and when he needed to be at a church meeting.
I want to be bitter. But instead my goal this year is to accept the gifts people give me as the best they’re trying to give. So, even though the children fought and destroyed property, they did hug and kiss me and wish me a happy birthday with much enthusiasm and ask when my “mom friends” were coming for my party. And even though my husband couldn’t bring himself to miss a meeting, the fact is that he left work early during a very stressful time to have dinner with me. And frankly, the fact that he feels his duties and stewardships so deeply is one of the things I love about him.
And we come to the end of the birthday day, where miraculously everyone bathed easily, fought not at all and went to bed and sleep without incident–probably the best birthday present a mother could ask for. And it occurs to me, I have my dream job. I have never, in my heart of hearts, wanted anything more than to be a mother. I am supremely blessed to be able to be a mother, and nothing else, because my DH has a wonderful job that pays well enough to provide for our needs and many wants. Dear DH is a worthy priesthood holder; he is a loving father to our children and a loving husband to me, his sometimes grumpy wife. And sometimes, even on my birthday, I recognize these gifts. And that I suppose, is the best gift of all.

My first tagging

I've been tagged by Carey. It was fun to do and taught me some new blogging skills
Here's how it works:

1) Answer the Questions below.

2) Take each answer and enter it into Photobucket (photobucket.com, first new skill!)

3) Take a picture from the first page of results and post it. (second new skill!)


My age at next birthday (.38)


A place I'd like to visit (so MANY places, so little time . . .)



One of my favorite places (Cache Valley)



Favorite object (I'm such a book geek)



Favorite food





Where I live



My middle name is my once maiden name, Turner(that's Tina, by the way and on my mission, people couldn't say my name and some decided to call me Sister Cheena as in Cheena Churner)



My college major (history)



Bad habit of mine





Favorite color (robin egg)



Favorite animal



Name of pet (no pets, just 5 kids!)



Favorite holiday (Easter)




tagged: larae, lesli, tennille, BT (when you're up to it)

Come Listen to a Prophet's Voice

They just announced the new first presidency. I want to feel that surge of Spirit saying “yes” right now. I know it will come; President Monson looks different, more heavy laden perhaps. But for now, I’m still nursing loss. As I watched the funeral Saturday, I found bits of President Hinckley’s talks over the years swimming in my brain–hearing his wonderful voice. And his oft repeated phrase when testifying “to all within the sound of my voice” has gotten stuck. I am no longer within the sound of his voice. None of us are and we won’t be again “till we meet again.” And that’s what’s got me stuck. I want to be within the sound of his voice. The first general conference while I was on my mission was a solemn assembly sustaining President Hunter, which meant we got a video tape from Salt Lake City to play in a special meeting in Brasil. I was still somewhat homesick, but desperately looking forward to conference and as I stood in the alcove of the chapel peeking in (there were no available chairs for missionaries), I watched the proceedings and sobbed quietly. I kept singing to myself the hymn “Come Listen to a Prophet’s Voice”, and that only made matters worse. You see, the tape of the meeting was dubbed into Portuguese, so what our entire congregation was hearing was the voice of the translators, not the voices of the prophet and the general authorities. Most of the brasileiros I was quickly growing to love had never and would never actually hear the prophet’s voice, only his message. They have never known President Kimball’s scratchy voiceless whisper or Elder Richard G. Scott’s kind concern or President Eyring’s voice break with love for the gospel and for us. And they had never known President Hunter’s measured calm voice or President Hinckley’s warm assurances. This shouldn’t matter all that much I suppose; their messages are what’s important and we all still have the messages of the prophets at our disposal. But what I missed then and what I’m mourning now is the loss of the sound, the very electrifying feeling of hearing the word of the Lord through the voice of a living prophet, whose love is so very apparent it warms your ears. And that is it, I suppose, for me, for my testimony, part of the knowledge that we have a living prophet on earth is that I can hear his voice with my own ears. And because I have loved President Hinckley, have grown up with the sound of his voice for my whole life, it is that loss that I still mourn as I wait to follow the living prophet of God, President Thomas S. Monson.

8 May be Great But 9's Divine!

My, how time flies. How can it be that my first baby is having her last single digit birthday? Amazing! She is so grown up. DH lamented a little while ago that we only have 9 more years with her in our home, before she goes off to college and worlds beyond our little home. How can this be? This birthday and the attendant “friend party” were by far the easiest I’ve done. I think she and her friends are finally old enough to be somewhat self-entertaining. It was lovely. I hope all the girls had as much fun as I did. What do you think?
The birthday girl and her cake
Blowing out the candles
The cookies made by the girls at the "cookie making party"
Impromptu limbo
The party crowd